La Vida Vampire Page 2

  Too creeped to try taking a psychic peek at them, I focused on being tour guide extraordinaire.

  “Welcome to the Old Coast Ghost Walk. I am Francesca Melisenda Alejandra Marinelli, your guide, born here in St. Augustine in 1780. I know you have questions about me, and I’ll get to those in a second. First, let me introduce my friends and assistants, Janie and Mick. Janie’s dressed in a Minorcan ensemble of the late seventeen hundreds, and Mick’s wearing a Spanish soldier’s costume.”

  “Why are you wearing an Empire gown?” the Shalimar Jag Queen asked. “Isn’t that from the Regency period?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mine is circa 1802, and I chose it because I love the style.” The two oldest Jag Queens tittered, and I continued.

  “We’re standing at the north end of what used to be the Minorcan Quarter, or the Spanish Quarter, or simply the Quarter. We’ll go through the city gates to the Huguenot Cemetery, then loop through the historic district to end our tour on the bay front. You’re welcome to ask questions as we visit the sites, but let’s see if I can address some of your personal questions before we start.

  “First, please call me Cesca. You can take pictures, I do show up on film, and I hope you’ll get my best side.” The loud wiseguy waved his camera and laughed. “Seriously, if you get any ghostly photos of the haunted sites, the tour company would love to have copies.”

  “Ghost pictures?” Gomer breathed, goggle-eyed. “Honest to goodness ghost pictures?”

  I nodded.

  “Goll-lee.”

  Biting the inside of my lip to keep from laughing at the Gomer-ism, I turned toward the Jag Queens and regrouped.

  “Now, I mentioned this was called the Quarter. My parents were among those immigrants from Minorca, Italy, and Greece who came here as indentured servants to work the New Smyrna Colony. When the immigrants didn’t get what they were promised, they fled to St. Augustine for asylum. My mother was Minorcan Spanish, my father an Italian mariner, and my family home was on the bay front. The house we lived in is long gone, but I’ll show you where it was when we get there.

  “I was buried for two hundred and four years,” I continued as twelve pairs of eyes got rounder, “in a tiny basement of coquina that had a small trapdoor flush with the ground. The original house over the basement was coquina stone and wood. It’s also long gone, and a late eighteen hundreds Victorian house is on the site now. My friend, Maggie, is restoring the house, so it’s a construction zone and not safe to visit.

  “I love living in this time,” I said to the goth gang, “and the GPS tracker I wear is in my arm. I don’t get headaches like Spike got in Buffy. I do watch a lot of TV and movies, and I read a lot. Classic TV, old movies, and mystery novels are some of my favorites. Oh, and I truly don’t bite people. I get artificial blood from the health food store, and it’s bottled just like cola, except they come in six and eight ounces instead of larger sizes.”

  I paused for a breath, and Shalimar jumped in.

  “Ms. Marinelli, Francesca, you just answered half the questions my group planned to ask. I’ve heard vampire senses are sharper than human ones, but this is ridiculous. Do you read minds?”

  “Not exactly,” I fudged, “but I am a bit psychic when certain moon phases don’t fritz me out.”

  “A bit psychic, my best pearls! Invite us along next time you play the lottery.”

  The group laughed, and Skinny Goth Boy spoke up.

  “Hey, the newspaper said you were a princess before you were, you know, in the basement. Were you really some kind of royalty, like from Spain?”

  “No. The head vampire here called himself a king because he could get away with it. He declared me the princess because he sort of adopted me.”

  “So you were heir to the bloodsucker’s throne?”

  Stony asked the question, his voice grating like coquina on a chalkboard. Dressed in a black turtleneck, black Wranglers, and black sneakers, his hard eyes were a startling pale blue. I didn’t mind the other questions, but his annoyed me.

  “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d use more tactful language in front of the young children,” I said polite as could be. The tour company and my mother would’ve been proud. “To answer you, in a sense I suppose I was being trained, but I was a most unwilling and uncooperative heir.”

  “So, eh, Princess Vampire,” the loud wiseguy said, “you see dead people?”

  Corny, but I could’ve kissed the man for asking the perfect question to get us on tour-track.

  “I do see our ghosts when they want to be seen,” I said as I retrieved the battery-operated lantern from the substation’s small storage shelf. “Let’s get along with our tour and find out if they’re active tonight. Now, please watch your step, watch the children, and stay together as I tell you of the ghosts of St. Augustine.”

  An hour and thirty minutes later, the fog began to thicken, and the air was cooler, but the tour had been successful. Wildly successful, judging by the unusual number of sightings. I mean, the disturbed energy of storms can bring our ghosts out of the woodwork, but plain old fog?

  Nevertheless, Wiseguy saw Judge John B. Stickney’s ghost in the Huguenot Cemetery, my little friend Robbie saw both a cat and dog ghost, and two teens swore they saw an angry woman in the window of Fay’s House on Cuna. Gomer must’ve seen her, too. I almost lost it when he uttered a shocked, drawling, “Shazam.” He sounded too Gomer-ish to be for real, but he did look shaken. The French couple actually took their eyes off each other long enough to exclaim over orbs of light zipping around the Catholic Tolomato Cemetery.

  I saw my favorite spirit, the Bridal Ghost, in the Tolomato and told her story, the one I’d “seen” from my basement grave. It wasn’t a tour-sanctioned story, but the ghost nodded as if satisfied I had gotten the basics right. I hoped neither Janie nor Mick would turn me in for telling a tale not backed by specific historical data.

  Then again, I could argue I was the historical data.

  I wrapped up my last ghost story at the final stop and scanned the crowd. We’d covered less than a square mile on the tour, but the children were drooping or sleeping in their parents’ arms. Wiseguy and his friends were quiet, and even the teens were subdued.

  The newlyweds and Stony hung to the left side of the group. In fact, Stony seemed to be shadowing the couple during the tour. I didn’t lower my reinforced shields to read the dynamics there. Nope, no idle snooping for me. I curbed my curiosity and conducted myself professionally.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our tour, except that I wanted to answer the lady’s earlier question about where I lived.”

  I pointed at the newest bayfront hotel, pleased that seeing the site where my family had lived no longer gut-punched me.

  “My home was about in the middle of this stretch of property. This hotel is new, but it replaced a motor inn where Martin Luther King, Jr., once jumped or was thrown into the motel pool.

  “Thank you for joining us on the Old Coast Ghost Walk this evening. If you’d like to leave from here, you may, but I’ll escort those who wish it back to our meeting place. Also, if you want to turn in an evaluation form, you can get a discount on a future tour.”

  The parents and children headed north toward the new tourist center parking garage. Wiseguy’s group started south. That left the goth gang and Gomer, the Jag Queens, the newlyweds…and Stony, who stalked toward me.

  “Hold it,” Stony’s gravel voice rumbled. “I want to know what happened to your family home. Why didn’t it survive like these others did?”

  I gave him my polite demeanor, just as I had before. “Many homes here were destroyed by fire over the years and have since been rebuilt. My home burned in 1802.”

  He took another step. “And you became a vampire in…?”

  I gave him very polite. “Eighteen hundred.”

  One more step put him and his bad breath nearly in my face. “Did your family die in the fire?”

  The Jag Queens gasped en masse, and Mick moved away
from Janie to help me, but I held up a hand to show I’d handle the problem myself.

  I gave Stony a polite smile so tight my teeth ached. “My parents were out visiting at the time of the fire and weren’t harmed.”

  “Bull. I bet you slaughtered them. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You tore out their throats like the undead monster you are and set fire to them, didn’t you? Didn’t you, brusha!”

  He grabbed my shoulders and shook me so hard I dropped the battery-operated lantern.

  That’s when I ran out of polite.

  TWO

  I may not use my vampire strength or speed, but in that moment I could’ve cheerfully snatched Stony’s head clean off and handed it to him before he fell.

  My good manners, good sense—and his breath—stopped me.

  Mick moved behind Stony, but I waved off his help again and glared into the man’s pale blue eyes.

  “You’re invading my personal space here, and you need a mint, jalapeño breath.”

  He smirked. “It’s garlic, bloodsucker.”

  “It’s both,” I shot back, “with the underlying scent of cheap cigar. And for the record, I’m a blood sipper not a sucker. Starbloods caramel macchiato, if you want to apologize for this outrage with a case or two. Plus,” I added, ducking easily out of his grasp when he didn’t have the courtesy to let go, “I don’t consider myself undead, just underalive. I mean, zombies, now those things are undead. And they stink almost as much as you do.”

  “We’re locked and loaded and have him covered, dear,” Shalimar Lady said. “Shall we phone the police, too?”

  I leaned sideways around Stony and blinked. Six of the Jag Queens pointed guns at the man, though Shalimar’s seemed to veer toward the bride, who stood just to the right behind me. Three other ladies held cell phones at the ready. What, did they each have different calling plans? The goth gang wore bug-eyed expressions, and Gomer and Mick stood tensed for action, but the ladies looked calm. Maybe because they’d raised children. Takes a lot to freak out mothers.

  “No need for the police, ma’am.” I smiled and straightened my shawl. “I’m sure Stony, um, this…gentleman…is leaving now.”

  “My name is not Stony,” he ground out, his face turning apoplectic purple.

  My genteel upbringing aside, I wouldn’t have been crushed had he stroked out on the sidewalk then and there. He’d dug his fingers into my right arm where the GPS chip was implanted, and that puppy hurt. Alas, he didn’t drop dead, and I didn’t give him the satisfaction of rubbing my sore arm.

  “Another time, vampire. You’ll be alone, and you will die. One way or another, we’ll make sure you all die.”

  He shouldered past me and stomped off, nearly barreling into the newlyweds, who watched him with raised brows.

  As the ladies stowed their weapons and cell phones, Shalimar said, “What did he call you? Brusha? What is that?”

  “It’s a Minorcan word.” I nonchalantly smoothed my skirt and hoped no one saw my hand shaking. “He either called me a witch or insulted my hair.”

  Which would make the second time today my hair took a hit.

  I bent to pick up my lantern. Gomer lurched in at the same time, and we bumped heads.

  “Oh, sorry, Miss Cesca,” he said. “Let me get that so’s you don’t get cut.”

  “Thank you, but it’s plastic.” Dang, his head was hard, but his heart was in the right place.

  “Here you go, ma’am. Sure sorry that man was rude to you.”

  I took the lantern by its twisted handle. The metal base and cage were dented, and the plastic hurricane lamp cracked, but at least we didn’t have glass all over the sidewalk.

  “That Stony guy’s a real jerk,” Skinny Goth Boy said. “Why’d he go off on you?”

  Though I had a good idea, it was best to get over rough ground lightly. I shrugged. “Probably needs more fiber in his diet. Now, if you’re all ready to walk back, let’s head up Treasury Street.”

  “Just a moment, dear,” Shalimar said. “Don’t you need to file an incident report? Let us give you our names as witnesses.”

  “Oui. That man, he must be considered dangereux,” the bride said, her sultry voice sounding more peeved than concerned. “He attacks you, and he follows my Etienne and me everywhere.” She did the hair-tossing-over-the-shoulder thing again. “He is spoiling our honeymoon.”

  It shouldn’t have been funny, but I felt a grin coming on because I wanted to send the bride to a chiropractor. The comic relief helped calm me, and I held up a steadier hand.

  “You’re right, of course. We’ll report this to the tour company and possibly to the police, but,” I said to the bride, “you need to make your own report if you feel threatened.”

  I clapped my hands like a teacher getting attention. “Right, now we really do need to head back to our starting place.”

  Janie whispered that she and Mick would take a shortcut back to the tour substation. They’d alert a tour supervisor by phone, and get started on the report paperwork.

  To end the evening on a higher note than the scene with Stony, I joked and answered more questions as I led my reduced group back to St. George Street.

  Did I breathe and have a heartbeat?

  Yes to both. It takes breath—air moving over the vocal cords—to speak and laugh. My heart beats at a comatose snail’s pace, but it does thump ten or so times a minute, more when I’m exercising. Unless I’m sleeping or being very still, in which case I may not breathe but once in a while or have a pulse over five beats a minute, but I didn’t tell them that.

  Could I eat and drink, like, regular food?

  Yes again. I’m full after a few bites because a shrunken stomach doesn’t tolerate food well, but I buy gelato at the shop on St. George Street every chance I get. It looks like colored whipped cream, and talk about smooth!

  What do I do in my spare time besides watch TV and read?

  Surf, rollerblade, listen to music, and play bridge.

  The surfing and blading intrigued the teens, as did my music interests from jazz to Jimi Hendrix. The ladies played more Texas hold ’em than bridge, they said, but they oohed over some of my favorite actors. Cary Grant and Sean Connery are two. Then I mentioned Adrian Paul in the Highlander TV series, and Etienne struck a pose.

  “Ah, yes. My Yolette, she collects the Highlander DVDs and jewelry. Even the swords. Very expensive, non? But my little wife loves these things, and she can buy what makes her happy.”

  Little wife? Was that condescending or what?

  To turn the conversation and satisfy my curiosity, I asked the newlyweds, “What made you choose St. Augustine for your wedding trip?”

  Yolette tossed her head again. “Oh, I learned of the city from a friend. Then we heard of you, and I decided we must come.”

  I blinked. “You heard of me? In France?”

  Her jerky husband laughed. “My Yolette, she is fascinated with vampires, so naturellement, we came to—” He paused a nanosecond. “—investigate you.”

  I’m not often speechless, but I stopped and gaped. Shalimar, bless her, stepped forward. Literally stepped in front of me, almost confronting the couple, though her voice was mild.

  “Are you staying at one of our beautiful bed-and-breakfast inns downtown?”

  “Non,” Etienne said. “We rent a house on the beach. C’est très moderne where we may watch the sunrise. We spare no expense.”

  Yolette wrinkled her pert nose at the older woman. “Madame, your perfume is very strong. Shalimar, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes.”

  “My late husband spoke of an aunt who wore too much Shalimar. I never met her, you understand, but he says to me it made him sick and I—I am allergic.”

  Shalimar stiffened, her expression stricken. Probably as insulted as I was for her, but she stood her ground. “What happened to your first husband?”

  “He tragically died by—”

  “Accident,” Etienne said.

  Murder, I heard in my
head.

  I glanced at Shalimar’s set face. Had the thought come from her? If so, she sounded a lot different in my head—almost masculine. I glanced at Gomer, who watched intently. When he caught me looking at him, the edge drained from his eyes and he shrugged slightly.

  Ready to see the last of this crew, I led them the final half block to our starting place, where Janie and Mick waited with the forms. As promised, each group member gave me contact information, even the goth gang and Gomer. Music from the live band at the Mill Top Tavern made conversation difficult, so the group drifted off quickly.

  “You did great, Cesca,” Janie said as the newlyweds left and Gomer trailed along behind, pelting them with drawled questions about France. “Grace under fire, for sure.”

  I sighed. “That guy was one of the famous Covenant freaks, right? The group that stalks vampires to kill them?”

  “The one you called Stony? From the way he acted, I’d say so, yeah. In the nasty flesh.” Mick tapped the sheaf of papers against his palm.

  “Charming. Of all the tours in all the cities in all the world, a nutso vampire watchdog shows up at mine.”

  I’d read that a cell had provoked a lone vampire a few years ago, then cried foul when the vamp defended herself. Perhaps too forcefully, but she hadn’t killed any of them. Still, the bullies had run to the law, demanding an execution. And got it.

  Wait, a cell. Teams.

  “Don’t these guys work in teams?” I asked.

  “Yeah, they do,” Mick said slowly. “They also catch vamps alone, not with an audience around.” He paused. “We could report him if we knew his real name.”

  Janie frowned. “The French couple said he was tailing them, but they aren’t vampires, right?”

  I had to smile. Me, Janie could take. More vampires, probably not. “No, they’re just folks.”

  I glanced at Mick, who seemed to know about cults of all kinds. Someday I’d ask him why. “Mick, was tonight just a chance opportunity to harass me, or is there more to it?”