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Broken Heart 09 Only Lycans Need Apply(15)

By:Michele Bardsley


“Even vampires?”

“I’m skeptical,” I said. “But I won’t rule out the possibility of an unknown”—I waved my hand—“something. There are surprises in archaeology all the time.” The likelihood of a vampiric royal was about . . . oh, nil. But the idea of a blood-drinking cult that worshiped Sekhmet was intriguing. I looked down at the book. The cover was black and the title a bold red that appeared to be dripping blood. Classy.

Dove sat down on the stiletto-shaped crushed-velvet chaise that I kept as my “visitor” chair. I was a professor at a small, stuffy private college in upper New York State. Anyone who came in to harangue me had to sit on that chair to do it. Most declined. Okay, yeah. I was known as being “difficult.” I’m sure it frustrated the hell out of officials, staff, and other professors, but there wasn’t a lot they could do about it. Y’see, my family founded the college nearly a hundred years ago. I was the reason the school and its various programs got funded. I was the kind of wealthy that put me on the Christmas card list of Bill Gates. I’d also been raised by a go-your-own-way-damn-the-consequences grandfather who inspired me to be brave, to be creative, and to be stubborn as hell. He challenged me, encouraged me to be strong and persistent, and celebrated my quirks. He hadn’t been afraid of my mental instability. He’d loved me fiercely, and I found my way out of the dark because of him. He instilled in me the virtues and stalwart attitude that carried me through all the difficulties of life, including the old curmudgeon’s death last year.

I still hadn’t forgiven him for dying.

“It’s almost four o’clock,” said Dove. “Don’t you have a gala to attend in three hours?”

“Shut up.”

Dove offered me one of her patented sneers. “Dress, right? High heels. Makeup. Fancy hairdo. All your favorites.”

“I hate you.” Every so often I had to play nice with the regents, especially when they were glad-handing the alumni (who also weren’t particularly fond of me). We didn’t have fund-raisers, since the college was generously funded through the Jameson Foundation. I think sometimes the regents wanted to host fund-raisers because they harbored hope that they could raise the millions needed to run the school and wouldn’t need Jameson money to operate. They didn’t like asking me for checks. I was very circumspect about spending money—and no one got away with abusing the privileges of their position. We paid everyone well, but misuse of school money for personal expenditures would get your ass fired. Just ask the last college president, who thought taking his mistress to Fiji for a week of fun and frolicking was a “research” trip. There wasn’t a whole lot of red tape when it came to getting rid of assholes. I had ultimate say, and power, when it came to administration. Ah. Just another reason I was so popular with everyone. They sometimes blamed my eccentricities, along the lines of “that bitch is still crazy,” but no one was brave enough to say such things to my face. No, they followed college protocol and talked about me behind my back. Then they put on big, bright smiles that never reached their eyes to ask me for money.

This particular gala was a charity event put on by people I actually liked, the Heart of Darkness Literary Society, which was a student-run organization. The funds were distributed among literacy programs throughout the United States. Everyone attended not only because it was a popular event, but also because it was well covered by the media. And regents, alumni, and assorted other bores liked to remind the public how altruistic they were.

Sigh.

“You’re going with me,” I said.

Dove stared at me for a full thirty seconds. One of the more effective weapons in her snark-casm arsenal was utter silence accompanied by her you-are-stupid-and-wrong expression.

But I was immune to Dove’s sneers, slights, silence, and all eighteen forms of her sarcasm.

I said nothing, and we sat in my office staring daggers at each other. Finally, she gave a low, dramatic sigh and said, “I’m wearing a corset.”

“And those ballerina boots? Those shiny red ones with the crazy toes?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes. Your pet will be on display.”

“You’re not my pet,” I said. Then I opened one of the lower drawers in my desk and withdrew a rectangular gold box. “Wanna treat?”

Dove stood up and held out her hand. “I’m not settling for one truffle. The whole box, or I dress like my maiden aunt.”

She had me. Seeing Dove show up in one of her outrageous outfits designed to inspire both awe and horror was probably the only entertainment I’d have tonight.