by Jackie Rose
I’m a Vampire…At War on Halloween
By
Jackie Rose
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I'm a Vampire, At War on Halloween
Copyright ã 2006 Jackie Rose
Coverart by Martine Jardin
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Published by eXtasy Books 2006
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That batty bunch you first met in “I’m Undead and I Vote” is back...both sillier and sexier than ever. This time, Count Dracula himself is on the prowl…determined to finish the holiday fun and put the Hell back in Halloween. But first, he must face a two feuding TV talk show hosts…his nagging mother…and, oh yes, his growing passion for a history teacher who knows his sad true story. Along the way, he’ll find lots of the other crazy creatures you have met in this best-selling series. They include the first undead activist…her friend the fierce were-Maltese…and the country’s be-witching First Lady.
I'm a VAMPIRE…
At War on Halloween
Alarmed by all those stories she had seen in the Bucharest Post, Mariutza Tepes had come all the way from Romania to see for herself if that famous American Halloween was as bad as she feared. She had soon learned that it was even worse. No wonder the poison was even infecting her native country, where good Romanians were holding costume parties on the unholy night. But even that was nothing like this outrage.
Children in their cute little vampire outfits…black capes for the boys and flowing white gowns for their little girl friends…were seen knocking on doors and begging for treats, in a cascade of candy commercials. They received it in pretty packages, which the TV advertisers had decorated for the season.
Such practices had made Halloween the year’s second biggest spending holiday, thus turning the un-holiest day of her calendar into an orgy of crass commercialism and, even worse, family fun.
Two weeks before the big day, the shopping spree was already in high gear. Walking into Tyson’s Corner shopping center, she had seen the central courtyard draped in fake black cobwebs supporting giant grinning purple plastic spiders.
Their big pink idiot grins and vacant blinking blue eyes were obviously designed to make sure that not even the most sensitive adults would be frightened away, while shopping for costumes, plastic Jack-o-lanterns, scary music and movies and those awful candy packs to give away to the children who came to their doors.
For the occasional male shopper’s sake, a shapely young witch in a mini-skirt was stirring a kettle. Fake trees had been added, with a painted night sky behind them. The cauldron, of course, filled with more things to buy. But even this was hardly the worst of it.
Mariutza had to blink her own brown eyes in disbelief, to be sure she was not imagining the sordid scene taking place between Hecht’s and Lord & Taylor. But, no…that really was supposed to be Dracula, with his flowing black cape, plastic white fangs and all…taking his place beneath the toy tarantulas. Of course, he was a fake, she realized. No real vampire would have worn that ridiculous outfit.
He was sitting on the throne that Santa Claus would occupy a few weeks hence, as though there were no difference between the two characters. Even worse, the children were standing impatiently in line with their parents, waiting for their chance to sit on the vampire’s lap, just as though it were St. Nick’s.
Two smiling young ladies in flowing white gowns and black wigs were guiding the little visitors there. Mariutza had no doubt that those ladies would dress up as Santa’s elves in a few weeks’ time, without changing their cheerful expressions.
“And who do YOU want to be for Halloween, young lady?”
As Mariutza walked by them, she heard him asking that very question, in a very bad Transylvanian accent. “I wanna be Cinderella,” the moppet replied.
“Cinderella!” he exclaimed more loudly, to be sure the little girl’s mother would hear. That lady beamed and nodded happily, now that she knew exactly what costume to buy at the temporary holiday shop nearby.
Not that Mariutza blamed the woman. She knew, from her own very long experience, about a mother’s natural desire to make her children happy. For that reason, she took pride in the title they had given her…
The mother-in-law of all vampires!
So she naturally had to teach the world to respect her children’s heritage. Enough of this happy holiday! Somehow, she would find a way to put the Hell back in Halloween.
Wasn’t that TV commentator Bill O’Reilly always complaining about the War on Christmas, which was making his most holy day into a shopping spree? Well, wait until she started her own War on Halloween.
And her favorite son was just the one who could lead it.
* * * *
If she also had a least-favorite son, he was sitting at the Romanian ambassador’s desk right now, with her least-favorite-daughter-in-law perched upon it.
His four previous brides had been among her first daughters-in-law. While she had never completely approved of them, they now seemed perfection itself compared to his current bride, who was actually his lawfully wedded wife!
Hearing the shocking news that they were actually married, Mariutza had taken to her coffin in sheer humiliation. But thanks to that dreadful American girl, her younger son now had no shame at all. In fact, he definitely seemed to be the white sheep of the family.
* * * *
“Black and orange crepe paper streamers up there, of course,” Tiffany was saying. Her right leg jiggled a mile a minute with her usual restlessness, as she pointed a long white finger at the ceiling.
“But the children, and their parents, can see those things anywhere,” her husband objected, shaking his curly black head. “They are coming here to see the Romanian embassy. And,” he added, with some disapproval, “You expect them to pay very well for the privilege.”
“It’s all to benefit PUMA,” she replied. He nodded briefly, to show his respect for People United for Mercy to Animals.
“You know that Constantin and Ingrid are coming all the way from Transylvania, to ask the children to trick-or-treat for PUMA,” she went on. “Even the First Lady, the First Daughter and our first openly undead congressman will all be here, to help promote the cause. Of course, Mrs. O’Neill will also be eager to promote her own pet charity, black cat rescue.”
“They also want to show what good citizens the paranormal minorities are,” he muttered. “Especially with an election coming up.” The first family indeed represented several PM’s, since the First Lady was a witch, her daughter was a banshee and her son- in-law was the nation’s first openly undead congressman.
“I still think that our were-guests will be the stars of the show,” his wife went on. “They will appear at just the right time, so that the guests…and the media…can see them transforming into a really impressive giant werewolf and an adorable little white were-Maltese. The First Lady will probably change a
black cat into an important political figure, too, for the occasion. A good Democrat, of course.”
Noting the glare of disapproval in Count Victor’s piercing black eyes, she hurriedly went on, “I know we should not interfere with local politics, but it is all for a worthy cause…not to mention creating good will towards Transylvania. Isn’t that your job, as ambassador?”
“I suppose,” he admitted rather sullenly, drumming his powerful long white fingers on the massive mahogany desk. “But it all seems so…American.”
“Exactly!” she crowed. “The great Transylvanian heritage has inspired a great American holiday. What better way could we possibly have to show the contributions that our country has made? And it IS my country now,” she assured him hastily. “I may have been born here in America, but I am now as Transylvanian as…as…”
“Orange and black crepe paper streamers,” he muttered. “Well, even if we decide to hang them up around the entrance hall, we won’t have any here in my study.”
He glanced around at the wood-paneled walls and marble fireplace, as though to suggest how completely inappropriate those tacky decorations would be. “I am still a good Transylvanian boy. Or perhaps I should say a bad one.”
“You look as American as I do,” she told him in a flattering tone. “In fact, you are an undead ringer for David Boreanaz, and he’s an American star. He was not really a vampire, of course, but he played one on TV, and here that’s even more important. Or perhaps I should say that he looks like you.”
“No one looks more American than you do, with those red curls and freckles. Hardly like a vampire at all.”
“And what does a vampire look like?” she demanded in outrage. “Saying that someone looks like a vampire, is like saying that someone else looks…”
Rather than starting this argument again, he reached out and stopped her leg from jiggling. Those same fingers were soon sliding up slowly from her ankle to her calf to her thigh. They pushed up her short navy skirt and gently pressed the tangled red curls beneath it, which were damp and warm to welcome him.
Then his middle finger entered the opening beneath them, circling it ever more quickly until she was gasping and writhing. Standing, he quickly pushed the inkstand and papers onto the floor, as he pressed her down onto the desk.
* * * *
When they walked out of the Tyson’s Corner restrooms, few heads turned to look at them. It was almost Halloween, after all, so the shoppers assumed they were part of the entertainment.
If the onlookers thought any further about the couple at all, it was only to wonder why such a strikingly attractive woman was with such an outrageously un-attractive man.
His costume enhanced his natural homeliness. It was topped by a ridiculous red velvet cap with a jeweled headband. They called even more attention to the long, pointed nose, which almost met his chin. Almost as unflattering, his curly black moustache pointed outwards, meeting the black ringlets that fell to his sloping narrow shoulders. They seemed weighted down by his bearskin coat, thus completing the incredibly un-impressive effect.
Obviously realizing as much, his companion hissed, “Stand up straight!” but in vain.
She herself boasted truly impressive posture, among other things. Her black curls fell to her white clinging gown in a very flattering way. Her thin red lips, high cheekbones and ivory complexion added to her natural…or unnatural…charms. For the few fathers in the audience, her high, firm bosom, slim waist and rounded hips didn’t hurt, either.
For whatever reason, the crowd parted as the newcomers stalked to the throne. As they approached, the actor who was already sitting there, in a black cape and whiteface makeup, said in a rather uncertain tone, “Good evening, I am Dracula.”
“Oh, no, you are not,” the newcomer answered, in a deep, frightening voice. “You are not even an Undead American, let alone a true Transylvanian vampire, or you would not be wearing that ridiculous suit. I AM Dracula. Begone!”
After trying, for a moment, to face those deep, burning, glaring black eyes, the performer fled. Only then did the audience notice that the actor had been at least a foot taller than the challenger who had driven him away.
Then it was the children’s turn to face that terrifying stare.
“You call me Dracula!” he told them. “But my true name is Vlad Tepes…Vlad the Impaler!”
The crowd gasped in awe and amazement, until one of their number spoke up.
“’Dracula’ merely means ‘Devil,’” a rather chubby red-haired mother told her son calmly, obviously eager to turn this Hellish encounter into an educational experience. “Or more literally, ‘Dragon.’”
“So tremble with terror before me!” Devil-or-Dragon added, while trying to ignore her interruption. “I have risen from the dead once again…to put the Hell Back in Halloween!” He glanced at his female companion anxiously and seemed relieved when she nodded approval.
With this encouragement, he glared much more fiercely as he turned to the children again. They stared back in awe. He spread his thin red lips in a snarl. Their own little mouths opened wide in amazement.
Equally stunned, their parents and nannies tried to embrace them with protective arms, only to be shrugged impatiently away. Finally, a chubby ten-year-old managed to speak.
“Sweet!” he exclaimed. “Did you really impale all those men on wooden stakes?”
“Well, perhaps not ALL of them,” he muttered. “You can’t believe everything you read.”
His companion’s voice soared over his. “Every one,” she told them firmly. “And he did other things that I would not even mention in front of the little ones. And as for what he does to the women even nowadays…” she lowered her voice to a whisper. “He makes them wear their new clothes without cutting off those scratchy tags and forces them to listen to all the telemarketers who call during dinner.” Every adult shuddered at the thought.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said, with obvious resentment. “But I ask you, children…how would YOU feel if everyone…even your very own mother…called your brother Radu the Handsome?”
“I could see how that might make you feel hostile,” the plump lady conceded. “I’d often wondered about that myself.”
“My mom is a history teacher,” her son told them proudly. “That’s how she knows that Vlad Tepes was the real name of Dracula, which only means Devil or Dragon, and his kid brother was Radu the Handsome. She told me all about it before we came here. She would not tell me what he did to the women, though, so I had to look it up on the Inter…”
“Please, little boy!” Mariutza responded urgently. “There MAY still be some INNOCENT children here, and you will frighten them!”
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Tepes…I mean, Count Vladimir?” an even smaller moppet put in hopefully. She, too, was obviously far from the frightened category.
Clearly, this was not going as Mariutza had planned. The downward spiral continued when another mother, who had left the group unnoticed, came racing back with the mall manager and two security guards in tow.
“What is going on here?” the executive demanded. “Where is our Dracula?”
“He is gone,” Vlad answered, doing his worst to suggest that the imposter had, in fact, vanished forever. “I am the real Dracula!’
As usual, his listener was not impressed. “You aren’t even dressed right!” the manager accused. “Where are your fangs and cape?”
“Actually, his costume is completely authentic,” the teacher assured him, stepping forward. “I should know. I am Ellen Reinecke, and I teach advanced European history at James Buchanan Prep School. I brought my son Luther here to meet Dracula, but I never thought he’d see someone who looked so close to the real thing.”
Their relationship was obvious, and not just from the way she spoke to the boy. Mother and son shared the same round, pink, plump faces and red-blond hair.
Her profession was just as obvious, and not just from her teacher-like tone. The long green-and-purp
le paisley skirt, with its coordinated purple turtleneck, also conveyed a definitely school-marmish effect. At the same time, it served to camouflage her more-than-ample lower body while outlining her equally generous bosom, showing that she had spent some time studying the best way to dress to advantage.
Just as the mall manager was about to protest again, she added firmly, “He is giving the youngsters an educational experience…not just an entertaining one. You can be sure that I will tell all my students to come meet him…and bring their younger siblings, too.
“And you, Count Vladimir,” she said, turning her light blue eyes on his burning black ones, “it was so good of you to come here and help bring history alive for these youngsters. We have many re-enactors here in Virginia, but they usually focus more on the Civil War. Are you an Undead American yourself?”
“He is not a re-enactor, and he is not an American anything!” his mother hissed. “He is Dracula! Or, rather, Count Vladimir Tepes. And he is not here to educate…but to help us fight in the war that your society has declared on the true meaning of Halloween…which is to tremble before the forces of evil.”
On those last few words, she thrust her slim arms dramatically into the air, in a manner that was obviously intended to induce trembling.
* * * *
At the same time, her voice rose high enough to be overheard by another woman, who paused on her way into the maternity shop.
If it had not been for the scene taking place on the platform beneath the giant plastic purple spiders, this onlooker would have attracted a good-sized crowd herself.
As it was, several heads turned in her direction as Cassandra Bailey approached the crowd. Several more lips moved to mutter the words, “Dueling Duo.” She was, indeed, the co-host of that celebrated weekly debate program…more vulgarly known as a Sunday shout show…along with her husband, Buck Patrick.