I'm the Vampire, That's Why Read online

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  First Printing, September 2006

  Copyright © Michele Bardsley, 2006

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  My New Family

  Glossary

  Jessica's Glossary

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  Dedication

  With lots o' love to my grandmother Virginia; my mother, Brenda; and my sisters Julii and Candy.

  As always, to Dean and Katie and Reid. I love you forever.

  Acknowledgments

  To all the vampires I've loved before… my eternal thanks to Evangeline Anderson, L. A. Banks, MaryJanice Davidson, Christine Feehan, Charlaine Harris, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Rosemary Laurey, Katie MacAlister, and J. C. Wilder for creating worlds and characters that always bring me joy and always inspire me.

  My husband, Dean, deserves a paid vacation to Tahiti. He took care of everything so I could finish this book. He brought me Starbucks peppermint mochas. He brought me chocolate. He brought me hugs. He listened to me whine and made me take much-needed breaks when my eyes glazed over and my fingers went numb. Every writer needs a Dean. (But you can't have mine. Go find your own.)

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to MaryJanice Davidson. The next time I see you, you get chocolate. We're talking Godiva, baby.

  A big ol' thank-you to Jessica Growette, who let me steal her name and her attitude to create my heroine. She rules. (Literally. Don't mess with her. I'm serious.)

  I'm very thankful to my agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan, who sold my weird-ass idea, and to my editor, Kara Cesare, who bought my weird-ass idea. You gotta love women who say, "PTA vampires? Cool!"

  Jeana Paglialunga, Karen "MT" Williams, and Saira are goddesses! Not only do they have sharp eyes and kind words, they work for free. Ladies, your "I Proofed I'm the Vampire, That's Why and All I Got Was This Lousy Acknowledgment." T-shirt is on the way. A high five to NAL's copy editors. Thank you for your diligent work on this novel.

  I'm tremendously grateful to Evangeline Anderson, who always makes me laugh, who isn't afraid of anything, and who has the best stories. I'm so glad we're friends.

  And finally, big sloppy smooches to Lady Carrassa, who keeps me supplied with food and drink and moral support. She makes the best damned cider in the world.

  Finally, I'm very grateful for the abundant online information that helped me with so much of this book. Any mistakes made, by accident or on purpose, are mine. Just remember, I have a license… a creative license.

  Quote

  We desperately need a new and gentle light where the soul can shelter and reveal its ancient belonging.

  Chapter 1

  The night I died, I was wrestling a garbage can to the curb.

  I had a perfectly healthy fourteen-year-old son who should have taken out the garbage after dinner, but he, and let me quote him directly here, "forgot."

  Every Sunday and Wednesday night we had the same conversation, usually five minutes after he crawled into bed. Here's the script:

  Enter the Mother into the Pit of Despair. I refuse to walk more than a foot into the Pit because I'm afraid a radiated tentacle might emerge from a gooey pile of papers and clothes and drag me, screaming and clutching at the faded carpet, into the smells-like-lima-beans clutter. I open the door, try not to inhale any noxious boy-room fumes, and delicately scoot one Keds-protected foot inside. Cue dialogue.

  "G'night, honey. And Bry? Did you take out the garbage?"

  "Oops."

  "It's twice a week. It's your only chore. I pay you ten bucks every Friday morning to do it."

  "It's a heinous chore."

  "I know. That's why I pay you to do it."

  "Sorry, Mom. I forgot."

  At this point in the twice-weekly argument, variations occurred. Sometimes, Bryan faked snores until I went away, sometimes he actually fell asleep mid-lecture, and sometimes he whined about how his nine-year-old sister Jenny didn't do chores, and I still paid her five dollars every Friday morning.

  So, yet again, just after ten p.m. on a Wednesday night, I found myself pulling first one, then the second thirty-gallon garbage can down the driveway, and trying to align the grimy plastic containers near, but not. off, the curb. Do not get me started on sloppy, lid-flinging, half-trash-dumping garbage men who are extraordinarily picky about the definition of "curbside pickup."

  When huge, hairy hands grabbed my shoulders and heaved me across the street and into Mrs. Ryerson's prized rose bushes, I didn't have time to scream, much less panic. The whatever-it-was leapt upon me and ripped open my neck, snuffling and snarling as it sucked at the bleeding wound.

  Good God. What sort of man-creature could hold a grown woman down like a Great Dane and gnaw on her like a favorite chew toy? It slurped and slurped and slurped… until the excruciating pain (and honey, I've suffered through labor twice) faded into a feeling of weightlessness. I felt very floaty, like my body had turned into mist, or like that time in college when I took a hit of acid and had the "Tinkerbell" episode. I knew that if I just let go, I'd rise into the night sky and free myself from gravity… from responsibility… from Bryan and Jenny.

  Just thinking about my kids slammed me down to earth. My husband had passed away a little more than a year ago in a car accident. Don't feel too sorry for me, though. I was in the middle of divorcing the son of a bitch.

  I couldn't scream. I couldn't lift my arms. I couldn't open my eyes. But I felt my body again, every aching, pain-throbbing inch of it. The heavy, smelly thing pressing my limp body into thorny branches and noisily smacking against my throat grunted and rolled off. Dry grass crunched and leaves rattled as it moved, growling and groaning like a well-fed coyote. I didn't flicker an eyelid for fear it would try for a killing blow, though if the state of my neck wound was as bad as I thought, I was dead anyway. Then I heard the sounds of bare feet slapping against pavement and realized the thing was running away. Fast.

  I don't remember how I disentangled my sorry self from the bushes. I have vague memories of the roses' too sweet scent as I crawled across the street and collapsed near my knocked-over garbage cans.

  For those who know me, meeting my end amid muttered curses and spilled refuse was not a great shock. But, shock or not, it was still a crappy way to go.

  Some people believe that dying ends all possibilities of humiliation.

  Not so.

  When I awoke, I wasn't standing at the pearly gates of heaven. Well, not unless the religious definition of "pearly gates" was way, way off base.

  I was latched on to the velvety inside of a muscular male thigh, my teeth embedded in the flesh near his groin, my mouth soaked with warm, very tasty liquid.

  No, the man was not wearing pants. Hell, he wasn't wearing underwear. Who am I kidding? The man didn't have on a stitch of clothing.

  I wish I could say that the embarrassment of my chee
k brushing against his testicles outweighed my need to suck his blood—and yeah, I know, ew—but it was like… it was like… a half-off sale at Pottery Barn. No, better. It was like eating, without gastrointestinal or caloric consequences, a two-pound box of Godiva's champagne truffles. No, no… like… oh God, like finally fitting into that pair of skinny jeans that taunts every woman from the back of her closet.

  Uh-huh. Now you know the ecstasy I'm talking about.

  After another minute or two of sucking on the stranger's thigh, I felt firm, long fingers under my chin.

  "That's enough, love," said an Irish-tinted voice. "You're healed now."

  With great reluctance, I allowed the fingers cupping my jaw to disengage me from the yummy thigh. I sat up, licking my lips to get every dribble of blood (ew, again) smeared on my mouth.

  "Where am I? What happened? Where are my kids?"

  "Ssshhh. Everything will be explained." He tilted his head, looking me over in a way that caused heat to skitter in my stomach. "Your children are fine. Damian is watchin' them."

  Damian? Who the fuck was Damian? Whoa, girl. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Well, crud. The whole breath thing wasn't working. I didn't even want to think about my lack of heartbeat. I had to stay calm. I focused on the room and realized I could see everything clearly. What the hell? I had been relying on glasses to see past my nose for almost ten years. With this kind of vision, I probably could see all the way to Canada.

  "So… with all the, uh, blood-sucking, I'm guessing I'm a vampire now." Just saying "I'm" and "vampire" together was so ridiculous, I wanted to giggle.

  "Yes. We Irish vampires call ourselves deamhan fhola." He grinned at me. "It means blood demon."

  "Oh. Well, that's certainly… descriptive." In a bad, yucky, soulless way.

  We were in a small white room. It had a long, uncomfortable steel slab sticking out from the wall and we were on it. About six feet from the steel slab on the left side of the room was a door without any visible knob or handle. I looked down at myself. I was in a white hospital gown and I smelled like antiseptic.

  I was a vampire.

  Jessica Anne Matthews. Vampire.

  The stupid giggle erupted and I nearly snorted and snarfed myself into a seizure. "Me. A vampire."

  "Yes." The guy who'd been my lifesaving snack was leaning against the wall, his knees drawn up slightly. Raven-black hair feathered away from his face, the ends of it curling on his shoulders. He watched me with the strangest eyes I'd ever seen. He looked like Pierce Brosnan in his Remington Steele days, except for the color of those eyes. "With eyes like the sea after a storm," I muttered, quoting one of my favorite lines from The Princess Bride. Those strange eyes were an ever-changing silver that seemed to eddy and swirl like a fast-rising river.

  Given his size, my guess was that he was just about six feet tall. He was muscular and trim like an athlete, rather than bulky like a gym freak, with a light dusting of black hair on his chest and thighs.

  I might've been delirious or crazy or dreaming, but I checked out his package. It was impressive, too. From a patch of black hair sprang a large erection. His testicles tightened underneath my blatant scrutiny and I remembered the soft feel of his balls against my cheek as I suckled his flesh just inches from his groin. His gaze dropped to his penis, his lips curving upward as his eyes met mine again. He seemed to ask, "Want a ride, little girl?"

  And you know what? I did. I wanted a ride. I hadn't had sex in eighteen months. Sessions with the battery-operated boyfriend did not count. The last man I trusted to touch me, to bring me pleasure, had betrayed sixteen years of marriage by doing the same lovely, naughty things to another, younger woman. Then, before I could seek proper revenge, he had gotten killed in a car accident. I always thought it had been a mundane way to go for a man who had ripped out my heart and then stomped it to bloody bits with his cloven hooves.

  But I digress.

  "Do not have sex with Mr. O'Halloran." The command echoed around the room. Even with my new vision, I couldn't spot the speakers.

  The Pierce Brosnan look-alike rolled his eyes. "She fed on me like I was the last Twinkie in the box. A little thanks might be in order."

  "If you have sex with Mr. O'Halloran," said the voice, obviously unimpressed, "you will be mated to him for the next hundred years."

  Chapter 2

  "'Tis true," said the man… er, vampire. "But there are ways to find pleasure without making that mistake."

  I asked, "There are?" when I meant to ask: What's all this about vampire mating, buddy?

  My eyes were drawn to him again. I looked at his big feet, lingered on his calves and thighs, dipped to take another look at his… oh lord, had it gotten bigger? I dragged my gaze up to feast on those tight abs and pecs. Brown nipples poked through the curls of silky hair. By the time I got to the strong line of his jaw, the impudent curve of his lips, the aquiline nose, the silver eyes… I was on fire. I burned from the tip of my pinky toes to the tiniest hairs on my head.

  "Aye," the vampire whispered, "there are."

  "There are what?" I sounded hoarse and distant. I wanted to crawl into the Irishman's lap and kiss every beautiful inch of him.

  "Stop that!" The fervent demand issued from the invisible speakers.

  I blinked at the sharp tone. The hot, sweet tendrils of desire fell away, leaving me cold and vaguely creeped out. "Okay. What just happened?"

  "It's a long story, Mrs. Matthews," said the exasperated voice.

  I heard a steel scrape, and then clang, clang, clang. I looked at Mr. O'Halloran and nearly fell off the table. He'd put his hands on his knees and revealed that he was chained to the wall. I hadn't noticed because, well, I'd been looking at his genitals. That, and the fact he'd concealed his imprisonment by hiding his hands. The chains, maybe as thick as those that secured bicycles, looked too delicate to hold him. Swirls and weird words emblazoned the silver cuffs.

  "You're a prisoner?" I sounded aghast. Given that I had been attacked by a snarling, hairy assailant, died viciously, and woke up munching on an Irish vampire, I had no right to be aghast. All the same, a thread of fear wound through me. "I thought vampires were super-duper strong."

  He chuckled. "We are very strong. But these little beauties," he shook his arms, "have special charms on them. I cannot break them."

  That Irish lilt was freaking deadly. Forget that whole "glamour" thing where vampires supposedly entranced their victims. Wait a minute. Earlier he'd mentioned magic, too, though I'd been distracted by the whole blood thing. "Special charms? As in…" I wiggled my fingers in a bad sorceress impression.

  He nodded. "I had to be bound, love. Because of that ring you're wearin'."

  On the ring finger of my right hand was the ring I always wore. My grandmother had given it to me just days before she passed on. I looked at it, as if doing so would make clear why the vampire needed chains to protect him from it. "My Claddagh ring?"

  "It's a fede," said the man. "A faith ring. Claddagh rings have hands clasping a crowned heart and have only been around since the sixteenth century. Yours is only the heart. It's made from the purest silver and it's very old."

  This was news to me. My family knew the legend of the ring—it was one of the stories always told at holiday gatherings. "My gran said it was crafted by a fairy and given to her true love. The ring granted protection to her lover, but only as long as he remained faithful. He met a beautiful mortal woman and made love to her. So, the ring's magic turned him into stone. The fairy reclaimed the ring and threw it into the ocean, swearing to never love again. A fish swallowed it and was caught by a poor man, who gifted his wife with it. The man was Sean McCree. And his wife was Mary McCree. She was my great-great-great-great grandmother."

  "A descendent of Mary McCree," he said, shaking his head. "And you have the ring. My father was right. About everything." He nodded to my hand. "If it was a true Claddagh ring, do you know that wearing the heart turned inward means your heart is unoccupied?"


  "Yes," I said softly. "Why do you think I wear it like this?" I looked at the silver ring, then back at the silver gaze of the vampire. "Why does it bother you?"

  "It was mine." His eyes lost their devilish twinkle for a moment and the sorrow I saw in that blink started my heart tha-thumping wildly.

  "It was… yours? You're kidding."

  "Take it off and look at the inscription on the inside."

  I realized that he had probably examined the ring while I was in la-la land. "Just because you know there's an inscription doesn't mean it's yours."

  "Mo chroí," he whispered. "My heart. Believe me when I say that the ring belonged to me."

  "So that makes you the unfaithful lover?"

  "No," he said. "Your quaint family tale is not true."

  "It's just a story. And it's just a ring," I said softly. I looked around the room. Chances were good that surveillance wasn't limited to audio so I bet there were cameras in here, too. I crawled between his legs, afraid and trembling, and leaned down to whisper, "Can I break the chains?"

  "Aye," he said. "But if you do, I'll probably fall upon that lovely body of yours and fuck you until you scream with pleasure."

  His blunt words startled me, but probably not in the way he intended. I liked the image created by his rough description and the evidence of how well I liked it trickled between my thighs. "What's the bad part again?"

  His lips curled into a feral smile. "None. But I'm not of a mind to worry about things like accidental mating rituals. Are you?"

  Well, yeah. I was horny, not stupid. I backed away, until I got to the end of the steel slab. I sat down with my legs hanging over it, and swung them like an antsy kid at the doctor's office. I glanced at my fellow inmate, but his face was expressionless. He'd probably had centuries to perfect the ultimate poker face. Hah. Check me out. I'm sitting in a room with a chained vampire that I would, even now, do the horizontal bop with, and everything's so surreal and strange… I'm dreaming or I'm in hell. Otherwise, I was handling this freaky situation with considerable aplomb.

  "My name is Patrick O'Halloran. But you, a thaisce, can call me Patrick."