Violette Dubrinsky Read online

  “Right.” Azaleigh nodded as if this was all normal. There was no problem at all. Vampire and zombie existence was the usual order of the world. “So I’m technically your boss?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have to do what I say?”

  Victor’s face lost all expression, but he dipped his head.

  “What happens if you don’t?”

  He hesitated a fraction of a second before he acquiesced. “A Protector who doesn’t follow his Guardian will feel constricting pain until he does.”

  “Uh huh.” Azaleigh looked to the door, swiping nervously at her lips and calculating the time it would take her to reach it. Running? Five seconds.

  “Azaleigh...” Victor began, his voice low in warning.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered, taking a step in the direction of the bedroom door to test his words.

  “Azaleigh, don’t. We’re running out of time. The Night Walkers know Antoinette is dead. They’re already on their way here. They’ll massacre everyone, just like they attempted thirty-nine years ago.”

  She continued on, eyeing him and seeing the strain on his face. Victor hadn’t moved, though. Not so much as a finger. Maybe he really was a zombie.

  “The children will die first.”

  The words stopped her cold, and she turned to him.

  “That’s how they are. They’ll murder the babies first, in front of the parents just to watch the horror in their eyes, then they take the women, raping youngest to the oldest, and finally, after the men have died twice over in horror, they kill them all. It’s their way.”

  Azaleigh remembered her dream, the blood-curdling screams, the stench of decay and coppery blood. Was that what she’d dreamt? Of Night Walkers?

  “You’ve dreamt it?”

  Her attention veered back to the seated Victor, and she nodded once.

  “We’re almost out of time, then. Release me from the command, Azaleigh. You’ve much to learn and little time.”

  Chapter 3

  She’d pinched herself numerous times. From the dark, raised welts forming and the large man who stared between her face and lower arm in mute-lipped curiosity, it was becomingly glaringly obvious. This was no dream.

  Antoinette St. Croix had been a witch, and not just any witch. She’d been a Guardian, which Victor explained as a witch charged with the protection of a community. Her aunt had had a Protector, a zombie by the name of Victor, and Night Walkers, also known as vampires, fast on her trail. The woman many referred to as ‘crazy’ used spells from the book Azaleigh was currently studying. Perhaps that made her crazy too. She certainly didn’t feel very sane.

  After Azaleigh grudgingly released him from her command, Victor explained more of her involvement in this unbelievable event. Like Antoinette, she, too, was a witch. It wasn’t as big a shocker as it could have been, had she not dreamed of Victor, and had him scare the hell out of her by professing his life for hers. Apparently, select offspring of both the Dumas and St. Croix lineages were witches, but only a handful were powerful enough to recognize their magic, and fewer able to wield it. Azaleigh was one of the lucky ones. Antoinette had named her successor, though Azaleigh had no intention of staying in the town past whatever spells she needed to recite in the next few days to keep the community breathing. Her life wasn’t here. It was in New York.

  At her insistence—Azaleigh’s legally-trained mind liked to weigh the odds—Victor explained the Night Walkers. They traveled in packs, almost like wolves, and usually attacked together. The best way to protect the town was through spells, and even then there were the few, the powerful, who slipped past the charms. Those were the ones Victor would deal with.

  Lifting her burning, blurred eyes from the bold, cursive writing on the worn page, Azaleigh rolled onto her side and faced Victor, who was in the same position as when she’d looked up last, thirty minutes ago. He stood firmly planted at her bedroom window, his eyes searching the darkness, and his hand at his left side. Under the short-sleeved, checkered flannel shirt that clung to his muscled torso, she should be able to make out a weapon. But with his jeans and cowboy boots, Azaleigh saw nothing but tall, gorgeous Southern man.

  Clearing her throat, Azaleigh addressed him. “How long have you done this?”

  Victor half-turned, and blinked. Surprise and confusion was written over his striking features.

  “How long have you been a Protector?” she clarified.

  “Thirty-nine years.”

  “Wow. And how old are you?” If he’d been her aunt’s protector for that long, he had to be in his forties, which meant he had great genes because he didn’t look at day over thirty.

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “What?” That wasn’t possible. Tired, and at her wits end, she knew that.

  “I was created thirty-nine years ago.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d worded his birth that way, and Azaleigh grew curious.

  “How?”

  As he explained, Azaleigh’s jaw grew slack. The beautiful specimen before her was a result of dirt and a spell? Maybe more men should be created that way—and no, she wasn’t going there.

  Licking her suddenly dry lips, she pushed to her feet, stretching her arms over her head to release the building tension. Victor watched her every move, his eyes traveling down her body in the ways of a sexually charged male, before coming to rest on her crotch. Moss greens remained glued to the spot for long seconds before Azaleigh crossed her arms beneath her breasts, pushing them higher under the deep vee of the T-shirt, and cleared her throat.

  Victor gave her an almost guilty look, and she almost smiled. Eventually, she returned to her spot on the bed, still staring at the stoic man in the corner.

  “What was she like?” When he quirked a brow, she added, “Antoinette.”

  Something reminiscent of a smile touched Victor’s lips. Instantly, Azaleigh knew they’d been close.

  “She was a good woman, kind of heart and loyal to those who didn’t show her the same courtesy.” He gave a little frown, then sighed. “I think you would have liked her.”

  “Why?”

  “You two are alike in spirit.”

  With a snort-laugh, Azaleigh sighed and shook her head. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “Your auras are the same. Warm blues, and pale yellows to signify loyalty, peace, devotion, love.”

  He could read auras too? What else could the zombie do? Unconsciously, her eyes drifted down his body—no! Guiltily, she looked back to his face. “And you were together for thirty-nine years?”

  Nodding once, seemingly unaware—thankfully—of her checkout of his goods, Victor returned his attention to the dark outdoors. He had the eyes of a hunter, a predator searching out potential quarry.

  “Were you together?”

  “Yes. Always.”

  Azaleigh shook her head, knowing the territory she breached was one she had no business entering.

  “Not like that.” She squirmed, trying to convince herself she was asking because she was curious about Antoinette and it had nothing to do with the fact that his body had been distracting her for the last minutes. “You know, in the other way.”

  “What other ways are there?” Victor deadpanned, blinking those clear eyes at her. After a moment, his lips curved up, and his entire face seemed to relax. The zombie was teasing her. “Our relationship was never based on that type of intimacy.” He must have seen the question on her face because he continued. “Antoinette protected the town and I protected her. Sometimes, I would watch the big box—the television—with her, and listen to the radio.”

  “What did you watch?” Listening to his deep baritone was both relaxing and frustrating, but she just wanted him to keep talking.

  “Matlock, Perry Mason, Days of Our Lives, and I think she was beginning to enjoy the reality shows.”

  “Reality-TV shows? Like what?” Her mother thought all reality TV was trash, but Azaleigh had always enjoyed The Housewives when she had
time to watch it, and the Real World/Road Rules Challenges.

  “The Housewives of Atlanta, Jersey, and Beverly Hills, and she was fascinated with Mob Wives.”

  Laughter spilled from Azaleigh’s lips as she imaged the woman, at eighty-seven, hooting at the antics of Nene and Teresa, and Victor, all close to seven feet of him, looking on in confusion, and some amusement. She genuinely wished she’d spent more time with Antoinette.

  “How are the spells?”

  “I memorized the first one.” There were three he wanted her to know: a protection spell, a charm spell, and a reinforcement spell. He’d explained their meanings briefly, and had promised to go over them in more detail later.

  “Good. Are you ready to recite it?”

  “Now?” The digital clock on her end-table told her it was close to four in the morning.

  He nodded. “Night Walkers travel from dusk to dawn. Ten minutes could mean the difference between one thousand dead bodies, and none.”

  “Well, when you put it like that...” Pulling the book against her chest, Azaleigh stood and nodded. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  ***

  The rush of adrenaline was unlike anything she’d felt before. Blood pounded through her veins and arteries, and before it could move, more was pushing against it, like a tidal wave just before it crested. Her hair whipped around her head with the fury of the wind. At any moment, she felt as if she’d topple backward, but still she continued, chanting the words, basking in the power radiating from them, letting it take her.

  If she’d been doubtful of anything, being in the circle cleared it up. She was definitely a witch.

  Believe in yourself, Victor had advised, and he’d been right. It had seemed comical to think she’d recite from a book, granted, an old one that smelled of pine, and things would just…happen, but that was exactly what occurred. She spoke the words in cadence, the winds picked up, she made her voice stronger and electrical currents seemed to leap and fission around her.

  Azaleigh continued until the winds died down, and the dark woods behind the house quieted. She felt drained, sapped off strength. Her knees buckled, legs turning to jelly, and she braced herself for impact. It didn’t come. Strong arms lifted her, slipping beneath her back and thighs. The clean, earthy smell and hard body told her it was Victor, and Azaleigh wrapped her arms around his thick neck and closed her eyes.

  ***

  “Why Hallows Brook?”

  Victor didn’t hear her come awake. He’d been too busy staring at the flap in her thin pajama bottoms, wishing his vision were acute enough to see through the material to the thin strip of hair that covered her mons.

  When she’d removed her clothes and he’d glimpsed shapely brown buttocks and that thatch, Victor had been speechless. He’d never seen a real woman’s private area in his thirty-nine years of existence. The closest he’d come was an adult video Antoinette purchased in the eighties, and the women had been bushy and untrimmed.

  “What?”

  “Why are the Night Walkers so set on this town, and what’s your obsession with my crotch?”

  Her voice was thick and low, her scent—sunshine and warmth—high on the air, and Victor felt an uncomfortable twitch in his penis. It had happened before, when he’d watched the vintage movie. Antoinette had left it out, on purpose, no doubt. She’d treated him like a human companion, wanting him to live a good life and find a ‘special girl.’ She never seemed to realize or accept that his sole purpose was her protection.

  “Hallows Brook, and a handful of other small towns, was founded by witches in the early 1900s. It’s one of the few territories Night Walkers are unable to penetrate, at least for long. Witches have stood as Guardians for over a century.”

  “Oh, so it’s just to say they can?”

  Her pink tongue reached out to wet her lips, and as they glistened with moisture, Victor almost moaned. His chest tightened, and the twitch became painful as his organ grew swollen.

  What was happening to him? He eyed the bulge in his jeans before returning his gaze to Azaleigh. Granted, she was beautiful, with laughing eyes the color of rich molasses and a complexion so smooth and reminiscent of the sweet toffees Antoinette loved to make, he was inclined to taste her, just to see if she tasted like them. Or better. Something told him she might taste better. She had a thin, heart-shaped face and delicately arched cheekbones that called to mind some of the actresses from the classics he’d watched with Antoinette.

  With a slight shake of his head, Victor refocused on her question. “Not can, but did. They like spreading tales of their conquests, as they thrive on fear.”

  “How do you kill them?”

  “I cut their hearts from their bodies. Without the organ, they shrivel up like the dead they are.” He’d killed five Night Walkers in his existence and each had been the same. There had been one who’d gotten away, though. He’d been different, cleaner-looking than the rest, and Victor had found himself pinned for the first time in his life. The creature had disappeared soon after, chased off by Antoinette’s spell-weaving.

  Azaleigh’s eyes widened. “I’m no scientist, but isn’t that… difficult? I mean, you have to go through ribs...”

  “I break them.” Her eyes grew even larger, so he added, “I’m very strong, Azaleigh.”

  “Uh huh.”Azaleigh stared at him for a long moment, before releasing a sigh. She rolled onto her back and stretched, pushing her round, palm-sized breasts up. “And your fascination with my crotch?”

  Victor lifted his eyes to hers—once more they’d made their way down her long body to the area—and shrugged, embarrassment in the form of a warm heat creeping up his neck.

  “Normally, guys check out boobs or ass.”

  Azaleigh yawned and rolled onto her side. Her face looked fuller, brighter. Her hair was a tousled mass about her head, sections sticking away from the rest. Still, she looked radiant. More beautiful than some of the people he’d seen on Antoinette’s TV. “But not you. You’ve been having a staring contest with my crotch, and I’m curious to know why.”

  “You have a strip of hair.” The words left his lips before he could think them through, and Victor tensed once they hung in the air between them. He shouldn’t have said anything.

  “Huh?”

  “On your private area, you have a thin strip of hair.”

  It took seconds, but she flew to a sitting position and glared at him. “How the hell do you know that? Did you peek last night when—?”

  “I’d never do that.” He cleared his throat. “That night when you woke up, and stripped out of your clothes, I was sitting in the chair...”

  She blushed, and seemed upset at it.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “My landing strip?” she asked in an incredulous voice.

  Azaleigh collapsed back onto the bed as wracking noises came from her chest. Thinking he’d made his new Guardian cry, he went to her instantly. She was crying all right, but tears of laughter, not sadness, spilled down the sides of her eyes and soaked her pillow.

  He didn’t understand why she found it funny, but Victor took it as his cue to replenish his body. The longer he stayed awake, and not buried deep in healing soil of the Earth, the more his body needed sustenance. Food. Drink.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To make breakfast. What would you like to eat?”

  She sobered and a thoughtful look entered her eyes. “You don’t have to make me breakfast, Victor.”

  He smiled. “Thank you for telling me that, but I want to.” She looked skeptical so he added, “Antoinette taught me to cook. I was going to go down to the kitchen, but I...” Victor trailed off having never been a good liar.

  “You what? Couldn’t stop staring at my crotch?” She began laughing again, the peals so catchy his lips curved.

  With a nod, he replied honestly. “Yes.”

  ***

  The zombie was not only sexy beyond her wildest dreams, he cooked like a madman, had
a dry but wicked sense of humor, and was sensitive to her needs. He was almost perfect but for one major thing. He was a zombie!

  Protector, something inside her screamed. She shrugged. Different name, same non-living, off-limits creature.

  Azaleigh eyed his muscular back, imprinting through the dark green elbow-length flannel shirt he wore today, as Victor grabbed ingredients from the condiments section of the small supermarket in the town square. After breakfast, which had been so delicious she’d almost spread her legs after taking a spoonful of his grits and eggs, he’d told her they needed to get ingredients for the other spells. Antoinette apparently had a small garden in her backyard that grew most of the vegetables she used in her spells, but the woman had run low on salt and vinegar, both needed.

  Her eyes traveled down to his buttocks, taut against his washed-out, denim jeans, and her mouth grew dry. What a beautiful man. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one thinking that. Next to her, a blonde, teenage salesgirl was staring at Victor with her jaw halfway to the floor and a wad of parsley held frozen above the rest. If her fingers worked, the girl would just open them and have one less parsley to stack.

  Victor straightened and moved over to them. It seemed he took stocking up seriously if the four bottles of vinegar and five cartons of salt were any indication. “I found them.”

  When she didn’t respond right away, Victor’s brows rose, and he briefly turned to the blonde and dipped his head in greeting. An accent Azaleigh had never heard before appeared.

  “Mornin’, Diana. How’s your family?”

  There followed a volley of stuttering, and a few misspoken words, but poor, blushing Diana eventually responded. Victor spoke to the girl for minutes before he turned and waved Azaleigh to the cashier.

  As they walked back to Aunt Toni’s house, Azaleigh realized the zombie knew most of the people in town, or rather, they knew him. Almost every person they passed had a word of greeting for Victor St. Croix. Some even mentioned their sympathies on Antoinette’s passing—to him, and not to her, the blood relative. Most of them, women especially, seemed more concerned with the hulking creature. How many invitations for homemade cobbler—translated vagina—had she overheard? Victor seemed comfortable with the attention, greeting each of the ladies with a smile and a few nice words, and she wondered just how many of those invitations he’d accepted before. The thought didn’t sit well with her. Not at all.