“Sir, are you all right?” a deep voice says from behind me.
I turn, noting how the voice sounds familiar. When my eyes hit the man’s face, I’m one hundred percent sure that blast did more than destroy my beloved library.
I point with a limp finger. “Michael, is it my imagination, or is there a man standing in front of me who looks exactly like you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Michael
I can tell that the librarian is frustrated by my lack of emotion over the blast, but her feelings do not concern me. At present, I have much bigger fish to…to…wrangle? Dammit. I never remember how that ridiculous saying goes.
Anyway, I know this bomb is not the work of Nice. I only agreed with her because I am unsure who is watching, and I do not want my true plans to be derailed.
What true plans? I will get to that later.
As for how I am so certain that Nice was not behind this, it’s logic. It is no mystery to anyone that he is an old-school vampire and believes in looking his foes in the eyes when ending their lives. Bombs are the weapons of cowards, of men without honor. If Nice wanted me dead, he would merely show up at my door, kick it down, and remove my head. He is that fast.
Whoever set up the librarian and me is cunning and wishes to remain a secret.
But who?
Who would want us both dead?
Who would employ a bomb to do the job?
Mystery! Mystery! Mystery! My inner vampire child claps wildly. He loves a good puzzle.
I bitch-slap him silly. No. No rejoicing! Those days are over! Funny how, despite my emotional transformation, I am still unable to quell the snot-nosed little runt.
I raise my chin, determined to keep my true thoughts and intentions a secret from the librarian and anyone else. Once, long ago in the 1600s, I was a hunter and fur trapper. Profession #1. It taught me that there is one basic rule when it comes to stalking prey: Never let them know you are coming. Okay, and bring a harmonica. It gets lonely out there in the woods by yourself. So make that two basic rules. In any case, it is never wise to publicize your plans to the world.
The person responsible for blowing up the librarian’s pride and joy is a sly, self-absorbed coward. What did those books ever do to anyone? Well, besides annoy me. But aside from being filthy, touched by many human hands, the books were innocent. Only a fiend of the gravest sort would dare murder thousands of them.
It is a clue! My curiosity cat—or bat?—perks its fluffy ears. The culprit has no regard for literature. A millennial perhaps? We all know they only read emoji-speak. Like some ridiculous throwback to the cavemen era with their cave symbols. But less understandable. I happen to own a T-shirt I bought on clearance at Target. Eggplant. Peach. Happy face. I still have no idea what it means.
Hmmm… I rub my unshaved chin. Beard length is the one place where I depart from the civilized men of my time. Thick facial hair separates the men from the boys. And solving this predicament will take a man’s brain. The librarian is fortunate to have me.
Another clue I cannot discount is that this person killed five of my men yesterday, so they know their way around a trained vampire. Also, they are familiar enough with me and the librarian to pen that letter, which pushed my buttons and persuaded me to come here.
So the guilty party must be someone who is a coward, but smart enough to build a bomb. Someone who hates books. Someone who knows us well.
My inner vampire child takes the clues, gathers them in his greedy little hands, and runs to a dark corner to play with his new puzzle.
“Michael!” the librarian barks at me. “Can you hear me?”
I blink. “Of course.”
“Then why haven’t you answered my damned question?” She points to Freddy. “Who the hell is he?”
“He is Freddy. My new guard.”
“That’s not what I mean! Why does he look exactly like you?”
“He is a distant cousin.”
Her wide dark eyes narrow. “A cousin. Who just happens to pass for your identical twin?” she says with rancor. Apparently she does not believe me.
“Haven’t you ever heard of a doppelganger? Everybody has one. Right now there is at least one other human on the planet who looks exactly like you.”
“Huh?” she scoffs. “What the heck are you trying to pull—”
“Bup, bup,” I interrupt. “I have lived for over four hundred years, and when one lives that long, they meet many doubles. Why, just the other day, I met a man who looks exactly like a general from the Confederate Army. He served me a scoop of habanero ice cream at the new shop I opened downstairs in our headquarters. Exotic ice creams and confections. My idea.” I might be king now, but I still require a profession that supports my human cover story of entrepreneur. In any case, this man I hired, Norman, is the spitting image of another man I killed some hundred and sixty years ago when I was more or less a spy for the North during the Civil War. South Carolina. Barber. Profession #6.
As for the true reason I have my double working as my personal guard, well, that has to do with another mystery I am trying to solve. A mystery that takes greater priority over this bomb situation. It is something that the librarian will not understand. But a king must do what is best for his people, for those in his care, and for the world at large. More importantly, he must know when to delegate.
Yes, we will find and punish this would-be assassin, but not until after I locate Nice.
“How did he end up a vampire, working for you?” the librarian adds to her list of inquiries.
“I found him. Then I asked him if he wanted to become a powerful vampire and work for me.” I shrug. “He said yes. Simple.”
The librarian looks at my face and narrows her big brown eyes. She knows that is not the entire story, just as I know she is latching onto this topic because her mind is desperately trying not to think about the fact that we almost perished just now and her library is gone. That building and those books meant everything to her. I may not have feelings, but I understand them. And I understand my librarian like no other. She is in shock. I know I must step in to help the weak, female, newbie vampire.
I glance at Freddy. “Please go around the block, find an inconspicuous car to hotwire, and meet us at the corner.” I assume all of our rental vehicles were destroyed.
“Yes, sir.” Freddy turns, and I notice his ass is showing through his pants. The fabric is singed in a perfect circle. The back of his shirt is charred, too.
Freddy was up on the roof of the library as my lookout. He must’ve taken quite the ride when the bomb went off.
“After that, we will find you new clothes,” I add.
“Very good, sir.” Freddy zips off, and I turn toward my librarian, whose tiny pink lips are mashed together.
“So that’s it? You’re just,” she throws her hands to her sides, “leaving? You don’t even want to see Stella?”
“My apologies, but I have—”
“She could be in danger, Michael! Whoever blew up my library might be after her, too. You know you have enemies, and they see us as nice juicy pawns.”
Yes, which is why the child and the librarian have had around-the-clock security since I left them here in Phoenix. I cannot have my enemies snatching one of them up and distracting me from my very important work. Of course, my librarian is unaware I have taken these measures, but why would I bother to tell her? I am king. This is not a democracy. I do what I must, and asking permission is not on that list of musts.