I spend the next several hours in shock, mostly because I do not know how to cook, so I am relegated to eating Cocoa Puffs.
Do they really expect me to care for myself?
Soon I will be old and gray and unable to walk. Who will wash my clothes? Do the grocery shopping? Pay the bills? I have plenty of money stashed away, so that is not a concern, but I do not understand how they think I can perform all these menial tasks on my own.
I’m a vampire! Vampires don’t do chores. They have human slaves or they make weaker vampires do the work in exchange for protection. It has been so for centuries.
I groan, trying to wrap my head of thick, long, wavy locks around this conundrum. Hmmm… I could still go to the king and threaten to expose his secret, but he has probably been warned already. He might throw me in vampire jail to live out my final months.
I think and think hard.
Surely there must be a vampire out there willing to turn me, if not for money, then to spite the king. Not all five hundred eighty-two societies support him.
“Society” is our term for coven, mostly because vampires hide in plain sight, living among humans, operating businesses or working for companies.
And in order to have a place to conduct vampire business, each coven officially registers with the human regulatory bodies as some sort of nonprofit, generally one that has the name “society” in it.
For example, here in Phoenix, we are the Arizona Society of Sunshine Love. Officially, it is a private organization dedicated to driving awareness of the benefits of sunshine. Unofficially, it was some vampire’s idea of a joke. Vampires do not enjoy or benefit from the sun, though we can and do tolerate it all the time. It merely weakens us.
Another well-known coven is the Cincinnati Historical Society of Original Family Members—a historical preservation club. Also a little vampire humor, since vampires are preserved history.
My most recent coven was founded by yours truly, the New Orleans Spicy Gumbo Society. I am quite proud of the name since we refer to humans from that region as spicy gumbo. They are quite flavorful.
I stare into my empty cereal bowl while seated at the kitchen counter. All these thoughts of vampire culture make me bodysick. It’s like being homesick, but for my old vampire body. I used to love drinking blood. Especially the sensation right before the meal is ending when the human’s arms are desperately flailing about.
I sigh with longing. I must find a way to become a vampire again.
I get up and go into the study, finding a pen and paper. I make a list of every ally, every enemy of the Vanderhorsts, and every evil vampire. Surely someone on this list will turn me before my young, healthy body breaks down to middle age. Bleh! I must be young forever or nothing at all.
I go up to my room, pack my bag, and say goodbye to this family, this house, and this burning hellhole called Arizona.
I do not need any of it. I do not need Miriam, Vanderhorst, or Stella. I will find my own way through this mess and rise once again to my place at the top of vampire society.
With a suitcase in hand, I stop in the foyer, realizing I cannot fly.
No, I mean I cannot fly commercial. I do not possess the proper documentation. I cannot fly the other way either. Vampires can only run fast. I cannot even do that at present.
I go to the five-car garage and smile. Sorry, Vanderhorst. But you left it behind. I grab the keys from the hook on the wall and climb into the brand-new silver Mercedes G-Class with tinted windows. He loves this boxy SUV beast more than he loves his first-edition books.
Mine now, Vanderhorst. A tiny consolation prize for all that he has taken from me.
CHAPTER FOUR
After a six-hour drive, I enter the Rusty Nail, a seedy bar in El Paso, Texas. I have not been here in decades, but my old friend Bob the Impaler runs it, and he owes me a few favors. Out of everyone on the list, he is by far my oldest and closest friend.
There was this one time we traveled on a cruise liner during the 1920s. We had such a time! Drinking and throwing bodies overboard. Every day, ten more passengers would be reported missing. It was utter pandemonium. Eventually, the passengers threw the captain overboard because he was unable to give them answers or protect them. I always did enjoy watching others take the blame for my actions.
Dressed in my leather pants and black velvet jacket, I enter the dark, smokey bar located in a run-down strip mall next to a grimy bowling alley. The Rusty Nail is a certifiable dump—dirty concrete floor, chipped-up tables, ratty vinyl-covered chairs. A few drunk customers sit slumped over at the bar, and a country tune plays on the jukebox.
The door closes behind me, and I inhale deeply, savoring the sinister atmosphere. “It is just as a remember.” I even catch the faint scent of copper in the air. Someone has died here recently. Likely one of those cartel types.
So delicious. It is a well-known fact that the more evil a person is, the spicier their blood. Vampires love anything hot, including chili peppers, raw or in a sauce. Yes, we—I mean vampires—eat human food. These days, I am stuck with bland but healthy meals. My five-year-old tongue is not accustomed to complex flavors or the fiery heat of the coveted ghost pepper.
I cannot wait to return to my old diet. Also, I must constantly work out to maintain my six-pack. It is exhausting looking so masculine. The sooner I am immortal, the better!
“Nice, is that you?”
I look over at Bob, who has just come from the back room. He has golden brown skin, straight black hair down to his waist, and wears a cowboy hat. I am not sure of his actual age, but he has the face of a twenty-year-old. The ladies love his rugged demeanor and long silky hair. I was always jealous of his strong physique. When I was turned the first time, I had been malnourished by my vampire captor. Jealous no more.
“Bob! Jesss… It is I, your old friend Nicephorus,” I say in my crazy Mr. Nice accent, which no one could ever pin down. Always keep ’em guessing, as Narcissismo used to say.
We embrace, but Bob squeezes me too hard. I suck up the pain, not wanting him to see my weakness.
He releases me, and I note an odd look in his dark eyes.
“It has been many years,” he says, the look growing more nefarious, complete with eye twitches. “You smell so delicious.” He squeezes my bicep. “And my, my, my, how you’ve filled out. So juicy.” He licks his lips. “And your scent…” He throws back his head and inhales. “Spicy!”
My eyes go wide, and I step back, holding out my hands. “Bob, no. I am chor old friend, Mr. Nice. Do choo not recall the cruise liner? The redheaded twins we shared zat first night? How about the time we went horse shopping to stock your ranch? I picked out zi white stallion and gave it to you as a gift. You named him Moonshine.”
From the hungry look in his eyes, I can tell that Bob the Impaler is not hearing a word I’ve said. The stomach brain is in control now.
I dare not run, because it will only make him want to chase me. “Fine, I’m leaving, Bob. But know this, I will soon be a vampire again—a hundred times more powerful than before. I will remember this moment when you turned your back on your best friend.”
“Go!” he growls. “And do not return here again, or I will eat you. Toes first.”
Jeez… That’s a little dark. I turn and leave, my face and palms sweating profusely. I cannot believe it, but I felt genuinely worried just now. It is an emotion I haven’t experienced in centuries. My heart is thumping, like a hammer in my chest, my head feels light, and I need to piss. Rather badly.