“We’ll all be back in the morning,” I said.
From behind Father Bram’s shoulder I could see a ghostly image of Donald Sutherland’s face bearing two drooly fangs.
“Roger!” I tugged at his arm and pointed over the priest’s head.
“What?” Roger followed my finger.
The face was gone.
He cut me another tolerant look. His count was going up. At this point his next canoodle would be for his eightieth birthday.
“Let’s get you back to the Van Helsing. You need food and rest, in that order,” he said pretending not to feel my sizzling laser stare.
With Roger’s arm around me, I hoisted the toilet plunger. We followed Kit through the gate, stumbled our way out the courtyard and down the scree covered road to the inn. I proceeded cautiously, walking for two and staying alert for Vlad the baby stealer.
Chapter Ten
It was deadly dark by the time we got back to the Van Helsing. The porch light was on and the interior lights glowed. We made our way up the front stairs, grit sliding under our feet. Grave-grit? I scraped my shoes on the threshold, not wanting to track in dirt.
Roger held the door and I stepped inside. The wooden floor of the lobby was slippery from some sort of sand and the whole place smelled like a pizza parlor.
Squirl popped up from behind the registration desk wearing a white peasant blouse, black skirt, and a necklace of garlic bulbs. She clutched them as I stared at her.
“Sorry. The village is officially out of fresh garlic … but,” she pulled an army-green canister from behind the desk. A faded picture of a garlic bud was painted on the face of the container. “Garlic salt,” she grinned and clanged the can on the counter.
I cut her a questioning look.
“To keep Vlad away.”
Jonathan Harker came up from behind the desk. “Still your mouth!” he snapped at her. What was down there? A stage set from Saturday Night Live or a shag-rug?
“Not to worry,” Squirl whispered. “I sprinkled the entrance, all the doors, and every windowsill with garlic salt. That will keep that baby stealer away.”
A cold quake took hold of my body as I thought of Big Roger’s tale of kidnapping gypsies. I patted Little Roger and tried to shield his ears wherever they were.
“Next time ask before you take a plunger,” Harker said pointing to my weapon.
“There won’t be a next time.” I wanted to call him a jerk, but bit my tongue. It would be waste of a good insult. Jerks never admit to jerk-hood. Besides I was way too tired to debate his I.Q. Using the plunger as a cane I mounted the stairs with the guys following me.
Squirl placed her hand on her mouth to amplify her little voice. “Your dinner is in your room. Sorry it’s cold.”
Roger thanked her.
A whine lodged in my throat and swung from my tonsils. I knew it would hurt Roger if I ran screaming down the road away from the luxurious Van Helsing Resort and Spa. Come to think of it—where was the spa?
Once in our suite, I hit the potty, this time keeping the door open in case Vlad appeared for an encore. The rooms smelled like linguini with clam sauce. The garlic salt might not work on vampires but it sure could drive guests away.
Kit and Roger were setting up our food service when I exited the potty, relieved in more than one way. No Vlad sighting and a temporarily void bladder.
The guys took the silver lids off the sub sandwiches that looked suspiciously darker than roast beef. I bet they were Bambi with horseradish sauce. Gross.
We each popped a bottle of water and chugged. I took the armchair with the best support. The guys sat on the sofa facing me with their backs to the windows.
I could see my reflection shiver in the glass behind their heads. The drapes had been closed when we left the room. Who opens drapes at night? This was a pretty ass-backwards place.
Kit banged the silver platter lid. “We can melt down these servers and make silver bullets to knock off any vampires.” He stacked the covers.
“Silver bullets are for werewolves, wooden stakes are for vampires. Besides, do you have a bullet-mold on you? I forgot mine.” Tired and Cranky joined my moody dwarfs of pregnancy.
Kit looked sheepish.
I couldn’t stop myself from being snippy. I was on a crab roll. “In the future, you don’t address a priest as ‘Your Honor’.”
He slumped into the sofa a ball of black satin, his pom-pom slippers crusted with mud.
How could I be so mean to him? “Sorry Kit.” I mouthed the word ‘hormones’ so Roger wouldn’t see. No sense in letting my know-it-all fiancé know he might be right. He gloats when he’s right, or maybe that’s me. Tiredness took over my brain and drove it headlong into a fog bank.
The sight of glowing eyeballs and slobbering fangs floated by our window in a slow putt-putt. It was Vlad of the mirror looking like Donald Sutherland cut off at the knees. He grinned at me, wiggling his long waxy fingers. A chill skittered up my spine. Little Roger was very still. I felt him listening to my heart race and tried to slow down the tom-toms.
“Don’t turn around, but that Vlad guy is outside the windows,” I said.
The guys stared at me as if I’d just discovered a vampire leering at them.
I handed Roger my phone. “Pretend you’re looking at the screen, but check out his reflection in the face of the phone. Quick, before he disappears again.”
Vlad vanished just as I handed the gadget to Roger.
“Damn! I mean darn.” Would I ever learn mother-speak?
I plastered a fake smile on my face and spoke through my teeth. “Keep looking at me. I think he’ll be back.”
Roger screwed his face. “We’re on the third floor. There’s no balcony.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad. Just keep your eyes on me and pretend we’re talking.” I spoke through clenched jaws.
As I finished the sentence Vlad repeated his float but this time upside down, his white hair dangling loose like a ghostly mop, his cloak dropping over his shoulders, his cheeks flopping over his eyes, his feet paddling above his head exposing ankle-length pointy boots. He appeared to be engaged in some sort of aerial battle with his own body. He wrestled with his cloak and punched at his back. Maybe an invisible vampire slayer had him by the scruff of his neck.
Roger tilted the phone. “I see him!” he yelled. He tossed the phone at me and dashed to the window with Kit at his heels.
Vlad waved and motioned to them to open the glass.
“Don’t open it! That’s inviting a vampire in,” I said.
I grabbed a blanket, covered my belly, and joined the guys at the window.
Whap! Whap! Whap! The apparition repeatedly slammed its entire body against the pane.
“Is he trying to get in or kill himself?” Kit asked.
“If he’s a vampire, he’s already dead. But he does seem out of control. Cripes! Did he just fall?” I said as the mini-Sutherland dropped from the sky.
The three of us leaned on the windowsill pressing our noses to the glass. “Where’d he go?” Kit asked.
All I could see was a puff of smoke.
“That was a scream. I’ve heard enough. We’re not staying here tonight.” Roger threw his arm around me drawing me from the window.
Kit pulled the drapes closed. The drag queen was ghastly pale despite his Miami Beach tan.
“As much as I want to cut and run, we can’t leave here. There’s nowhere to go,” I said thinking of the rough coach ride back down the mountain in the dark. “Besides we promised Father Bram we’d return in the morning.”
Roger wore his stumped expression.
“I’ve got this one!” Kit spun on his heels and headed for the door.
“Are you running away?”
“Have I ever run away? I’m getting that canister of garlic salt. I’ll be right back!”
My stomach headed for the exit ramp via the up-chuck route. “No more garlic! I’d rather risk that drifting dope than inhale mor
e garlic salt.” I ran to the bathroom with the dry heaves.
Gone in a flash, Kit didn’t hear my plea for mercy.
I hung over the bowl wondering how many people in this ancient inn had placed their butts on this seat. And still I couldn’t barf.
It seemed like mere seconds when Kit returned carrying the canister of garlic salt under his arm like a conga drum.
The Miami Beach drag queen launched into a dance that resembled something from a European folk festival. He sprinkled the stinky salt on everything, including Roger and me. To think I objected to the idea of throwing rice at our wedding. We smelled like Gino’s at midnight.
Roger walked me to the bed. “You need to eat something. Have those potato crisps. Get something in you for the baby’s sake. And drink that entire bottle of water now or you’ll dehydrate.” He stood over me to make sure I obeyed. He was right.
I sat on the bed nibbling the chips and slugging the water. “Look guys, take shifts during the night, please. I can’t stay up and I won’t be able to sleep with that creature of the night yo-yoing outside. Plus, somehow he got into our room today. I know I saw him in the bathroom mirror.”
Kit hoisted his silky pajama bottoms. “I’ll take the first watch.” He plunked into the hardback armchair, stretched his legs and kicked off his pompom slippers. He wiggled his toes and yawned.
My eyes burned, and my back felt as if I had been kicked by a mule wearing sneakers. I placed my water bottle on the nightstand. “Little Roger and I are going to sleep now.” I flicked off the bedside lamp.
“Wake me at two, earlier if you get sleepy,” Roger said to Kit, as he lay on the bed. He pulled me next to him in a spooning position. I shoved him away. “Hey! Grave germs! Get in the shower before you snuzzle me.” I decided to cut him some slack on the patronizing bit. Tonight I needed hugs. His pompous putdowns would go on my naughty list. I’d get him later.
Grumbling like a ticked off teen, Roger made his way to the shower.
“Keep the door open!” I yelled. “And sing so we know you’re okay.”
“I take requests.”
“Do Sinatra. Strangers in the Night.”
Roger belted out half the song, while Kit groaned and pressed a pillow over his head.
My husband-to-be returned to our honeymoon bed dressed in striped pajamas looking like my grandpa. Not that I’ve ever seen my grandpa in or out of pajamas.
Doctor and Mrs. Jolley-to-be gave spooning another try. The mattress owned some ungodly lumps of stuffing that dug into my right hip and elbow creating an entirely new batch of aches. Little Roger gave me a goodnight kick and then settled down for what I hoped was a snooze. His daddy snored lightly.
I was somewhere in the gray zone before REM sleep when my brain kicked in.
“Whoa!” I yelped, half-asleep but wide-awake with brilliance.
Roger sat bolt straight up in bed and looked to the right and left as if under attack.
A snorted snore came from Kit’s chair. So much for our watchman.
My eyes were twice their size as I shared my smartipantsness with Roger.
“Vlad can’t be a vampire! We’ve seen his reflection!”
Chapter Eleven
Morning was announced by a rooster. I thought they were extinct. If not, they should be. It was way too early.
Sometime during the night, the guys had changed shifts. Kit snuffled on the sofa under the windows, the dusty spread heaped on the floor. Roger sat bleary-eyed in the armchair. I guessed Vlad had fled for the evening.
I edged out of the bed shoving what I thought was a blanket to clear my exit. It was a mattress lump. Ick. A shower and shampoo were in order.
“Need you to stand guard while I wash,” I said to Roger.
“Sure thing,” he said, dropping his head with a clunk.
“Wake up lazy bones. We have a date with a priest.”
Roger lifted himself out of the chair and accompanied me to the bathroom. He leaned against the door watching me adjust the handheld shower and drop my nightie. His morning horny mien easily read, “Just a quickie? Kit’s gone to his room.”
“With you never a quickie, always a longie.” I stepped in the shower and pulled the curtain around me. “Stay out!”
And he did.
I took a long hot shower in water that smelled faintly of gasoline. What was that all about? A tainted well? Now I smelled like a Domino’s Pizza delivery person.
My blonde hair, the shortest ever at shoulder-length, was a snap to towel dry. I blotted and squished, and then tossed my locks, managing to bonk my eye with a chunk of hair.
Wrapped in a fluffy white bath towel with the Van Helsing logo positioned on my chest, I exited the bathroom and went through my trousseau. What does a pregnant bride wear to dig up vampire monks?
I dressed in black maternity trousers, a long-sleeved black t-shirt, A Pea in the Pod trousseau jacket, and my Keds. Black wouldn’t show blood. Both the guys were dressed for action when I popped out of the fitting-room sized wardrobe with a ‘ta-da’. They were also in black. We looked like a team of fashion conscious ninjas as we trotted down the Gone with the Wind staircase.
Squirl was singing in the kitchen, her high-pitched voice echoing off the walls. The chorus of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” hit me as an odd choice. But maybe the little maid considered being left in charge of the entire resort a fun gig.
We settled at the prep table near the stove to make it easier on Squirl to serve breakfast. Roger and I sat on the right looking out toward the garden. Kit sat across from us. A scrawny patch of wildflowers scattered between the backdoor and what must have been a gardening shed.
The table was set country style with a crisp white cloth and floral patterned dishes. Our little hostess had set a bowl of greens, a platter of sausage, a basket of biscuits, and a steaming pot of coffee in the center of the table. She skipped around waiting on us as if we were long lost kin. Squirl appeared to be one of those people who is naturally happy all the time. I liked that in an innkeeper.
Kit picked at the vegetable platter, and Roger nibbled on the grains. I fiddled with the oatmeal figuring it to be safest.
I passed on the Bambi sausage. The life expectancy for deer around the Van Helsing resort was probably very short. I longed for some buttery fried eggs.
“Could I have some scrambled eggs?” I asked.
“We’ve no eggs, you see,” she said by way of an apology. “Chickens won’t lay with vampires about.”
I nodded like that was common knowledge.
The grains of Squirl’s harvest breakfast wedged uncomfortably between my teeth. I checked the pocket of my jacket. My waxed floss was locked and loaded. I couldn’t wait to step away from the table and run the thread through my teeth. I bolted the last mouthful of coffee. It was delicious and took my mind off the forest forager’s feast.
Kit and Roger seemed to have an unspoken plan between them. Roger nodded. Kit returned the nod.
Roger leaned over and gave me a peck and whisper. “There may be something we can use for weapons in that shed.”
They excused themselves and slipped out the back door. I hoped they’d find some AK-47s or maybe one of those wicked crossbows Buffy uses.
Squirl was fussing at the sink.
I inched toward her. “You seem very happy here.”
“Life is simple in Loutish. Do you know how many Loutish women had a nervous breakdown in the last century? Two.”
While Squirl was in a sentimental mood, I thought it a good time to arm myself. “Mind if I borrow a kitchen knife?”
“Have at it, missy. Whatever you need. Just take this.” She slipped me a religious cross on a chain and placed her garlic lei over my head and around my neck.
I pocketed the cross. Squirl was arming me for battle with dark forces. I knew it. I knew it. Roger had gotten us in a stew again.
The lei refreshed my essence of clam sauce aroma. I grabbed a carving knife from a woodblock, and a black spatula from t
he counter. If I couldn’t bring myself to stab at least I could flip.
“Biscuit?” Squirl passed me a basket of dark buns. Ever polite, I put the weapons on the countertop and took a bun.
“Do try it,” she said. “It’s mom’s recipe. Sadly she took one ingredient with her to her grave. I’ve been experimenting to find the missing part ever since. Don’t have it quite right, yet.”
I shot her a weak smile, smeared the biscuit with butter from a serving dish, and bit. Pain shot through my upper jaw with the power of a high voltage shock. My eyes watered and I tasted blood. I had cracked a tooth on the biscuit.
“Damn! I mean darn.” I dropped the knife and picked up a kitchen towel.
Cupping my hand on my jaw, I mumbled. “Is there a dentist in Loutish?”
“What’s wrong, love?” she asked clueless as to the damage her cement biscuit caused.
I took the towel from my lips and let her see the blood.
“Oh lordy! I’ll bet that hurts.” She raised her index finger as if hit with a brilliant idea. “Lucky Westenra is a dentist and podiatrist.”
“Gif me hiz mumber.”
“He took his family on holiday… because of the vampires.”
“One mass slauffer un the whole friggin’ fown meaves on holi-fay?”
With the bloody towel in my right hand and the spatula in my left I waddled out of the kitchen. My reflection in the foyer mirror showed a character from Deliverance, all I needed was banjo music. Our wedding pictures were going to have to be Photoshopped.
I stood in the foyer nursing my jaw and blotting tears. I’m not a crier. What was wrong with me? Hormones or hell-in-a-handbag?
A sound approximating giant cowbells announced my guys were back and armed. I stepped outside to find them grinning like two schoolboys who’d caught a garden snake. Well, one schoolboy and one drag queen. A tangle of spades, hoes, and some rake-like things lay at their feet. “Bring on the vampires!” Roger said.
Honk! Honk!
Former resort manager Jonathan Harker, now chief coward, tooted and waved as he cruised by the porch in what must have been the original Range Rover. The engine sounded like a tablespoon stuck in a garbage disposal. He floored it and left the Van Helsing parking lot in a cloud of dust and a hardy hi ho.
Vulgarian Vamp (A Wendy Darlin Comedy Mystery Book 5) Page 5