I could wear gloves to load my guns and carry my knives in leather sheathes, but there was no way to protect myself from a deadly reaction if the damned allergen was set free in my bloodstream. Supposedly, labs were working on a synthetic version, but it was anyone’s guess as to when one might be created. And then there’d be the long process of waiting for the FDA to approve it before it would come to market, especially since they’d frown on the drug trials necessary to prove its efficacy.
No… being a recluse and living out my life safely within the stone walls of my ancestral castle was much simpler. Anything I needed could be ordered online and delivered—except for a life partner. But my right hand and the literary works of Mr. Storm D’Arcy took care of my needs just fine.
No matter what my mother said.
Lost in my thoughts, I left the chickens and headed into the barn. I had the animals fed and their stalls cleaned in record time. I wished I could’ve let them roam outside, but not with lightning and thunder booming overhead. The sounds of the storm were muffled inside the barn and its outbuildings, thank fuck. Otherwise, they would have gotten scared, a risk I couldn’t take when we depended on them for a portion of our food supply. Frightened animals meant less milk and eggs.
I took one last glance around to assure myself everyone was safely bedded down for the night, then closed the barn door and went back to the house, keeping a sharp eye on my surroundings as I went. When I came around the corner, I stopped dead in my tracks.
A couple was knocking at the door. They appeared safe enough from the back. The woman was huddled in a wheelchair, while the man appeared perfectly average in faded jeans and a hoodie.
To let them know I was here, I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, can I help you?”
The speed with which the man turned his head was a dead giveaway, but the red-rimmed eyes—a sure sign of a hungry vampire—cinched it. My hand went straight for my right pocket. The wooden bullet wouldn’t kill him, but the dead man’s blood would slow him down enough for me to escape or behead him with my large blade.
I shook my head. “I don’t want any trouble, but I’m going to need you to mosey on back the way you came. We don’t rent rooms to your kind.” Mosey? What, are you a cowboy in those old spaghetti westerns the ghost in the third-floor TV room is always watching?
The woman made a sound somewhere between a wheezing laugh and a snort, lifting a trembling hand to smack the man gripping the handle of her chair. “Turn me around, Storm. I need to see this cowboy here and explain why there won’t be any moseying, at least not unless he’s a completely heartless bastard.”
Storm—apparently, the vampire shared a name with my beloved author—chuckled along with her in a deep laugh, sexier than it had a right to be. It sent a shiver down my spine.
Of course it’s sexy, dumbass. Those vampire freaks are literally built to charm their victims, remember? Keep your head in the game, Darcy.
When he stepped back and turned her chair to face me, two things shocked me. One, the woman was still human. And two? They were obviously fraternal twins with the same silver-blue eyes. The only difference between them was gender and his red-rimmed eyes. Too bad he was a vamp because those eyes and his thick head of dark hair surrounding a handsome face was almost too pretty for words.
For a long moment, the woman studied me with a lifted brow and skeptical eyes before barking another wheezing laugh. “Listen, Tex. You might be all dolled up like Austin’s very own Pudgy the Vampire Slayer, but if you kill my brother, then you’ll be taking me out with him. Not to mention disappointing the legions of his hungry fans, but they aren’t exactly my priority. The ad on your website said the Sanctuary B&B offers safety behind its warded walls for anyone in need. Were you lying, or did someone simply neglect to mention there’d be racist supernatural hunters roaming the property?”
My nose wrinkled. “What does wanting to protect myself and my lodgers from supes have to do with being racist? Species-ist might be a better word, but definitely not racist.” Frowning, I looked down. Was that even a word? Cursing myself almost immediately for taking my eyes off the vampire, I jerked my head up and reached into my pocket, prepared to protect myself.
Except… he hadn’t moved. Storm had one eye on me, while somehow still managing to glare at his twin. What was his attitude about?
I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until the woman answered my question. “Stormy doesn’t like it when I brag about his accomplishments or mention his fans. He writes lovely gay romances to make his readers’ happy little hearts go pitter-pat. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Storm D’Arcy?”
My mouth fell open in horror. My favorite author was here? And he was a vampire?
The woman laughed again, bringing my attention back to the matter at hand. “I take it you’ve heard of him, then. Close your mouth, Pudgy. As my grandma used to say, you’ll draw flies. Look, we get it. He’s a good-looking man made ridiculously more attractive by his recently acquired vampiric nature. So how about it—can you roll in your tongue and maybe consider giving us the sanctuary you offered on your homepage?”
As charmed as I was by this woman’s acerbic tongue—and I quickly took her advice by closing my own mouth—I didn’t care for this nickname one bit. Sure, I might have been carrying an extra ten or forty pounds than recommended for my frame, but she didn’t have to be rude.
“Listen, lady. My name isn’t Pudgy. It’s—” I stopped mid-thought. I would have to reveal my embarrassing name to a woman who would have a field day with it. Just own it, dumbass. You can’t help what your mother called you. Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders, preparing myself for the ridicule to follow. “I’m Darcy Valentine, thank you very much.”
Instead of laughter, she merely smirked. “Well, okay then, Darcy. And I should probably tell you I’m no lady. So how about you call me Muriel instead?”
“Muriel?” The last thing I wanted to do was tease someone about their name, but she did kind of deserve it. Even if she hadn’t laughed. “I’m sorry, Muriel, but it sounds like your mother wasn’t any better at naming conventions than mine. At least mine came from a book. What musty old lady inspired your mother?”
She laughed so hard, she had to pound her chest to catch her breath. “Goddammit. I think I like you now. Want a real chuckle? I picked it myself when I was eighteen. Changed it legally too. I figured it would be a conversation starter, much better than my original moniker. Which was… get ready for it… Cumulus. You know, the happy-looking puffy clouds, like big cotton fluffs? I don’t know what’s worse, how ridiculously saccharine it is or how easily it’s shortened to Cum.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I stood there blinking, doing my best guppy impression with my mouth hanging open again.
Chortling, Muriel jerked her head back to indicate Storm. “Our parents were hippies who traveled around in one of those twentieth-century Volkswagen vans with daisies and rainbows painted all over it. Their hobby was storm-chasing. Yep, our folks were big weather buffs. Storm’s real name was Hurricane before he changed it at the same time I did. I still call him Hurry when I forget. It’s a bad habit. He’s a good sport, though, since Hurry knows I’d kneecap his ass if he ever called me Cum.”