Read Online The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance by Trisha Telep - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Trisha Telep
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they got one thing right. What a vampire really needs is a mate. A life-mate. Someone he can turn. Someone to share eternity with.” She gave a mooning sigh, as if being asked to join a life of blood-sucking was more romantic than being serenaded by the Seine. “Can you imagine? Centuries together, bonded by love and—”
“Haemophilia? Please don’t tell me you—”
“Oh, look. There it is!”
She pointed to a sign on the corner. A neon sign, flashing first vamp, then changing to tramp. Vamp Tramp? Wasn’t that from a book?
This did not bode well. Forget the unoriginal name. The flashing neon screamed “fake” even louder. In a world where supernaturals still hid their true nature with Inquisition-era fervour, neon-signed vampire bars were . . . unlikely.
Oh, who the hell was I kidding? This place was going to be as authentic as chicken balls. One double-shot of disappointment to go. And add a big chaser of head-slapping duh. There were maybe twenty vampires in the whole country. Did I really think they’d band together and open a bar in my home town?
It was then, when I’d fully convinced myself the place was a fake, that I saw the guy lying face down in the alley. A small crowd stood around him like a prayer circle.
When I started towards the man, Tiffany grabbed my hand. “For once, Mel, don’t get involved. Let someone else handle it.”
That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone thinks, Let someone else handle it, and no one does.
I shouldered past yet another Goth girl, this one so pale she lit up the alley like a flashlight.
“Has anyone called 911?” I asked.
Everyone looked at the person beside them, as if to say, “You called, didn’t you?”
“I think some old dude went to call,” said a kid so wasted he addressed the Goth girl behind me. “Or maybe he was just looking for another place to crash. I think this guy stole his spot.”
I thought he was joking. One look at his face said he wasn’t.
I turned to Tiffany. “Call 911.” When she hesitated, I said, “Fine. I’ll call and you can check him.”
She pulled out her cell phone. I crouched beside the fallen man.
“You’re not supposed to move him,” said a middle-aged guy beside me.
Oh, sure, now he was Mr Helpful.
I tried to get a pulse at the man’s wrist, but I’m an ad-copy writer, not a nurse, and I couldn’t find the right spot. To get to his neck, though, I had to push aside his long, stringy hair, which was why I’d started with the wrist. But I’d never forgive myself if the man died because I got icky about touching his hair, so I pushed it back over his shoulder. Then I jerked back with an “Oh!”
“Holy shit,” said the drunk kid. “Are those . . . ?”
“The kiss of the vampire,” Goth girl whispered reverently.
On the side of his neck were two red puncture wounds and a small trickle of blood, still shiny. Too shiny, actually. I reached for the mark. Goth girl yelped. I peeled off the sticker and held it up.
“Performance art advertising. Everyone suitably impressed? Ready to go for drinks at Vamp Tramp? Buy two, get this free.” I waved the “vampire bite” sticker, then nudged the fallen man. “Show’s over. Get up.”
He didn’t move.
“Listen, asshole, my friend just called 911 for you. You’re going to have some explaining to do, so get up and start now.”
I booted him in the side. Still nothing.
“The bite marks are fake, but I don’t think the lack of consciousness is,” said a voice behind me, with a rapid-fire accent that reminded me of a recent trip to Northern Mexico.
I turned to see a man in a suit striding down the alley. Another man stayed on the sidewalk, eyeing the filthy alley as if hoping he wouldn’t have to come any further.
“Miguel Carter,” the first man said. “FBI.”
He flashed a badge so fast all I saw was a blur. Nice try, buddy. I’d worked in advertising long enough to know a marketing ploy when I saw one. An elaborate and
“Haemophilia? Please don’t tell me you—”
“Oh, look. There it is!”
She pointed to a sign on the corner. A neon sign, flashing first vamp, then changing to tramp. Vamp Tramp? Wasn’t that from a book?
This did not bode well. Forget the unoriginal name. The flashing neon screamed “fake” even louder. In a world where supernaturals still hid their true nature with Inquisition-era fervour, neon-signed vampire bars were . . . unlikely.
Oh, who the hell was I kidding? This place was going to be as authentic as chicken balls. One double-shot of disappointment to go. And add a big chaser of head-slapping duh. There were maybe twenty vampires in the whole country. Did I really think they’d band together and open a bar in my home town?
It was then, when I’d fully convinced myself the place was a fake, that I saw the guy lying face down in the alley. A small crowd stood around him like a prayer circle.
When I started towards the man, Tiffany grabbed my hand. “For once, Mel, don’t get involved. Let someone else handle it.”
That’s the problem, though, isn’t it? Everyone thinks, Let someone else handle it, and no one does.
I shouldered past yet another Goth girl, this one so pale she lit up the alley like a flashlight.
“Has anyone called 911?” I asked.
Everyone looked at the person beside them, as if to say, “You called, didn’t you?”
“I think some old dude went to call,” said a kid so wasted he addressed the Goth girl behind me. “Or maybe he was just looking for another place to crash. I think this guy stole his spot.”
I thought he was joking. One look at his face said he wasn’t.
I turned to Tiffany. “Call 911.” When she hesitated, I said, “Fine. I’ll call and you can check him.”
She pulled out her cell phone. I crouched beside the fallen man.
“You’re not supposed to move him,” said a middle-aged guy beside me.
Oh, sure, now he was Mr Helpful.
I tried to get a pulse at the man’s wrist, but I’m an ad-copy writer, not a nurse, and I couldn’t find the right spot. To get to his neck, though, I had to push aside his long, stringy hair, which was why I’d started with the wrist. But I’d never forgive myself if the man died because I got icky about touching his hair, so I pushed it back over his shoulder. Then I jerked back with an “Oh!”
“Holy shit,” said the drunk kid. “Are those . . . ?”
“The kiss of the vampire,” Goth girl whispered reverently.
On the side of his neck were two red puncture wounds and a small trickle of blood, still shiny. Too shiny, actually. I reached for the mark. Goth girl yelped. I peeled off the sticker and held it up.
“Performance art advertising. Everyone suitably impressed? Ready to go for drinks at Vamp Tramp? Buy two, get this free.” I waved the “vampire bite” sticker, then nudged the fallen man. “Show’s over. Get up.”
He didn’t move.
“Listen, asshole, my friend just called 911 for you. You’re going to have some explaining to do, so get up and start now.”
I booted him in the side. Still nothing.
“The bite marks are fake, but I don’t think the lack of consciousness is,” said a voice behind me, with a rapid-fire accent that reminded me of a recent trip to Northern Mexico.
I turned to see a man in a suit striding down the alley. Another man stayed on the sidewalk, eyeing the filthy alley as if hoping he wouldn’t have to come any further.
“Miguel Carter,” the first man said. “FBI.”
He flashed a badge so fast all I saw was a blur. Nice try, buddy. I’d worked in advertising long enough to know a marketing ploy when I saw one. An elaborate and
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