Page 3 of The Vampire's Werewolf Bodyguard

Simon

Simon wakes safe in his own coffin—a troubling development. Familiar velvet cushioning surrounds him, and the carved underside of the lid is within reach. In the pitch darkness, Simon traces the telltale abstract patterns identifying the space as his.

Someone brought him home. The list of suspects is short.

Simon flips the switch to unlock the coffin, then pushes. The lid is heavier than usual; Simon has to flatten both palms against the wood to gain leverage. He expects whatever weighs the lid down to crash to the ground, but there’s nothing.

The lid isn’t heavy; Simon is weak. The poison hasn’t worn off.

His underground chamber is just as dark as the coffin’s interior. Sitting upright, Simon has to clutch the edge of the coffin for balance. Dizziness spins through him, embers of memory lighting in its wake .

Simon remembers drinking poisoned blood. Killing the human. Calling his sire—how fucking pathetic. Simon briefly woke to Kimiko tucking him into a spare coffin, cursing vividly in three different languages. Unfortunate. That will cancel out one of the favors she owes him.

Darkness. Movement. Fever. Thrashing against coffin walls.

“Stop that,” a voice had said. The words might have been a fragment of his own broken thoughts, but Simon still instinctively obeyed Dima.

Except Simon senses the house above him isn’t empty. The space has been disturbed. A heady blend of hope-want-fear strikes just as dizzyingly as the poison.

Who else could have brought Simon home? Kimiko has never been invited in.

He concentrates on the sconces framing the chamber door, but the wicks remain cold. Simon’s power barely stirs within him. He must not have swallowed enough blood to fuel it.

Climbing from his coffin is manageable, as long as Simon moves carefully. He pauses, hand on the wall for balance. Thankfully, he’s not in his favorite pajamas—that would be embarrassing. He’s wearing the same clothes as he wore to the Broken Cross, and his boots wait near the door. His phone turns up in the coffin, its screen showing an almost-dead battery and a flurry of messages from Kimiko’s assistant. The time is nearly two in the morning.

Three nights after the attack.

Simon leaves the boots and walks on slow, silent feet to find his maker. Shadows melt away as he reaches the living quarters. The first level is still underground but decorated. Comfortable. Not medieval prison-chic like the coffin chamber. Simon has spent the past thirty years crafting this estate into his solitary home.

He finds his sire on the first floor above ground, in one of the libraries. Dima stands next to the record player, looking up at the mural that stretches above the shelves. Painted birds and butterflies dance from flower to tree, encircling the library in a sunlit garden. Beneath the bright colors, Dima is a statue of winter.

“Are you ever going to finish it?” Dima asks without moving.

As always, his voice drags Simon centuries into the past. Back when he was newly fledged, struggling to control his instincts, please his sire, and retain some semblance of self. Controlling his instincts used to be harder. Pleasing Dima used to be easier.

Sire is a term of respect, not parentage, among vampires. Dima is Simon’s lord and creator. That bond persists even if their other bonds fade away.

There are gaps in the mural. Meadowgrass fades into patches of blank whitewash, where Simon intended to add people. Only he’s never decided what or who to add. Maybe it’s already finished with the blank spaces.

“Twenty years,” Simon says quietly. “Why return now?”

“You needed me.” Dima moves, shadows seeming to gather in his wake. He towers over Simon, and concern softens his face. “My little firebird, you look dreadful.”

Dima touches Simon’s chin. Familiar power wavers in Simon’s blood, his shadow-gift recognizing his creator. For a moment, everything is as it was. Simon’s glorious first decades as Dima’s fledgling. They shared a coffin. Dima taught him to hunt, then kissed the blood from his lips. Simon was new and special and treasured—not pathetic and needy.

Aside from his modern suit, the centuries haven’t changed Dima. His skin is paper-white, and his lank blond hair falls to his shoulders. If his eyes ever had color, they faded with the centuries. Dima is the oldest vampire Simon knows, already a folktale by the time he made Simon. Well over a thousand, according to the earliest records.

Simon is Dima’s last remaining fledgling. Some died before Simon was born. Rebecca didn’t survive her fledgling years. Tania was murdered, Francisco worse than murdered.

Some people draw closer in grief. Others grow distant.

“Where have you been?” Simon asks.

“Twenty years, you say?” Dima tilts his head, like the shift of light over stone. “That’s but a moment. Don’t be impatient. You’re not a fledgling anymore.”

Simon doesn’t flinch. That would make him look even more like a fledgling. “Sorry.”

Dima softens, echoing old emotions like concern. “Sit down. You shouldn’t be out of your coffin like this.”

Simon perches on one of the plush reading chairs. He’s even slower than he usually feels with Dima. He can’t keep up with the rapid shifts from scolding to affection. But Dima’s words don’t matter as much as his actions. Simon called, and Dima came. That truth burrows beneath Simon’s cold heart.

“You were right to call me,” Dima says. “I don’t even recognize the poison the hunter afflicted you with. Did he say anything about his allegiance?”

Simon shakes his head.

“I assumed not.” Dima sounds direct. Businesslike. “I’ve already handled the cover-up. Kimiko was happy to help. Not happy to see me, of course. I do hope she owes you a favor, or you’ll owe her. For now, nobody besides Kimiko, her assistants, and me knows you killed a human.”

“I don’t need to cover it up,” Simon says, trying to focus through his dizziness. “Self-defense is permitted under the treaty.”

“Of course, little firebird,” Dima soothes. “But there’s no rush to confess. I want to pursue my own investigation before stirring up malcontents. Treaty criticism is at a high, you know.”

Simon winces. A man is dead, and worrying about optics is unseemly. The optics are bad, though. “I didn’t think you cared about the treaty.”

“You care,” Dima says, as if honoring Simon’s concerns is obvious. Easy. As if Dima hadn’t disappeared for the last twenty years. “Trust me. We won’t hide the incident forever—just long enough to gather some evidence.” His voice hardens. “They dared to hurt my fledgling. I will resolve this.”

Simon’s cold heart clenches. Both of them must be thinking of another moment, yet unresolved. Twenty years ago, Tania was murdered by a human hunter. The killer was never caught, and a faction of vampires nearly shattered the treaty over it.

The new attack could be a coincidence. Or a second chance.

But Simon doesn’t want a resolution tonight. He’d rather have Dima stay, at least a month, and he can’t help asking, “Does that mean you’re leaving?”

“Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone in this condition.” Dima smiles—but Simon’s foolish hope is short-lived. “I’ve hired a bodyguard to protect you in my absence. He’ll arrive in three nights, along with a team to install your new security system.”

Exhaustion blunts Simon’s panic into unease. The last thing he wants is strangers infiltrating his home. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I can protect myself. ”

“Yes, you’re very good with a firearm, apparently,” Dima says indulgently. “But how long has it been since you drank live blood? Can you muster even a spark of magic right now?”

Simon’s silence is answer enough.

“You aren’t to leave the house until this matter is settled.” Dima crosses the distance in a shadowed instant, just to pat Simon on the hand. “Back to your coffin, firebird. We’ll discuss whether you need a bodyguard tomorrow night.”

The words stop short of using Dima’s full mental force—but Dima won’t hesitate to use it if he sees the need. Dima can enthrall a dozen humans with scarcely a thought. Fellow paranormals are more difficult targets, but the sire-bond gives him an easy channel into Simon’s mind.

While Simon still has the illusion of a choice, he acquiesces.

***

Simon should have known Dima was just coaxing him to bed. The only discussion that happens over the next three nights is Dima dodging Simon’s protests. As they wait in the parlor for the interloper to arrive, Simon makes one last attempt.

“I don’t need a bodyguard.” Simon means to sound firm but veers closer to petulant.

Calling Dima was a mistake. That becomes clearer as the dizziness wears away, leaving only weakness. Handling this attack would have been simpler without Dima’s interference.

“Agree to disagree on that, my dear.” Dima sits on Simon’s chaise lounge like it’s a throne. Even idly scrolling his phone in one hand, he looks like an ancient statue .

And Simon is a flickering flame, trapped in a lantern glass. “I’m the one still standing. Perhaps you should hire a bodyguard for the local hunters’ guild. They need it more than I do.”

Dima just looks up, bored and implacable.

Arguing is pointless.

Simon sits on the edge of his coffee table. His gaze falls to a lump in the carpet and scattered dust near the wall. Signs of the new security system, cameras at every door and sensors at every outer wall. The Atwood Security installers came while Simon was oversleeping. Dima offered to lure one down for Simon to feed, but Simon refused. The poor Atwood employees were just doing their job, and apparently only the boss and Simon’s new bodyguard know about vampires.

Preposterous. How can a group of humans protect Simon?

Except the worst part is that Dima may be right. Simon’s limbs still shake when he moves too quickly, and he’s too lightheaded to concentrate on the debate. The poison must have a witchcraft component, to linger like this. If he’s attacked again, Simon isn’t sure he’ll be able to pull a trigger fast enough.

He shouldn’t need to, though. Simon doesn’t intend to let any more strangers into his home, and the new technology will help. If a blade of grass is disturbed on the property, Simon will know.

The doorbell rings.

“That must be him,” Dima says without moving. “Shall I get the door?”

Simon shakes his head. “I’ll let him in.”

He wants the first look at his unwanted bodyguard, to see what he’s dealing with.

Maybe it won’t be so bad, Simon considers as he leaves the parlor. He can shut off the rooms he prefers, and the human will be awake during daytime, anyway. They won’t have to see each other. Just like having the housekeepers and landscapers visit.

Maybe it’s just the idea of weakness that rankles. Or Simon’s childish wish for Dima to stay instead.

A new touchscreen panel sits next to the front door. The marble floor beneath is cleaner than the rest of the foyer, where the Atwood installers must have swept. Simon taps the code to disarm the system, then opens the physical door.

And stares.

The man on the doorstep is large. Half a foot taller than Simon and at least twice as broad. His build screams of natural gift combined with dedication—bulking up easily, but working at it, too. Simon, frozen in time for centuries, could never transform himself like that.

Simon’s second, stupider thought is that this is the sort of man he would have lured into the shadows when he was younger. A tumble and a sip of blood. Sun-warmed skin, dark eyes, square jaw with just a shadow of stubble. The man’s hair would be brown in better lighting; caught between the house lights and the moon, it looks black.

There’s a barely contained primal quality to his movements, which makes sense. A pungent scent shatters any hope of tolerating this bodyguard.

Simon’s hand tenses on the doorknob. His teeth, by dint of tremendous self-control, don’t lengthen. “Dima,” he says, glaring at the threat. “You neglected to tell me you hired a werewolf.”