La Vida Vampire

I reached the tour substation near the two-story waterwheel where a real mill operated in the late 1880s. Now the Mill Top Tavern was a hot spot for live music.

I twitched the skirt of the deep gold Empire gown I ’d designed and sewn with Maggie’s help and her Singer sewing machine, and eyed the mortals ambling in the cobblestone courtyard. Their blood pumped so loudly it seemed as though a thousand hearts beat in my ears instead of those of the thirty who’d signed up for my tour. In small and large groups they approached, handing their tickets to Janie and Mick, fellow guides assigned to help me corral the crowd tonight. Janie Freeman is thirty-two and as upbeat as her short, breezy hairdo and sweet Oklahoma drawl. Mick Burney is forty-four, says he’s from Daytona Beach, and has hard edges that soften a bit around Janie. I’m pretty sure these two are dating, but they’re very secretive, and I don’t pry.

I gave up trying to catch a lingering glance between them. Instead, I blocked the ambient sights, sounds, and smells around me to size up the tour-takers as they drew closer.

On my left, a couple smooched and whispered endearments in French, stuck tongues down each other ’s throats, and whispered more. They positively reeked of pheromones and wore shiny wedding bands, so they had to be newlyweds. Question was why they bothered to leave their room.

On my right, a handful of broad-shouldered men who spoke like The Sopranos characters bragged about haggling over the prices of antiques. One with a camera was especially loud and animated. Did real wiseguys haggle over prices?

A lanky guy dressed in a flannel shirt, polyester slacks, and an unzipped windbreaker—the sleeves, pant legs, and shirttails all a smidge too short—trailed the wiseguys. Next to them, he looked so shabby, I had a pang that he couldn’t afford better-fitting clothes. With a cowlick in his muddy brown hair and a happy puppy expression as he looked around, he reminded me of Gomer Pyle. Except when his glance landed on the French couple. Then something brooding moved behind his gray eyes. I shrugged and peered behind me where twelve middle -aged ladies each wore teal Jacksonville Jaguars outfits and matching visors embroidered with the words JAG QUEEN. I could deal with women who liked the Jacksonville football team. I liked football, and the Jag Queen visors were darling. But, whew! The mix of perfume was an olfactory assault, especially the Shalimar. Too bad sticking cotton up my nostrils would look tacky.

Ahead, a smattering of parents towed children past the sickeningly sweet lure of the fudge and candy store. Five teenagers brought up the rear. The two boys and three girls were decked out in goth-look black right down to their fingernails. The tallest of the Jag Queens, the one my nose pegged as being drenched in Shalimar, gave the goth gang a disapproving sniff, then glared at the French bride. For the public display of affection going on? I didn’t think so. Not from her stiff posture or the way her narrowed eyes shot venom. But only for a split second. When another Jag Queen spoke to Shalimar, she was all grandmotherly smiles again.

An odd byplay, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it as the members of the tour group stopped a full seven feet away. They eyed me with mixed eagerness and fascinated dread, half expecting me to pounce. As if.

I’m a vampire. The only one in town, but big deal. I do have self-control, never mind self-respect. Last fall, the St. Augustine Record ran a story on how Maggie found me in King Normand ’s own coffin, the almost petrified wood still bound by silver chains. We didn’t tell the reporter the coffin had a false bottom filled with real treasure—King Normand’s version of stuffing money under a mattress—or that I’d shared the bounty with Maggie and Neil. The writer made a sensation enough of Normand being a then-hated Frenchman that local history had omitted from the records. The article went on to paint me as the spunky hometown girl who defied the vampire king, was punished by burial, and was then forgotten when Normand and all his vampires were killed by the villagers. Suddenly, wham! , I was the oldest citizen, a heroine who’d given time-out a whole new meaning and an added tourist attraction in the Oldest City.

Big whoop. I shrugged off my fifteen minutes of fame, studied my tail off in tour guide training, and was ready to be all I could be on every shift. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday this week. Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday next week. Wednesday is bridge night. Forget being a fiend for blood. I’m a fiend for bridge. But the tourists didn’t know that. I smelled real fear from some of them. I wasn’t quite sure how to put everyone at ease but I hoped inspiration would strike.

The night-glow Timex Maggie gave me read eight o’clock straight up. It was showtime. I pulled my fragile psychic shields up, squared my shoulders, and—

The humans clustered near me jumped.