Night of the Living Dandelion Read online

  Suddenly a figure separated itself from the gloom and strode up the sidewalk in my direction. Because of the dark hair and black coat, I thought at first it was Marco, who favored his black leather jacket no matter what the weather. But now I could see that this man wore a long black trench coat, the collar turned up against the damp, his dark hair, slicked back by the mist, a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

  When I realized I was visible through the glass, I grabbed the wheels of the chair to back up—I didn’t want him to think I had nothing to do but stare outside—but before I could move, his gaze met mine through the glass. Not only had he caught me, but he was also headed straight for the shop. Abashed, I pretended that I was actually watching something across the street, just over his shoulder, in fact, and, oh, was that my phone ringing? Pardon me while I checked.

  I did a quick pivot and raced away from the window. When the bell jingled, I was arranging the floral display on a table in the center of the room. I turned around, expecting to see the man standing at the front counter. Instead, he was in front of me, so close I could see the droplets of moisture on his coat. I craned my neck to look up at him and stared straight into a pair of pale gray wolf eyes that were gazing back at me as though I were dinner.

  I tried to back up but hit an armoire behind me. With nowhere to go, I found myself wishing I hadn’t been so hasty in sending Lottie away. And when the stranger stepped closer and reached into his coat, all I could think was that he was going for a weapon.

  I glanced around to see what artillery lay within my reach. A pair of small ceramic doves? A silk posy? Pink candles?

  Get a grip, that inner voice of reason whispered in my ear. He’s a customer!

  “Can I help you?” I said, my voice coming out in an embarrassing squeak.

  He smiled, revealing a set of even white teeth, except for the canines, which were longer than the rest. Wolflike, in fact. “You must be Abby.”

  How did he know my name?

  He removed a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. “I’m told you have a good selection of houseplants. In particular, I’m looking for these specimens.” He handed me the paper. On it was a list of neatly printed plant names: bloodwort, Dracula orchid, devil’s tongue, wolfsbane, strangleweed, mistletoe, voodoo lily, bat flower.

  Was he serious? The only thing missing from that ghoulish list was a Venus flytrap. “I don’t have any of these plants in stock, but I’m sure I can order them from my suppliers.”

  “How soon would they arrive?”

  He had a mere hint of an accent, but I couldn’t place it. Czech perhaps? “Usually in three to four days.”

  “That will do.”

  “They may be expensive.”

  He shrugged. “Cost isn’t a factor.”

  “I’ll need to take down your name and phone number.” I pointed to the cashier’s counter, seizing the opportunity to put some distance between us. “My order pad is over there.”

  Instead of moving, he studied me with those icy wolf eyes. “Irish or Scottish?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Red hair, green eyes, light skin, and freckles. You have to be Irish or Scottish.”

  “Irish. And English—mother’s side.” Why was I telling this stranger my background?

  He crouched in front of my chair and picked up my injured foot. “Bad sprain, eh? Did you break the skin?”

  “No.” How did he know it was a sprain?

  “Good. Always a risk of a blood infection when the skin is broken. Get some staphylococcus in there and you’re in for a rough ride.”

  Who was this guy?

  I removed my gigantic booted foot from his grasp. Being in a vulnerable position made me extremely edgy—not that he was giving off any bad vibes. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was strikingly good-looking, virtually thrumming with virility and sex appeal, reminding me very much of my fiancé, Marco.

  “Do you want me to order those plants?” I asked, trying not to betray my jitteriness.

  He smiled again as he rose. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  The bell jingled and Marco walked in, looking undeniably male in his black leather jacket, lean jeans, and black boots. Steely-eyed and iron-jawed, he swept the room with his dark gaze, gauging the stranger’s close proximity to me, no doubt assessing my immediate danger.

  I was so relieved to see him that I wanted to leap out of my wheelchair and hop across the room to throw myself in his arms. “There you are,” I called, maneuvering my chair around the stranger.

  Marco gave the clock behind the cashier’s counter a quick glance. “Am I late?”

  “I’m early,” the wolfman said. “I wanted to order some houseplants for my apartment.”

  Early for what?

  “Ah. Then you’ve already met Abby,” Marco said.

  “We haven’t been formally introduced,” the man said, giving me a dazzling smile.

  “Abby Knight,” Marco said, “this is Vlad.”

  Wait. What? This was the man Marco was training to take over the bar? His foxhole buddy when he was in the army? The guy he described as average-looking?

  Vlad walked up to me and bowed from the waist. Then he took my hand, removed his list from my tightly clasped fingers, pocketed it, and brought my hand to his lips. “Vladimir Serbanescu, at your service. Vlad Serban, to make it easy.” He pressed his lips against my fingers. “Or New Chapel’s resident vampire, if you’d prefer.”

  That was an introduction that demanded an explanation, but judging by the chortle Vlad’s comment elicited from Marco, I was apparently the only one not in on the jest. So in order to preserve my self-respect, I laughed, too, though there is obviously no such thing as a human vampire. I’d just have to get to know Vlad better so I could understand the joke.

  To that end, I suggested that Vlad join us for a light dinner at the Down the Hatch Bar and Grill. Ten minutes later, we had regrouped there, Marco and me on one side of the booth, Vlad and my crutches, which I had fondly named the Evil Ones, on the other. Over a meal of burgers and fries, I observed Vlad while he and Marco discussed their latest drink concoction, a house specialty that Marco had dubbed the Hatch Match. The ingredients were secret, except for the last one—a matchstick to light it on fire.

  Vlad was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, with jet-black hair combed away from his face, arched black eyebrows over light gray eyes, a handsome nose, dimpled chin, and skin so light and pure it glowed like fine porcelain, with just a hint of a five o’clock shadow to define his jaw. He wore a white button-down shirt, neatly pressed black pants with a crease in them, and immaculate black shoes, a nerdy look on anyone but a sexy guy. And Vlad was certainly that, emitting an undeniably powerful male charisma, which is undoubtedly why every woman in the bar had her eye on him.

  Seated with two of the hunkiest males in town, my foot wrapped like a mummy, my hair a bundle of red hay, I felt like the joker between a pair of aces.

  It wasn’t easy to draw Vlad out—it seemed to be a trait shared by men in the Special Ops division of the military—but he did reveal that he was single, had no family in town, a brother in Florida, and parents in Romania, where he’d been born, thus explaining his accent. He had completed his six-year tour with the army and had already received an honorable discharge. He had a master’s degree in biology, was a trained phlebotomist, and had last worked as the manager of a blood lab in a Chicago hospital.

  That was my aha moment. As in, Aha! So that’s why he made a joke about being a vampire. He drew blood for a living! Although he did resemble the stereotypical Hollywood vampire. Was that intentional? Was that why Marco had laughed?

  Vlad had come to New Chapel after deciding he needed a career change, something completely different from his routine nine-to-five job. Marco had suggested he might enjoy owning his own bar and grill, and offered him the opportunity to get hands-on training. Intrigued, Vlad had agreed to try it, so three days ago he’d started as Marco’s intern, where he was currentl
y learning how to be a proper bartender. And since I knew interns didn’t make much money, I had to infer that the income wouldn’t be a problem.

  “So, Vlad,” I said, as I dipped a crunchy fry in ketchup, “you weren’t serious earlier about wanting those houseplants, were you?”

  He stopped chewing to focus those striking eyes on me. “Why? Is there something wrong with them?” He pronounced wrong as vrong.

  Okay, so he was serious. “Not wrong … per se.”

  Marco glanced at me, clearly as puzzled as Vlad was. “Are they hard to grow?”

  Be tactful, Abby. “Well, you could say that about some of them.”

  At that moment, a slender yet curvaceous brunette stopped by the booth to bat her eyelashes and say in a breathy voice, “Hi, Vlad.” Her girlfriend, a slender yet curvaceous blonde, echoed the eyelash batting and the breathy voice. “How’s it going, Vlad?” They both giggled shyly when he turned his intense gaze on them.

  “Hello, Lara. Hello, Holly.” He smiled, flashing those long white canines, causing them to moan in ecstasy as they glided away to join friends at another booth. I watched them whisper together, then turn to gaze at him longingly.

  “I have an excellent green thumb,” Vlad said, showing me his digits, ignoring the girls’ avid interest. “I collect unusual houseplants. I even have plant lights and a humidifier.”

  Poor guy. He was doing his best to convince me. “I’m not doubting your green thumb, Vlad. It’s just that some of the plants on your list are kind of …” How could I explain? Tact was not something that came easily for this redhead.

  Vlad pulled out the list, smoothed the wrinkles, and turned it so both of us could see it. “Which ones?”

  “Okay, take bloodwort, for instance,” I said. “It’ll cause a skin irritation if you touch it, and it’s semipoisonous if you ingest it.”

  “Do you have a pen?” Vlad asked.

  I took one from my purse and handed it to him. He made a note next to bloodwort.

  “Now the Dracula orchid is a strange-looking plant that prefers to grow in shadow,” I said. “It also likes cold temperatures, which probably wouldn’t make your other plants happy.”

  Vlad noted that, too.

  “You also have to be careful what species of devil’s tongue you get, because some can grow up to five feet high, a foot across, and weigh in at twenty-two pounds—not exactly houseplant material, in my opinion.”

  “Duly noted,” he said.

  “Hi, Vlad,” said a thirtysomething auburn-haired woman in a revealing sweater, giving him a “come hither” glance.

  “Hi, Shari,” Vlad said without missing a beat. He smiled at her; she grew breathless; I glared at her; she moved on; Marco nudged me.

  “Then there’s wolfsbane,” I said, ignoring Marco’s nudge, which was meant as a reminder to be nice to his patrons. “Wolfsbane gives off a highly unpleasant odor, probably not something you’d want in your house, especially if you plan to entertain.”

  Yet, given the way women were fawning over Vlad, I doubted whether they’d notice his plants, stinky or not. “On the other hand,” I said, “if you need to ward off any werewolves, wolfsbane is your go-to flora. I hear werewolves are highly sensitive to smells.”

  I waited for Vlad to chuckle—or at least to smile. Instead, he wrote it down. I glanced at Marco and gave him a nonplussed look. He merely shrugged.

  Okay, then. I’d saved the worst for last.

  “Strangleweed is a parasitic vine,” I explained. “It’s also known as devil’s guts, witches’ shoelaces, and dodder vine. It starts out as a tiny tendril with no roots or leaves, then, like a skinny green snake, starts searching for a sweet-smelling host plant. Once it finds its victim, it wraps itself around the stem, sinks its fangs in, and starts drinking the sap. Sounds like a vampire, doesn’t it?”

  Marco put down his beer with a clunk. Vlad stopped writing. Neither one chortled at my vampire reference.

  “You seem to know a lot about these plants,” Vlad said.

  “I’m a florist,” I said with a modest shrug. “It’s what I do. I also take online courses. In fact, I learned about these particular specimens in a course called Scary Plants.”

  Marco rested his arm along the back of the booth so he could face me. “Scary plants?”

  I nodded.

  Vlad appraised me for a moment, then pointed to his list. “What about the others?”

  “Mistletoe is also a parasite, but its victims are usually trees. You definitely want to avoid it. Some species can hurl their seeds up to thirty or forty feet away. The berries stick to the tree trunk—or another plant—and send out shoots that penetrate the poor victim’s innermost core, where its vital sap is sucked dry. Yet another type of vampire.” I paused to arch one eyebrow for effect. “And to think we view mistletoe as romantic.”

  Both men stared at me. Was I creeping them out?

  “But the voodoo lily and bat flower are okay,” I offered. I had to give Vlad something. “They require a bit more care than the average houseplant, but that shouldn’t be a problem for someone with a green thumb.”

  Vlad crossed off only one—mistletoe—then pushed the list toward me. “Would you order those, please? And make sure the devil’s orchid is one of the short varieties.”

  “Sure.”

  “One more thing. Would you add dandelions to that list?”

  He had to be joking this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen them offered by any of my suppliers, but hey, my dad has some in his yard. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind parting with them.”

  “How many?”

  He wasn’t joking. “I don’t know, a dozen perhaps? My mom went green this year to keep all those toxic pesticides out of the water supply, so they have to dig up the weeds by hand.”

  “Your dad wouldn’t mind if I helped myself?”

  “He’d be overjoyed. Let me know when you want to pick them and I’ll alert my parents.”

  “Terrific. Is there any way you can procure a few flats for me now?”

  “Flats? I’ll have to look into it.”

  “I appreciate that. My supply is low. And now I believe it’s time for me to tend bar.” Vlad rose and gave me a slight bow. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner. It’s been a pleasure.”

  He gave Marco a nod and left us.

  I watched him walk around behind the bar and bump knuckles with the other bartender. As though they’d been waiting for a signal, women from every corner rushed up to the counter and began clamoring for Vlad’s attention.

  “He’s a great guy,” Marco said, observing his intern at work. “One of those men you want guarding your back—or your bar.”

  “Why would he want dandelions?”

  “Why would Vlad want any of those plants, Abby? He collects unusual specimens.”

  “Two flats of dandelions isn’t a collection. It’s a crop.” I propped my chin on my fist and watched him flirt with the women. “I wonder if dandelions contain toxins. Vlad was in your outfit in Iraq, right? Did he work with toxic nerve gases or anything?”

  “No. He just likes odd plants. Believe me, you get to know what a guy is really like in those circumstances, down to the nitty-gritty.” Marco paused to take a pull of beer. “You were a little heavy-handed with those vampire references, weren’t you, considering the situation?”

  “What situation?”

  “The rumor going around about Vlad being a vampire.”

  I paused to stare at Marco, a french fry halfway to my mouth. “I didn’t hear any rumors about Vlad. You mean he was serious when he introduced himself?”

  “He wasn’t serious. He was making a joke about the rumor. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it from Jillian, or that she hasn’t stopped by to pump you for information about him.”

  That was odd. My cousin was always on top of the latest town gossip. Why hadn’t Jillian stopped by? “Seriously, Marco, I haven’t heard a thing about Vlad, but I can understand how someone might get that impr
ession of him. He has that classic movie star Count Dracula look.”

  “He’s not a vampire.”

  “I’m not saying he is, Marco. I’m sure he’s completely normal.”

  Except for wanting weeds and life-sucking vampire plants in his house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Hey, look who’s here!”

  At the sound of the familiar male voice, I glanced around to see our friend Sean Reilly, a sergeant on the New Chapel police force, and his girlfriend, Sara, a nurse at County Hospital, heading toward our booth.

  “Hey, man,” Marco said, rising to shake his hand. “Good to see you. Sara, how’s it going? You guys want to join us?”

  “As long as you’ll tell us to leave when you want to be alone,” Reilly said. They slid in opposite us and took off their coats while Marco went to get menus.

  Sergeant Sean Reilly had been a rookie cop when my dad was on the force. Reilly trained under my dad, then, as coincidences go, later took a rookie by the name of Marco Salvare, fresh out of the military, under his wing. Reilly was about forty years old, divorced, father of a young teen, and an upstanding cop. He was our go-to guy for information and had helped us out many times. He was nice-looking, too, with brown eyes, short brown hair, and a tall, sturdy build.

  Sara was his girlfriend, also divorced, also tall and browneyed, with abundant auburn hair. We’d hit it off immediately, and I had a feeling she was the one for Reilly.

  Now she leaned across the table to say quietly, “What do you think about Marco’s new bartender?” She raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Have you heard the rumors?

  Was I the only one who hadn’t?

  At that moment, Marco returned with their beers and menus. Reilly handed Sara one of the beer mugs, then picked up the other and held it aloft. “Here’s to a short separation and a speedy reunion.”

  “Hear, hear,” Sara said, as we clinked glasses.

  “Thanks,” Marco said.

  “We’re still trying to absorb the news,” I said with a wistful sigh.