The Vampire's Protector. Michele Hauf

and hands?

      In that somber suit he looked out of place against the cerulean sky and emerald field. On the other hand, maybe he was coming from a funeral that had just been held at the cemetery?

      Or he could be...

      “No. Freaking. Way.”

      Summer’s heartbeats dropped to her gut, and she slammed the Audi to a halt. Grabbing the cell phone from the dash, she clicked online, thankful that she got Wi-Fi out here. Searching for Paganini brought up a page full of images. Tall, slender and darkly handsome for a nineteenth-century guy. Some caricatures made him look comical with a bent spine and spider-long fingers as he viciously attacked the violin. No actual photographs, though. She supposed photography had been invented a little later.

      She shook her head as she gazed at the man walking away in the rearview mirror. “Can’t be. He looks...healthier, if not...normal.”

      Shouldn’t a guy risen from the dead look...dead?

      Tapping the steering wheel with her thumb, she then rubbed the hematite ring along the leather wheel. She was seeing things she didn’t want to believe. The director had spooked her with his warning about disturbing the dead. “He’s just a local. Wandering home from a funeral. Yeah.”

      She shifted into Drive, but didn’t take her foot off the brake pedal.

      The cemetery loomed ahead, within shouting distance. Could he really have climbed out of a grave and now be wandering the countryside? The man had been buried—she quickly did the math—around one hundred and seventy-five years ago. Wouldn’t her car freak him out? And the modern paved roads and—hell, everything?

      “This is insane. He’s not a dead guy. He just happens to look like Paganini.” She was in Italy. All the guys were darkly handsome, right?

      But she had to be sure. She wasn’t going to let this mission get any more messed up than it already was.

      Shifting into Reverse, she backed the car down the road. When she paralleled the man, he paused and cautiously stepped back from the car as if it were a vicious bull staring him down. After a few moments of consideration, he leaned forward and peered through the window at her.

      She rolled down the window. Grabbing her cell phone and clicking on one of the pictures, she then held it out, to compare images side by side.

      “Ah shit. It’s him.”

      * * *

      Nicolo marveled as the dark glass window in the moving carriage slid downward to allow the driver to speak to him. A female driving a carriage without horses? Such a wonder the world had come to. He could not even be frightened at the strange prospect of allowing a woman such leeway as to drive about unescorted.

      She held a small device out toward him and asked, “Is this you?”

      What? Him? He leaned forward and saw there was a small painting on the device. Or rather it looked like a sketch. Of him. He’d seen that sketch. Sir Edwin Henry Landseer had done it during a concert when Nicolo had performed at the Royal Opera House in London.

      “Yes, me,” he said in French because she had used that language. He spoke Italian and French.

      “You are Nicolo Paganini?”

      “But of course.” He leaned closer to her, but wasn’t sure about touching the carriage. It gleamed silver. Not a bit of wood to its construction. “How do you know this? What magics do you practice to identify me as such? And what witchery is contained in that box you show me?”

      “It’s called the internet and this is a cell phone,” she said with a wave of the object before pulling it back inside.

      He understood neither of those words.

      She opened the carriage door and got out. The woman was petite and...dressed most strangely. Yet, Nicolo had seen a few women since wandering out from the cemetery. All wore trousers such as a man and close-fitting shirts with sleeves short enough to reveal more than enough arm, and on some, the necklines were so low as to show ample bosom. It had startled him so much he’d initially walked directly into a street lamp. And then a few feminine giggles had reassured him that the modern-day women still possessed a wicked tease comparable to those from his time where their wardrobe was concerned.

      “Okay, Monsieur Paganini,” she said. With a shake of her head to spill the untidy long blond locks over one shoulder, she hooked her thumbs at the back of her slender-fitted trousers that hung low, exposing a slice of skin above the waistband, and rocked back and forth a few times on some odd violet shoes. “So uh...this next question is a doozy.”

      “Doo-zee. I do not understand that word.”

      “It means it’s going to set you off your feet real good.”

      He stared down at the bespoke leather shoes he’d been buried in. Treasures to him. For to find a comfortable shoe that had fit his large feet? Not so easy. “Very well then.” He crossed his arms and prepared for the remarkable question to set him off his oversized feet. “Serve me your best.”

      Because really? After climbing up from one’s grave, it couldn’t get much worse. Or was that better? He hadn’t yet decided if he should be pleased or worried about his new alive status. He’d been buried for a long time. The world had changed. And he was in a daze from it all.

      “Did you just crawl out of a tomb?”

      Nicolo’s jaw dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. There was only one explanation to her having such information. “Are you a witch? I know witches exist. How did you portend such a fact?”

      “Just answer me. I was on my way to the Parma cemetery to see if you were still safely buried. Uh, but I guess you’re not.”

      “I am not. For reasons beyond my knowledge, I have been summoned from death.” He brushed his fingers over the velvet coat he’d been buried in. His son had style, indeed. Though it fit tightly across the shoulders. When being resurrected, he’d gained some muscle. It made the coat cumbersome. “Does everyone know about this strange occurrence of my resurrection?”

      “No, just me. And I’d like to keep it that way. You’d better get in the car. We have some things to talk about.”

      “Get. In?” He stretched his gaze along the carriage. There were seats for others inside the compact conveyance, but— “No, I am perfectly fine standing outside on this smooth pavement. Such wicked alchemy you’ve concocted to make this vehicle travel without a horse is not something in which I wish to partake. I have avoided the devil’s work all my life. I shall not soon subscribe to such folly in my afterlife. As it is.”

      “Your afterlife is because of me, I’m afraid.”

      “How so? Did you summon me from the grave? You are a witch!”

      She held up both hands, one of which still held the mysterious device containing his image. “Chill, Paganini.”

      “I am rather warm in this attire. These are my funeral raiments. I’ve seen people wearing so much less. And you in your odd trousers and shoes. What has become of the gowns the women once wore? Your attire is freakishly masculine.”

      She bristled at that statement, but then set back her shoulders, proudly. “I may be a freak, but the clothes are common for women nowadays. The world has changed a lot in a hundred and seventy-five years.”

      “One hundred and...” He gaped. Truly, it was well beyond the 1920s in which Mary Grace had been buried.

      “Like I said, we need to talk. I suppose I can’t interest you in climbing back into the coffin and letting me bury you again?”

      “Are you— That is perfectly ghastly! You are worse than a witch, you—”

      “Yes, yes. But since you know witches exist and suspect I am one, I need to set you straight right from the start. Get a load of this.”

      She grinned widely, and Nicolo