The Vampire's Protector. Michele Hauf

donors’ psyches every time she pierced them with her fangs. But she was coping. Mostly.

      Summer floated her fingers across the gold-and-emerald flocked damask wallpaper as she strode down the dirt-floored hallway. The walls were sheetrocked for some distance. Then the paper ended, as the smooth walls segued into dirt. Or rather—she pressed a palm to the cold, dry surface—limestone.

      Were she descending into the catacombs beneath Paris, not much would be different. Just another adventure spook-out with her brother. Except they avoided the touristy Catacombs in the 14th arrondissement and only ventured into the forbidden tunnels frequented by cataphiles.

      With a smile in anticipation for whatever delicious surprises awaited in the dark, she wandered forward and downward as the floor slanted. The narrow aisle suddenly turned right and opened into a room stuffed to the ceiling with boxes and crates. She flashed the light beam across an old wicker dressmaker’s dummy. Headless, it was also, sadly, naked. What looked like two chairs from the Louis XV time period, upholstered with pale pink damask, were stacked in one corner with no regard for their value. Every spot on the walls was covered with paintings depicting portraits of men, women and even a few dogs.

      “Interesting.” But she wasn’t into art. Or dogs. Especially the werewolf kind. Okay, so she made an exception for her grandfather, Rhys Hawkes, who was half vampire, half werewolf. As well, her uncle Trystan was full werewolf.

      The flashlight beam swayed from side to side in the room before her. She was looking for clothing on racks. Nothing. Summer sighed. She always got her hopes up when exploring old storage rooms such as this one. Wasn’t like she’d expected this mission to actually provide the bonus of vintage clothing. She favored a pretty man’s frock coat or jackboots. The dresses and flouncy stuff never interested her. Leather pants or jeans and a T-shirt—as she wore today—were her usual choices.

      Tucking the phone into her pants front pocket so the flashlight end beamed out, Summer strode about the tiny open space corralled in the center by all the gathered treasures.

      A hobby horse sat to her left. The red leather seat was worn and cracked from frequent use. She tapped the dusty rope mane, thinking how children from the past would be stupefied by today’s young, who would likely run right past the wooden horse and straight for any electronic gadgets. Plant themselves in a chair and look up only when their mothers called for lunch.

      She loved her electronics, but was very choosey about who she friended on social media. She did have a Facebook page, but it was strictly for family and very few friends. She didn’t pin pictures on electronic boards, nor did she Tweet about what she had for lunch. Because really? No one needed to know she’d had A positive for lunch yesterday.

      And she was feeling a bit peckish. She’d have to make a stop for a snack before she hit the road home for Paris.

      Focusing her search, she lifted the cover from a cigar box and peered inside. No silver coins but plenty of rusted straight pins. She put the cover back and spun to sit on a gray velvet divan. A cloud of dust frothed about her, and she quickly stood, having forgotten the perils of such ancient conditions. Waving her hands to clear the dust, she choked and coughed.

      Good thing her allergies were only to demons.

      Next to her butt print on the divan sat a jewelry box. She pulled it onto the cleared velvet, knowing it wouldn’t contain a violin, but being a slave to curiosity, and flipped up the heavy cover. Inside lay a few diamond necklaces and rings. She wasn’t much for the sparkly stuff, preferring the simple hematite band she wore on her thumb. A gift from her dad, Vaillant, who preferred flashy silver jewelry himself.

      “Bet these are worth a new Audi,” she said of the jewels.

      Alas, she didn’t need another car. And she was not a thief, and nothing inside this home belonged to her. The items she was sent to retrieve on missions were taken, though. By gift or by force. Whatever means necessary. For reasons humans could never comprehend. The items the Retrievers tracked were deemed dangerous and best hidden away from chance human discovery.

      Summer would leave everything in this room as she found it and report the contents to the mayor later. If relatives could be found, the items would be returned to them, and if not, perhaps the village would hold an auction. Or perhaps they’d simply abide the dying wish to keep the place sealed off. Had it been because of the contents of this room? Or because of one particular item? Had the owner been aware of the violin’s volatility?

      “We’ll never know,” she muttered, and her gaze scanned for something of interest.

      Across the room, between an upended jacquard sofa and a stack of large paintings, there looked like a door. Summer tugged out the phone and as she squeezed between stacks of old crates, the light beam fell over an iron ring on a small door that might suit a hobbit.

      “The secret passageway,” she said with glee.

      Testing the iron ring with a tug, she saw that the iron frame about the door jiggled. After placing the phone in her mouth to direct the light on to what she was doing, she then grabbed the ring with both hands and pressed one foot against the wall beside the door. With some effort, she was able to ease the entire door out of the frame.

      Vampires were like that, too. Pretty damn strong when they needed to be.

      Though there was too much stuff stacked around to pull the door out and set it aside, she was able to move it to the left and shove it away from the opening, only to realize the inside was more like a small storage closet that went back only about three feet.

      Kneeling and creeping forward, she pushed aside a lightweight metal box that might contain documents. Sliding aside a wooden crate stuffed with porcelain-faced dolls, she spied a familiar object tucked beneath an ell of dusty blue fabric.

      “A violin case.”

      Her heartbeats pounded. Whenever she found her assigned object she had to suppress a squeal of glee. Too girlie. And really, she took more pleasure in a mental pat on the back for a job well done.

      The director of Acquisitions, Ethan Pierce, had assigned her this mission because he knew she was a musician. She could play virtually any instrument placed in her hands, but she didn’t practice or keep up with any particular one. Playing music was such a solitary, static thing. An abandoned hobby of hers. She preferred to be out adventuring and getting her hands dirty. Or, give her a car to take apart and she landed on cloud nine, tools in hand, grease smeared across her cheeks.

      Yet she had been a good choice for this mission because she’d take the caution necessary when handling the object, the director had stated.

      As well, she could appreciate any style of music, not in the least, classical. What kind of geeky fantasy would it be to actually hold Nicolo Paganini’s violin?

      Summer slid a palm over the top of the case. It wasn’t hard plastic like most violin cases nowadays, so she carefully lifted the thin, leather case until she could grasp the handle, which was placed center top, and carried it out into the main room, where she could study it. She set the case on a wooden crate and found that only one leather buckle with brass fixings was still intact. And rust crusted over that one. She could easily force it open, but she didn’t want to damage the leather case or break the strap, so she wiggled carefully at the mechanism until finally the strap slipped from the buckle.

      “Nice.” Summer pumped her fist in elation. “This is freaking cool.”

      It would be insane not to take a look inside. To keep it closed and simply carry it home to Paris and hand over to the Archives? So long, so good to have known you—for a day?

      No. She had to look at it. First, to ensure there actually was a violin inside. Second, to touch the instrument the famed violinist had once owned.

      Nicolo Paganini had been a remarkable man, lauded by the masses. Summer would go so far as to label him a rock star for the nineteenth century. Gifted beyond belief. Or had he been cursed? The rumors told that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil to play the violin with such spectacular skill. His contemporaries had accused him of being the devil’s