by Sandra Hill
It took a few moments for her eyes to become acclimated to the shadowy interior, but then she couldn’t help but release a hoot of laughter. It could only be described as gloomy chic. Instead of tables, there were small coffins with gothic-looking candles dripping red wax. Huge cobwebs decorated the corners. The walls were stone, like a dungeon. A slate board near the entrance announced the drink of the day, “Scotch and Bloody Soda.”
Since there didn’t appear to be a hostess at the moment, she sat down at a nearby table and pulled a small netbook out of her purse. She wanted to jot down a few observations about what she’d seen this morning while they were fresh in her mind. She’d already started a first draft on her laptop last night.
“Whath can I do fer you?” someone slurred out.
Alex had heard a lot of slurring today as people tried to speak through their fake vampire teeth. So it was no surprise when she glanced up to see her waitress wore fangs.
The woman stood, shifting wearily from hip to hip, anxious to end her workday, Alex guessed. Alex had seen a bus pulling away from the curb moments ago with the logo “Punxsutawney Senior Citizens Club” on the side. Alex recalled her college restaurant jobs. The waitress’s feet were probably killing her.
But then she had to smile. This had to be the only vampire in history wearing orthopedic shoes with her black cape, over which there was a badge that read, “Hi! I’m Glenda.” She was short, slightly plump, with black curly hair and freckles that were obvious, even with the white pancake makeup she wore. She resembled a goth Rosie O’Donnell.
“Uh, just a drink.”
Glenda handed her a beverage menu.
Quickly scanning the list of vampire-themed drinks, she said, “Just a Bloody Mary, without the vodka.”
“A Bloody Shame?”
She referred to what was commonly called a Virgin Mary, but Bloody Shame worked just as well. “Right.”
When the waitress returned with the drink, she seemed to be in a little better mood, especially since she’d removed her fangs. Pointing to Alex’s netbook, she asked, “You a reporter or something?”
“Yes. World Gazette magazine.”
“We get lots of reporters here. The Philadelphia Inquirer comes every other month.”
Alex nodded as she sipped at her drink. “This is very good, Glenda.”
“We use fresh tomatoes. My husband, Bob, usta be a farmer before we bought this place.”
“Oh, you’re the owner.”
“Yep. Me and Bob. I kin tell you right now. It’s a helluva lot harder than farming.”
Alex smiled. “I have an appointment this afternoon with Lord Vikar.”
“That lord up at the castle?” she asked, not in a kindly way. “I’m surprised he agreed to meet with you. He ain’t given interviews with any other reporters that I know of.”
“Have you met him?”
“Nah! They’re an unsociable bunch. I’ve seen him in passing, though.”
“And?”
“He’s hot, if you’re into vampires.”
“I would think that the hotel renovation would provide a lot of new jobs for the area.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, they’re bringing in their own workers, I hear. Oh, they do shop in our stores sometimes, but they get most stuff from the Internet or over the mountain in State College.”
“Well, once the hotel opens, your local economy should flourish, even more than it is now.”
“I s’pose, as long as they don’t modernize it too much. It’s that creepy old castle, and all the rumors of vampires, that started all this Dracula crap here.”
“You don’t approve of the . . . uh, Dracula crap?”
“Sure I do. Half the town was on welfare before that, and— Oops, Bob is calling me from the kitchen. You kin pay on your way out. Stop by again, honey.”
When it was about a half hour before her appointment, she left the cafe and drove out of town, then up a narrow dirt road heading toward 777 Colyer Lane. Then she came to a set of closed wrought-iron gates that were half hanging on their hinges. A big, pale-skinned man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans put up a hand when she was about to get out of her car and try to open the gate herself.
“Sorry. No entrance to the public.” The guy, who was really spooky-looking, with pale blue eyes and albino-ish skin, was staring at her in an intimidating fashion. He even licked his bloodred lips, between which fangs were slightly exposed.
“I have an appointment.”
“That’s what they all say. Sorry.”
“Really, I have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“Lord Vikar.”
“So you say. And your name is . . . ?”
“Alexandra Kelly from World Gazette magazine.”
He ran a forefinger down a list on his clipboard. “Nope. No Alexandra Kelly. Sorry.” He turned and walked away from her.
Now what? She pulled out her cell phone and saw that she had no bars. Swearing beneath her breath, she decided that she’d have to go back to town and call Ben, see if he could clear up the misunderstanding. Turning her car around, she was halfway down the dirt road to the highway when she saw a big-wheeled pickup truck headed in her direction. Thinking quickly, she pulled over to the side of the road and got out, waving the pickup to a stop.
“Hey, buddy, can you give me a lift? I ran out of gas.”
The guy, who could be no more than sixteen, had the same fangs, pale skin, and pale blue eyes as the gate guard, except his black hair was combed like Michael Jackson in that “Thriller” video and he was, in fact, dressed in a similar red jacket and one white glove. She would bet her BlackBerry that inside she’d see slim black pants with white socks exposed . . . the whole nine Michael Jackson yards. “Uh, I’m not thaposed to give anybody a ride.”
“It’s okay. I’m the interior designer here to meet with Lord Vikar.”
“Oh, I guess ith all right then.”
She crawled up onto the passenger seat, not an easy feat with it being about four feet off the ground. “Thanks,” she said. “Have you been here long?”
“I justh got here lath week,” she thought he said, but his lisping voice could barely be heard or understood over the loud music blaring from the speakers. “Beat It,” of course. He was seat dancing and singing along as he drove.
Uh-oh, they were approaching the gate. So, again thinking quickly, Alex tipped her purse over, dumping the contents onto the floor. With her hunkered down and with the truck up so high, the guard just waved the truck through after her driver called out, “Hey, Svein,” and the guard called back, “How’s it going, Armod?”
They drove another quarter mile or so until the castle came into view.
“Holy moley!” she exclaimed.
“Yeah, ain’t it greath?” Armod said, pulling up front to drop her off. “I need to go around back to unload,” he explained.
It was a huge stone castle. Probably four or five stories high, with turrets and gargoyles. Oddly, all the shutters were closed over what must be leaded windows. She’d already done her research on the lumber baron with aspirations to royalty who’d built the place more than a hundred years ago. It had been unoccupied for more than fifty years . . . and it showed. Creepy would be an understatement with the grounds overgrown with monster weeds and wild bushes.
At least a dozen workmen’s trucks and vans were parked nearby, and scaffolding was already erected around the exterior where work had started on repointing the stonework and repairing broken shutters.
“Thanks for the lift, Armod,” she said, jumping down.
She smiled as “Billie Jean” could be heard in his wake.
Walking carefully up the broken sidewalk, she noticed how interested some of the workers were in her appearance. Hard to tell whether they were outside contractors or resident dilly bars. She approached the enormous iron-studded, double front doors with a brass knocker big enough for Godzilla. There was a half-installed high-tech security plate on the right s
ide of the threshold, where tools were lying on the steps and wiring hung out of the metal plate.
She knocked a few times.
No answer. In fact, despite all the workmen and vehicles outside, the house . . . rather, castle . . . seemed oddly silent.
Just then, she noticed a doorbell. She pressed the button and could hear a gonging noise inside. How cornily appropriate, she thought with a smile. If Herman Munster answered the door, she was going to puke.
Still no answer.
After the rebuff by the gate guard, and now this, she was getting more than frustrated. Plus, when she’d dressed this morning in a black silk pants suit, it had been a little chilly. Now it was hot. She took off the jacket, fanned herself with her notebook, then leaned on the doorbell. Really leaned on it. It should be heard all the way to Hell and back.
“Go away!” she thought she heard someone shout from some distant place inside.
No way! She gave the doorbell a good press this time and didn’t let up. Gong, gong, gong, gong, gong . . .
“WHAT?” a belligerent voice yelled at her, yanking the door open suddenly.
She would have liked to say, Well, hello to you, too, but she was stunned, at a loss for words.
Standing before her was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, and the oddest. Early thirties, she would guess. He had long, dirty blond hair down to his shoulder blades, with pencil thin braids framing each side of his face. The braids were intertwined with turquoise beads. He had beautiful blue eyes and almost perfect facial features. She was tall, five-nine, but he had to be six-foot-four. And what a body! The odd thing, though, was his attire. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, drab green cargo shorts, and flip-flops, like some overage surfer dude. Not your average vampire. He had a nice deep tan, unlike the others she’d seen so far. She’d probably just caught him out of costume. In one hand, he carried a long-handled net.
“Butterflies?” she asked.
“Bats.”
Okaaay!
“Who in bloody hell are you?” the man asked rudely.
“I’m Alexandra Kelly. From World Gazette magazine. I have an appointment with Lord Vikar.”
“Is that a fact?” he said, leaning lazily against his bat catcher pole, giving her an insolent once-over, with a pause over her ivory-colored camisole top.
“Are you the pool boy, or something?”
“Or something.”
“Are you going to invite me in?”
“No.”
No? “Listen, whoever you are, I’m hot. I’m tired. My feet hurt in these new heels. I’ve driven all the way from D.C. I’m staying with Donald and Ivana Trump Yoder in a farmhouse out of the nineteenth century with the ambience of eau de pig poop. And I’m starting to get annoyed. Move aside. I’ll wait inside for your boss.”
“I do not think so, wench.” He spread his arms and legs, barring her way.
“Wench? How juvenile!”
They were at a stalemate. Her glaring at him. Him not budging.
“I have a gun in my purse,” she blurted out before she could bite her tongue.
He laughed. The jerk had the nerve to laugh.
Just then another man came up behind the jerk. “Who is it?”
“Nobody.”
Nobody? She’d like to give him nobody, right in his insolent six-pack abs.
The second guy pushed the jerk to the side. And, whoa, another good-looking stud muffin, this one in a gladiator outfit. Of the same height as blondie but different as night and day. He had shorter black hair, barely reaching his shoulders, and wore a belted, leather tunic thingee that only reached midthigh, exposing bare, hairy legs down to heavy sandals. Gerard Butler in the flesh! she decided. But no, Gerard Butler played a Spartan, not a Roman, didn’t he? Whatever!
“I think I’ve landed in Bedlam,” she remarked.
“I often have the same thought,” Spartacus said before extending a hand to her. “Greetings, m’lady. I am Trond Sigurdsson. And you are . . . ?”
She shook hands with him and said, “Alexandra Kelly.”
“You’ve met my brother Vikar Sigurdsson?”
Her eyes went wide.
“Vikar! Have you been surly again? Tsk, tsk!”
Vikar shoved his brother inside with a sharp hip slam and closed the door behind him, leaving them both on the doorstep. She could hear laughter on the other side of the door.
“You’re Vikar?”
“In the flesh,” he said on a long sigh.
“Lord Vikar?”
He nodded.
“Ha, ha, ha! You? Some kind of Lord of the Vampire Dance?”
“Surely you jest, m’lady. I do not dance.”
“No offense, honey, but you look more like a silly Viking than a vampire.”
“Silly Viking?” he hissed suddenly and flashed a pair of impressive fangs at her.
“Spare me the hokey act. I’ve seen more than enough fangs in town today. Lots more authentic than yours, too.”
“You are not afraid of me?” He seemed confused.
“Not a bit.”
He shook his head as if to clear it, then seemed to come to a decision. “Listen, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I agreed to no interview with your magazine. There were several phone calls asking for an interview with a man named”—his eyebrows raised with sudden understanding—“Alex Kelly.”
“Obviously not a man.”
“Obviously,” he agreed, his eyes regarding her with deliberate sexual interest.
Oh jeesh, this guy must really be Lord Vikar. Hope I haven’t killed my chances for an interview.
“But I did not agree to an interview. So, male or female, it is a moot point.” He put his hand on the doorknob and was about to go back inside.
“Your agent arranged it,” she said quickly.
“My what?” He half turned back to her.
“Agent. A guy named Mike Archer.”
“Mike Arch-her,” he said slowly, facing her directly again. Then understanding seemed to hit him. He was not pleased with whatever that understanding was. “That figures. No matter! I am not doing an interview. Send me a bill for your expenses, and I’ll send a check. In the meantime—” He stopped suddenly and put a hand to her chin, turning it so that her neck was exposed. Sparks erupted where he touched her skin, and they slingshotted throughout her body. She was immediately aroused. “You have two marks on your neck.”
At first she was bewildered, but then she put a hand to her neck. “Oh, those are just mosquito bites. Did I tell you I’m staying on a farm? The Bed & Blood. You wouldn’t believe how many— Whoa, what are you doing?”
He’d opened the door with one hand and grabbed her by the upper arm with the other, yanking her inside with him. The door closed loudly behind them.
At first she was disoriented because of the poor lighting, which was not helped by the closed shutters. All around them, on the wide stairway, in the corridors, and in what must have once been salons, standing on high ladders with feather dusters and paint rollers, and on hands and knees on marble floors with scrub brushes, strange-looking men and a few women stared at her. Big half-opened boxes of furniture and accessories—recently delivered, she presumed—towered in piles up to the ceiling, including what must be at least a dozen wide-screen TVs. In the background, on what must be a castlewide sound system, hymns played. Hymns?
The strange people silently gawked at her, as if she were the oddball. Or the next item on their menu, if those licking their lips were any indication.
They all had pale blue eyes. Many had very light skin, although there appeared to be something resembling a tanning bed on the other side of the hall in the old dining room, where two men paused in the midst of a fencing match using huge swords. A set of free weights lay along the edge, along with boxing gloves and a yet to be installed punching bag.
Some of the people wore regular T-shirts and jeans. Others wore historical attire totally out of place in this time period. A Mississippi riverboat gam
bler. More Vikings. A Regency lady. And, of course, Spartacus, who was grinning, as if he were in on the joke of the century. Which would be her.
Almost all of them showed fangs.
She glanced toward Lord Vikar.
He smiled at her through white, straight teeth . . . no fangs in sight now. “Welcome to Hotel Transylvania, my dear.”
And thus her nightmare began.
Three
Welcome to my world, sweetling . . .
“I need to taste you,” Vikar said and almost immediately wished he’d bitten his tongue, except his fool fangs had come out in anticipation of—what else?—a taste.
Son of a troll! How he hated these fangs! They were embarrassing, really. And inconvenient. In fact, they seemed to have a mind of their own. Like another part of his body.
But wait. Something strange was happening here. The air fair crackled, and he could swear his skin tingled. Tingled, for the love of a cloud! Every hair on his body was standing at attention, like bloody antennae.
The woman backed up a bit, but he was between her and the door to his office where he’d yanked her after seeing her alarm on first viewing his fellow vangels. There was a telling silence on the other side of the door now, as if all twenty-seven vangels in residence so far were attempting to listen in on how he would handle this latest disaster.
He wasn’t sure if she sensed the same chemistry in the air, or if it was his rude behavior that frightened her. Probably both.
“Taste . . . taste . . . ?” she sputtered, her green eyes sparking anger at him. “In your dreams, buster. I’m here for an interview, and nothing else. I don’t appreciate your manhandling me, either.”
“I ‘manhandled’ you for your own safety. The tasting must be done, for your own safety.”
“That’s a new line, right up there with ‘I have to have sex or my blue balls will fall off.’ ”
She has a mouth like a drukkinn sailor. I like it. “You have a coarse tongue, m’lady.”
“Yeah, well, m’lord, you put your tongue, coarse or otherwise, anywhere near my private parts, and you will be very sorry.”
“What? That is not what I meant by tasting.” But now that you’ve planted the picture in my mind, I wonder if it fits in with Trond’s “near-sex”? “You missay me. ’Tis your blood I must sample in order to—”