The Vampire's Protector. Michele Hauf

      “Limbs bluing. Necrosis of the tissue. Parts falling off.”

      “Nope. He’s good.”

      For now. But she intended to keep a close eye on him for changes. She’d never had to deal with a zombie before, and she did not look forward to starting.

      “Keep an eye on him,” the director said. “Do not let him out of your sight. I’ll report back with further instructions.” He clicked off and Summer shoved the phone into her back pocket.

      “Keep an eye on him. Sure. No problem.” Not as if she could look away from all that musician numminess, was there?

      Twisting at the waist, she could no longer see Paganini’s figure walking along the roadside. He’d put some distance between them. But she’d find him. Shouldn’t be that hard to track a nineteenth-century musician who had just clambered out of his coffin. Had she just thought of him as nummy?

      “You need to get laid, Santiago, if the dead guys are starting to look good to you.”

      When had she last—? She didn’t even want to think about it.

      Paganini had said his blood might be off. Meaning, he probably didn’t know what the heck he was. Either that, or he had been freaked she was a vampire.

      Then again, no one ever really wanted to get bitten by a vampire. At least, no one smart.

      Thinking of which... Exhaustion clung to her limbs. She needed to drink blood for a burst of renewal until she could steal a few winks for a true refresher.

      She hopped off the hood and slid in behind the steering wheel. She suspected Paganini wouldn’t go far because he had to be hungry, too. She had time to find a meal before pursuing the former dead guy.

      * * *

      The tavern was a welcome respite from the sun’s sweltering heat that had worked up his perspiration during the walk along the black road. Nicolo had removed his coat and folded it over an arm while walking, and now he felt as if he’d walked into a different atmosphere. It was as if a thousand fans blew cool air on him, yet he couldn’t feel the wind of said fans. So refreshing!

      No one sat by the long stretch of bar, and the barkeep nodded to him before asking what he wanted.

      “Beer?” Nicolo tried. He wasn’t sure what the modern taverns served, but beer had been around for ages. “Have you food, as well?”

      “Special is fish-and-chips. Our cook is Irish.” He shrugged and set a glass mug of beer on the bar before Nicolo. “You want that?”

      Nicolo nodded. “Yes, please.”

      Fish sounded great. But he had no idea what chips were. He would be surprised. The lure of the golden liquid in the glass coaxed him quickly forward. He slid onto a bar stool and tilted back the liquid. Yes, beer. And quite tasty. He downed half in a long swallow.

      Looking about, he marveled at the clutter of paintings on the walls. Yet, they weren’t exactly paintings. Done in blacks, grays and whites, they were each framed and depicted people smiling and holding beer mugs. Had they all been composed and painted in this very tavern? Interesting. In the window a sign that said Pull Tabs flashed red light. How was that possible to produce light of such a color with no flames in sight? And overhead, light beamed down from small glass globes. Not in candle form.

      “Remarkable.”

      He finished the beer and asked for another. “Tell me about that device,” he said to the barkeep and pointed to the framed rectangle above the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. On it images moved, as if he were witnessing a scene in real life. Men kicked a small white ball across a green field. They wore similar clothing. It must be some sort of sport.

      “The TV?” the barkeep asked. “Where are you from anyway?”

      Nicolo shrugged. “I’ve...been away from things for a while.”

      “One of those hippies who lives in a mountain for ten years?”

      He wasn’t sure what a hippie was or why a person would want to live in a mountain, but Nicolo again shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

      “You look it. But the women love the long, messy hair nowadays, eh? That’s the rugby competition. England versus Ireland. The Wolfhounds are givin’ ’em hell. In case you haven’t seen a television for a while, it’s a big screen, digital, HD, all the bells and whistles. I can get a hundred and eighty channels. Pretty fancy, eh?”

      Nicolo had no clue what the man had just said, so he instead sipped the beer and nodded subtly. The bells-and-whistles device was like a larger version of the mysterious box Summer kept on her. Must be some sort of knowledge receptacle. Most likely of the devil.

      Yet he could not bemoan this incredible chilled atmosphere. He glanced about, tracking the ceiling and noting the barkeep’s odd look. Nicolo shrugged, “Your establishment fascinates me.”

      “Sure.” Jabbing a tiny wooden stick into the corner of his mouth, the barkeep reached through an opening in the wall and yelled thanks to an unseen person.

      A plate of hot food was set before him, and Nicolo leaned over to inhale the delicious aroma. Yet, hadn’t he ordered fish? Whatever it was on the plate, a long strip of something pale brown, did not resemble fish. And he assumed the thin strips of similar color were the chips? He didn’t want to be rude and ask, so he picked up a chip and tasted it.

      A salty crunch ignited Nicolo’s taste buds, and he quickly finished the first. And the second, and another.

      “Amazing,” he murmured and finished them all before even trying what would prove to indeed be fish.

      “Pace yourself, buddy,” the barkeep said. “We’ve more if you’re that hungry.”

      “Thank you. I find it delicious, and yet strange at the same time. May I ask you how a man might find his way to Paris from here?”

      He needed to find that violin that Summer had said she’d sent on to Paris.

      “You could take the train, rent a car or hop on a plane.”

      “Hop on a plane?” Even as he said it, he could only imagine hopping onto something flat. “I don’t understand.”

      “An airplane? You really don’t know much, do you? Do you have money?”

      Nicolo nodded quickly. He’d figure out some means to recompense before leaving the establishment.

      The door behind him creaked, and in wandered two women, chattering loudly. They sat at a table in the dark corner next to a front window, and the barkeep brought them two bottles of wine.

      Nicolo turned his attention to them. They wore trousers so short they revealed skin all up to their thighs! And what gorgeous legs that glided a long way down to their feet, which boasted strappy shoes on them. And their shirts were cut so low he saw the crease between their abundant breasts. They must be freezing in this chilly establishment. But when the one winked at him and raised a bottle of wine in a toast, Nicolo’s grin grew.

      He recognized an invitation when he saw one.

      * * *

      The donor had been dozing outside a quiet cottage that looked like something from a Kimball painting. It had gone down quickly. Summer had taken but a few sips. Enthralling him to think good thoughts and fight the inevitable madness, she had then stepped away. She never stayed to see what results would come of her bite. That was asking for emotional heartache. Once she’d drunk too long and had actually witnessed her donor’s descent into madness. He’d beat his forehead against a brick wall. His body had shuddered, and he’d clamped his arms about his chest, crying and wailing. She’d fled, hoping it would be temporary. It had to be, yes?

      Her weird ability to change her donors was her dark nemesis.

      “Find the dead guy,” she muttered, focusing her thoughts as she got out of the car and walked across