Stepping out into the cool air, I popped open my parasol, set it on my shoulder and twirled it all the way to The Point of No Return, which was a neon yellow line we used to cue up the next tour for departure.
My victims waited inside the red square, my favorite color. Another good omen. The blue and yellow squares stood empty, so those tours had already left. Most of the people in the green square had staggered outside of it, which was not a good sign. Drunk folks didn’t tip well. Except themselves. It was a miracle none of them had kissed asphalt yet.
“Evening, y’all.” I poured on the Southern charm. “I’ll be your guide through haunted downtown Savannah. Feel free to ask any questions you might have, but do please stay with our group. Trespassers will be shot on sight.” The crowd gasped on cue, and I tittered like a kitten on helium. “I’m kidding.” My face went stone-cold serious. “Or am I?”
While inviting them to join me at the starting line, I finished my spiel and reminded the crowd of the local liquor laws. Grateful for the routine, my nerves calmed for the first time since the sigil charred my skin. I had the local history memorized, and I knew how to pull a laugh out of the crowd, how to gauge what kind of guide my group required.
All was well until we reached the house often billed as the most-haunted location in the city.
I stepped off the sidewalk, urged them into a huddle, and grasped the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the mansion, the metal chilly in my hand.
“This is Volkov House. Back in 1765, Anatoly Volkov passed away, leaving his estate to his son and daughter. Now, Nestor and Dina Volkov had both survived ugly divorces. Neither had much money, even with their inheritances, so the pair returned to their ancestral home to make ends meet.” The crowd shifted, studying the home and trying to picture the downtrodden siblings returning with their tails tucked between their legs. “Nestor was a bit of a bookworm—both the siblings were—and one night he came home from work, pulled an old favorite from the house library, and settled into his favorite chair while Dina started supper.
“Bang.” I clapped my hands, and the folks in the front row jumped. “A single gunshot blasted through the library. Dina was so shocked that she tipped the pan on the stove, and the oil she was using to fry pork chops spilled on her. Dripping grease, she ran into the living room and found her brother sitting in his chair with a book spread over his lap, a shotgun in his hands, and the back of his skull decorating the living room wall.” Shocked gasps rose, and I suppressed a chuckle, because that never got old. “Earlier that day, he had received a letter from his ex-wife, alerting him of her impending nuptials. Still in love with her, he took his own life rather than live without hope of ever winning her back.”
Searching window after window, their gazes touched each frame in search of the library.
“Two weeks later, Dina was home alone reading in her bed, recovering from her burns.” I clapped my hands again. “Bang.” I was rewarded by a young woman’s shriek. “Dina heard the sound again, coming from downstairs. Figuring it must be a heartless prank by some of the neighborhood kids, she jumped out of bed, ready to set them straight. Except nightgowns in those days were long, frilly affairs, and she tripped over her hem and fell against her nightstand. She knocked over the kerosene lantern by her bed, and her gown caught fire. She burned to death alone in the house. By the time the neighbors saw the flames, it was too late. Volkov House was nothing but ashes.”
A heavy silence blanketed the crowd, and I thrived on the high of knowing I had shaken them.
“If the house burned down, then what are we looking at?” my first skeptic of the night asked.
“Well, the thing is, Volkov House was a local institution. It was the most beautiful, most luxurious and most extravagant home in town, and the mayor had had his eye on it for a long while, hoping the destitute heirs would consent to sell it.” I painted on a frown. “When he heard about the tragic deaths of the Volkovs, he set about convincing prospective buyers the property was haunted by Nester and Dina’s ghosts. The property went to auction, and with no one to bid against him, the lot and the charred skeleton of the house went for five hundred dollars.”
Someone whistled. “That was a steal.”
“Yes, it was.” I tapped the bronzed plaque marking the place as a historical landmark, one best known for the mayor who went on to be governor and pitched a hissy to have his home declared the state manse. He failed, by the way. “Mayor Rouillard, for he was at the time, rebuilt the home from partial plans found in the builder’s records and redecorated it down to the gold-tasseled couch cushions from memory.”
“Creepy.”
“Very,” I agreed with absolute conviction.
“Is this the part where you claim the locals report hearing a gunshot every night at midnight?” a thickly accented voice sliced through the crowd. “Or where you tell us passersby have seen a flaming woman pounding on the windows, trying to escape the fire?”
The gathering parted to reveal a man who wore his charcoal suit with the ease of a businessman, but violence beat beneath his skin, the same as mine. A knowing passed between us, and I felt his awareness of me as other to the tips of my toes.
The expensive threads matched his thundercloud eyes, and his wavy hair was so black the moon lent him blue highlights. He strode forward, and I leaned in, two opposite sides of a magnet caught in helpless attraction. His eyes, predator-sharp, searched my face for some unknown revelation. He invaded my personal space, crowding me against the fence. The fragrance of his skin reminded me of old coins and crushed rosemary.
“Have you been on this tour before?” The words tore from me on a ragged whisper.
Had he been in my group earlier, I would have noticed. My knees would have liquefied sooner.
“No.” His tumultuous silver gaze swept over me, lingering on my throat. “I overheard you last night.”
I palmed the side of my neck to get his eyes off my pulse. “Come again?”
“I’m Danill Volkov.” His cocky smile bared straight white teeth. No fangs in sight. “This is my home.”
Had his family name meant nothing to me, I would have recognized his breed.
Vampire.
The intoxicating pheromones he was tossing my way, his lure, had me ready to mewl for his kiss.
“I apologize.” I flattened my spine against the warming metal. “I didn’t realize you were in town.” I peered around him, aiming my parasol at a stop sign marking our next turn. “Why don’t you guys hang out over there and give me a moment alone with Mr. Volkov?”
The name raised more than a few eyebrows. Afraid they might be trespassing, or perhaps taking me too seriously about the shotgun warning, they scurried off to give us privacy.
Cricket orchestrated our tours to cause as little disruption to the locations and owners as possible, since pissing off fourth-generation locals meant stern calls from the chamber of commerce. She would not be thrilled to hear about the disruption Mr. Volkov’s appearance caused in tonight’s haunted history lesson or the fact she would lose the crowning gem of her downtown tour in the interim.
“I arrived three days ago.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his canines sharpened before my eyes. “Perhaps I will see you here. Tomorrow night. Around the same time.”
“That’s not a great idea.” For too many reasons to count. “I’m not what you think I am.”
“Oh yes, you are.” He lowered his head, the tip of his nose trailing along my jaw. His lips moved against my skin, the warmth of his exhale puffing in my ear. “You call to me, necromancer.”
Breath hitching, I swore I felt the rasp of teeth against my skin. “I don’t practice.”
“Liar,” he breathed. “I smell the grave on your skin.”
“I should go.” Volkov might as well have been carved from stone for all the give when I pushed him. “I have a tour to, uh, guide.”