That was the second time that week someone had told Scott that he looked emo. He hated that. He swore that if he heard the word “emo” one more time, he was going to drain someone.
Scott just tried to smile as pleasantly as possible. After the announcements were read—“Baby shower for Cynthia Wisenewski in the upper room, three o’clock sharp. Parents, don’t forget to sign your kids up for the youth Christmas choir. Clothing drive for the homeless next week. And potluck next week has been canceled. Means you can’t have any of Mrs. Parker’s famous chicken goulash! Sorry!”—the congregation stood to be led in song by the small but fairly talented praise band. Scott did not stand, and he did not join in the singing, not that he ever did before. He hated his singing voice, and truth be told, he could not carry a tune or sing in key, so he never sang along, opting instead to listen to others and be moved by what he heard from them. He used to appreciate the songs of praise, of hope. But not now. That was over and done. The songs of God and Jesus and love and forgiveness stung him like a slap to the face. Oh yeah, you’ll have to thank Mom for this, Scott said to himself. Thanks a lot, Mom. Yeah, that’s it; blame your mother. That’s real mature.
After a few congregational songs, it was the choir’s turn. There, attired in long blue robes, was Dawn Rhinebeck. Lovely, sweet, innocent, young Dawn Rhinebeck, her long red hair flowing down the back of her graceful neck. She soloed, singing of the sweet, sweet love of Jesus, her soprano pitch perfect. Her beautiful voice soothed the darkness within Scott and his apprehension at even being in this place—music calming the savage beast, as they say.
Scott also found himself soothed by Dawn’s beautiful body. It was mentioned previously that he had never romantically considered her before. Well, now he was considering her. She was so beautiful—oh hell, she was damn hot. And that choir robe was just a tease. She may have been innocent and demure, but that body of hers positively exuded sex.
Scott knew lust. After all, he was a functional heterosexual male (and he liked to put the emphasis on “functional”). He appreciated women, and besides, his desires were usually unrequited, the only recent exception having been Laura. But this was something different, beyond mere infatuation, beyond lust of the eyes. This was something ancient, something animalistic. This was a hunger he had never felt—not just for pure sex but for control. For domination. And he knew, as if by instinct, that he could get what he wanted. And it freaked him out. He quickly tried to focus on something else, but the pull of wanton, bestial arousal did not loosen its grip.
Before long, Larry began his sermon, preaching from Paul’s letter to the Romans. “Paul was convinced that nothing, neither death nor life, neither angels or demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers will ever be able to separate us from the love of God. And you know what? I am convinced he was right!”
Scott heard muffled “amens” and “hallelujahs” from among the congregation. The message had provided peace and comfort to many among them. But the words rang hollow to Scott.
Larry continued the sermon. “So, the love of Jesus is always with you, so you can pray, as King David did in Psalm twenty-three, that you need fear no evil! For He is with you!”
Scott knew the passage well. He didn’t find it so comforting anymore: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the shadow of death…well, the new ending sounds pretty badass, but I think I’m missing the point.
After too long of a while for Scott, the service ended. He tried to slink through the gauntlet of well-wishers, all of them calling him their hero (it was starting to get annoying; “Please, stop, I’m no hero,” he’d tell them), hoping to find his mother—she had been sitting with her elderly lady friends, as she usually did—and get out of there as soon as possible before he could once again set sight on Dawn. He hoped he wouldn’t see her.
Oops, too late. The winsome redhead approached Scott, beaming a smile that never seemed to leave her face. She wore a long floral dress that was more pretty than it was provocative, having left her robe in the choir room.
“Mr. Campbell!” she chirped. “You’ve had a crazy week!”
“Uh, yeah,” Scott replied. He took her soft little hand in his. “But it’s Scott. My friends all call me Scott.”
“All right. Scott.” Oh, her laughter was so sweet, like more music from her beautiful throat. “Well, I guess you’re a hero! Wow. What you did was so selfless, so…heroic!”
Scott noticed he was still holding her hand, and she didn’t seem in a hurry to let go. This is a good sign, he thought. “No, no, sweetheart, I’m no hero.”
Dawn’s parents approached just as Dawn’s hand slipped from Scott’s grasp. He’d known Phil Rhinebeck for a while. He was a few years older than Scott, about the same height (and had about the same girth), except with more hair and horn-frame spectacles. His wife, Donna, a lovely lady who could have been mistaken for Dawn’s older sister, accompanied him. Both greeted Scott warmly.
“But boy, I’ll tell you,” Phil said, “my girl here needs a hero of her own.”
“Daddy!” Dawn said.
Scott’s curiosity was piqued. “What do you mean?”
“No, really,” Phil continued. “She gets off the light-rail line on Wednesday nights after taking late classes at Portland State. She goes all the way to the end of the line, and she gets there, about what, midnight? Anyway, sometimes she’s noticed some really sketchy guys following her out there to the last stop.” He turned to Dawn. “I wish you would have told me about this earlier in the year, honey.”
“No, Daddy, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. You know I’d come down and pick you up.”
“But you have to get up really early in the morning.”
“So do you, Dawn.”
Scott stopped the cute little argument. “Wait, what time do you get to the final stop on the light-rail line?”
“About midnight,” Dawn answered.
“Well, I get off work at eleven. I can swing by afterward and pick you up.”
“I don’t want to trouble you,” Dawn said.
“If you could rescue my little girl, I’d sure appreciate it!” Phil said.
“Daddy, I don’t need rescuing,” Dawn said. She was still sweet, even when she was starting to get a little pissed off.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Scott said. “I mean, if it’s okay with Dawn.”
Dawn looked at Scott, their eyes locking. There is something there, he thought, a hunger equal to mine. A desire hidden. A treasure she wishes to unlock. And I am sure other sexual metaphors will eventually come to mind. Suffice it to say, I think she’s into me.
Dawn smiled. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
Scott smiled right back. He had almost forgotten he was in a church, a place he knew he probably should not have been. He forgot he was having thoughts he should not have been having about a girl he should not have been thinking about. But right then, he didn’t exactly care. “I’ll see you then,” he said.
Scott’s light mood at the prospect of the imminent seduction of this pretty young lady was overcome when he once again looked toward the altar and the large wooden cross next to it.
God, Scott prayed, that wasn’t me. Right? I mean, you know that, right? Come on, give me some sign to tell me this will all just blow over and that maybe I’m not totally eternally screwed. Okay?
The cross stood there as a silent sentinel, warning Scott that he needed to leave this place. Now.
Okay, I guess it’s the sign of no sign. All righty, then.
He quickly heeded the unspoken warning, finding his mother among her old lady friends and telling her he really needed to go.
CHAPTER 11
The ride home from church was no less awkward than actually being in church. Irene kept talking about her bridge club, the seniors’ outreach dinner, and how Eustace Schnabel was really hoping that Scott would help head up the canned-food drive again this year. Scott tried to be
pleasant, agreeing to assist with the drive. He may have been a vampire, but he was still socially conscious. Besides, they could donate a few cans of Spaghettis that no longer appealed to him, not that they ever really did. Scott hoped that would satisfy his mother, but it didn’t. She just continued gushing about how the entire congregation had praised him. And here Scott was, thinking that they had come to church to praise Jesus. My, how fortunes change.
Not soon enough for Scott, they finally pulled down the dead-end street where they lived. As Scott piloted the Prius toward the driveway, he observed a black BMW 328i GT at the end of the street, parked in the margin where the asphalt met the soil. The windows were tinted black, but he could still make out the silhouette of a female with long curly hair and sunglasses.
Scott parked the Prius and then escorted Irene to the door. “Are toasted cheese sandwiches on your new diet, Scotty? Because I’m going to make some!” she declared.
As Irene entered the house, the door of the BMW opened. An attractive raven-haired lady stepped out, dressed in dark colors: a long gray wool coat, plain gray cable-knit sweater, black yoga pants, and black lady’s loafers. She walked toward Scott’s residence.
Oh great, Scott whined to himself, another damned reporter. Well, let’s just see what she wants. She’s not unpleasant to look at, anyway.
“Mr. Campbell?” the lady asked. “Mr. Scott Campbell?”
“Yeah, yeah, what do you want?” he snapped.
She drew an envelope with a red wax seal from an inner pocket of her long coat. “This is for you,” she said, handing Scott the envelope.
Scott broke the seal and opened it. “What is this? Looks like an invitation.”
“It’s not. It’s a summons.”
“A summons for what?”
“Just read it.”
Scott unfolded the yellowing parchment and read: YOU ARE HEREBY SUMMONED TO APPEAR AT THE HOUSE. THE TIME OF YOUR APPOINTMENT SHALL BE AT 8:00 P.M. THIS TUESDAY. REFRESHMENTS SHALL BE PROVIDED. PLEASE DO NOT BE TARDY.
The address was off Skyline Boulevard in Portland’s West Hills. Scott roughly knew where it was and how to get there. He just didn’t look forward to driving all that far out of his normal haunts after dark and in the rain. He just didn’t want the hassle. Besides, there was another practical matter.
“Eight o’clock? I work evenings. Sorry, I can’t make it.”
The lady tipped her shades and glared at Scott. Immediately, he recognized what she was. His eyes widened in surprise and in fear.
“Call off,” she ordered as she turned to leave.
“And if I’d rather not?”
“Be there.”
With that, Elizabeth entered the black car, started it up, and pulled away into the gray afternoon. That was how Scott first met her, and it set the note for their relationship ever since: curt, commanding, and cold.
Sunday evening was uneventful. Scott appreciated that; this was time he could spend just vegging out in front of the TV in his room, watching old movies or shows he had recorded on the cable DVR. He was purposefully avoiding one of his old favorite activities, net surfing, because he’d heard that videos of the mall shooting were being posted all over the Internet and that you couldn’t log on to your Facebook or Twitter accounts without one of them showing up in your feed. Scott had had his fill of the incident and was done with it. Time to move on now, people, he thought.
Now it was time to crack open a cold bottle of amber ale and forget about the day. Except for one tiny detail of it—Dawn Rhinebeck. Scott definitely did not want to stop thinking about her. A call from Tim had helped fill a few minutes of time.
“Dude! What was up with you and Dawn?” Tim had asked. “I saw the way she was looking at you. Yeah, she’s cute, but she’s a little young for you, don’t you think? She’s like, what, twenty-one, and you’re like, fifty or sixty? Creep-eeee! Still, if I were single, which you now are, I don’t know if I could turn that down!”
But in the end, Scott decided to hide himself, as he often had in the past, behind the pages of his endless books of history and his collection of manga and Batman comic books.
It wasn’t too far into the night when Scott heard the doorbell ring. “I’ll get it!” Irene cried.
He could hear Irene greet the visitor. Then the visitor spoke. Thanks to his newly enhanced sense of hearing, he could clearly hear the man’s voice from all the way down the hall in his room. It was a voice he did not expect to hear at his home; it was a voice he did not want to hear at his home, or anywhere else, for that matter. Scott bolted from his bed and ran down the hall to intercept his mother.
“Oh, you say you’re a friend of Scotty’s?” Irene asked the man at the door.
“Yes, ma’am, I am. Is he here?”
“He certainly is! Come on in, and—”
“Mother!” Scott shouted as he cleared the hall, approaching the vestibule where she was holding the door. “Do not let that man in!”
“Nonsense! What is wrong with you, Scott Campbell? This nice young man is our guest. Please come in; uh, what’s your name?”
“Please, call me Jack.” Jack stepped across the threshold, now fully free to enter the house.
Ah, gee, thanks again, Mom, Scott thought. Oh well, this one is on you.
Jack glanced about the single-story home, looking for points of entrance and exit. He noted the wooden Celtic cross on the far wall. He did not seem fazed.
“Jack,” Irene said, “how do you know our Scotty?”
“Well, ma’am, Scotty and I go way back, don’t we, Scotty?”
Jack noticed Scott’s angry glare upon him, a glare made angrier by the use of the childish nickname he absolutely hated when people he didn’t like called him by it.
“Isn’t he a nice young man, Scotty? Such manners. Would you like some tea?” Irene offered. “I was just brewing some.”
“Oh, that would be lovely, Mrs. Campbell.”
“I’m all out of Earl Grey. I’ve got Darjeeling. Do you like Darjeeling, Jack?”
“Why, thank you, ma’am. Darjeeling would be fine.”
Irene scooted into the kitchen, wanting to make her guest feel welcome but mystified as to Scott’s sudden onset of rudeness. As she was now otherwise occupied, but still within possible hearing distance, Scott came right up to Jack and whispered, “What the hell are you doing here? In my house?”
“Well, seems obvious to me that it’s not your house.”
“I want you out!”
“Good luck with that. The person who holds the title on this house invited me in. So, until she rescinds that invitation, mi casa es su casa. Or is it the other way around? Su casa es mi casa…ah, who knows. It’s all good.”
“What do you want with me?”
“Scott, I am here to help you. The House has caught wind of your little faux pas, and now they are out for blood. But I can help you if you’ll let me.”
“Jack, I got a summons, or whatever the hell it is, from this House thing. Presented right to my door. They seemed like they really want to meet me.”
“Here? Right here? You mean, they delivered it to this address?”
“Yes, right here! Delivered personally by a fairly attractive lady vampire—or vampiress, or whatever is the politically correct term these days. And what is this House, anyway? Why should I be so concerned about them?”
“The House is sort of like vampire government. They control all vampiric activities within their given jurisdiction. All vampires within their jurisdiction must register with them, and no new vampires can be sired without their permission. Unregistered sires are often eligible for culling.”
“Huh?”
“That means killing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That means you.”
Scott was not really happy to hear that. “Me? Just because I’m an unregistered vampire?”
“Yes, but much worse, because of what you did at the mall. Your little Dirty Harry act there ran the risk of exposure f
or—”
Just then, Irene reentered the room. “Oh dear! I forgot the cookies. I’ll be right back!” She turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Her presence was replaced by that of Mr. Buttons, who awoke from his cat bed in the kitchen and strolled out into the living room to greet this new guest, even though the tabby was less motivated by curiosity than he was by a sense of ownership. However, upon spotting Jack, the cat arched its back, hissed, and ran back into the kitchen.
“Nice cat,” Jack said.
“Yeah, he does that. Anyway, you were saying?”
“You ran the risk of exposing us. To the public. The House is all about keeping us out of the public’s view, to keep them safe and to keep us in line.”
“Dang. You make them sound like vampire Nazis.”
“That’s what they are, Scott. And if they’re Nazis, then Enforcement is their Gestapo!”
Oh great, another level of bureaucracy. “Enforcement? That sounds fun. What are they?”
“Enforcement is exactly what it sounds like: Enforcement. They enforce the rules of the House. A bunch of self-hating vampires, if you ask me, turned against their own kind. And that pretty lady that showed up here earlier—”
Irene returned bearing small plates that held teacups and sugar cookies. “Here you go, Jack. You enjoy.”
Jack tipped his head to her. “Why, bless your heart, Mrs. Campbell. You are an absolutely gracious lady. Thank you so very much.”
She smiled and then turned to Scott. “Your friend is so charming. Such a gentleman.”
Scott just about gagged. Was his mother actually flirting with Jack? My sainted mother, flirting with a vampire? What the hell, Mom!
“Uh, Mom, Jack and I need to discuss business. Can you—”
“Oh, certainly. I’ll leave you boys to talk. It’s so nice to meet you, Jack.”
“The pleasure is mine, ma’am.” Jack lifted his teacup in salute. Scott rolled his eyes.
Suburban Vampire: A Tale of the Human Condition—With Vampires Page 10