Page 1 of Valentine's With A Vampire

Chapter 1—Declan

I NEVER PLANNED ONtrading a rifle for roses. My life once revolved around missions, intel, and the steady adrenaline that came with the job. Now I’m wrist-deep in floral foam every day, trimming stems and babying gerbera daisies like they’re delicate porcelain. My grandmother always said the secret to a great bouquet is intention. If a florist’s mind wanders, the flowers know. The instructions made me roll my eyes when I first inherited her business, but I do it anyway.

It's led to me heading up the successful florist business I’ve inherited since Gran retired, which is why I’m out on this road, delivering the last of my orders hopefully before the end of the day. The old delivery van has me nervous though. It squeaks whenever I push the accelerator, being a relic from a simpler time. My grandmother’s name is still painted on the side, though most of the letters have peeled away. An echo of “Bethany’s Blooms” remains, streaked from too many runs through cheap car washes.

My life these days involves early mornings, soil under my fingernails, and the occasional scowl from a bridezilla, who demands impossibly blue hydrangeas in the dead of winter. It’s worlds away from my old special forces gig. Sometimes, I catch myself checking blind spots and scoping escape routes out of pure habit. Nothing says “welcome to the wedding consultation” like a man measuring distances to the nearest exit.

My phone chirps with the robotic voice of the GPS. It’s an app I rely on religiously because my sense of direction has alwaysbeen questionable without a compass. The mechanical tone orders me to make a left onto a highway exit that doesn’t seem to exist. This place is pure farmland on one side and dense forest on the other. The evening sky glows with the last rays of sunlight, painting the horizon in gold and dusky purple. A sign flickers on the phone screen: “Route Recalculating.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter. The clunky voice tries again, insisting on a turn at some hidden road. My grip tightens on the wheel. I slow down, gaze darting over the darkening stretch, searching for a turnoff. Nothing. My grandmother always told me I should trust my instincts. Mine are screaming that I’m missing something. A thick mist clings to the road ahead, swirling in the headlights.

One more attempt to reset the GPS does nothing. The map flickers, glitching from farmland to blank white. It cycles back, then goes dead. My phone loses all signal. The screen freezes, then shuts off completely. The charger isn’t doing a thing to revive it. I mutter a sharp curse and slow to a crawl, scanning the roadside. Heading back to the main highway is the logical plan. That’s what I’d do in any normal situation, except there’s a curious shimmer in the air and a faint glimmer drifting right across the road.

The van lurches forward, and the shimmer expands around me like a translucent curtain of light, making me tingle from head to toe. The engine coughs. I press the brake, but the pedal feels stiff. There’s a crackle over the radio. The song that was playing fizzles out into static. A jolt travels through the vehicle’s frame, and my headlights blink. The engine shudders, then quits.

I let the van coast to the shoulder, though I’m not even sure if this road has one. Gravel crunches under the tires, and the vehicle glides to a silent stop. No hiss and no final roar. I turn thekey. The engine clicks once, then nothing. My breath comes out in a frustrated huff.

A faint swirl of fog drifts over the windshield. My phone remains unresponsive. The only illumination comes from a dying interior dome light, flickering and threatening to vanish any second. The entire situation is a perfect recipe for frustration, yet something about the air smells...sweet. It’s like dew-kissed blossoms, warm sugar, and a hint of pine. My mind tries to process how the middle of nowhere can carry that aroma, but I have bigger concerns.

I open the door, stepping into the crisp air. The road beneath my boots feels oddly smooth, unlike asphalt. My headlights reflect on a surface that gleams like stone. A sign looms in the distance with letters carved into a wooden arch. The swirling script is too far to read clearly, but it beckons with a faint glow. The only option is to walk.

I grab my jacket, also a relic of my old life—lots of pockets, worn black canvas, and comforting. My breath forms wisps in the chilly air. The forest on either side rustles, though there’s no detectable breeze. The hair on my neck prickles. I zip my jacket and move toward that glowing sign.

The words become clearer with each step. “Welcome to Evershift Haven.” Lanterns line the entrance, flickering with soft, golden light. The road itself transitions from gravel to cobblestone. Tall trees surround me, branches arching overhead like cathedral ceilings. Leaves drift down in slow spirals, each shaped like a tiny star. Part of me suspects I’ve walked onto some film set. Another part warns me that something genuinely strange is happening. A soldier’s intuition is usually reliable. That intuition is nudging me to keep my guard up.

Cobblestones lead into a small clearing, then open into a charming town square. The scene glows under lampposts that don’t look electric—more like wrought iron rods holdingshimmering orbs. Buildings line the street with old-world architecture, their storefronts painted in whimsical colors. A pastel café with a sign reading “The Enchanted Espresso,” a shop called “Mystic Melodies,” and something across the way labeled “Moonlit Inn.” Everything is adorned in pink, frilly things and hearts. It looks like Valentine’s Day threw up in the main square.

A figure appears near a lamppost. It’s a man with pale skin and slicked back black hair. His posture is impossibly poised. An elegant woman with auburn hair and violet eyes that seem to catch the glow of the lamplight stands beside him. Both wear stylish outfits reminiscent of classic gothic romance covers, all tailored suits and flowing gowns.

Their expressions brighten when they see me, as though they’ve been expecting my arrival. The woman lifts her hand in greeting. There’s a lilt to her voice. “Declan Stewart, right?”

My heart beats a little faster. They know my name. I wonder if my grandmother ever mentioned me to folks out in Montana. She’s from this area originally, but that doesn’t explain a hidden town. My posture stiffens. “Yeah...that’s me, and you are?”

The man steps closer. The top of his collar is buttoned, revealing no skin at the throat. His voice is smooth and cultured. “Etienne St. John. This is my wife, Crystal. We run the ‘Moonlit Inn.’” He regards me with a curious tilt of his head. “Welcome to Evershift Haven.”

I automatically reach for the sidearm in a holster I no longer wear, instinctively searching for reassurance. This entire encounter reeks of something orchestrated.

Crystal lifts one eyebrow. “Is your van giving you trouble?”

I fight the urge to retreat. “Died, and I couldn’t get it to start again. GPS went haywire, and the phone died too. Sorry, but how do you know my name?”

She grins as though that question amuses her. Is that a hint of...fang? “We always know the names of our guests.”

I tense but not from fear. The place radiates a strange warmth that conflicts with my sense of caution. “I’m not exactly a guest. I only wandered in because I didn’t see another option.”

Etienne’s gaze settles on me in a way that suggests he’s sizing me up. He dips his head toward the inn. “You look cold. We can discuss everything by the fire, if you’d like? Our parlor is cozy, and you must have had a long drive.”

It’s tempting, especially now that the chill seeps through my jacket. My boots feel heavy from the walk. The thought of sleep briefly enters my mind, but there’s no chance I’m letting down my guard. “If there’s a phone I can use, I’d appreciate it. Then I’ll see about towing my van to the closest shop.”

Crystal’s eyes gleam faintly red—surely a subtle trick of the lamplight. She steps aside, gesturing for me to follow. “We can arrange all of that. You’re exactly where you need to be.”

The certainty in her tone carries me forward out of a lack of better options. The inn looms ahead, a Victorian-style mansion with ornate spires, stained-glass windows, and a wooden sign swinging gently in the night breeze. “Moonlit Inn” glows with letters carved in swirling script.

Crystal leads me through the threshold, and the door creaks with satisfying drama. Warmth envelops me. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, each crystal droplet shimmering in a different color, painting dancing rainbows on the walls. The foyer opens onto a grand staircase that curves up into the shadows. A plush rug muffles my steps.

Etienne places a hand on a round table near the center of the foyer. He looks my way, expression calm. “Relax. We’ll handle everything.”

I rub my hands together, more to steady my nerves than for warmth. “Would appreciate a phone, or even a place to charge mine. I really need to let people know I’m...detained.” Gran might be worried.

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