Valentine’s With A Vampire (Evershift Haven #5)

Chapter 1—Declan

I NEVER PLANNED ON trading 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 always been 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 the key. 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 holding shimmering 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.

He inclines his head. A carved wooden door stands to the left, likely leading into a lounge or sitting area. “Let’s try the parlor.”

I follow them into a cozy room with a fireplace crackling on one wall. Overstuffed chairs face the flames, and a faint glow from decorative lamps reveals shelves filled with old, leather-bound books. Paintings decorate the walls, each depicting scenes that look suspiciously alive—like the brushstrokes themselves shift when not watched directly. The back of my neck tenses again, though the warmth lulls the tension in my muscles.

Crystal motions to a chair, and I sink into it, reluctantly grateful for the comfort. She sets a porcelain teacup on a small table in front of me. The tea steams, carrying an aroma of honey and chamomile. “Is that for me?”

She nods. “Yes. We brewed it the moment we sensed your arrival.”

I blink at the loaded phrasing. “Sensed my arrival?” The words sound bizarre, but it seems normal for them. I reach for the cup, inhaling the sweet steam, though I hesitate to drink. “This is quite the place you have.”

Her lips curve in a pleased smile. “Our home for a few centuries now.” She nods toward Etienne, who stands near the fireplace, arms crossed. He looks amused, probably reading the confusion in my eyes.

Centuries. That has to be a joke. They both appear to be in their early thirties, maybe. My mind conjures thoughts of a theme hotel, with maybe a year-round Halloween vibe, or a live-action role-play community. They play their roles well. A glance at the mirror above the fireplace reveals both of their reflections. That at least disproves the silly vampire idea swirling in my head. The idea that they might not cast a reflection is absurd. Yet the entire scenario is also absurd.

Etienne steps away from the fireplace. “Should we call for Throk, my dear? Mechanic,” he says to me.

Crystal inclines her head. “Yes, but Throk might be busy at ‘Mystical Motors’ or out with Suzette. We could send a message, and Declan can rest here until the morning.”

I shuffle forward in the chair, ignoring how comfortable it is. “If he’s the mechanic, I’d prefer to see him now. My van is stuck on the side of the road. I don’t want it vandalized, or...worse.”

Crystal’s eyes narrow, not with anger but with some quiet amusement. “No one will touch your van. Evershift Haven isn’t that kind of place.”

A soft knock draws my gaze to the doorway. Another figure stands there. This one has porcelain-pale skin, wide eyes, and hair pinned up in a neat bun. Her attire is a conservative black dress with a white apron at the waist. She appears hesitant, almost transparent in the flickering firelight. She looks at Etienne and Crystal, then looks at me. The swirl of the firelight catches a faint glow at the edges of her silhouette.

Crystal nods in greeting, a gentle tilt of her head. “Misty, wonderful timing.”

Misty’s voice shakes. “There’s a message from Grizelda.” Her gaze flicks to me. “She was wondering if we have a new visitor.”

Crystal smiles. “We do.” She points in my direction. “Declan Stewart.”

A slight bow from Misty. Her outline wavers, as though a gust of wind passes through her. My heart hammers. She’s too pale, with the edges of her figure nearly blending into the background. That’s a special effect I can’t easily explain. My mind grapples with illusions I’ve seen in big city attractions, but never something this convincing in a random small town.

Misty’s voice stays soft. “Should I let Grizelda know he’s safe?”

Crystal nods. “Please do.”

Misty moves backward through the doorway, literally. She doesn’t turn around. Her entire body drifts like a cloud. The moment she’s gone, a subtle tingle ripples across my arms. My rational mind flails for an explanation. The quiet in the parlor bears down, broken only by the crackle of logs in the fireplace.

I place the teacup down, ignoring the swirl of honey-colored liquid. “That woman looked...transparent.”

Etienne’s gaze flicks to the spot where she vanished. His tone is calm. “Misty Caldwell is our housekeeper. She’s quite friendly, though she startles visitors.”

My breathing catches in my throat. “Is she wearing some kind of advanced costume?”

Crystal’s smile grows sympathetic. “She’s a ghost.” Her posture doesn’t suggest any hint of a joke. There’s genuine sincerity in her voice.

A thousand retorts crowd my brain. This entire situation has to be an elaborate hoax. My grandmother’s mention of quirky Montana towns never included phantasms. Though a memory stirs of childhood bedtime stories—Bethany used to speak of a hidden place where magic thrived. I always assumed those were old folk tales or creative nonsense to amuse me.

I swallow the impulse to argue. “I’d like to call a tow truck, or any mechanic you have.”

Etienne moves to a writing desk near the window. His fingertips trace the edge of a small phone cradle that looks oddly antique. The device upon it resembles an old rotary phone, polished to a high shine, but with no dial. He runs a hand across it, then glances my way. “Throk doesn’t always answer quickly. Shall I attempt to ring him?”

I stand. “Yes.”

Etienne makes a call, looking surprised before speaking. “Hello, Throk. I didn’t know if you’d answer. We have a situation...” He quickly explains my arrival to the mechanic before handing me the phone.

“This is Declan Stewart. I’m a...traveler, and my van broke down near your town. They said you’re the mechanic.”

He sighs. “Sorry, sir. Not the best timing. I’m in the middle of an engine enchantment. I can swing by in the morning.”

I clear my throat. “I’d like it sooner if possible.”

His tone remains even. “Won’t do you any good tonight, friend. That van of yours needs more than a jump, and my fiancée is holding dinner for me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Click . The line goes dead. I set it back, meeting the calm, knowing stares of Crystal and Etienne. A swirl of frustration rises in my chest. “Guess I’m stuck until morning.”

She folds her hands in front of her. “We have a lovely vacant room. You’re welcome to stay.”

The rational side of me would normally refuse. This entire place sets my nerves on edge. Something about them already knowing me, about ghosts drifting through doorways, about a phone that’s decades out of date but somehow works... None of it computes. Except there’s nowhere else to go, and a bed would beat sleeping in the van.

I give them a short nod. “I can pay in cash or card.”

Etienne waves a dismissive hand. “We’ll settle accounts later.”

Crystal glides toward the door. “Follow me. I’ll show you upstairs.”

I follow, looking around as we walk. The inn’s decor remains lavish and antique, yet somehow timeless, with arching hallways and paneling that gleams under ornate sconces. A few doors pass by on either side, each bearing a small plaque with swirling text. One door stands half-open, revealing a cozy reading nook that stretches outward in defiance of the mansion’s external dimensions. Another corridor holds paintings of moonlit landscapes.

Crystal stops at a large, intricately carved door with silver filigree around the handle. She gestures toward it. “This is the Luna Suite. You’ll rest well here.”

I brace a palm against the wood, expecting the door to be locked, but it swings open with a quiet click. The room beyond glows with subtle lamplight. A large canopied bed draped in velvet commands the space.

Crystal remains at the threshold, watching me as if checking my reaction. “If you need anything, ring the silver bell on the nightstand. We’ll hear it. Sleep well, Declan.”

She disappears down the corridor, leaving me alone in this surreal haven. I approach the bed, pressing a hand to the canopy’s soft material. The swirl of color beneath my fingers radiates a gentle warmth. A large window on the far wall reveals the street below. Lanterns illuminate the cobblestone, and from here, the entire town looks like a scene out of a fairy tale. Mist drifts at the far edges, where the road presumably leads back to the highway, though I didn’t see any sign of that highway while walking.

I cross the room and test the door, verifying it locks from the inside. A quiet click confirms it. The latch is solid. I press my back against it, seeking a flimsy sense of security. The bed offers an enticing invitation to rest. Sleep might be the best option if I’m to figure this out tomorrow. A single lamp rests on the nightstand. The silver bell glints, its tiny handle shaped like a crescent moon.

I get into bed and am immediately comfortable. It’s like the bed adjusts to my preferences and shape. I sigh, and my eyes close almost immediately. The bed is too comfortable.

No sense fighting it. Morning is soon enough to track down this Throk, get the van fixed, and leave. No reason to worry about creatures of the night or living illusions, since none of this is real...right?