“Back when I was a freshly turned vampire, there were a lot more monsters in the world. There’s a good chance that there are some legitimate artifacts and not just old wood crosses and stakes. Ah, Bailey.” Mr. Thurston Bailey was Antun’s curator friend, and while he did know we were joining Antun, he didn’t seem too happy about it.

  “Antun, you know I’m always happy to take you to the basement vaults, but can you really vouch for these two?”

  Antun put a hand to his chest, his mouth open aghast. “You wound me, Bailey! Their characters are as impeccable as my own.”

  There was another look from Bailey at each of us before he swept his arm out in subservience.

  “After you then.”

  We all went into the elevator and Bailey used his badge and a security code to get us moving down to the basement storage and preservation levels. Antun filled the silence with a tale of his most recent exploits as a social media influencer.

  Before long, we had arrived at the appropriate basement level. We walked down a short hall to a room with tables, the items carefully laid out for preservation and research under bright fluorescents.

  “Please refrain from taking any photos or touching any of the items. Not only are they sensitive, but none of you are supposed to be down here. I’m really sticking my neck out on this one, Antun.”

  We all nodded in solemn agreement.

  We separated, looking at various items and asking Bailey questions from time to time.

  “Hey Mr. Bailey, what’s with the wooden sword?” Michael asked.

  The entire thing seemed to be made from one solid piece, even the blade. Golden amber and reddish-brown tree ring lines ran the length of the blade. A leather wrap around the handle was the only thing not wooden about it.

  “Ah, that sword is made from yew wood. In legend, vampires and other wicked creatures feared the poison of the yew, being one of the few things that could defeat such beasts. The crafter’s and owner’s names have been lost to history, but it’s said that swords like this one could even kill a god with the poison within.”

  Bailey walked over to the sword, putting white gloves on his hands. He carefully lifted it by the flat of the blade and the handle, holding it parallel to the table.

  “It’s common knowledge that once yew has been treated it loses its poisonous qualities. I, however, wear these gloves to preserve the sword and not transfer the oils from my hands and fingers to it. Also,” he leaned in as if telling a secret. “Also, I do it out of respect for the item. Whether or not this sword killed a god, monsters feared it, so there is reason to fear the sword in my mind.”

  I nodded, wanting to somehow simultaneously pick up the sword and run away from it, frozen with that decision paralysis.

  Mr. Bailey set down the sword, looking at our friend. “Antun?”

  Antun had gone still in front of an old leather-bound book, the pages frayed at the edges.

  “Ah! That is believed to be a journal of a vampire. However, it is encoded and no one has bothered to translate it.”

  Antun’s hands lifted but he stopped himself, putting his hands in his pockets. He loosened his stance and asked, “Bailey, my good man, can we see it open? Or do you think it would release some curse or other?”

  “Har har,” Bailey dryly replied, his face bored. “No, I don’t believe it would release a curse. However, the pages are quite possibly fragile.” Looking at a note next to it, he continued, “It looks like this was found in a tomb in Kosovo…”

  He went on but hearing it was from Kosovo and seeing Antun’s reaction, the wheels of my mind started whirring.

  Antun knows that book, he’s seen it before. Why is it important?

  “I know you said no pictures, Bailey, but may I please take a photo of this journal? I can make it worth your while.” Antun winked at Bailey and gave a seductive smile.

  Is Antun… flirting now?

  I didn’t know how others would feel in this situation, but I was extremely uncomfortable.

  Bailey sputtered and blushed.

  “Antun, you know you’re not even supposed to be here. Please don’t make me break any more rules.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Michael and I, insinuating that we were part of the problem.

  Antun walked up to Bailey.

  “You know you like this. I can…”

  He leaned in to whisper to Bailey. Whatever he said, it made the curator blush even deeper and cough. Antun backed away a step.

  “What do you say?”

  A very red Bailey managed to get out, “Fine, photos are fine.” He looked at Antun again, a hungry look in his eye.

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  Who is the vampire here anyway, sheesh. I was unsettled, whether more by Antun’s antics or Bailey’s blush I didn’t know.

  Michael used his phone to take a couple of photos of the journal and sent them to Antun.

  Antun looked at them, saying, “Oh, thank you Michael! Now Bailey, why don’t we get Michael and Drew back upstairs so that we… can continue our business.”

  Bailey’s blush remained and he nodded in agreement.

  To say that it was the most awkward elevator ride I’ve ever taken would be an understatement; it was obvious that Antun had offered some kind of favor, whether it was sexual or not I have no clue and I don’t want to know.

  But Bailey’s blush remained the entire ride up and Antun kept giving him looks through hooded eyes.

  Michael and I nearly burst through the doors as they opened, trying to get away from them as quickly as possible.

  ? ?? ?

  I sat, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open, on Antun’s couch.

  Michael stared.

  I swallowed, my mouth feeling too dry. “Antun, please tell me that’s not the journal from the museum.”

  The dark, worn cover with yellowed pages sat on Antun’s coffee table.

  “Being 500 years old has its advantages.” Antun smiled as if nothing at all were wrong.

  “Did you convince Bailey to let you borrow it?” Michael’s eyes bounced from Antun to the journal, as mortified as me.

  “Oh, no.” Antun said, “Sure, I could’ve just hypnotized him and taken the book, but then he’d be in trouble and lose his job. So I outsourced it. One of my lovely friends just so happens to be a fairly good thief.”

  What?!

  “You stole the journal?!” Michael and I nearly yelled together.

  Antun waved his hand. “Oh, hush you two. You’re acting as if I haven’t just gotten us a massive help in your research. Besides, I didn’t steal it.” He smiled, “My friend Agatha did.”

  Michael’s hand ran through his hair, “Agatha, that’s a gran’s name! What is she, eighty? And how is a random journal going to help us?”

  Forget the journal, it was stolen! Wasn’t that the bigger problem? I was horrified; he was treating it like he was borrowing a cup of sugar from the neighbor. But I wasn’t doing anything to stop him either.

  Antun’s eyes glittered with an untold secret.

  “Ah, but it’s not random.” He patted the book gently. “This, my friends, was Davor’s journal.”

  “Davor. As in the vampire who turned you? As in your mentor? That Davor?”

  How on earth could we be so lucky, to find a journal from an ancient vampire with who-knows-how-many years of knowledge. As nervous as I was to be in a room with a stolen item, I was also excited to see just what this Davor wrote.

  “But the journal is encoded,” I reminded them both, “Bailey told us as much. Do you know some kind of code expert?”

  Antun gave a single, proud nod. “My bridge partner. Rion loves puzzles.”

  I stared at him.

  What’s with the connections? Just who is this guy?

  But instead of asking about that I dumbly asked, “You play bridge? As in that game grandmas play in nursing homes?”

  “Don’t diss,” he defended, glaring at me. “I’m older than any of the geezers in any nursing home. Sometimes I just want to hang out with someone closer to my age. I get to reminisce about times long past, and they just think that they get to talk my ear off while enjoying cards. Win-win in my eyes.”

  I didn’t know what to think about that. I supposed it made sense that he’d want to talk to older people from time to time, especially with how much had changed in the last 500 years. All that said, he still had a very stolen item in his possession, as important as it might prove to be.

  “So you’re going to ask your bridge partner to help decode it? But it’s not even based on modern English. It’s based on whatever languages were spoken back then in Kosovo.”

  Antun thought for a moment. “Albanian was what he spoke, or sometimes Serbian if he was trying to be tricky. At least that would be my guess.”

  “... Okay, but that only helps if your friend knows how to read in Albanian or Serbian.”

  A pleased smile was his answer.

  “... You’re seriously telling me that your bridge partner knows those languages?”

  “What can I say, it's a small world after all. My bridge partner hails from my homeland, came over as a child with his family during World War II and has been in the States since then.”

  “Huh,” was my only response to that, too stunned to say anything else. I supposed that took care of that problem.

  “Now,” Antun rubbed his hands together, almost gleefully, “Let us take a look at that monstrosity, shall we?”

  Break-ins, bridge, what was going to be next, he’s an undercover spy or something?

  He donned a pair of white gloves like those Bailey had worn before, careful to not transfer any oils to the outside of them.

  “I haven’t seen this thing in centuries, not since before Davor died in the late 1500s. As mentor and student, we had eventually drifted apart, mostly due to his quite literally bloodthirsty ideas.”

  He gently lifted the cover, mindful of the fragile binding. The old leather creaked as the top was gently set down.

  “I’m glad someone at least took the time to keep the book preserved, even if no one ever bothered to try to decode it before.”

  Yellowed pages were revealed, almost vellum-like in transparency in some places, with that very old, almost rotting paper smell wafting off it. I wouldn’t have been able to read it anyway regardless of the encryption; the letters were written in such a flowy script that I wouldn’t be able to recognize any words anyway. I couldn’t believe I was sitting right beside something that was written before Shakespeare.

  A blot of something was on the paper. Ink? Or was it blood? My own mood darkened at the thought.

  “How did your thief friend know what old book to steal?” Michael asked. “This definitely wasn’t the only tome down there.”

  “That’s what those lovely pictures were for, dear Michael, for identification.” Antun nudged Michael with an elbow. “You took such good ones, she had absolutely no problem finding it using it.”

  “Um, thank you?” Michael glanced side to side, confused by the sort of compliment.

  Antun sighed with what I thought was reminiscence until he said, “Thank God that monster is dead. He’s still giving me problems in death. I suppose turning me and “training” me wasn’t enough.”

  He gently turned the pages one by one, taking careful photos of each page with a very expensive looking camera that was strapped around his neck. Those photos would be enlarged and then printed for Antun’s bridge buddy to look over, he explained.

  “Rion is going to go nuts with this.” Antun’s smile was feline behind the camera.

  “What’re you going to tell him? Are you going to come right out and say ‘Hey, this is from a 500-year-old journal, wanna take a crack?’” I was a bit disbelieving that even he would be that blunt.

  Antun shrugged, “More or less. Who’s he going to tell, we’re replacing bridge partners all the time.” He continued with the picture taking, carefully turning the pages and using a bright flash to illuminate them.

  “And if he starts going on about vampires and starts to suspect you?” Michael offered.

  “Similar principle; he’s in his eighties. He’s more likely to die than finish this, honestly.” A flicker of sorrow washed over his face, quickly replaced with a practiced smile. “That just means I better hurry my ass up so I get to him before Lady Death does.”

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