Mitzi appraised the elderly man a moment, sunk low and nosed Clancy’s leg urgently. “Come, dear,” she quaked and slunk quickly to my side of the elevator.
Clancy, avoiding the red eyes and shining fangs around her, cleared her throat, smiled politely and strolled after the dog like someone whistling past a graveyard.
“Who the hell?” she said, coming up beside me.
“I don’t think they’re from housekeeping,” from Mitzi hiding behind my legs.
“Snappy dresser though, the old guy,” Clancy ventured.
“If you’re an embalmer,” Mitzi said.
I kept jamming away at the ‘down’ button. The elevator car rose in silence.
We stood rigidly on our side of the car—three cigar store Indians—casting quick, haunted glances at the vampires across from us, wondering who sent them, how they knew we were in the hotel…when they’d leap.
The vampires stared back.
The car, rising with maddening slowness, became very close, the tension building like a slowly closing fist. I began to imagine it was hard to breathe even though I could hear the hum of the air vents.
Nobody moved.
Nobody alive or dead.
Clancy clung tightly to my arm, Mitzi close against my leg, shivering. After a few minutes of this torture I actually began to wish the creatures would leap! The tightening silence was becoming unbearable.
For no particular reason, I found myself rocking casually on the balls of my feet and smiling across at the red eyed fangers companionably.
They didn’t smile back.
I rocked again, sneaked a glance at the glowing floor numbers above the door, sighed and tried another lame smile at the black huddle of leering faces. Maybe this was a new variety of vampire—another kind of mutation like Clancy—a friendly kind. I mean, what the hell, why not try to break the ice?
I put on my bravest smile, nodded at the red eyes. “Nice hotel!” I grinned.
“Oh, Christ,” Mitzi muttered.
The vampires stared at me.
“Be sure and get the number of their cave,” Mitzi told me.
“Hey, at least I’m trying! Not standing there soiling myself like you two!”
I cleared my throat, held valiantly onto the smile.
The vampires stared at me.
Then one of them said: “Are you Blood?”
Mitzi groaned. “Good work, Ed!”
I glanced at Clancy—got nothing—glanced back at the maybe-female vampire who’d spoken. “Uh…’blood?’ I cleared my throat. “Well…I, uh…now when you say ‘blood,’ do you mean in a hereditary sense, or…”
“Just shut up!” Mitzi begged.
The tall, caped vampire rolled his pompous eyes and frowned at the others. “They are clearly not Blood!”
The bigger of the males across from him frowned back. “Who asked you, grandpa?”
The distinguished vampire arched a carefully plucked brow, raised his chin an imperious inch. “Peasants.”
“Who you calling peasants, grandpa? What the hell are you supposed to be—a freakin’ butler!”
His fellow vampires laughed.
The old guy made a derisive sound, exposing more fang. “I am--clearly and obviously to anyone still not a walking sperm--his Lord and Highness the great Count Dracula!”
Collective smirks from the other side.
“Count Faggot, maybe!” the maybe-female smirked, and was joined by the rest in another round of mirthless laughter.
The elegant Count played his arched brow over them a contemptuous moment. “I am Count Dracula! As envisioned by the divine actor Mr. Richard Roxburgh! Though I doubt you dressed-up posers would be acquainted with real talent!”
“Batshit!” from the tall vampire.
“Yeah,” the maybe-female jeered, “Richard Roxburgh from what film?”
Dracula snorted. “Van Helsing, of course, as any real vampire would know!”
Maybe-female’s eyes narrowed. She leaned toward the old guy challengingly. “Starring?”
“Hugh Jackman,” was the confident reply.
“Female lead?” baiting.
“Kate Beckinsale,” unruffled.
“Studio and year!”
“Universal, 2004.”
“Director?”
“Stephen Sommers.”
“Cinematography?” grating.
“Allen Daviav.”
“Music?” growling.
“Alan Silvestri.”
“Running time!”
“131 minutes!”
“Budget!”
“One-hundred-sixty million!”
“Domestic gross!”
Dracula blinked an uncertain moment. “Uh…gross…let’s see, now…”
“Come on, Mr. Expert!”
“Give me a moment…uh…the gross…
“Hah! Got you!”
“…oh dear…um...” a sudden triumphant snap of the old gent’s fingers, “three hundred million, two-hundred and fifty-seven thousand!” Big gloat.
Surly groans from the other side.
The Count smiled victoriously at me, jerked a condescending thumb at the grumbling rabble beside him. “True Blooders!” he winked. “Children! Haven’t a clue about the classic films!”
“Hey, moron,” from the taller boy, “We happen to be Twilighters!”
The Count gathered his cape haughtily, stepped sideways a repulsed foot. “Indeed? How predictably sophomoric.”
“Oh, yeah? How’ bout you blow me?”
“Only if one could determine your sex.”
The maybe-female stuck out her tongue.
The Count grinned craftily. Winked at me again, then turned to the rabble. “Twilightesr, eh?”
“That’s right, gramps!”
“Very well, then, tell me. Who directed? First film, now!”
The other side answered in ringing unison. “Catherine Hardwicke!”
“Well! Very good. And the screenwriter?”
“Melissa Rosenberg!”
“Original release date?”
“Two thousand seven!”
The Count smiled dripping sarcasm. “That was the official release date, child! Postponed during negotiations with the author. The original release date was two thousand and four. I’m afraid you lose! Poor dears!”
The maybe-female started toward him threateningly, but the Count waved her off with a white-gloved hand, smiling politely at the three of us on the other side of the car. “Are you good folks and your lovely animal attending the party?”
I exchanged looks with Clancy. “Party?”
Mitzi poked my leg. “Did he call me ‘lovely’?”
The elevator doors slid open.
* * *
The Twilighters shouldered past us in a disgruntled clump.
The Count held back till they were gone, did a small flourish in the open doors, bowed and gestured smiling toward twinkling stars above geometric rows of Tiki torches and a network of jack-o-lanterns glowing overhead. The floor was packed nearly elbow-to-elbow with at least another five hundred meandering vampires. We were on the hotel roof.
“Welcome to the fifth annual Fangs and Freaks Convention!” The Count bowed. “Come, dear friends!”
We stood rooted in the car. “Well, actually—“ I began.
“Yes!” from a suddenly galvanized Clancy, giving me a sharp look, “we’d love to!”
The Count grinned warmly. “How delightful! This way, then, to the land of madness and mayhem!” He stepped into the moving throng of black costumes, dead-white faces, carnival lights and dealers; tables.
I followed reluctantly behind the girls. “What are we doing, guys?”
“Hiding in plain sight!” Clancy informed me.
“Or did you forget the Black Queen was after us?” from Mitzi.
The doors slid shut behind me.
Clancy and Mitzi were already beside the Count who, head back joyously, spread his arms wide to the raucous scene ahead with
great aplomb. “It’s it fabulous? Vampires as far as the eye can see! Sometimes I think I’ve died and gone to heaven!” And he winked coyly at Clancy. “Or is that an oxymoron?” chuckling lightly as he plucked off his expensive evening gloves one long finger at a time.
Clancy took in the milling crowd, the big convention sign strung above the entrance. “But…don’t we need an invitation or something--?”
The Count embraced her shoulders in one long arm, big ruby-colored ring sparkling from corpse-white fingers ending in inch long, pointed nails that looked disturbingly real. “You’re my guests, my dear!” And he cupped her soft cheek in bony fingers, arched that neatly plucked brow again. “Let me guess...” one claw to his bottom lip reflectively, “…don’t tell me, now…I’ll have it in a moment…” He glanced back and forth between Clancy and Mitzi. “One of you is…Mazie? Is that correct?”
“Mitzi!” Clancy grinned, pointing down at the dog. “I’m Clancy! And that furtive fellow behind us is Ed.”
The Count pulled her closer, turned and held out a beckoning arm to me, like an old friend. “Join us, Edward! Don’t be shy! ‘Tis a night rife with splendiferous potential! Of sights and events beyond those of human ken!” And he chuckled such obvious enthusiasm it was completely disarming.
“I like this guy!” Mitzi said in my head, and to my utter astonishment she leapt into The Count’s free arm.
“Mitzi!” from an embarrassed Clancy.
“Not at all, my dear!” beamed The Count, catching the poodle lightly. “Such a beautiful creature of the night is always welcome in the bosom of The Count! I knew at first glance we should all be fast friends!”
I craned back apprehensively at the elevator, seeing in my mind Alicia rushing out with raking talons, slashing fangs, dumpy Pete behind her.
“What is it, Edward? You don’t appear comfortable at our little gala!”
“No, it’s great…it’s just that…”
“Somebody’s chasing you!” he finished for me.
Clancy balked. Mitzi froze in the tall man’s arms.
The Count waved a dismissive hand. “You needn’t worry about the gendarmes, my dears! You’ll be fine just as soon as we’ve found you proper dress! This way, this way, onward to the demon tailors!”
And carrying Mitzi in one hand, his other holding Clancy’s, he began threading us down a crowded aisle of end-to-end booths and tables on both sides, each heaped with everything from ancient-looking swords, chains and cudgels to realistic-looking plastic skulls (I think they were plastic) to 16th Century armaments to toy replicas of centuries-old torture devices (I think they were toys) to all things dark and forbidding: a kind of grimmer-than-typical Halloween store. What wasn’t heaped on the black-clothed tables was hanging from the temporary wall units behind the hooded proprietors, including movie poster one-sheets and lobby cards from over seventy years of every kind of Hollywood horror film featuring anything vampire or lycanthropic. I’d have died for a place like this when I was thirteen. The trick, I kept thinking, was managing not to die tonight…
Something dog-like and shaggy and terrible ran past us on all fours. Clancy looked down from the Count’s arms, growling softly.
The Count patted her hand patiently. “Just a Lycan, my dear, completely harmless!”
“A what?” from Clancy.
“A werewolf, love, from one of the Underworld films. You must have seen them.”
“Uh—“
“And over there is the official True Blood booth! Wonderful television show! Takes some liberties with the Stackhouse books but quite well done! And Eric is quite the dream vamp, isn’t he!”
He saw the look on her face.
“Oh, dear, don’t tell me you don’t take HBO! How primitive! Oh, you poor thing, we must get you initiated!”
I think I was actually getting a little peeved at the way the old man was parading my dog about. I finally caught her eye.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked behind her.
“I’m being carried, Ed! Something you never did! And it feels good! He might look like a frail old fool but he has strong arms and I like him. He’s a gentleman. Cultured.”
“He’s certifiable, Mitzi.”
“Well, who the hell isn’t these days and so what? You’re just jealous you don’t have his style. Widen your horizons, dude, join the festivities! While you’re still alive! Look at this place! A vampire convention! I think it’s great fun! And the irony!”
“Yeah,” I groused, “the irony. I don’t know, Mitz…something creepy about all this, not sure I trust this old dude.”
“Don’t be a party pooper, Ed! It’s a hoot!”
“I hope you’re still hooting when Alicia crashes the party.”
“Haven’t gotten a whiff of her, or that pig Pete. And what’s she going to do up here in this crowd anyway, expose herself and the real vampire race to the whole world?”
“I doubt they’d know the difference.”
“She wouldn’t risk it, Eddie. For all we know the media may be cover this. You know, like the San Diego Comic Con?”
But I couldn’t suppress another anxious glance over my shoulder at those ominous elevator doors.
When I turned back The Count had paused before a large booth selling costumes and masks—Goth with the Wind--roving through several racks of dark attire like an old lady with her terrier, pulling out this ensemble and that, occasionally holding one up to Clancy’s shoulders critically.
“Oh, yes! Yes, this one is absolutely you, dear!”
Clancy looked down dubiously at the thin black material pressed to her chest, the plunging neckline. “I’m uh…not sure I have the equipment for it—“
“Oh, tits!” from the Count, thrusting the garment into her arms, “men and their fixation on the mammary gland! You’d think they didn’t get their fill as infants! Anyway, we’re not buying it for them! And it shows off those long legs and elegant neck of yours wonderfully! You’ll be turning heads, toots!”
“But I’m not sure I have the mon—“
The Count looked offended. “Did someone speak of money? Off now—go change! There in back! My treat! Hurry, now, we don’t want to miss the guest star’s appearance!”
Clancy gave me a kind of hopeless shrug and took the outfit with her behind a curtain.
The Count tuned his arched brow on me. “Now then…”
“Look. I really don’t—“
He put Mitzi down gently and began pacing critically around me, slender fingers stroking aristocratic chin. “Hmmm…you’re not a bad looking specimen, you know…Clancy’s quite smitten and she’s clearly an intelligent girl.” He appraised me intently. “Something almost early Frank Langella about you…yes, we could go that way, but then you’d clash with me and we can hardly have two Draculas, can we? Hmmm…”
Five minutes later Clancy came back through the curtain looking stunning in black wig, white grease paint, and clinging satin gown: a more lithesome sort of Elvira. She came round the dealer’s table, took one look at me and burst into laughter. “What on earth are you supposed to be?”
I shrugged under the humility of my hump and putty warts. “A bell ringer.” Jerked my head at The Count. “It’s how he saw me.”
“He’s Quasimodo,” The Count admired proudly, “the Lon Chaney Sr. version! Do you like him?”
“At least he doesn’t have to worry about getting humped tonight,” from a sniggering Mitzi.
“Oh, you are a bad girl!” from a delighted Count, plucking up the poodle again and hugging her tight.
Mitzi, clearly enjoying the friendly squeeze, nevertheless looked curiously my way. “Did he just read my mind, Ed?”
“We need to get the hell out of here!” I told her.
Then minutes later we were walking the crowded aisles again: The Count, an Elvira clone, the hunchback and Mitzi the Lycan. I kept grousing it would never work but both Mitzi and Clancy insisted there were young men running all over the convention floor on
all fours with rugs on their backs, so I let it go.
A few minutes later the four of us turned at the sound of a sharp yelp.
I was sure Alicia had burst in. But the yelp was followed by a thrashing splash and the next moment The Count was guiding us toward an area sectioned off from the dealers’ tables. We found ourselves behind a cheering throng of costumes gathered before one of those carnival skill games where you throw a baseball at a cage-side target and dunk a heckling clown into a tank of water. Only in this case the person in the cage was dressed like a Twilighter and the line of eager conventioneers launching missiles were clearly True Blood fans. But they weren’t throwing baseballs. They were firing arrows with an operating crossbow--fortunately at the trip-target beside the cage, not the dunkee seated above the tank inside.
“They really are competitive, aren’t they?” Clancy said, watching the victim climb back on her collapsible perch as an assistant carefully removed each arrow from the target.
“Oh, some more than others,” The Count smiled. “It’s something of a generational thing, I think. The True Blood folks tend to be a bit older audience. They like to stick it to the moonstruck Twilight crowd when they can. All in good fun!”
“I’ve seen the show,” I said curiously, “and I don’t remember any use of crossbows.”
“Oh, they borrowed the idea from Van Helsing—Hugh Jackman’s special vampire hunting weapon.” The Count waved a hand at the convention floor. “You see bits and pieces borrowed from everywhere, every genre and author…Amanda Hocking here…Stephen King over there. They all tend to bleed into each other somewhat, you’ll pardon the pun.”
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