Have Teeth, Will Bite Read online

  Have Teeth, Will Bite

  A Cozy Vampire Mystery

  by LD Marr

  Copyright © 2019 Trisha McNary

  Published by Trisha McNary

  All Rights Reserved

  Includes

  Alien Pets (Xeno Relations part 1), chapter 1

  By Trisha McNary (a pen name for LD Marr)

  Tenderloin (a dark horror story), excerpt

  By LD Marr

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Alien Pets

  Chapter 1

  Tenderloin

  Excerpt

  Prologue

  London at midnight, 1886.

  The tavern door blew open, letting in chill wind and an even colder customer. Natasha, a voluptuous blonde spilling out of a lightweight black cloak, stepped in. The door slammed shut.

  The bartender looked up and frowned. He met Natasha’s gaze across the smoky dim-lit distance. Then he turned away fast and began furiously wiping the rough wood bar.

  Natasha sniffed the air, and her red lips curled up. She wove toward the bar through mostly empty tables with a strange sinuous grace for a woman so large.

  When she reached one end of the bar, Natasha began to walk along its length. One by one, she scanned the occupants of each stool. In turn, they met her eyes, and she moved on, leaving the mark of varying degrees of nervousness or fear on their faces.

  Finally, Natasha found an appealing target. She stopped at the side of a young pale-haired man. A roughly dressed workingman—big-boned, baby-faced, and reeking of innocence and purity. Natasha glanced once at the older man on the next stool, and he silently vacated it.

  She sat down and tossed off her cape, drawing the young workman’s eyes to the flowing blonde curls that brushed her overflowing cleavage. Her impossibly tight girdle created an hourglass figure with a tiny waist. Not having to breathe had its benefits.

  Natasha stared into the young man’s eyes. He seemed nervous, but he couldn’t break away from her gaze.

  His pale skin became paler and somewhat clammy. She heard his heart rate speed up and his breathing become fast and shallow.

  “I am Natasha,” she purred. “And you are?”

  “Sam,” he answered in the toneless voice of a person under compulsion.

  “Come along, Sam.”

  Natasha rose from her stool in one smooth motion and glided out of the bar. She didn’t stop to pick up her cloak from the floor. It was a bothersome disguise anyway. Natasha didn’t feel the cold, but her husband, Dr. Robert Vandergreest, insisted she wear it. Why go to so much trouble anyway? It wasn’t as if these people had the power to do anything to her even if they suspected what she really was.

  Her husband’s tiresome rules were hard to live with—or be undead with—so much of the time. Was it any wonder that she needed a little fun in the evenings?

  A black carriage waited outside the tavern door. The black-cloaked coachman and two enormous black horses blended into the night’s dark shadows.

  On Natasha’s approach, the coachman climbed down from his seat and opened the carriage door. Sam had followed her out as commanded. Natasha turned to him. Sweat dripped down his face in the icy-cold London night. She lifted a pale, shapely arm and gestured toward the complete blackness within the open carriage.

  “Get inside. I hunger!” she ordered.

  Sam began to moan, but his feet took slow, shaking steps forward as if against his will.

  Natasha sighed her irritation. Her victims didn’t usually resist her supernatural charms.

  “Can you speed it up? I haven’t got all night,” she said. “Or you don’t anyway.”

  Finally, after a most annoying delay, he climbed the steps to the carriage and got in. Natasha flowed up after him, and the coachman shut the door behind her.

  ⌛

  Later that evening.

  In comfortable chair by the fire, Dr. Vandergreest waited with tireless patience for his wife’s return. Just after 3:00 a.m., he heard her enter the door to their townhouse, two floors below. When he detected the soft sound of her attempting to creep past his sitting room, he called out to her.

  “Ah, my dear, you have returned. I have not seen you these long hours. Please join me for a few minutes before you retire.”

  A pause in which he knew she was trying to think of some excuse. The ever-so-light sound of wiping. Then the door opened, and her beautiful blonde head peeked through.

  “Come in, come in. I would see your lovely face this night,” the doctor insisted.

  Natasha approached slowly, her face stained with guilt and microscopic blood cells.

  “Tut, tut. There is blood on your face again, my dear! And it is the blood of the innocent!”

  He sighed a huge sigh.

  “I thought we had reached an agreement about the need to control your cravings. That you understood that preying on the pure of heart draws attention—negative attention that might be hard to deal with. But it appears that you have turned a deaf ear to reason.”

  Another sigh.

  “I have grown sick of your rules!” Natasha answered with spunk and defiance. “I am a powerful being, and I will take what I want. And what I do not want is the foul-tasting nasty blood of evildoers and criminals. I hunger for sweet delicious blood! Why should I starve myself because you are a coward?”

  “But my dear,” answered the doctor, “you are certainly not starving. You are consuming much more blood than you need.”

  “Huh! How dare you!” Natasha sputtered and fumed.

  “Hark!” said Dr. Vandergreest. “I hear the shuffle of many feet approaching, the sound of shouts, the crackle and smell of burning torches!”

  The base of a felled tree boomed against the downstairs door.

  “Protect me, Robert!” cried Natasha.

  “Au revoir, my darling,” said Dr. Vandergreest.

  Then he lightly kissed her lips and disappeared.

  Chapter 1

  Salem, Massachusetts, a few months later.

  Roz the librarian arrived at her tiny lodgings after a long day at work. She looked forward to relaxing with a book, her cat Buttons, and a hot cup of tea. When she pushed the door open, she found Buttons sitting right in front of it.

  “Waiting for me? How sweet,” said Roz.

  She dropped her large carpetbag on the small table next to the door. Then she took off her floppy black hat and reached up to pull the pins from her thick red hair.

  “Yes, I was waiting for you,” her black cat said telepathically. “We have to get out of town right away! You’ve been reported as a witch, and a witch hunter is on his way to interrogate you and then burn you, or drown you, or put a stake through your heart!”

  “What! Are you serious? Why would anyone think I’m a witch?” asked Roz.

  “The lawyer’s wife reported you. She noticed that her husband goes to the library a lo
t, and she says you bewitched him.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” said Roz. “I barely speak to the man except to tell him when his books are due. How does that make me a witch?”

  Buttons twitched his tail impatiently and blinked his golden eyes at her.

  “And,” he continued, “witnesses have ratted on you for talking to your black cat—me. I told you to talk to me silently in your head, but you insist on talking out loud. You should have listened to me. Anyway, there’s no time to waste. Stop taking those pins out of your hair. Get your savings out of the mattress and pack your bag. We need to get out of here now!”

  “No, that can’t be right,” Roz argued. “There haven’t been any witch trials in Salem since the 1690s. Well, except for that one about ten years ago where a woman accused a man of mesmerizing her with his mental powers. What was his name? But anyway, that case was dismissed. So, I don’t have anything to worry about either. Everyone in our enlightened time knows that’s a bunch of rubbish.”

  “Yes, you do have to worry!” Buttons practically shouted in her mind.

  The large-sized cat stood up on his hind legs and pawed frantically at the voluminous gray skirts of Roz’s dress.

  “I didn’t say ‘witch trial,’ I said, ‘witch hunter.’ Those men get paid to kill people, mostly women, who other people claim are witches. There’s no trial. They’ll just come and kill you and then collect the fee. Don’t you know anything?” said Buttons.

  “You mean they’ve hired an assassin to murder me?” Roz asked in shocked disbelief. “That’s against the law. They can’t get away with that!”

  “Yes, they can because even though it’s technically against the law, it’s socially acceptable here in Salem and some other places. If they say you’re a witch, no one will blink an eye if one of those guys snuffs you—and me. Now can you please get going!” said Buttons.

  He dug his claws into her shirts and yanked her toward the bedroom. He was a hefty cat, and Roz swayed in that direction.

  “But wait! Those people can’t do this to me. I just joined the American Library Association. They’re a new society that advocates for librarians,” Roz argued.

  Buttons stopped clawing her skirts and began jumping up and down in front of her.

  “The ALA won’t get here in time to save us. That witch hunter is on his way. We need to get out now! Now! Meeowww!” Buttons howled.

  “Get out? Get out where?” Roz was feeling hysterical. “This is all happening so fast. Where am I supposed to go?”

  As soon as Roz agreed to leave, Buttons stopped his frantic behavior and stood still in front of her.

  “We’ll catch the stagecoach to New York,” said Buttons. “It leaves in thirty minutes. Now hurry! We can just make it.”

  Roz dashed to her mattress, pulled out her bag of coins, and dropped it into her bag. She threw in her dresses and undergarments and grabbed her winter cloak. Without bothering to pin her hair back up, she jammed her hat back on and picked up the carpetbag. Then Roz ran out the door, long gray skirts swirling and small-heeled boots clicking as she dashed away down the cobbled street. Buttons ran along silently beside her.

  “Open your bag, so I can get in there and hide,” he said when they got within sight of the station.

  Roz lowered it to the ground and opened it wide. Buttons hopped in. She hoisted the now heavy bag up to her shoulder and carried it the rest of the way at a much slower pace.

  ⌛

  Less than an hour later, Roz sat on a hard cushion looking out the window of the New York stagecoach. Buttons crouched inside her large carpetbag, hidden from the two passengers on the seat across from her. The middle-aged couple spoke in whispers and ignored Roz, much to her relief. Six fast horses sped across the hard-packed dirt road.

  Roz leaned back and felt more relaxed. They were miles out of town, and no witch hunter could catch them now.

  Then the voice of Buttons spoke inside her head.

  “Don’t talk out loud to me,” warned Buttons. “Just answer in your mind.”

  Roz answered mentally, “I know that. Don’t you think I figured that out by now?”

  “Well, it took you long enough,” said Buttons.

  “I’m sorry, but it seemed strange to talk to a cat in my head,” said Roz. “That’s what crazy people do.”

  “Really?” asked Buttons.

  “Anyway, since we’re talking,” said Roz. “What are we going to do when we get to New York? I don’t know anyone there, and I don’t have very much money. How are we going to survive?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Buttons. “I have it all planned out.”

  “Oh good,” said Roz. “My cat will take care of everything.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” Buttons asked.

  “Hmm,” said Roz noncommittally.

  She went back to looking out the window. In the far distance, she saw a puff of dust appear on the road. The stagecoach traveled onward, and a tiny rider grew visible in the dust cloud. The horse and rider increased in size, and Roz could see his large-brimmed hat and the touch of white around his collar.

  “Get away from the window. That’s the witch hunter!” Buttons yelled inside her mind.

  Roz pressed herself back into the seat as far as she could. Even so, when the coach passed the rider, he slowed and stared in at her. A flash of silver swung from his neck. Cold eyes glared out beneath the folds of his huge hat.

  Roz shuddered, and he was gone.

  “A witch hunter on his way to Salem!” Roz’s fellow travelers finally spoke up. “How fascinating!”

  Chapter 2

  A saloon in the wild west, a few months later.

  Up on stage, with arms linked with the two dancers on either side of her, Roz kicked her legs high. Hoots and whistles mingled with cancan music pounded on an upright piano. The other eleven women yelled back and sang along to the music.

  Roz was less enthusiastic. She looked out at the audience of rough-dressed miners, cowboys, farmers, and a few suit-wearing lawyers or perhaps bankers. All staring up at her and the others as if they were pieces of meat!

  This activity is so inappropriate for a librarian! she thought for the umpteenth time. Why did I let Buttons talk me into accepting this demeaning employment?

  Eddie the piano player reached the end of the song with a flourish of arms and fingers. Then the women, with Roz in the middle because she was the tallest, kicked their way off stage left. Dark-haired, blue-eyed Betty gave Roz a shove or two on the way.

  “Hey, watch it!” said Roz.

  “Sorry Roz, I didn’t mean to. You’re just so slow and clumsy,” said Betty.

  A few of the other dancers giggled as they bustled down a narrow passageway and went through the door at its end.

  Roz went to the far side of the close, stuffy dressing room and dropped limply onto her assigned stool. The other saloon girls took their own seats and began applying more makeup to heavily made-up faces. Women were in short supply in the far western town, and the ages of the “girls” ranged anywhere from their teens to their forties, but no one was asking.

  Soon the air was filled with several perfumes spritzed from automizers and clouds of dust let loose from powder puffs. Roz placed a hand over her mouth and coughed pointedly, but no one paid any attention to her.

  As usual, the same thought circled endlessly through Roz’s mind. I hate this job. I hate this job. I hate this job.

  “Thump!” A chunky black object landed on the flimsy wooden shelf in front of her, rattling the bottles and jars holding her untouched makeup. It was Buttons.

  Unheard by the other saloon girls, Buttons spoke telepathically to Roz. “Feeling sorry for yourself again, I see.”

  “How else do you expect me to feel,” she answered him back mentally. “This job is completely humiliating and degrading. I’m a librarian, not a bawdy exhibitionist!”

  “No, you used to be a librarian. And by the way, you’re doing a lot better about not answering me out loud
like you did back in Salem when we got into so much trouble.”

  “You’re right,” Roz admitted. “I should have known the witch hunters might come if people saw me talking to my cat. I only have myself to blame for landing in this predicament.”

  In her spot farthest from the open door, Roz sighed and coughed again when she inhaled the powdery perfumed air that had accumulated around her in a thick cloud. She rubbed at her red itchy eyes.

  “Actually,” said Buttons. “They would have gone after you anyway even if you hadn’t been seen talking to me. The lawyer’s wife was all steamed up about his interest in you, and some of the other wives were mad at you too. I was just a convenient excuse.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Roz telepathically. “I didn’t fraternize with anyone’s husband! My behavior was completely above reproach at all times!”

  “Well, that’s not really the point in this type of situation,” said Buttons.

  “Then what is the point?” Roz asked.

  “Women don’t like it when their husband gets the hots for another woman. It makes them feel at risk and insulted. It didn’t matter whether you returned the interest. They still hated and feared you. You were still a threat. There was always the chance that you would get interested in one of their husbands at some point,” said Buttons.

  “No, I wouldn’t! I’m not a homewrecker!” Roz insisted.

  “Well, in any case, you made them feel ‘less than,’ which they couldn’t tolerate. So, they gave the convenient ‘she’s a witch’ excuse that people still use these days to get rid of unwanted females,” said Buttons.

  “Really? How does a cat know so much about this stuff?” Roz asked.

  “Cats know a lot because we can sneak around and listen to people talking,” said Buttons. “They don’t notice me, and even when they do, they don’t watch what they say in front of me. That’s why I know so much more about everything than you do.”

  “Hump,” said Roz out loud, which produced another cough.

  Then she spoke to Buttons again mentally.