by J Bennett
***
"Wait!" Silas hollers. “I take it back. I take it all back.”
But it's too late. My geriatric vampire boss has stepped into the evening sunlight and is going out extra crispy.
I act without thinking.
What ends up saving Nathaniel’s life is that big dumb velvet cape he always insists on wearing when we have company. I rush outside, whip the cape over his bony frame and throw him to the ground. I beat at the flames with the cape, drag him inside and beat out more flames, which have erupted from his shoes.
When I pull back the cape, Nathaniel's normally chalk white skin is now a rashy red. There are open sores on his hands and face.
“That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” Sloppy Joe exclaims.
“You’re dead,” Dex informs him.
“Afterlife then. You think he’ll do it again?”
Nathaniel moans pitifully, but his eyes are open and they settle on my face.
"Outside," he whispers in a creaky voice. "Let me die...with...dignity."
"It’s true, what he said about Hannah,” Silas murmurs.
The old man is leaning against the wall, his thick white eyebrows closing in on each other. "An old buddy of mine, Stanley Wallace, got cancer two years ago. I went to see him before he passed. We'd grown up together. He told me...told me that Hannah had given him regular blow jobs even after we’d gotten engaged. She had a thing for college football players. Stanley told me she'd done half the team at the local university."
"Does that mean Nathaniel is off the hook?" I demand.
Silas nods. "Also, I hate Mormons.”
Nathaniel, who has evidently not understood our exchange, rolls onto his stomach and starts crawling toward the door. "Honor ruined," he says. "Damned, obstinate servant."
“Sweet, there he goes again,” Sloppy Joe says.
"You shut up,” I snap at him. “And you…” this is directed at Nathaniel, “I'm not your servant, and you're not going outside. This fight is over."
I stand up and slam the door with gusto. It reverberates throughout the large mansion.
"I just...after all these years..." Silas says, "even when I found out about Hannah...the hatred was still there. I couldn't stop hunting. Couldn't extinguish the need for vengeance."
"Well, you've got some measure of it," I tell the old man. We both look at my burnt boss. "I'm going to put him to bed, and when I get back downstairs I want you gone. Understand?"
Silas nods glumly. "A glass of prune juice for the road?"
"No! No more god damn prune juice."
Silas re-grips his walker and pushes himself upright. "He needs a chess partner," he says and turns to leave.
I remember how the two of them sat in the parlor for hours, leaning over the chess board, trading polite witticisms and guffawing over fondly remembered episodes of The Dick Van Dyke Show. I also remember that, besides Silas, the only guests we've had since I started this gig were two unfortunate Mormons who will now be spending eternity in Nathaniel's backyard under the mulberry bushes.
"Maybe he does," I murmur.
Silas turns his head. "I won't unfriend him," he says. "On Facebook I mean, but if he unfriends me, I understand."
And with that, the vampire hunter takes slow, shuffling steps toward the door.
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Works by J Bennett
The Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles
Employment Interview With A Vampire (Short Story, # 1)
The Vampire Hunter Comes To Call (Short Story, # 2)
Duel With The Werefrog (Short Story, #3)
When Ninjas and Vampires Collide (Short Story, #4)
Girl With Broken Wings Series
Falling (Book One)
Coping (Novella, 1.5)
Landing (Book Two)
Rising (Book Three, to be released in 2014)
Next in The Vampire’s Housekeeper Chronicles:
DUEL WITH THE WEREFROG
THE VAMPIRE’S HOUSEKEEPER CHRONICLES, #3
When salacious 70-year-old gold digger Silvia starts batting her astigmatic eyes at Nathanial over bingo, Deidre knows she needs to convince her smitten boss that Silvia is nothing but trouble before Nathaniel’s undead heart gets broken. When Nathaniel accidentally espies Silvia laying her charms on a neighboring obese werefrog named Henrick, Nathaniel vows to uphold Silvia’s honor by challenging Henrick to a duel.
Join Deidre in another adventure as she burns dinner, ducks bullets and tries to protect her curmudgeon boss’s heart even as her own might be in jeopardy courtesy of Henrick’s handsome nephew who has secrets of his own….
***
Later that day, after I’ve given Nathaniel time to cool off, er…calm down, I bang on the door of his crypt.
“Nathaniel,” I call, “I’ve got some nice fresh cow blood here and your favorite dinner, liver and prune juice.” I don’t mention the fact that I’ve burned the liver. He probably assumes this anyway.
“Want me to hook up the old gramophone, get some tunes going?”
Nothing.
I’ve got one more gambit up my sleeve. It’s dangerous, but I’m desperate.
“You know who I’ve always wanted to learn more about,” I call in a loud voice, “Dwight
Eisenhower. Gosh, I’d just love to hear his life’s story and what a great president he was…er, is.”
If anything’s going to get Nathaniel out of his funk, it’s Eisenhower, the man he still votes for in every election while proudly wearing his “I Like Ike” button.
I stare at the closed door.
“It’s useless,” a voice comes behind me. “His heart is shattered forevermore by the cruel mallet of love. A modern Romeo.”
“Yeah, if Juliet was an 80-year-old tramp that was sucking serious face with a werefrog.” I turn around and confront Dex, one of the two ghosts in the mansion. Not that Dex would ever agree to be described by so convention a term as “ghost”.
No, he prefers to seem himself as a Conveyor of Extreme Emotions, a title meant to challenge the stereotype and push the art of haunting into a new realm of artistic discovery.
Translation: Just last week, he filled the bathtub with dead fish to “torment my soul” with guilt about the ever-increasing toxicity of the oceans. I still haven’t gotten rid of the smell.
“He’s not coming out,” I say to Dex, “this is bad.”
As we make our way downstairs, Dex floats next to me and waxes philosophical. “Such is the price of love. It can give our hearts wings to soar unto the heavens or it can chain us down into the deepest, darkest pits of….”
“Yo yos, looks what I’s can do!” Sloppy Joe, the second ghost of the mansion materializes into the sitting room. I always have to hold back a snicker. It’s mostly the ghostly doo-rag on his head, but also the Tupac wife beater and sagging jeans. Sloppy Joe has only been a ghost for a year now and still plays at being a white rapper wannabe.
“Alright, show me what you got Sloppy Joe,” I say. This is Sloppy Joe’s first official haunted residence, so I try to be supportive.
“Check this.” Sloppy Joe walks over to an ornate mirror, takes a deep breath and dives in.
"That's nice," I tell him.
“Oldest trick in the book,” Dex mutters next to me.
"No, that ain’t it,” Sloppy Joe says from the mirror. “Get over here.”
“A please would be nice,” I mutter as I walk over. "What am I looking at?" I study my o
wn reflection, disappointed at usual with the freckled, chubby face that stares back at me. If only I could find a way to tame all that frizzy red hair, and, of course, lose a good twenty pounds.
"WHHHHAAAA" Sloppy Joe suddenly replaces my reflection. His eyes are wide and glowing red, and he's got blood gushing out of his mouth.
"Neato," I say and lean in closer. "Are those scorpions crawling out of your ears?"
"Come on," Sloppy Joe groans. "You got to be all making with the screaming and terror, yo.”
"Oh sorry. Wait, do it again."
Dex snickers.
"Nah." Sloppy Joe looks put out. His do-rag droops. "I'm crap at this." Another scorpion crawls out from his vacant eye socket.
"No, do it again,” I tell him, shooting Dex a mean look. “I swear, I'll scream and I might even faint. Well, I'll stagger to the sofa, and then I'll faint."
"Whateve." Sloppy Joe steps out of the mirror and goes right through me. I hate when he does this. It makes my blood freeze over for a second and every hair stand up on my body.
"You're doing fine,” I assure him. “Look, next time we get any Girl Scouts selling cookies, I'll invite them in, and you can scare them straight into therapy and anti-anxiety meds for the rest of their lives."
"Promise?" Sloppy Joe hitches up his huge pants.
"Cross my heart." I hold up my hand.
At that moment, Nathaniel appears at the top of the stairs. Even before he opens his
mouth I know this is bad. It's the dueling pistols on each hip that give it away. Also, the white kid glove he clutches tightly in his hand.
"That dastardly werefrog has sullied Silvia's honor,” he announces.
"And you think challenging him to a duel is the best solution?" I cross my arms over my chest.
"I intend to restore Silvia's honor," Nathaniel continues unabated.
"Do you even know how to use those things?"
"Some may say I am fool-hardy, but this isn’t about me. This is about my darling Silvia,” Nathaniel declares.
"Didn't we just establish with Silas that you're not exactly great when it comes to life or death matches?" I point out.
"This may be shocking to you,” Nathaniel goes on, “as you are a woman and of a sensitive disposition."
"Plus,” I say, “you won't even die if you get shot. That's hardly fair."
Nathaniel takes a theatrical breath. "I intend to challenge Henrick to a duel!"
He waits. "I just said that I intend-"
"I heard you," I snap.
“Sweet. Let the lead fly,” Sloppy Joe calls out.
“Clearly my diorama against gun violence last month was not taken to heart,” Dex sniffs.
Nathaniel ignores the ghosts. "Then you will no doubt wish to be my second,” he says to me. “Normally I would never allow it, you being a woman, but I have no time to call upon my vast network of contacts. I fear when word gets out, Henrick will try to flee."
"You don't have any contacts," I inform Nathaniel. "Everyone you know is dead. You only have one Facebook friend, and it's Silas who just tried to kill you last week."
But alas, Nathaniel's selective hearing is in full swing. He marches down the stairs, his
face set for action, and I have no choice but to follow.
Also by J Bennett:
FALLING
Book One, Girl With Broken Wings Series
“Your head,” the boy with elf eyes murmurs as he puts me into a car. Then, “this is, um, awkward.” He can only get me half in. I hear his steps moving quickly around the back of the car. He opens the opposite door and pulls me the rest of the way across the back seat.
“Thank you,” I say. I want to touch the blue glow around him. This will soothe the pain inside of me. Not pain. Hunger. Great, gaping hunger. I am shivering, still sweating. The strap of my bra has fallen to my elbow.
“Do we, uh, have a blanket in the trunk or something, Tarren?”
“Get in the car.”
I hear sirens. They sound closer than they could possibly be. Just like I think I can hear the boy’s heart thudding in his chest, but that can’t be real.
“Yeah, it’s a warm night. She’ll be fine.” The door by my head closes. I flinch at the sound. After a moment it opens again.
“Seatbelt.” He leans over me, grappling with the buckle under my back. His heart is a drum. I hear the whoosh of air in and out of his lungs. I smell him, the sweat on him, the damp of his clothes. Glowing spirals of blue cloak his body like colored steam. I must touch the color. I am moving my arm, dizzy with even this effort but desperate. He is so close. My hands grow hot. Something is happening to them. The skin of my palms is puckering, splitting open.
“There we go.” The boy is gone. The door closes. I keep reaching up hoping to catch any lingering wisps of the glow. The skin furls back over my palm, seaming itself up into a dark X across the center. The car is moving. Every breath smells like blood. I’m giggling like a maniac, but only in my head. I shove my hands under my body, because this will somehow help. I’m still burning to death, by the way.
The driver whispers to himself, “We had him. We had him.”
The one with the backwards ball cap and elf eyes says, “Look, we got her; that was the whole point.” He turns to look at the driver. “We’ll kill Grand some other time.”
The driver doesn’t say anything, but the color ratchets around him, bright along the edges. I close my eyes, but I can still feel the skin pulling away from my palms again.
“Your eye is swelling up,” the passenger says.
“I’m fine. You?”
“Ankle. Just twisted it a little. I’ll throw some ice on it whenever. No cops behind us. We need to switch our plates when we stop. Ditch the guns too. We left shell casings. Damn shame, though.” The passenger pulls a gun from his belt, hefts it in his hand. “My guy went through a lot of trouble to get this baby. Not that you care. Anyone can get Glocks.”
“Put that away,” the driver says. “We’ll cover cleanup later.”
The passenger turns to stare at me. I watch the delicate shades of blue pulse around him.
“We should probably get her a shirt,” he says. The driver doesn’t reply, but his eyes flick up to the rearview mirror when we stop at a light.
After a while, the elf turns to the driver and asks, “Is there any way this isn’t going to totally fucking ruin her life?”
I can’t stop shivering. My body jerks, so that I fall back painfully onto the buckle. The fire is starting to separate. There’s the part ripping up my bones and evaporating my blood, but there is something entirely different lifting out of the flames. This is an exquisite hurt, all neural and twitchy. It’s hunger, but not like a hunger I’ve ever known before. This hunger is cutting me wide open with a song, carving out its own channels in my brain and snuffing out the human parts of me.
I think that I am going to die, and I don’t want to, except that I do, because Ryan is dead, at least I think he is, but maybe he isn’t, because he can’t be. He can’t be.
The hum of the car seems so loud, and the passing street lamps blaze like sudden flares in the night. We leave behind the highway and then the street lamps and then the other cars. I cry, but these are silent tears, hot by the time they tip over my chin. We sail through the night for a long while, and the tears eventually dwindle. All that is left is the hunger growing louder and louder in my bones.
Eventually, the car stops. The driver gets out. The door by my head is wrenched open. He grabs my shoulders and pulls. The seatbelt digs into my hips, and I cry out.
“Damn,” he mutters. He grabs my wrists in one hand and pins them against the back of the seat while he leans over and undoes my buckle. The passenger side door opens.
“Jesus, where are we? You gotta piss?”
The driver pulls me roughly out of the car. I hit the ground and curl my legs into my chest. There is only the hunger and the pain and the shadow of Ryan lingering behind
the trees that edge each side of the road.
The driver pulls a gun from his waistband, and I am not afraid. The amber glow is so bright around him that it looks like some sort of unnatural fire. Everything is fire. I stare at the scar running along his jaw and recognize him. The enforcer of Avalon levels his gun at me. The blood stains across his shirt and jeans are already turning dark. In his eyes I see a cold that I would never be cliché enough to call arctic except that I can’t think of anything else. There’s a lot of blood on him.
“Tarren, no!”
Pant legs intrude into my visual field.
“She’s infected. We have to do it now while she’s weak.”
“One shot Tarren. She only got one shot. She’s like…a hybrid or something.”
“We can’t take the chance.”
“Yes we can, because, uh, because you could use her in your research. She could be, like, the key. The hybrids are always the key in, you know, stuff.”
“We’ll take the body back to Lo’s lab.”
“Cold hearted bastard! She’s blood.”
“His blood.”
“Our blood. She’s our blood Tarren.” The elf boy’s voice has gone harsh. “She’s our family, and you can pretend that you don’t care about anything anymore, that you’re suffering the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, but you’re just afraid. Fuck you. I’m not moving.”
“You done?” The gun doesn’t move.
“Yeah.” The elf takes a shaky breath. “I mean no! She could help us. Think about it. She’ll get strong. She’ll get fast. She can fight with us. We can…”
“And the hunger?”
My protector turns and looks at me. I can hear how fast his heart is beating, the faint rush of blood as he clenches his fists. The light around him swells. So blue with sudden streaks of lavender lashing across. The song. They act as if they can’t hear the music flowing in hot torrents all around us.
“We’ll buy her rabbits,” he says finally.
“She’ll lapse and feed on humans.”
“No, she…”
“THEY ALWAYS FEED ON HUMANS.” The enforcer’s voice echoes into the trees. He pulls in a deep breath. “You know that. She is Grand’s daughter. He’ll come after her again and by then she’ll be strong. I’ll take care of it. Just get out of my way.”
“I’m on fire,” I say for no reason. I lift myself up to my elbows with difficulty. I don’t know which one I want to prevail. A bullet would be quicker than this slow burn.