Read Online Love Bites by Adrienne Barbeau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Adrienne Barbeau
Tags: Fiction, General, Fantasy, Contemporary, Mystery & Detective, Occult fiction, supernatural, Vampires, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.), Motion picture producers and directors
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I couldn’t even tell him about her. I pressed the button on the intercom and checked my teeth in the mirror while I waited for the gates to open.
Once again Ovsanna was waiting for me outside the front door, once again looking fantastic. Come to think of it, the only time I’d ever seen her not looking great was when she turned into that prehistoric monster, with wings coming out of her back. Even then she’d been pretty striking. This time she had on black leather pants and a hunter green sweater. My eyes went to her necklace. Carved gold lying flat against her chest, with a tiger’s-eye scarab resting on the spot I’d like to be.
“That’s a great necklace,” I said, nervous all over again, as though we hadn’t already spent an entire evening together. Well, hell, it was impossible to predict what an evening with her might bring.
“Thanks,” she said, looking down at the carved beetle. “I’ve had it for years.”
“I’ll bet. A gift from the Etruscan who made it?”
“Wow!” she teased. “A police detective who knows what an Estruscan is? I’m impressed.”
“Hey, I like studying historical objects. Why do you think I asked you out?”
“Oh boy,” she said, laughing, “you’re going to pay for that.”
I wanted to take her someplace she hadn’t seen before. I didn’t get the feeling vampyres made a big deal out of Christmas, and it didn’t seem very movie star–ish to cruise the streets of the Valley, so I took a chance she’d never been where I wanted to go. I drove out the 101 and exited at Winnetka. That put us in the middle of a long line of cars driving through a neighborhood of decorated houses, each one more elaborate than the next. Candy Cane Lane in Woodland Hills. With light bulb reindeer bouncing over every roof, and red and green garlands roped around the palm trees. One yard had an entire crèche made out of Legos. Another one had a full-size Frosty made of popcorn balls. There was a red-capped SpongeBob fighting for lawn space next to a ten-foot-tall inflatable Santa Claus with an electric air blower up his butt. SpongeBob’s blower must have been broken because he couldn’t stay upright; his nose kept bouncing on the ground. Made him look festive, though, like he was dancing—or drunk. The requisite Salvation Army solicitor—human, not inflatable; nothing up her butt that I could see—stood on a corner with her cauldron and her bell. Passengers handed her dollar bills. She wasn’t doing as well as the homeless guy across the street, though. He was raking it in. The sign he was holding said: “Aging comedy writer. Will work for Disney.”
Ovsanna laughed. “Maybe I should get his card,” she said. “See if he’s got a spec script sitting on a shelf. If there’s one thing vampyres are sensitive to, it’s ageism.”
The traffic slowed as we drove past three wise men and a cardboard camel. Time to find out more about Ovsanna. “So . . . I started to ask you the night of the fire, but I got sidetracked . . . do you celebrate Christmas? I mean . . . not just . . . vampyres in general, but you . . . did you celebrate when you were growing up? How did you grow up? How does all that work with . . . your people?”
“Well, I was born a vampyre, not made. Not turned, which is what I did with Rudolph Valentino. Rudy was in his mid-twenties when I turned him. But I was born vampyre—of a vampyre father and a strega mother. Do you know what a strega is?”
“Not the way you do,” I answered. “As far as my family’s concerned, it’s an Italian liqueur my mother made us drink if we had a stomachache. You weren’t born in a bottle, were you?”
She laughed again. “No,” she said, still smiling. “Although strega means ‘witches’ love potion.’ Somebody had a good idea for a marketing ploy. No, my mother was a witch—a real witch who could put spells on people and hex them and wreak havoc with their lives if she chose to, which she didn’t,
Once again Ovsanna was waiting for me outside the front door, once again looking fantastic. Come to think of it, the only time I’d ever seen her not looking great was when she turned into that prehistoric monster, with wings coming out of her back. Even then she’d been pretty striking. This time she had on black leather pants and a hunter green sweater. My eyes went to her necklace. Carved gold lying flat against her chest, with a tiger’s-eye scarab resting on the spot I’d like to be.
“That’s a great necklace,” I said, nervous all over again, as though we hadn’t already spent an entire evening together. Well, hell, it was impossible to predict what an evening with her might bring.
“Thanks,” she said, looking down at the carved beetle. “I’ve had it for years.”
“I’ll bet. A gift from the Etruscan who made it?”
“Wow!” she teased. “A police detective who knows what an Estruscan is? I’m impressed.”
“Hey, I like studying historical objects. Why do you think I asked you out?”
“Oh boy,” she said, laughing, “you’re going to pay for that.”
I wanted to take her someplace she hadn’t seen before. I didn’t get the feeling vampyres made a big deal out of Christmas, and it didn’t seem very movie star–ish to cruise the streets of the Valley, so I took a chance she’d never been where I wanted to go. I drove out the 101 and exited at Winnetka. That put us in the middle of a long line of cars driving through a neighborhood of decorated houses, each one more elaborate than the next. Candy Cane Lane in Woodland Hills. With light bulb reindeer bouncing over every roof, and red and green garlands roped around the palm trees. One yard had an entire crèche made out of Legos. Another one had a full-size Frosty made of popcorn balls. There was a red-capped SpongeBob fighting for lawn space next to a ten-foot-tall inflatable Santa Claus with an electric air blower up his butt. SpongeBob’s blower must have been broken because he couldn’t stay upright; his nose kept bouncing on the ground. Made him look festive, though, like he was dancing—or drunk. The requisite Salvation Army solicitor—human, not inflatable; nothing up her butt that I could see—stood on a corner with her cauldron and her bell. Passengers handed her dollar bills. She wasn’t doing as well as the homeless guy across the street, though. He was raking it in. The sign he was holding said: “Aging comedy writer. Will work for Disney.”
Ovsanna laughed. “Maybe I should get his card,” she said. “See if he’s got a spec script sitting on a shelf. If there’s one thing vampyres are sensitive to, it’s ageism.”
The traffic slowed as we drove past three wise men and a cardboard camel. Time to find out more about Ovsanna. “So . . . I started to ask you the night of the fire, but I got sidetracked . . . do you celebrate Christmas? I mean . . . not just . . . vampyres in general, but you . . . did you celebrate when you were growing up? How did you grow up? How does all that work with . . . your people?”
“Well, I was born a vampyre, not made. Not turned, which is what I did with Rudolph Valentino. Rudy was in his mid-twenties when I turned him. But I was born vampyre—of a vampyre father and a strega mother. Do you know what a strega is?”
“Not the way you do,” I answered. “As far as my family’s concerned, it’s an Italian liqueur my mother made us drink if we had a stomachache. You weren’t born in a bottle, were you?”
She laughed again. “No,” she said, still smiling. “Although strega means ‘witches’ love potion.’ Somebody had a good idea for a marketing ploy. No, my mother was a witch—a real witch who could put spells on people and hex them and wreak havoc with their lives if she chose to, which she didn’t,
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