“What?! We just got here,” Theopolis demands to know, “Why?”
“Fine!” Jessica nearly yells. She folds her arms across her and flops back down against the dining chair in a huff.
Then she waves her hand through the air, “Whatever!” she says, “let me know when it’s time to go back.”
“Sheesh,” Theopolis makes a tense facial expression to the others while Jessica’s eyes are down turned, staring once again at the evening’s silver pattern at her place setting. This makes Theopolis glance down at his plate consequently remembering the legend. With a justly awarded, hearty appetite - for dinner and not the legend’s empty plates - he agrees.
He looks over at his date, weakly now remembering he’d have to forgo his dinner and says, “Maybe we could go. We could head back and go out for pizza or something?” Jessica glares at him. Its not what she wanted to get her way about leaving the castle so soon, and it almost makes her more angry that he’s trying to agree with her. She stands up and stomps off to the window.
“You are impossible!” she hisses.
Theopolis makes a face which makes Penelope laugh which only makes Jessica more angry. She turns and glares at him over the back of Penelope’s head.
Theopolis shrugs his shoulders, “Look, if you want to go, we’ll go, “ he says.
This sends Jessica almost to tears, “Fine! I’m glad to see I’m taking this more seriously! And I’m just a half…”
“Uhhh!” Theopolis gasps, interrupting her not knowing what in the depths of tarnation has gotten the most sensible vampire he’s ever known so emotional that she would blurt out such a thing, right here, in the Underworld Castle and in front of mortals for boat hold’s betwitchery! Jessica bursts into tears and runs out of the room. To be more accurate, she runs up the castle’s tower stairs. You do remember who attends to visitors in the tower, don’t you? Upstairs in the tower, weeping and chatting about her feelings/troubles with none other than the waiter, who’d foolishly, perhaps fatefully, consoled her that night. As he becomes more sympathetic Jessica’s fangs become more visible. As he reaches in to give her a caring hug or a pat on the back, Jessica feigns innocence, until - and a really dirty trick it is - her fangs just seem to sink into his neck. She drains him dry. O, sorry! From a vampire’s standpoint, this is nearly a moment of shame. She acts almost as if it were an accident, an admitted faux pas. With an “I didn’t mean to drain you dry” look on her face, she almost wonders what she’s done. And then, she hears the footsteps and the voices, jovial and excited - all team Theo - rushing up the stairs, obviously still enjoying the company and the night despite her absence. She inhales deeply, jumps up in nervousness, and wonders where to hide the body while he… he… recovers?! And then it is too late. Theopolis stands at the top of the stairs, staring in horror at the scene in the tower room. He quickly stretches out his arms so the two others behind him won’t see the awesome fright - his dear Jessica in disdain and utter embarrassment, scurrying to hide her limp victim, fangs barred at the sides of her mouth. Theopolis’ own mouth drops open in quiet, stunned amazement.
“Uuuhhh… um… hmmm. Well!” he turns around, arms still outstretched to hide the body, he looks at his guests behind him and exclaims, “I guess we’re going to go!” Then he scoots them back down the stairs.
Chapter Eight
Jessica sits in the main library at Thaddeus Preference’s with a stack of books in front of her. She is quietly reading when her cell phone rings.
She quickly grabs it to keep the sound from annoying the other library patrons and whispers, “Can’t talk. I’m in the library.” Whomever the caller, she is required to give more information even though she is trying to be polite - or less rude as the case may be.
“The li-br-ary,” she tries and then louder, “I’m at the library!”
“Shhh!” several other patrons say.
“Sorry,” Jessica whispers and then tells the caller, “I’ve gotta go.” She hangs up and returns to studying catching only one or two glares from the people studying and reading around her. Thinking about who the caller might have been, Jessica remembers the dream - or the haunting - she had the night before, after getting safely back to her room from the Underworld Fiasco as she now calls it. Domina, again, appeared to Jessica in her dreams, but this time, she warned Jess not to go into the underworld again. She’d cautioned there might come a time when the spell’s magic to return to the world above, the bridge’s ledge, won’t work at all.
As for the stricken Tyrannomous and the bristly, old Witch, the reckoning from Theopolis’ stone throwing turned out to be worse than first appeared. The cranky, old hag with that perpetual panty twist in her attitude. Even the way she walks bothers... but that's just me, the dear author. It’s possible you love her, as the reader, I don't know, but let me tell you on this day, that panty twist's a downright tornado. When Old Tyrannomous, acting half his age and sputtering, no, really slobbering giggles as he pelted a naughty rock upside Theopolis' handsome head has finally trickled into the witch's back door, on a day she'd had so many chores to do and spells to bind. She'd had to go looking for his help out in 'the dust bin' she calls it, for Old Tyrannomous who needed to be home helping her mend the old rickety roof, and so forth. So! Here he enters, and consequently, as she yells and witches him back out 'the house... there he goes. Three other trolls dump him out of the 'chair' they've made with their hands to carry him home from the upending blow. He falls onto the floor of the back room and looks up at the witch's boots.
“I'm Ho-ome!” he says. Then up at her yellow and black striped stockings; her bony, hairy knees, both turned out, the fraggled hem of the black dress... he squints, to see both of her hands in fists, held firm against her hips... his eyes do not follow all the way up before the strain on his neck takes its toll and his head flops back down to the floor with a groan. He is bleeding.
“Rock wound?!“ He groans twice, a kind-of/sort-of ‘Uh-huh’ and the other trolls grumble and hobble out the back door, slamming the thing behind them.
“Wretched beasts! Don't have to ask where you've been. What in the guts of pickles took you so bloody lo-n-gg?” She demands, stepping on his hand.
“Rock wound,” He says against the floor. His lips almost inhaling the dust.
“I said! What took you so bloody long?” She kicks him.}
And then, Tyrannomous yells, loud as he can, “I said, rock wound!”
“I already told 'ya that! Let me see what I can do,“ she says and traipses out the back door letting it's light and chicken wire covered 'window' snap against the door frame as her large rump waddles out the back.
“I'll be back!“ She yells, and not at all in his direction to be heard.
Once she has gathered enough ‘ingredients’ for a potion, she returns to the kitchen of the Witch with Dear Old Tyrannomous, sitting upright in a chair, when all at once, he falls, head first, onto the wooden slat floor, with his third - and final - thud of the day. You could tell, by the sound of that thud, it was, in fact, the final thud of his life. Which sounded more like a ‘fwamp‘, actually, than a thud. Almost as if the words final and thud held hands all the way down with him from the wooden bench to the floor and blended together in that last sound, to let the witch - who wasn't even listening - in on the fact that this was, in fact, Tyrannomous Slater's very last sound of the very last instant of Tyrannomous Slater's life.
At the fateful - and dreadful - sound, the Witch turns from her ‘cooking’ and stares, and for quite a while.
“He's dead,“ She finally exclaims, almost as if she were examining a turnip.
And then she decides, “I guess I gotta move the body.” Suddenly puff of smoke pouffs out of the wound area where the Witch’s potion had been applied.
“Couldn't have been the potion,” she wonders out loud, “no; someone did this to him. Someone did this to Tyrannomous, my dear, old Tyrannomous.” And then she almost cries, for the Witch, anyway, “O boo-hoo!!”
&
nbsp; Eventually emoting out the real reason for her sorrow, “How will I ever get all this work done now?” She sits on the wooden bench head in her hand, for a moment of true disdain. Then she makes a fist in the air and looks up at the sky.
“Curses!! Curses to he who did this to my old Tyrannomous!! And don’t worry, I'll find you! I'll get you! Just you wait. If it takes me ‘til my dying day,” she says; and then she repeats herself, “Curses!!“ In her fury she kicks old Tyrannomous' dead form. She stomps out of the front door, out through the garden gate, slamming that old twiggly branch gate door behind her.
“See you in the InBetweens!” this old author almost yells to the witch's backside as she stomps down that dusty road to reproach. Eye for an eye, but eye for a potion? Not quite as easy to rectify. Although, it seems the anger and motion to avenge this awful loss, that day, arose from the old hag's determination to prove it wasn't her 'Never Fail Potion' gone 'Fail' which led to TyranaTroll's demise but rather the hand of a man - or troll - who threw the rock that caused the wound; it‘s more of a charade than a tirade. She’s gone out to find thebeing - man, or troll - ’who did this’ to prove her potion..? Not failed? Potion Master? Um.... not sure, but we'll find out.
Just let me whisper a bit about the old witch to you here: “If he hadn't died... she wouldn't have cared who hit him with the rock... and if she hadn't 'tried to help'... she wouldn't have cared if he died. No, the witch was out to save her own pa-toot about what she could not possibly have done wrong. This simple occurrence, my kind children, is the root of atrocity. Why? Because it can not be proven. The rock scuffle was not hers. And the potion, definately was. And so, it goes on. A fight that would have ended, as it did, that day in the InBetweens is about to go full-scale for nearly five years! If you find yourself fighting to prove that your help didn't hurt anybody, step back. Tell yourself, it's not a fight at all and end it with the words, ‘I might have been wrong‘. Although for you, it'll be just a scuffle, just a spat, but for the witch, it is about to become an on-going war. And as she stomps down that road, she envisions the loss of over-worked and never cared about Tyrannomous as the loss of her entire household! But I know, just an hour before the burly group of trolls ditched Tyrannomous into her back room, the witch had already called the Labor Line to have him replaced.
The Hair Lady knows, too, as she looks out that window of hers, seeing that old witch stomp off in hot fury, her front door wide open to the body of Tyrannomous lying on the floor, she mutters, “Revenge is a dish best served, or eaten, cold.“ And then, she shuts the blinds.
Back to Thaddeus Preference’s dorm life: Jessica tears open the reddish-orange colored envelope which has just slid under her doorway by an unknown messenger.
“Thanx!” she says as she notices her Father’s familiar red, wax D seal on the back of the envelope, his loopy, decorative handwriting and the tell-tale ink spots - signs that he’s used his quill pen. She used to love writing with the antique quill, until college where everything seems in need of being written fast. She sits down in her armchair, puts her feet up over the armrest and reads, remembering her Father’s voice:
Dearest Jessica,
I enjoyed your last letter; however, as I’ve discussed with you, I think your closeness with the uber boy of the Family Desmondontidae must be detached, loosened, perhaps let go of altogether. If this seems like sad new, be unruffled, phlegmatic, as I like to say (because it sounds so deliciously close to phlebotomy) for I have, through much assertion of my social connectedness, and a near urging of Ickabod to become involved in the search, found - where he has advised me not to - for you a boy to be ‘set up’ with, get to know, pal around with, grow close as school chums do, of prestigious ranking among vampires. Not a vampire family but will be tolerant of the news should you even grow close enough to ’break it to him’ that you are, in fact, a vampire. Do understand my intention here is for your immediate activity and social-interaction not be diminished but increased, and I’m sure you will find this by just to your liking, attentions returned should they be and certainly, of the ‘appropriate attentions’ as you are young and have chosen school and not the privileged fate of our lot so far. Considering the reaction to your last letters, I’ve had a shift in attitudes about what you’re doing and think you have chosen most wisely. Probably a bit surprised to read these words, from me, your father, as they are not the words I so often cajoled you with while you were in my house. Possibly your distance from me has me worrying like an old hag from a boarding school’s counseling office with a room full of bitten-shy classmates and I’m off on a feeding frenzy. No, this companion who understands and projects your decision for the benefits of a healthy lifestyle, as you used to call it when sneering at my ‘out all night’ curing breakfasts is finally - for you - what I agree with, most. O and I can’t believe I’m saying this: Study up!
Your adoring Father.
A note in addition: The boy’s name is Drew Lexis-Paramoure. And he will be at your house Friday at 6:00 pm. Quite an un-venial time 6:00 pm. (On estimate probably 77 hours from the arrival of this letter.) I’m practically getting giddy over this meeting of you to my chosen undivine and all its - can I say it - healthiness. Which reminds me of stalking vampires and I remind you, drop your full-blooded, sanguine-seeking ‘chum’, just cut him off. Completely. You don’t need that kind of influence, do you? And I don’t need this awful worry causing me to hover about at my window, long hours, while you wait to kill me with the news, “I’ve been drained, Father”! I can’t hear those words, not from you. So please, for us, for all of eternity, let loose your friend of the ancient bat-fam ancestry and I’ll stop worrying like an old witch or a casket driver - two of the undead who do such stupid things, like worry!
Crave not! Fear never,
Again, your Father
“Ugh,” is all Jessica can think of to say. First the dream, and now this.
“I can’t go off the bridge again and now this peevish-what’s-it’s coming over,” she complains, “A-n-d!” she slaps the back of her hand against the letter she is holding, “he finally convinced to me to act a vampire and now he doesn’t want me to!! I’m almost furious. And… I almost miss Theopolis! Afterall his annoyances,” she thinks, “but he’s with Penelope and he hasn’t called. What has happened to my Father?! An undivine - tramp as he used to say - why he’s gone off, entirely! Ooooooo,” she presses a pillow against her face and pouts.
At 5:45 pm Friday, Jessica tries on shoes in the mirror. Music is playing on her computer as she tries to keep calm about ‘this stupid meeting’ as she calls it. Her shoes look stupid, too, she thinks, and changes to a different pair. There is a knock at the door.
“Rats to the belfry, don’t be early,” she says and then, “Who is it?”
“Drew… Paramoure… Am I early?” Jessica makes a face. Then opens the door.
“No, no. Come in. Hi, by the way,” she says attempting to sound nice and not quite so annoyed.
“Hi. Sorry if I’m early. I guess fashionably late would have been a better choice? It’s just, I haven’t been out this way, didn’t know I’d find it so quickly. Your Father’s directions were surprisingly good.”
“Radar,” she jokes, realizing he won’t ‘get it’, and then she admits, “you’re actually not that early. I’m just running late. In fact, about fashionably late, it is fashion’s fault that I’m, well, barefoot. I’m still really looking for shoes.”
“I see that. Do you want me to wait outside?”
“For crypt sakes, no! Sorry. Have a seat. I wasn’t really looking to be ‘set up’ - and by family - worse! I’m not the blind date type but He insisted.”
“I thought I might be ‘that boy’,” he says looking away from her.
“What?’
“You know. I know you know. That guy your Father’d like to see you pal around with while off at school. So, who’s the boy your Father doesn’t like to see that you are friends with?” Jessica almost laughs. Then she smiles at
him.
“You’re good. I think I’m going to like this evening after all. Let me just get my shoes on and I’ll tell you all about it at dinner.”
“Okay,” he agrees, “I’ll be your counselor. I mean it is a free dinner, on your Father’s bill. What do I care?” She laughs, this time out loud.
Jessica admits, “You’re very funny,” and settles for the first pair of shoes she can find as to hurry out the door and not keep Drew waiting long.
At dinner, Jessica confides to Drew that she is actually having a really good time.
“I didn’t think I would,” she admits, “and if you’d known the mood I was in about having to go along, well, you probably wouldn’t have shown up at all.”
“And you thought I’d be some sort of curmudgeon?”
“No! I was just wrapped up in my own little world, you know, feeling sorry for myself; and then, a ‘set up’? I mean, c’mon what century is this? You know.”
“I know. He told me you’d be carrying books and wearing glasses, so I wasn’t expecting to make a friend - I was just being a nice guy. I thought I was, anyway, you aren’t so horrible and I’m having fun too.”
“Thanx!” she says, “are you trying not to be the nice guy, now? Well, I still think you are nice.”
“Darn,” he says. The waiter approaches the table.
“Dessert?” he says and hands them a dessert menu. Drew opens it and leans toward Jessica. She leans toward him.
“O this looks good! But so does that.”
“I’ve been here before; I recommend this one,” he says pointing to ‘Death by Chocolate’ the restaurant’s famous dessert.
“Okay,” she says, “I’ll go for that.”
Later, Drew walks Jessica to her dorm building. Theopolis is waiting outside.
“Hi!” Jessica says.
“Hi Jessica, “ Theopolis says, “who’s this guy, your date?” he laughs.
Legend of Stygian Downs (Vampire DeAngeliuson Book 2) Page 10
