My Vampire Idol(4)

What was that thing Saint always used to say about his gifts? Damn vampire empathy? Of course he understood. Whether he wanted to or not. And he was hungry. It had been a few days since he’d had any food, any blood, or any reason to want either.

He’d never been a glutton. In fact, resisting temptation was one of his natural gifts—so much so his maker had often expressed jealousy at his restraint. Usually, he was also gifted at staying out of trouble and helping others do the same. Now Hobie wanted him to sing for his supper, so his perky peach-scented wife wouldn’t cry. Jesus, was he that soft a touch? Had all the romance he’d been surrounded by recently ruined him forever?

“Why the hell not?” he muttered, surprised by the words even as he spoke them. He did love music. Always had. There’d been a time he’d been praised for his voice. A time he’d found peace in a melody.

One song before he selfishly abandoned his castle staff and his friends for some much-needed solitude. No one would ever know, unless Dickie had a website no one was aware of or a hidden camera in that strange wandering eye.

He stepped away from the bar and held up his hand. “I’ll sing.”

Jolene shielded her eyes with her plump hand and gasped. “I think we have our first entry for the night! And he’s so handsome. You know I have a thing for men with facial hair. Look out Dickie, you may have some competition for our in-house-hottie contest.”

The old man glared at Mac, his whiskered chin practically touching his nose, his toothless mouth all but disappearing at the offending thought. Mac shook his head. “I think you’re safe, Dickie.”

He stomped toward the stage, cursing under his breath the entire time. All he’d wanted was a little alone time to brood.

If that was true, you could have stayed away from this town altogether. Could have had a midnight snack in some deserted forest. Could have—

He silenced the voice in his head with a quiet but colorful expletive.

Could have. Would have. Didn’t.

Instead he was standing on the stage, towering over Jolene who seemed more than ready to pass him the microphone. Heart of gold, his ass. More like platinum.

Take that Gerard Butler.

Mac saw the acoustic guitar leaning on the wall at the back of the stage. Where had they gotten that gem of a Gibson? He had one or two at home collecting dust, but this one looked well loved. He reached for it, glancing at Jolene. “May I?”

She blushed, her dimples deepening. “Oh, please do. You sir, are my new hero.” She spoke into the microphone. “Now tell me your name so I can introduce you to your audience.”

Mac grimaced. He was fairly certain Kip wouldn’t recognize him anymore, and he doubted the others even knew computers existed. Still, just to be on the safe side… “Angus.” He blurted out the name of his long-dead brother and then instantly wished he’d picked something more forgettable. Like Jim or Todd. “Call me Angus.”

Jolene’s smile broadened. “I like it. Give a warm welcome to our first singer of the night…Angus the brave!”

There was a small smattering of applause, mostly from Hobie and Jolene, but Mac didn’t care. He wasn’t doing this for them. He spied a stool behind the ragged blue curtain leading off stage and grabbed it, setting it down in front of the microphone. The guitar felt like an old friend in his hand. Something that used to bring him joy.

Jolene slid the microphone into its stand and jogged quickly off the stage, leaving him alone. He sat on the torn leather stool and plucked out a few notes with his callused fingers. Perfectly in tune.

The lights dimmed and a bluish-white spotlight blared to life, aimed directly at his face. He closed his eyes and frowned. It wasn’t Jolene’s fault. She didn’t know about his sensitivity to light. Didn’t know she’d just invited a vampire onto her stage. The poor thing had no idea what he was capable of—she just wanted someone to sing.

He kept his eyes closed and started to play what some would consider an oldie—though there weren’t many older than he was—but it was a favorite of his.

His voice was rusty. He hadn’t belted out a tune since Thomas had gotten him drunk on that shifter moonshine and convinced him to share some of the songs from his youth. That had been a good night.

Until he found out he’d been on camera. Again.

Fucking cats.

But Thomas wasn’t here right now. No one was. No one knew where he’d gone—other than Saint, who always knew but would never tell. He could just be. He could just feel, or remember what it was like to experience the sort of gut-twisting love he’d begun to sing about. The kind of love he’d longed for in his adolescence– that he’d thought he found with the temptress who had created him. So long ago. Hundreds of years.