Vampire Undone. Shannon Curtis

He sat in the crook of the maple tree outside her window, looking way too comfortable for her liking. He stopped singing when she slid up the sash.

      Lucien grinned. “Well, hello, minx.”

      The nickname stopped her cold. He used to call her that, all those years ago. It had been used in exasperation, affection, but never in that slightly flirty tone.

      “Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

      “What should I call you? Nina?”

      She lifted her chin. Okay, so he knew. Didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. “Don’t call me that, either.”

      “Why not? It’s your name.”

      “No. Nina died a long time ago. My name is Natalie.”

      He shrugged. “If that’s what you’d prefer to call yourself—”

      “It is. Now, please go away.” How she didn’t have the neighbors lining up to complain was a mystery. He must have compelled them, damn it.

      He folded his arms, eyeing her figure.

      She was wearing pajamas from her neck to her ankle. She hadn’t felt comfortable wearing anything less, not with a vampire stalking her home.

      “I need to talk with you.”

      “I’m not interested.”

      “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

      She glanced at her watch. “That’s fine. Sunrise is in three hours. Nothing like smoked vampire with a side of bacon to go with my morning coffee.” She raised her arms to close the window.

      “Four hundred and fifteen bottles of beer on the wall,” he began to warble.

      She took a deep breath. She was tired, she was cranky, and if this meant she’d snatch some much needed sleep, she’d let him say his piece and get it over with. “Fine, talk. You have five minutes—and then I’m going to sleep and you can sizzle, for all I care.”

      His eyebrows drew together and the downward turn of his mouth reminded her of Terry in one of his snits. “What happened to you? You used to be so nice...”

      She snorted as she folded her arms and leaned her hip against the windowsill. “That was a lifetime ago, Lucien.” Literally. She glanced pointedly at her watch. “Four minutes.”

      “I need your help.”

      She stared at him for a moment but his expression was enigmatic as he stared back at her. He, Lucien Marchetta, scion of the Marchetta vampire colony, needed her help. She burst out laughing.

      He arched an eyebrow and her laughter trailed off. She blinked. “Good grief, you’re serious.”

      His mouth quirked. “As a heart attack.”

      “How could I possibly assist the great Lucien Marchetta?” she asked, curious despite herself. The man moved in circles far removed from her own and, up until a few hours ago, he’d been completely unaware of her existence. From what she’d heard—and there were plenty of stories circulating about the man—he’d been living mainly on the west coast, establishing the family business...which was code for spreading the Marchetta influence to straddle the whole country.

      And she...well, she was a professor of mythology and folklore studies, which was code for using teaching students as an opportunity to indulge her keen interest in stories set in bygone eras—and to find answers for her own problems. She couldn’t help him with the Marchetta empire—the idea was so ludicrous, she almost giggled. Almost. She hadn’t giggled in years.

      “I was told you’re the best in the field when it comes to everything arcane and mystical,” he said quietly.

      She arched her eyebrow. “Don’t think you can flatter me,” she said brusquely, ignoring the warm pride that bloomed in her chest that suggested he could, indeed, flatter her.

      “I need to find something.”

      She kept her expression impassive but her mind started to race. What was he looking for? Something arcane and mystical, apparently. Something that drew him to a quiet little professor in a quiet little town. What mystical thing could a vampire want or need? A resistance to silver? No, there were any number of witches who could do some sort of protective spell for that.

      An object that protected the wearer from sunlight? She knew of some stories that hinted at the existence of such artifacts. A book? Something that could reveal the clues to a lost pre-Troubles treasure? There were so many possibilities and her imagination was going wild.

      “What?” She kept her tone cool, casual. She wasn’t interested. Not really. Nope, not—

      “Anything that would neutralize a toxin in a vampire’s system.”

      Interested. She tilted her head and tried to look nonchalant. “What kind of toxin?”

      “The lycanthrope kind.”

      She frowned as she digested the remark. Did he just say—? “A werewolf bite?”

      He nodded. She lowered her arms as she straightened.

      “A werewolf bite,” she repeated slowly to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding her and she wasn’t misunderstanding him.

      He said nothing, just met her gaze grimly.

      “A werewolf bite,” she said, this time rolling her finger in a circle. “You want to find a vampiric cure for a werewolf bite? You are hearing me, right? A werewolf bite?”

      His lips tightened. “Yes, I hear you. And, yes, you’ve got it right. I want to find something that will cure a vampire of a werewolf bite.”

      Oh, dear. Time had not been kind to Lucien. It was the only explanation she could think of, for him to have such a mental lapse. Strange, she hadn’t heard of a human condition like dementia striking a vampire before. Still, there was always a first time for everything...

      Her arms rose to grasp the window, but he moved swiftly, his body a blur as he shifted to the end of the branch. “I’m serious, Nin—Natalie.”

      She shook her head. “No, you’re bat-crap crazy, Lucien. Goodbye.” She began to draw the window down to close, but he slammed his hand on the pane of glass, effectively halting her movement. She flinched at the anger in his blue eyes, the set of his jaw.

      “Vivianne’s been bitten and I don’t have much time to find a cure. You’re my last resort, Natalie. Help me.”

      His sister. She remembered how close they’d been, how he’d often spoken of her as his partner in all sorts of childish pranks, and how they’d supported each other when it came to his controlling, Reform-senator father. Family. It had always been so important to Lucien.

      Yeah, well, family had been important to her, too, once upon a time. Anger warred with sympathy. Anger won. Her eyes narrowed at his words. “Me? Help you? Where were you when I needed you, Lucien?” she snapped. “You don’t get it, do you? You broke your promise to me and as a result I lost everything. Help you? I hate you.”

      She slammed the window closed, pulled the curtains across with a snap of fabric and stomped over to her en suite bathroom. She pulled cotton balls from the jar on her bathroom sink, stuffed them in her ears and stomped back to her bed.

      Help him, indeed. She pounded her pillow into a comfortable pulp and lay down. She brushed away the tears trailing down her cheek as she glared at the wall.

      No, damn it. She refused to care.

      * * *

      Lucien eased back along the branch toward the trunk of the tree.

      I hate you.

      He settled himself in the crook of the tree, staring at the darkened, covered window. He couldn’t quite close his mouth, although his fingers clenched around the branches above and to the side of him.