What’s a vampire to do when he falls head-over-heels for a girl from a garlic farm?
Brace himself to attend a home-cooked Italian dinner at her family’s, of course.
“We’ve got five minutes. Are you sure you want to go through with this, Vlad?” Sarah’s fingers tap the steering wheel in time with the car’s left blinker.
I wake, head pounding and hands bound behind my back, both surprised and angry to recognize the room. Metallic walls, striped with black and red, are so shiny I can see my reflection, and the exit door boasts a dagger-and-skull insignia. The interrogation room.
Not him. Anyone but him.
The last thing I remember is leaving the Lotus Bar,
It was a blustery day in October of 1880 when Sherlock Holmes was summoned to a student tenement near the University of London. The telegram requested my presence as well, which was unusual. I went willingly since I had no other appointments that morning.
Lestrade met us outside in the street, visibly shaken and white as a sheet.
I’d always been an oddity with my ivory skin, ebony hair, and blood-red lips, but when my father chose a vampyyri—a female descant of the vampires—as his second wife, my appearance became a curse. I wasn’t of the bloodsuckers, but to the outsiders who only knew them through scary tales, I looked like it.
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Emirate of Transjordan
November 1941
The Underground Cathedral was cool and damp, a relief after the long drive through the desert. Julien Arnault wiped sweat from his brown curls with a dirty sleeve. He held a flickering torch in his left hand
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