VU The Last Leprechaun - Book Two of the Vampire University Series Read online

  VU

  The Last Leprechaun

  Book Two in the

  Vampire University Series

  VJ Erickson

  Copyright © 2012

  All Rights Reserved

  CHAPTER ONE

  The September weather was punishing. After inflicting record summer heat on New York, nature saw fit to unleash an onslaught of torrential rain and harsh winds to follow it. Even the break from the harsh heat carried a feeling of divine retribution.

  The local inhabitants of Manhattan had already sought the shelter of their homes, or at least the nearest subway station, but there were still a number of hapless tourists that found themselves trapped in the open air of Central Park. Some huddled under bridges and hugged trees, while most fled in whatever direction they thought might take them back to the shelter of civilization.

  Wrong way, Eric Evans thought smugly, as he watched a young couple screaming dramatically as they crouch-ran towards the far end of the park, holding a damp and clingy copy of the The New York Post over their heads in a futile attempt at cover. Even at a fleeing pace, crossing the length of the park could take hours, and Eric was amused at the clueless desperation of these strangers. Certainly they would be better off if they just stopped for a moment to figure out where to go, but as the rain increased its intensity, anyone not under cover seemed to become increasingly less rational. Imagine if these people had to deal with a real crisis, he thought.

  Eric had found shelter under the support of a bridge. He avoided the crowded area on drier footing and instead opted to take his shoes off and wade into the flooded side of the bank. He was wearing shorts, as was anyone who had been outdoors in the past week.

  Because he had the good sense to sacrifice his bare feet to the cold water, he spared the rest of him, and he enjoyed both the comfort of shelter while keeping some distance from the huddled crowds that vied for the few spots of land that were dry both above and beneath.

  He only wished he could sit down. With nothing to do during the day and not much money to do it with, he had taken to casually strolling the city while taking in the sights, or at least the free ones. It was a pleasant enough way to pass the time–there was no shortage of interesting people to look at if nothing else–but it resulted in sore legs and aching feet.

  He had grown accustomed to his inherent healing ability as a vampire in the few months that he was one, and now that he was human again he had to relearn his limits. Before, he could walk for days, as his blood would quickly soothe the pain of strained and damaged muscles. Now he just had to grin and bear it. He missed being a vampire.

  Now he had to make do the human way, which involved a lot more effort than he had recalled. Then again, he had never been homeless before. His time as a vampire had given him the confidence that any situation could be overcome with the force of his will, but he had lost touch with how flimsy his will was as a mortal.

  The storm, at least, had the effect of clarifying his problems. There were many, of course: where to sleep, what to eat, how to stave off the endless hours of boredom. But for now all he needed to concern himself with was how to keep from getting drenched

  While others seemed to panic in a crisis, Eric found that it made things very simple. The crisis was imminent, and the solution had a crystal clarity: stay dry. Food, water, clothing, rest... they all could wait. For now he just had to stay dry.

  You know, if I had realized you had aspirations to be a swamp rat, I would have withheld my commendations on your work well done until I had gathered further evidence.

  The voice came from seemingly nowhere. Certainly it couldn't have been anyone nearby. The clamorous rain would drown out all but a shout, but this voice was at a conversational tone and sounded nearby. Eric recognized it immediately. He had last heard it at the dock at Eden Island, but now as then, there was no evidence of the person to whom it belonged.

  You did have accommodations, did you not? I know we do not provide the palatial personal spaces to which you're accustomed to in your suburbia back west, but surely the dormitories had walls and roofs.

  Eric was certain he had recognized the voice correctly. That was the voice of Alistair Dean, dean of the freshman class at VanCamp University. He was also certain that it could not possibly be, for there had been no sign of him, glamour or otherwise.

  While as a vampire, Eric had a special gift for seeing through illusions, even as a human he still remembered how it was done and was able to identify vampires and other undead with some amount of concentration. Anyone could see through a glamour if they knew what they were looking for–it was not a power reserved specifically for vampires after all–and he especially knew what to look for.

  You're ignoring me.

  The voice was clearly speaking to him, but Eric couldn't make out the source. It was almost as if it were coming from inside his own mind. That didn't make sense to him, however, as it didn't flow through his mind in the jumble of images and sounds that normally made up his regular thoughts. These were clearly articulated sentences. And they included words that Eric would never think to use. Palatial? It sincerely sounded as if someone was speaking inside his head, and that talkative someone was not himself.

  Perhaps this was a side effect of turning human, Eric thought. Perhaps he was losing his mind. Perhaps he had taken on multiple personalities or was hearing voices. Maybe his conscience was punishing him. His conscience was certainly more articulate than he was, at least. Maybe it could teach him a few things.

  Or maybe you're too stupid to hear me? You college freshman do seem to be growing dimmer each year.

  "I'm not in college," Eric muttered to himself.

  Ah, so you can hear me. You're just indulging your adolescent indolence.

  Eric did not respond to this. He was not going to give legitimacy to his self-delusions. He was probably just delirious from all the life changes and was creating this voice in his head. Though he didn't know what indolence meant. How did the voice in his head know words that he didn't? He must have heard it somewhere and just kept it in his subconscious, he told himself.

  No snappy response? You seemed to be filled to the brim with snappy comebacks when you had fangs. Seems you've been defanged in more ways than one.

  Eric was starting to get annoyed. If he was going to have hysterical conversations with himself, couldn't they be uplifting? Why did the voice in his head have to be a heckler?

  Ah well. At least I'm still here. And such a spry young thing. You must be, what? Sixteen? Oh wait, no, that's too young for college isn't it? Eighteen, I bet. Actually something tells me you were the type to be held back a grade. I'm going to guess you graduated high school late. Nineteen then.

  Eric ignored the voice and concentrated on the steady drumming of the rain.

  Twenty? Twenty-one? Just stop me when I'm getting warm. Twenty-two? Twenty-three? Oh dear. How many years did you have to repeat?

  "Just shut up. Go away," Eric hissed under his breath.

  Not that anyone could hear him over the storm, but he still felt self-conscious talking to himself.

  The voice did not respond immediately, and the storm began to wane. The incessant pelting of the rain subsided into a rhythmic pitter-patter, and Eric moved from his position as soon as it lightened up. He was still getting wet, so he clung to the outskirts of the path closer to the tree line. He kept moving, though, as if that voice under the bridge was one he could leave where he found it.

  It seemed to work for the time being, as he did not hear it again. He was grateful to not have to hear the internal heck
ling from a voice in his head that knew more words than he did but less about himself as a person. Eric was an eighteen year-old college freshman. And he never graduated from high school.

  ***

  As the storm rolled out to sea, the rain was beginning to pick up at VanCamp University just as it subsided in Manhattan. Taylor had questioned whether the downpour made a trip outside worth the dining hall food that waited for them, even if it was just across the street. Hannah had insisted that a little dampness was invigorating or something equally vacuously optimistic, and as often seemed to be the case, Taylor found herself following along for lack of a good excuse.

  After a frantic dash across the street and having their clothing clinging to every inch of their skin, Taylor had her excuse a little too late. She crossed her arms across her chest self-consciously. Hannah didn't seem to be too concerned, and Taylor noted that there was some benefit to Hannah's hopelessly outdated layered look. There wasn't much danger of immodesty when you layered everything in argyle, she thought, noting that Hannah wore what appeared to be a men's sweater vest. Completely inappropriate in nearly every way–out of season, out of gender, and out of this decade–but Hannah had the last laugh in a downpour. At least she didn't have to cross her arms to avoid looking like she had been in a wet t-shirt contest.

  "C'mon, hon," said Hannah, not appearing to notice Taylor's discomfort. "You're not going to get any drier huddled in the doorway. Let's get you something warm to eat."

  "I, uh... I'm just going to get something on the way out I think. I'm, uh... a little damp to be roaming around," Taylor answered.

  "I fail to see how sitting down is going to help, but suit yourself," Hannah said and then skipped off to get some food.

  Hannah seemed to alternate between thoroughly brilliant and completely clueless, and often somehow pulled off both simultaneously. Mostly though, Hannah didn't seem to care much about what people thought of her and didn't appear to notice that anyone else might either.

  Taylor hoped to learn from Hannah how to loosen up a little, but in this case, she felt like modesty was completely appropriate. She found a seat in the corner and crouched, resting her chin on the table so that she could air out a little but still stay covered.

  "This seat taken?"

  Taylor jolted up at the sound of the voice. It was Tom, the resident advisor from the boy's dorm that helped save her life just a few days ago. She normally felt at ease around him; he had an easy approachable personality and his perpetually just-woke up appearance made him even less intimidating, but her skin-tight cling-wear caused her to shrink down into her seat.

  Tom didn't seem to notice, however, and sat down despite Taylor forgetting to respond to his question.

  "Are you okay?" Tom asked.

  "Okay? Yeah, sure, everything's fine," Taylor replied.

  "You just look like you're trying to slowly sneak away from me under the table, that's all."

  "Oh, ha-ha," Taylor fake laughed. "I'm just a little... damp."

  "Oh, I get it," Tom said as his eyes widened a little. "Here, take this."

  He stood up and began to peel off his t-shirt.

  "You don't have to..." Taylor began as Tom began to disrobe in front of her, but found her voice caught in her throat as she caught a view of his stomach.

  It was, quite simply, the most muscularly-defined stomach she had seen in person. Tom was lean, so she wouldn't have guessed, but he was definitely what one would call ripped. Taylor didn't mind looking, but she was glad that he pulled down a white tank top that had caught in the shirt and covered himself again. It would have been incredibly difficult to concentrate otherwise.

  He handed the t-shirt to her, and she mumbled a thank you. She turned around in her seat and slid it on. It had been baggy on him, so she was practically swimming in it. It was warm and smelled like a clean shower. She was happy to be wearing it.

  "I wouldn't normally sit at the breakfast table in my undershirt," said Tom. "It's tacky as all hell, but when it comes to my t-shirt, I think you had the greater need!"

  "Thanks, Tom. Looks like you've come to the rescue again," said Taylor.

  Tom seemed prepared to brush off the compliment, but they were interrupted when Hannah joined them with a tray loaded with what looked like enough food for several people.

  "I thought you might change your mind, Taylor," she said, sliding her tray of food between them. "Help yourself."

  "Thanks. You're right, actually," Taylor said as she grabbed a banana.

  "Tom! It's nice to see you, dear. Though you could put some clothes on. Where is your shirt?"

  Tom pointed at Taylor.

  "Taylor! What on earth are you doing undressing him at breakfast!"

  "Hannah!" Taylor said disapprovingly. "He saw that I was wet, so he offered up his shirt. Like a gentleman."

  "Yes ma'am," added Tom. "Nothing untoward here but a little old-fashioned chivalry."

  "Well, that's why I offered to let her borrow one of my sweaters," said Hannah.

  "Hannah, it may be raining, but it's still a gazillion degrees outside. I am not layering."

  "And yet, here you are. Layering. And causing this poor boy to eat half-naked," said Hannah.

  "He's not half anything, Hannah. He's wearing a tank top and pants. He's plenty clothed."

  "And I don't mind," said Tom. "I can just run back upstairs after breakfast and throw something else on."

  "Well that's very kind of you. I thank you on Taylor's behalf," said Hannah.

  "I already thanked him, Hannah. Really. It's not a big deal."

  Tom just laughed at them. He didn't seem to mind giving up his shirt at all and, if anything, he was amused at the harmless bickering between the two girls. He munched on his food with a contented look on his face, as he often did.

  "Where do you find the time to work out?" Hannah said, poking at Tom's shoulders. "I never see you in anything but pajamas."

  "Hannah!" said Taylor, sounding exasperated.

  "Work out? Oh... you know, here and there... and stuff," he replied, looking suddenly self-conscious.

  "You cheat, don't you?" asked Hannah.

  "I, uh... well, you know. If you have a little flexibility in your appearance, might as well put your best foot forward, right?"

  "That's what I say when I'm getting dressed in the morning," Hannah said, pulling at the bottom of her sweater vest to straighten it out. "I don't use glamours to give myself a more flattering shape."

  "Neither do I. This is all real Irish-American lean beef," he said flexing his muscles playfully.

  "I think 'real' is debatable," Hannah said and then turned her attention back to her breakfast.

  It took Taylor a minute to catch on–she was still adjusting to the discoveries from her first week at VanCamp–but she realized they were referring to Tom's ability to shape-shift. Hannah seemed to frown upon it, but Taylor didn't see the harm in using your natural talents to give yourself a little aesthetic edge.

  If she could shape-shift, she wasn't sure that she wouldn't shift a few pounds around a little. Not that she felt overly self-conscious about her appearance, but who couldn't use a bit of a self-confidence boost? A little rearranging, is all. Besides, in Tom's case, Tom wasn't the only one benefiting. They all got to enjoy the view.

  "Yeah, well, more real than those sparkly brown eyes you have there," he countered.

  "These 'sparkly brown eyes' are just following the rules. You know, the ones that are in place for everyone's safety?"

  "I wouldn't know. People like me, you know, uh... resident advisors," Tom said, looking around to see who might be listening, "don't get a rule book."

  "Everyone has rules," Hannah insisted. "You're just... a little out of touch with yours, is all."

  "I think I get by just fine following your rules. They adapt pretty much to my situation. You know, except for the last two."

  "Last two?" Taylor asked. "You've mentioned rules before, Hannah. What are these rules?"

&nbsp
; "The rules," said Hannah, lowering her voice, "are the Code of the Forsaken. Every one of the accursed, vampire or otherwise, must follow them. The guardians are here to ensure that."

  "So shouldn't you have told me what they are?"

  "They aren't entirely relevant to your situation, Taylor."

  "So what are they? They apparently apply to Tom. Why not me?"

  "Well, they sort of apply. Okay fine. There are only four rules. First: Do not kill. Second: Do not reveal the curse. Third: Do not share the curse. Fourth: Do not eat where you sleep. The fourth rule is more of a boundary to enforce the first three. Feeding on your neighbors has a way of... complicating things."

  "I'll bet," said Taylor.

  "But when eating where you sleep just involves sneaking potato chips into bed, then it's totally okay!" said Tom.

  "Right," said Hannah. "Like I said, they're not entirely relevant to your situation. Except for the first two, I guess, but I don't think you needed a rulebook for that."

  "I guess not," said Taylor, trying not to think about her encounter with the dean, the outcome of which most certainly seemed to break the two most relevant rules.

  She did not like to think of herself as a killer. She was acting out of self-defense after all and, most importantly, had no idea that her blood was going to cause anyone harm. Up to that point she had been led to believe that her blood had a kind of restorative effect. She didn't know that it would bring the dean to an untimely end by amplifying his stone-shifting power beyond his control.

  "So serious, you two," said Tom.

  "How can you not be?" asked Hannah. "We have very serious problems on our hands here."

  "You underestimate me, Hannah. I would not be sitting here today if I didn't take things seriously."

  "Which is why you have an implausible six-pack, right?"

  "How is this implausible? I'm in the prime of my life," Tom said, patting his stomach. "Serious does not have to mean invisible. I mean, just look at your clothes."

  "What about my clothes?" she replied, inspecting her sweater vest. "Just because I'm not running around in see-through clothes like Taylor..."