Real Vampires Have Curves Read Free Page A

giving up my power . . . Can you tell I read self-help books?
    Damn it. Technofreak vamp hunters. No wonder I felt chilled to the bone and more than a little tempted to get to Lake Charles as fast as my aging Suburban could carry me. I sucked it up.
    â€œI’ll be with Freddy. He’s as strong as you are, maybe stronger.” A dig, but baiting Blade beat the full-out crying jag I felt like going for.
    â€œIs Valdez with you?”
    I glanced at my dog who was checking out the countryside.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œKeep him close until you get here. You are not going to Frederick. I will expect you—”
    I hung up on him. Just like that. I turned off the phone before flinging it onto the seat.
    â€œThe big boss givin’ ya grief, angel face?” Valdez. Obviously not your ordinary companion animal.
    â€œHe’s not my big boss and I’m giving him grief.” I grabbed a tissue from the console and blew my nose. “But I know he’s your big boss. In your next report, tell him to kiss my—”
    â€œTell him yourself, sweet cheeks. Right now I gotta go.”
    When Blade and I parted ways, we’d argued until he wore me down and I’d agreed to let him provide protection for me. I’d expected bodyguards. Instead he’d sent dogs. Not ordinary pups, but creatures with special abilities. This was Valdez number one hundred and twenty-five. They had all been willing to give their lives to keep me safe. And they had. These dogs were usually mortal and it broke my heart each time I lost one.
    I have no idea how he did it—vamp magic, I guess—but Blade had made each Valdez more powerful, more . . . interesting. Besides being able to create a circle of safety around me, the last dozen or so had been able to communicate. Not out loud, but in my head and inside any head within range. Impossible to tune out. And impossible to explain in a crowd. That’s why we had strict rules about when and where Valdez can speak.
    It amuses Blade to surprise me. The last one had sounded just like the Chihuahua in the fast food commercial. This one is a thug, Travolta in Get Shorty. What ever happened to the strong silent type?
    â€œYou gonna ignore me or what? I don’t wanna hear no whinin’ when I lift my leg on your CD player.”
    â€œAll right. All right.” I jerked open the door and hopped out. “Hurry. We’re miles from nowhere.”
    â€œDon’t I know it. Seems okay though.” He sniffed his way to a bush and took care of his business. “Next gas stop, I want a bag of Cheetos and some Twinkies.”
    Typical. “I should get you a can of Alpo. That other stuff’s bad for you.” Can you believe this dog? I think he eats those things to torment me. I haven’t had a bite, of food, that is, since 1604 and while I always liked my meals back then, I would have killed for something that smelled like a Cheeto.
    â€œI ain’t no ordinary dog. I’m a Labradoodle special and I got needs. You have any idea what they put in canned dog food?”
    â€œCheetos and Twinkies aren’t—”
    â€œSo stop for a Big Mac and fries. And you owe me. So far I’ve listened to Evita , Phantom of the Opera and Oklahoma . And,” he gave me a long suffering look, “you ain’t no Chiquita Rivera if you know what I mean.”
    â€œChita Rivera. Chiquita is the banana.” I know my pop culture. It’s a survival skill. And, yeah, I knew what he meant. I can dance, and act, but sing? A girl can’t do everything perfectly.
    â€œChill out, fur face. I could go back to ‘We Are the Champions.’ ” My fave. And one I knew Valdez was really sick of. I’d heard him howl through it more than once to drown it and me out.
    â€œI thought you were in a hurry.” Valdez settled into his seat with a sigh. If he wasn’t being so aggravating I’d bury my fingers in his soft fur and