I lead a solitary life, one I’ve built over the course of a century. Now I’ve settled into a home, and I’m doing my best to renovate it and live a normal undead life. All that goes down the drain when Everly comes stomping through my front door with a crossbow pointed at my heart.
She thinks I’m a killer—that I’ve been draining hooligans and old ladies in town. She’s right: I am a killer, but I’m not the one she’s looking for.
I’m drawn to her. So much so that I follow her home and watch her every move. I can’t stop. She’s mine. I knew it the moment I saw her. So did my soul, because my long-dead heart began to beat. Only for her.
But she’s not going to trust me easily. After all, my kind killed her parents. The more I get to know her, the more I realize her past is the key to explaining her mysterious blood disorder and her penchant for attracting vampires. But if we don’t solve the local murders, Everly might be the killer’s next victim.
MINK’s Note: With a kitty named Buffy, witchcraft in the air, and a HEA, this book is sure to spook you into a Halloween mood. All treats, no tricks.
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1
Vincent
Watching the sunset is something I miss. Even though it’s been years and years since I’ve seen one, they still haunt me. Then again, it’s not like I just stared at the sun before. That would be pretty fucking stupid.
Still, I sigh and sip my drink as I relax in my favorite reading chair. The sun is almost extinguished, and I’m already getting restless.
Glancing around, I take in all the projects I need to work on this evening. Refinishing hardwoods, plumbing, painting, and on and on. This old house was a steal, and I love the Victorian look of it, but hell it’s a ton of work. Even though I can get through with my tasks in record time, they just keep coming.
Once I’m done, though, this place is going to be amazing. My own home sweet home.
A knock sounds at my front door. Before I rise, I catch the scent of baked apples. Shit. I want to groan, but I don’t. Instead, I walk to the door and affix a smile to my face.
When I open it, Mrs. Brewster is standing there, her gray curls fixed into a perfect helmet and her flowery muumuu flowing in the late afternoon breeze.
“Mr. Prince.” She smiles and tries to look past me. I’m far too broad for her to get a glimpse into my house, but she’s tried every time she’s stopped by over the last month.
“I keep insisting you call me Vince.”
She blushes and looks down at the casserole dish in her oven mitts. “I know. I guess I’m just old fashioned.”
There she’s not lying. She’s 72 with a penchant for baking, knitting, and tending her large flower garden. When you think of the quintessential old lady neighbor, you picture some version of Mrs. Brewster.
“Come on in.” I step back and let her walk into my home.
“Oh, my!” She looks up at the painting on the ceiling I’m halfway done with. “That is so pretty.”
“Thanks.”
She knows her way to the kitchen and puts the casserole down on my stove.
“It smells wonderful.” I grab two plates from the cupboard.
“Oh, no. This is all for you. I can’t stay. Time for Ted’s medicine. He’ll start barking if I don’t serve up dinner soon.” She chuckles affectionately. “Well, he, and John, and Jeff will start a three-part harmony of barking, then Jack and Ed join in with howling. Just a mess. So I must go.”
Thank God. She keeps bringing me homemade dishes. All of them smell and look amazing, but my taste for food isn’t what it used to be. I end up dumping them not long after she leaves, then returning the dish to her front porch the following night. Last time was figs, the time before that was pears, and now she’s landed squarely on an apple tart.
“I hope you enjoy it. And stop by and see me sometime. I’d love to show you my roses. They’re my pride and joy.” She runs her hand along the large fridge. “The last owners didn’t have taste anywhere near as fine as yours. You’re shining this place up like a new penny.”
“I’m doing my best.” I escort her to the door, but I can’t go any farther. Not when the sun is still teasing at the edges of the landscape.
She shoos me away as I feign as if I’m going to help her down the stairs. “I can get it from here. I may be old, but there’s life left in me yet.” She waves and takes the gravel path down to the driveway, then into the narrow lane and over past the trees to her house.
I go back inside and close the door. “Nosy woman.” I shake my head. Maybe I should just start AirDropping her remodel pics as I go along. It might cut down on the impromptu visits.
I grab my glass and finish my drink, then turn to the dingy mantle in the main room. It’s half-rotted and due for some refurbishing. Right when I reach for it to pull it from the wall, another knock sounds at my door.
“What the fuck?” I growl, then compose myself. Mrs. Brewster must’ve forgotten to mention something—maybe her last trip to bingo or perhaps some story about one of her five dogs.
I paste the smile back on my face and swing open my door.
The smile drops as a young woman with a crossbow pointed at my chest walks across my threshold. A black cat follows at her heels, its gaze on me.
“What the—”
“Shut it, Vincent Prince!” she yells, but she seems to wince at how loud she sounds.
Cute. She kicks the door closed behind her. Very fucking cute. I peer down at her and take in every flutter of her rapid heartbeat, the dewy perspiration on her skin, the way she smells like honeyed vanilla and a hint of something floral.