From behind his round glasses, the man’s eyes went wide. “Gosh, you’re bigger than I thought you would be.” He blinked a few times and then remembered the rest of his manners. “My name is Marvin. Marvin Drake. I’m a computer forensics and security expert. Glad to finally meet you, sir. It was quite difficult to track you down.”
Vlad gave a slight bow to his guest. “Then you must know full well who I am. I will, of course, have to deal with you in the usual manner, but your methods intrigue me. I need some answers.” He extended a hand, curled the fingers. “I can glamor you into revealing—”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, sir. I came here to talk.” Marvin pulled out a gallon baggie filled with a mushed-up yellowish goop. He opened the top to release a pungent smell. “And I did not come unarmed.”
Laughing, Vladimir dipped his index finger into the mixture, swirled it around, and pulled out a taste of the garlic and onion. He popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, tasty, although it does need some cilantro and a dash of salt. Did you bring any chips?”
Normally, when he demonstrated that he was impervious to the usual defenses against vampires, his adversaries would react with intense fear, but Marvin Drake smiled with delight, showing off crooked, unbrushed teeth. It reminded Vlad of Renfield. Ah, Renfield… The poor man spent years in rehab trying to kick his habit of eating flies.
“Good, sir. Just checking. How about this?” He yanked out a gold cross from his utility belt and pressed it close to Vlad’s face.
Moving faster than humanly possible, since he was no longer human, he snatched the cross out of Marvin’s hand and inspected it with a practiced eye, turning it over in his hand. “Gold-plated. I really have to start spreading rumors that only solid gold or silver crucifixes work. At least they’re worth something.” He tossed the cross back, and Marvin juggled to catch it.
The young man’s spreading grin made the vampire pause. There was something wrong with the situation, or with this oddball young man, but Vlad couldn’t put a cold finger on what it was. He glanced around at all of the meticulous cobwebs strung along the walls and ceiling—just props, but much easier to maintain than real cobwebs; the ornate candelabras, the suit of armor, the medieval weapons on the wall, all to make his current dank castle feel just like home.
The intruder cast a glance to the heavy black-velvet curtains that hung over the black-painted windows. “Should I even bother opening the curtains to let in the sunlight? I don’t suppose that would make you catch fire and explode?”
“No, but the bright light might give me a headache at this hour, and you’ve been annoying enough already. What is it you want?”
Marvin seemed satisfied to have the preliminaries dispensed with. “May we sit, sir? I really need to have a talk with you.” He indicated a small café-style table a few feet away, where Vlad had his coffee after waking up.
The vampire apprehensively took a seat opposite the strange visitor, who was not at all the typical vampire killer. “You’re not going to lunge at me with a wooden stake, are you?”
“Would that kill you?”
“No, but it would ruin my favorite ruffled silk shirt, and then I’d have to get truly medieval on you.”
“Thanks for the warning, sir. I don’t think we have to bother. I have a business proposition for you.” Marvin looked puppy-dog hopeful.
“I need answers first.” Vlad leaned over. “I want to know how you found me, and how you got in here. Obviously, I have flaws in my security.”
Marvin leaned back in his filigree metal chair, adjusted his Jethro Tull shirt. “As I said, I’m a computer forensics and security specialist. I’ve been tracking you for years. With all of your quirks, Mr. Dracul, you leave a fairly large data footprint for anyone who knows where to look. Pretty easy, if you know how to do forensic research.” He rummaged in the backpack and removed his smartphone.
“For instance, your method of obtaining real estate through a particular set of shell corporations let me keep up with your movements. You typically stay at one location for three to six years before moving on. You tend to stay in Victorian or castle-type estates, which limits your pool of available homes. You prefer colder climates, probably because it resembles the Carpathian mountains.”
“That, and I don’t want to get moldy,” Vlad said, but he was impressed with what the intruder said. His summation was quite accurate. The centuries had made him complacent, and he forgot that technological advances allowed people to process huge amounts of data in near-real time. “Very clever, Marvin. That explains how you located me. But what about my paramilitary guards? My mercenaries?”
“I was able to track down their personal cell phone numbers and sent them all a YouTube video of a kitten playing with a crocodile. They were so entranced, I walked right past them.” He smiled. “You really should watch the clip. It’s very funny.”
“Seen it already.” Vlad frowned. “But my true supernatural guardians are relentless in their pursuit of intruders. How did you get past the hellhounds?”
“Easier than expected,” said Marvin. “They’re just giant dogs with a bigger appetite. I tossed them each some pork chops laced with LSD and a large ball of peanut butter.” He grinned. “Right now their mouths are stuck shut, and they’re watching pink Hello Kitty’s ride purple unicorns.”
“Where did you get the pork chops?”
“From your freezer, sir. They looked fresh.”
So much for his planned breakfast.
“And how did you know beforehand that all of the traditional vampire-repelling techniques wouldn’t work?”
Eager, Marvin pressed his chest against the metal tabletop, and Vlad could physically feel the pounding of his guest’s youthful Mountain Dew-fueled heart. “I did my homework, sir. Two years ago when I was bored, I did an analysis of all of the classic books in the public domain. Starting with Bram Stoker, I found that many of the great writers of the last century had some subtle literary commonalities that were statistically improbable. I created a surgically precise literary model that uses a simulated aggregate English professor modeled after personality profiles from more than a thousand arrogant college literary department heads. According to my deep analysis, all of those literary works over the centuries appeared to be written by the same person. I assumed that you were the person who wrote Dracula to feed people the wrong methods to defeat you. But you were writing long before that. You created all those books, didn’t you?”
Vlad was embarrassed. “I’m impressed that you could figure it out. The creative writing bug bit me a lot harder than the ancient vampire who turned me. I’ve been… dabbling for a while, yes. But I gave up on critique groups back in the eighteenth century.”
Maybe this young man would take a look at his poems. No, those were too personal.…
Marvin enthusiastically bounced on his chair, his greasy brown hair flapping up and down. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered that my favorite classic stories and novels were actually ghost-written by an immortal vampire under numerous pen names! Now I know how you can afford all those castles and mansions with all those royalties!”
“All my big sellers are in the public domain,” Vlad pointed out.
But Marvin was too excited to hear. “All the top writers in the history of literature were really one… ummm, person. Speculative fiction, romance, erotica, historicals, New York Times bestsellers, award winners, and all of them are on my bookshelves.”
Vlad felt uncomfortable and exposed. It was hard enough to keep his secret as a vampire, but maintaining a host of pen names was even more of a challenge. He would probably have to kill this intrepid man anyway.
“What’s to keep me from reaching across this table and draining you dry?” He felt his senses go alert, his claws itching to tear flesh and spill blood, his fangs ready to plunge into a pudgy throat… forget the pork chops.
“Nice gambit, but I was the school chess champion from 2006 to 2009. I took precautions. You don’t dare harm me.”
“And I was the national chess champion in 1782. I played against George Washington, a fellow vampire. He lost a bet and forfeited his fangs, which is why he used wooden teeth.” Vlad sneered. “Let me guess, you told a friend where you were going, and they’ll call the authorities if you go missing.”
Marvin squirmed in his chair, glancing at a large black spider that sat on the table, unmoving. “No, I did something more… drastic. I have an automated post that will go out on Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Tumblr, Reddit, Google+, and every other social media website—including the undead ones like MySpace. The post gives explicit directions on how to find you and where you are now.” He nudged the smartphone on the table in front of him. Pointing to a toothy icon on his screen, he said, “Heck, there’s even an app for that.”
Vlad waved his hand in dismissal, though he was uneasy. “That would only bring a convenient meal for me. I should thank you for arranging breakfast in bed, or casket, as the case may be.”
It was Marvin’s turn to lean across the small table. “Oh, it’s far, far worse than that, sir.” He looked into the vampire’s red-rimmed eyes and whispered, “Unless you do as I demand, the post will tell everyone that you sparkle when you sleep!”
If it was possible for Vlad to look paler than his normal self, he hit a new level of waxy pallor. “You wouldn’t dare!”
Marvin flipped the spider over on the table. It had a stamp that said made in China. The spider web was nothing but fake Halloween-store cotton strands. Looking around, Marvin indicated all of the faux spooky objects in the coffin chamber. “For you, it’s all about appearances, Mr. Dracul. I know that about you, and that’s why the sparkly vampire defense is my endgame.”
Vladimir sat stiffly in his chair, breathing heavily at the thought of being chased by every pre-pubescent young lady and their mothers, no matter where he hid. “What… what do you want from me? You wish me to turn you into an immortal vampire?”
“No, nothing like that.” Marvin bent over, reached into his backpack, and produced an enormous stack of dog-eared papers. “Your words inspired me to become a writer. I want you to be my literary mentor.” He slid the manuscript across the table. It was titled The Ears of Argon, Volume 1 of the “Body Parts of Argon Saga.”
Vlad was appalled. “Read amateur manuscripts? I’d rather die—and I have done that already.”
“More than that, sir. Let me co-write a short story with you for my favorite humorous speculative fiction anthology series.” Marvin’s voice had an edge. “Either you can help me make my prose sparkle, or…”
The vampire shuddered uncontrollably. “You’re insane!” He saw with dismay that the manuscript was marked as Part One of Volume 1. The title was in all-caps, Old English letters. Marvin’s backpack had even larger stacks of paper inside.
Marvin leaned back, looking at him eagerly. “Go on, start reading. I’ll sit here quietly, I promise. I just want to watch your reactions.”
Vlad picked up the first page, dreading that even an immortal lifespan would not be long enough… but he would do anything—anything—to stop that message from going out.
***
Kevin J. Anderson has published 125 books, more than fifty of which have been national or international bestsellers. He has written numerous novels in the Star Wars, X-Files, and Dune universes, as well as a unique steampunk fantasy novel, Clockwork Angels, based on the concept album by legendary rock group Rush. His original works include the Saga of Seven Suns series, the Terra Incognita fantasy trilogy, the Saga of Shadows trilogy, and his humorous horror series featuring Dan Shamble, Zombie PI. He has edited numerous anthologies, including the Five by Five and Blood Lite series. Anderson and his wife Rebecca Moesta are the publishers of WordFire Press. (Wordfirepress.com).
Guy Anthony De Marco is a speculative fiction author; a Graphic Novel Bram Stoker Award finalist; winner of the HWA Silver Hammer Award; a prolific short story and flash fiction crafter; a novelist; an invisible man with superhero powers; a game writer (Sojourner Tales modules, Interface Zero 2.0 core team, D&D modules); and a coffee addict. One of these is false.
A writer since 1977, Guy is a member of the following organizations: SFWA, WWA, SFPA, IAMTW, ASCAP, RMFW, NCW, HWA. He hopes to collect the rest of the letters of the alphabet one day. Additional information can be found at Wikipedia, GuyAndTonya.com, and GuyAnthonyDeMarco.com.
Elections at Villa Encantada
Cat Rambo
A few weeks beforehand, the notices began to appear throughout the complex. Shy and scarce as early daffodils at first, then later in desperate profusion, splashes of colored flyers proclaiming one candidate or another for the Home Owners Association board.
A few unscrupulous candidates tried bullying cantrips or mental snares, but those were discovered and invoked a fresh crop of warnings, legal threats, and expansions on points previously made.
Like everyone else, I threw things away as fast as they arrived. The recycling bin grew so full of animating spells that it groaned menacingly whenever you stepped near it.
Then the flyers took on a more ominous tone: a special assessment was looming. Improvements and repairs—costly ones—that would have to be paid for, in one way or another.
All three parts of the tripartite goddess living in one of the three bedrooms next to the lake had tried to get me to run for the HOA board. Once you’ve been a goddess of justice, people think you’re going to want to keep on arbitrating things. Yes, injustice still makes me itch, or gives me an eruption of boils if it’s particularly bad.
But I’m retired now.
They had, for some reason, decided I was their friend. Some vague notion that goddesses should stick together, perhaps. But split souls have always disconcerted me. Listening to the three of them continuing or finishing each other’s sentences just got irritating. It was difficult to talk with a mind that was in three places at once.
“That goddamn mayfly’s driving me nuts,” the Mother complained to me. She stopped by more often than the Crone or Maiden in order to confide in me about a number of things, including how difficult it really was being a tripartite personality (The others are always ganging up on me), the cacti, whose garden was outside her bedroom window (They talk all night!), and the situation with the lake god (I bought a boat so I could get some solitude and every time I get in it, all the water ebbs away and I’m sitting high and dry!). “I turn around and she’s got five more items to consider on that god damn clipboard. I know she’s trying to live a life in the course of the year, but it’s tiring for the rest of us. She’s running for the one of the empty seats, of course. Give her authority and she’ll be ten times worse.”
The mayfly hadn’t endeared herself to anyone so far. Since she rarely slept, she could be found at all times of the day and night, walking the grounds and observing infractions, such as trash on balconies, a loose gutter on another building, and any number of parking violations.
She was everywhere, involved in everything. She organized initiatives and potlucks. You had to admit she was effective, though. And she didn’t mind rolling up her sleeves and pitching in as needed. She’d rebuilt the water feature at the front, despite the grumbling of the oracular carp that had lived in it for years, hiding under the overgrown water lilies filling the concrete basin.
The Mother took a Clementine from the fruit bowl on the table. She said, “Martha’s running again.”
“I thought you said some scandal they just discovered made her ineligible.”
She stripped pith from the nubby flesh. “You remember how when she pissed off the lake god, everyone wondered why he didn’t just smite her?”
“Yeah.” I poured us both more coffee. I wanted her to stay around long enough to get to talking about the special assessment.
“She used a chunk of the maintenance budget to buy an amulet of protection, then charged it to psychic maintenance for the complex. Twenty-five K.”
I whistled.
“And now she’s
got some RV near the boatyard that technically isn’t an illegal place for her to park it, but should be.”
“What’s the word on the special assessment?”
She only waved a hand. “We’ll have three plans for people to vote on.”
“Will we get a chance to see them ahead of time?”
She gave me a scornful look. “Really? Can you imagine the convulsions then?”
“It’ll all happen at the meeting,” I pointed out.
She shrugged. “Get it all over with it once rather than drag it out over a couple of weeks.”
She did have a point.
###
When I answered the door, Glory the mayfly stood there.
You make allowances for mayflies, because their lives are so much shorter than ours. At least I do, in my ongoing attempts to be fair. This one, like the rest of her kind, would only last a year. Right now, in the full heat of summer, she had four or five months to live before the gray skies of October or November led her to birth the next generation and die.
She said, shoulders angled forward at me, “Do you have a minute?”
“No.”
She wasn’t prepared for that bluntness. She blinked at me, then rallied. “Just a moment, that’s all I need.”
“No,” I said again and closed the door.
I returned to my desk. I reactivated the paused program.
It had been going for thirty seconds before a knock came on the door again. I re-paused.
“Don’t you care about what happens here?” she demanded as soon as I opened the door.
“I’m not convinced that whatever you’re about to tell me is going to have any effect.”
“The current board has been mishandling things! We need a new, effective board! Have you heard about the special assessment?”
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