Read Online La Vida Vampire by Nancy Haddock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nancy Haddock
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shutdown or not, my BS meter was spiking like crazy. Half truths and secrets. That’s what I sensed from him. Then again, I still felt relatively safe, and I was curious enough to see what else Holland might tell me.
“Well, then, thank you for seeing me home.” I paced off again, trailing my hand on the thick ship’s chain strung along the seawall. “So, are you visiting in town or do you live here?”
“I live over in Palatka for now.”
“You take the ghost tours often?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I wanted to see you.”
I looked up sharply. “Why?”
“You lived history,” he said, sweeping his right arm to indicate the city. “You were here before Henry Flagler was even born, much less before he changed this place with the railroads and big fancy hotels and churches and all.”
Couldn’t argue that I predated Henry Flagler and the improvements he’d brought to St. Augustine, but I didn’t buy Holland as a big history buff.
“And you came back tonight just to see me again?”
He looked away. “No, ma’am. Not exactly.”
We’d reached the corner, and paused for the traffic light to change. He didn’t tower over me, but I had to look up. “Why don’t you just spill it, Holland?”
“The man you call Stony—good one, by the way.”
“Yes?” Pulling teeth here.
“Fact is, ma’am, he’s been in Palatka and Hastings talkin’ up this Covenant thing. Talkin’ about killin’ humans who have dealin’s with vampires, too.”
“Do the authorities know?”
“I don’t know, but I ain’t the one to report him.”
“Yet you’re warning me.”
“Seein’s how he came after you last night, yeah.”
The light changed, and we crossed in silence. I had no trouble believing that Stony was recruiting, but it didn’t ring true that Holland feared the man. Not from the way he acted during the tour tonight. So who was Holland, really?
I almost took a shot at reading him, but as we stood at the corner of Charlotte and Cathedral, a half block from home, I spotted Maggie on her hands and knees on the sidewalk. She cradled one arm as if it were broken. Cat —giant, brain-rattlingmeow Cat—sat next to her, rubbing its face on the gray sweats Maggie wore. I didn’t think about moving, I was just there in a flash, hunkered beside her.
“Maggie!”
She rose so fast, we bumped heads.
“Ouch. Maggie, are you hurt? Is your arm broken?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Just my dignity. Some damn big cat wouldn’t move away from the door while I unlocked it, then the darn door stuck, and I strained my wrist trying to keep from dropping everything.”
I looked around us. Two bundles of paint sample strips fanned out on the sidewalk along with bulky fabric samples bound together with O-rings. Rolled papers I recognized as architectural drawings stuck out of the mix. Cat was gone.
“At least you didn’t break anything,” I breathed with relief, snagging her keys from the sidewalk. I’d puzzle over Cat later.
“May I help?” a masculine voice over us asked. Holland. I’d forgotten about him. We both assisted Maggie to her feet, and I made quick introductions while he bent to pick up and pass Maggie the fabric swatches and rolled-up drawings. When he leaned over again to get the paint sample bundles, a wind gust from the bay caught his short shirttail and flipped it up over the waistband of his polyester pants.
Where a butt crack might have been, I saw something worse.
In the small of his back, a matte black metal grip stuck out of his waistband.
Holland “Gomer” Peters carried a gun.
SIX
Surprised? Shocked? Full-scale flipping out?
Bingo, I was flipping. Way out.
Irrational, maybe, but who expects Gomer to be packing heat? Okay, he’s not Gomer. And, okay, the Jag Queens toted, but that was different. They wouldn’t shoot me, or Maggie either.
Would Holland shoot us? I hadn’t feared him until I saw the gun. Now his half truths and secrets seemed sinister. He almost caught me
“Well, then, thank you for seeing me home.” I paced off again, trailing my hand on the thick ship’s chain strung along the seawall. “So, are you visiting in town or do you live here?”
“I live over in Palatka for now.”
“You take the ghost tours often?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. I wanted to see you.”
I looked up sharply. “Why?”
“You lived history,” he said, sweeping his right arm to indicate the city. “You were here before Henry Flagler was even born, much less before he changed this place with the railroads and big fancy hotels and churches and all.”
Couldn’t argue that I predated Henry Flagler and the improvements he’d brought to St. Augustine, but I didn’t buy Holland as a big history buff.
“And you came back tonight just to see me again?”
He looked away. “No, ma’am. Not exactly.”
We’d reached the corner, and paused for the traffic light to change. He didn’t tower over me, but I had to look up. “Why don’t you just spill it, Holland?”
“The man you call Stony—good one, by the way.”
“Yes?” Pulling teeth here.
“Fact is, ma’am, he’s been in Palatka and Hastings talkin’ up this Covenant thing. Talkin’ about killin’ humans who have dealin’s with vampires, too.”
“Do the authorities know?”
“I don’t know, but I ain’t the one to report him.”
“Yet you’re warning me.”
“Seein’s how he came after you last night, yeah.”
The light changed, and we crossed in silence. I had no trouble believing that Stony was recruiting, but it didn’t ring true that Holland feared the man. Not from the way he acted during the tour tonight. So who was Holland, really?
I almost took a shot at reading him, but as we stood at the corner of Charlotte and Cathedral, a half block from home, I spotted Maggie on her hands and knees on the sidewalk. She cradled one arm as if it were broken. Cat —giant, brain-rattlingmeow Cat—sat next to her, rubbing its face on the gray sweats Maggie wore. I didn’t think about moving, I was just there in a flash, hunkered beside her.
“Maggie!”
She rose so fast, we bumped heads.
“Ouch. Maggie, are you hurt? Is your arm broken?”
She rubbed her forehead. “Just my dignity. Some damn big cat wouldn’t move away from the door while I unlocked it, then the darn door stuck, and I strained my wrist trying to keep from dropping everything.”
I looked around us. Two bundles of paint sample strips fanned out on the sidewalk along with bulky fabric samples bound together with O-rings. Rolled papers I recognized as architectural drawings stuck out of the mix. Cat was gone.
“At least you didn’t break anything,” I breathed with relief, snagging her keys from the sidewalk. I’d puzzle over Cat later.
“May I help?” a masculine voice over us asked. Holland. I’d forgotten about him. We both assisted Maggie to her feet, and I made quick introductions while he bent to pick up and pass Maggie the fabric swatches and rolled-up drawings. When he leaned over again to get the paint sample bundles, a wind gust from the bay caught his short shirttail and flipped it up over the waistband of his polyester pants.
Where a butt crack might have been, I saw something worse.
In the small of his back, a matte black metal grip stuck out of his waistband.
Holland “Gomer” Peters carried a gun.
SIX
Surprised? Shocked? Full-scale flipping out?
Bingo, I was flipping. Way out.
Irrational, maybe, but who expects Gomer to be packing heat? Okay, he’s not Gomer. And, okay, the Jag Queens toted, but that was different. They wouldn’t shoot me, or Maggie either.
Would Holland shoot us? I hadn’t feared him until I saw the gun. Now his half truths and secrets seemed sinister. He almost caught me
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