CHAPTER I
Rux
I HAVE A STALKER. NOT the kind to send flowers, chocolate, or even dick pics. No, he sends my dates skidding under speeding buses, or slipping on tiles and cracking their skulls in the men’s room. Wanna date me? Might as well watch Final Destination just to warm up.
He’s a shadow. A curse. Kept me a hormone-raging virgin to date—I’m twenty-three. But, no matter how many men this curse puts in the hospital, there’s always a new guy eager to dare the fates. Today, as I do my hair and prepare for work, one of them goes wild, bombarding me with text messages.
‘I can meet you anywhere.’
Ding.
‘Shall I pick you up from work?’
Ding.
‘Or we can meet for lunch at the cafeteria.’
Ding.
‘Why don’t you text me back?’
Ding-ding-ding as his texts hit my cell, the display flashing on the bed until I pick it up. The guy’s profile pic that appears along with the text shows a long face, bald head, big nerd glasses. He looks like a middle-aged science freak with mental issues. Half as bad as the leather jackets and tattoos, but I still block him.
I swing my purse on my shoulder and close the door behind me.
Half an hour later, on campus, the elevator opens at the library level, leaving me a corridor away from my workplace. A smile along with the occasional nod is my default response to greetings—most students know Miss Len from the library, and they think I must have taken special notice of them, too. I didn’t. No, believe me, I do like people, and I love the vibe of campus life, but I try to avoid close contact. It drains me.
Carrying a mocha to go in one hand, I’m digging in my purse for my staff card when I see him. The guy from the profile picture is standing right in front of the library doors where I can’t avoid him. I stop in my tracks, my jaw clenching.
Tall and willowy, he looks nervously left and right, pushing his glasses up his nose. When he spots me he stiffens and clutches his briefcase like a shield to his chest, sweat glistening on his bald head.
“Good morning, Miss Len,” he says in a shaky voice as I approach. His upper lip twitches over mousey front teeth.
I try to walk past him. He grabs my elbow, and my heart beats harder, but it’s more with rage than anything else. I’ve had so many daredevils pushing for a date that it’s not even funny anymore, it’s fucking annoying.
“Please, Miss Len, just listen.”
“No, you listen.” I take a step closer, not even bothering to struggle from his grip. “If you insist, bad things are going to happen, okay? Asking the cursed girl out shouldn’t be a fucking game.”
He swallows hard, and I pull my arm out of his grip. He lets me walk by him to the library entrance, but then he calls after me.
“I think I can help you get rid of the curse, Miss Len.”
I stop with my staff card in my hand, looking over my shoulder. That’s a first, nobody offered ‘help’ before.
“Aren’t you the one who’s been messaging me like crazy since five in the morning?”
“I am. But I wasn’t writing because I wanted to dare the fates and ask you out. But because I think I know why this is happening to you.”
I turn to him, giving him a once over. I have to admit, he doesn’t fit the pattern of a daredevil. He seems terrified to be even talking to me, clutching that briefcase like his life depends on it, sweating profusely, eyes wide behind his glasses, upper lip trembling over his front teeth.
He’s probably never been on a date in his life, much less with a notorious cursed woman. The other guys were the leather-wearing, Harley-revving kind of bad boys, race car drivers, even high-profile gamblers that would have made hundreds of thousands if they managed to get into my pants without breaking a bone.
“Don’t take this wrong,” I say, my tone softer. “You seem like a decent person. But don’t you think I already tried everything?” I motion to the elegant library doors behind me. “I’m a librarian. I know how to do research, and research I did to exhaustion.”
“But did you look down your own bloodline?”
My silence encourages him to walk over.
“You probably went the classic way,” he says, talking too fast to hide his lisp. “You’ve probably been looking for similar cases in history, researching the kind of stalkers who created the illusion that supernatural things were happening, you probably even looked into myths and legends. But you’ve never stopped to wonder why it’s happening to you of all people, have you?”
“I did, but I never used it as a research angle. The other similar cases in history didn’t seem to be related by blood. I feared researching my bloodline would be a waste of time, unnecessary effort—because it would be an effort. I’m adopted, with no ties to my biological parents.” I never made a secret of that.
The nerd looks left and right to ensure privacy, then he leans down to me.
“Miss Len, forgive me for being so direct, but I think your bloodline leads back to Vlad the Impaler, the Prince of Blood. And I think he is related to your curse.”
It takes a moment until I realize—he’s making fun of me. A feeling of betrayal engulfs me. For a moment there he had me fooled, thinking he was a decent guy.
“You think this is funny?” I say between my teeth.
“I know it sounds crazy.” He gropes in his pocket until he finds a handkerchief, and wipes the sweat off his bald head. The smell of perspiration wafts over. “But let me tell you how I came to this conclusion.”
“Stun me.”
He looks around again, as if watching for spies.
“Not here. Please, meet me for lunch. I promise this isn’t a date, and I will explain everything, but we need complete privacy. Trust me, Miss Len, this will be worth it.”
He looks into my eyes full of hope.
I let the entire thing go through my head. What do I have to lose? I tried all the logical ways, I might as well give the impossible a chance.
“All right. But you better have convincing arguments.”
“I do, Miss Len. Thank you for your trust.”
“No, no trust yet. But maybe hope. It’s been years, and I’m getting tired of this whole curse business.” Not to mention I’m yearning to feel a hot male body pressing on mine at least once in this lifetime, which won’t happen unless I finally lose the curse that’s been plaguing me for years. I look the nerd up and down again. “Where?”
We agree on a pub downtown. We have to avoid running into people who know me, simply because they would stare and eavesdrop, so he says he’d reserve a booth.
When I ask him the obvious—isn’t he afraid of the curse?—he says he isn’t; he’s certain it applies only to men who have certain intentions with me, and who actually make a move.
He finally leaves, his step quick and jerky, betraying he’s excited. I turn around, sliding my staff card through the device to get inside the library, wondering if a Dracula enthusiast could really hold the answer to my problem.
“I’M DALTON, BY THE way,” he says as we sit awkwardly across from each other at the pub. We’re in a booth by a crown glass window, everything around smelling old and moldy.