by Holley Trent
“Anyway, enough of that. You all have your scripts, and to begin, I’ll need Dr. McClellan and Karen Thompson on stage, please.” Abby watched Malcolm take Karen’s elbow to help her up the steps. Her breath caught. No, couldn’t be jealousy. He just doesn’t want her to trip.
“Karen, you stand here.” Abby pointed to the yellow chalk marks on the floor to her left. She adjusted Karen’s stance by moving her shoulders so that her body angled about 45 degrees toward the audience. “Dr. McClellan, if you’ll take the same stance?”
“I don’t see what you’re intending, Miss Potter,” Malcolm said.
Abby looked up at him. Wow. She almost fainted when she met his eyes. That color blue didn’t exist anywhere else in nature. She cleared her throat, and then said, “What’s so difficult? Just stand at the same angle I placed Karen.”
“Show me.”
Damn, he wasn’t making this easy. She stood next to him, facing Karen, and turned her shoulders halfway toward the front of the stage. “Got it?” She didn’t look up at him this time.
“Not quite.”
This was getting ridiculous. She firmly grasped his shoulders. “Like this.” She moved him about three inches, and then let her eyes travel from his broad chest up to his cleft chin. She stopped at his lips. Her body leaned toward him, and then she jerked back. “I’m going to sit down, now. I’ll cue you from the front row.” As she walked away, her heart mimicked a microwaved marshmallow — after an explosive puff, it quickly deflated.
Abby eased her jittery body into a front row seat and flipped open her script. “Let’s start on page three. We’ll do a quick read through for timing and inflection. Dr. McClellan, whenever you’re ready.”
She sat for a few minutes and then, as was her custom, got up and roamed the theater, making sure the actors could be heard from all the nooks and crannies. Malcolm far exceeded amateur status. He read like a seasoned professional. His projection was pitch-perfect, and though his baritone could have easily drowned out Karen, he seemed to modulate his volume to bring out the best in hers. Abby thought back to his classroom. He’d always found a way to let his students shine. If they seemed stuck on a question, he’d reword it to encourage their answer. Abby stared at him in admiration — the same kind of admiration that had engendered a schoolgirl crush when she’d been a student. And for a moment, she forgot he might be anything more than mortal. She only saw the man, his self-confidence, his ability to make those around him comfortable. Even though he was capable of overshadowing anyone, he’d checked his ego at the door. He didn’t need to put on airs, and that was a tremendous turn-on.
• • •
After one hundred fifty years of solitude, why was he suddenly lonelier than he’d ever been? The window of his heart had only opened a crack, and yet Abby had invaded it like a monsoon. Watching her take command of the play made him proud of the capable woman she’d become. It also made him recall his life with Sarah and how he’d failed her.
Sarah. The years had dulled his pain, and Abby had rekindled his passion. But that was his human side, the side that crushed his first attempt at love. What made him think he deserved another?
Better to stick with his vampire nature, ruled by more basic instincts.
Returning to his empty house following rehearsal, he headed to the kitchen and poured himself a tumbler of B positive, first inhaling the spicy scent of the rich red liquid, and then swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing. He wondered how Abby’s blood would taste. Even if she came to him, wanted him, he’d have to keep his impulses in check. He could make love to her without sinking his fangs in her neck, but it wouldn’t be easy. And if he bit her, could he stop his onslaught … before he turned her … or killed her? He hadn’t tasted blood fresh from a vein in more than a century. Such temptation.
Chapter Six
After the cast left for the evening, Kyle loped around the empty stage, too pent up to sit. Over the past two years, since his first introduction to the Night Fright vampires, named after the club where they worked, he’d learned to control his trembling. He still agonized about what mood they’d be in. A lot depended on how frequently they’d fed. There were times he thought they’d just as soon drain him as enlist him.
The three vamps dropped silently, one by one, from the theater’s rafters, and Kyle stiffened. Before they had a chance to grill him, he said, “Abby played right into my hands. She fell for the Malcolm McClellan ploy … hook, line, and sinker.”
Arlo, who generally served as the spokesperson for the vamps — spokevamp? — said, “No surprise there. He’s the prototype of the archaic, duty-bound vamp, exactly the kind we’re trying to obliterate.” He worked his tongue like a serpent, flicking it rapidly. The notion of obliteration had obviously excited him.
“Cool,” Kyle said. “We’ve come a long way since I gave you guys a tour of the campus two years ago. Who’d have thought we’d get so tight?”
Arlo smacked his lips and nodded at his compatriots. “Yes, you were very helpful, pointing out the vulnerable coeds. I can still taste the blood of that sweet little freshman. She was tantalizing.” Kyle could have sworn Arlo’s tongue was forked as he licked his lips.
“That was my point of no return,” Kyle said. “The terror in her eyes was the biggest turn on I’d ever experienced.” It induced a yearning in him to abandon his humanity and join their ranks.
“Yes, and here we are — close to our goal.” Arlo smiled. “Once Malcolm’s dust, we’ll turn you.”
“I’ve always believed vampires were real, but I sure didn’t suspect Malcolm McClellan was one,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “How could a vampire function in daylight?”
“That’s why we want him,” Arlo said.
Sometimes Kyle wondered if the other two Night Fright boys could even talk, but he’d once seen Arlo clip the platinum blonde one on the head for opening his mouth, so he figured they were cautious.
“Only a handful of vampires in history have possessed the ability to not burn in sunlight, but unfortunately, they’ve been an honorable lot. They could have shared their unique genetic code by creating more vampires, but they won’t doom humans to their fate except under dire circumstances … or because of love. The vampire council has attempted to harness their trait for centuries. Imagine how we could mainstream.” Arlo paced the stage, gesturing in sweeping arm movements. “If any of these vamps had been willing to surrender just a few vials of their blood, the council could have already created an army of daylight vamps.”
“I don’t get why you haven’t just grabbed him, tied him down, stuck a needle in his arm and taken some blood,” Kyle said.
“The council had hoped to find a vamp willing to share, but over the years, the vamps with that specific genetic code have dispersed throughout the world. It’s all come back to Malcolm,” Arlo said. “And now we’re delightfully close. It’s ideal, really — a vampire playing a vampire. Malcolm won’t be able to resist displaying some vampire characteristics on stage, and that’s all the proof the council will need. Just a flash of fang or display of red eyes will be enough for the council to nab him.”
“And just to help things along, I thought I’d get the cast together for one of Gettysburg’s famous ghost tours. Sort of loosen things up a bit,” Kyle said.
“Brilliant idea,” said Arlo. “The more comfortable Malcolm becomes in his role as a vampire, the more likely he’ll be to let his guard down.”
Arlo signaled to the other Night Fright boys, and without so much as a wave goodbye, they flew back up to the rafters. Kyle assumed they would morph to bat form and exit through an eave.
The winter chill permeated the old theater, and Kyle rubbed his arms to dispel his goose bumps. He chuckled to himself. When he became a vampire, he wouldn’t have to worry about severe Pennsylvania winters. He’d be immune to heat and cold. It couldn’t hap
pen fast enough for him. Once they drained and decapitated Malcolm, they promised Kyle he could join their ranks.
The Night Fright boys would be lurking in corners tomorrow evening, no doubt salivating over some of the cute coeds. Damn, he couldn’t wait to be lurking with them, and now his dreams were within his grasp.
• • •
Of all the idiotic plans Malcolm had to endure from humans, attending a ghost tour would have been at the top of the list. Close proximity to a group of humans whose blood would be pumping wildly from the excitement of the tour, and thus making him salivate, would only be trumped by the lame and inaccurate stories about ghosts in Gettysburg. He’d heard the guides embellished the tall tales per the enthusiasm of the crowd. And this crowd of thespians would surely be enthusiastic. He’d be biting his tongue to keep from correcting the flubs. Flubs? That was a word Abby would use. He smiled. Maybe the tour wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps he could comfort her if she squealed from fear. He’d wrap her in his arms and press her head to his chest. Her hair smelled like the sweet peas in his mother’s garden. Malcolm scrubbed a hand across his eyes. Stop these nonsensical thoughts.
When he arrived at Ghost Tours of Gettysburg, which assembled at the Best Western Gettysburg Hotel, he learned that their group would be taking the “extreme” tour. By all means, kick it up a notch. This tour would meander through town and end at Gettysburg Cemetery, where Lincoln had delivered his Gettysburg Address. Bite his tongue? Add smoke pouring from his ears.
The rest of the cast trickled in, though Abby was still absent. They assembled in front of the Best Western, all of them puffing the winter air and hopping with the chill. Malcolm stood stone still. He could put up a front of minding the cold, but he was too irritated by the situation to play along. Until he saw Abby, and his icy mood thawed.
“Sorry I’m late.” She joined the hopping crowd. Her breasts bounced. Lovely.
When Kyle arrived, his eyes darted around Lincoln Square in front of the hotel.
“We’re all here,” Abby said. “We just need our tour guide.”
And wouldn’t you know, sweeping around the corner in head-to-toe black came the inimitable Miss Fontaine, Gettysburg’s mistress of the supernatural. She’d written a widely distributed pamphlet on Gettysburg ghosts that made Malcolm gag. Sarah’s sister, Caroline, was one of her featured stories. Thank God she hadn’t written about Malcolm and Sarah. He couldn’t have endured that.
“Well, citizens,” Miss Fontaine began, “thank you for joining me this evening.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “I can hear you ruminating. You’re wondering what I have in store. Well, well, well. Don’t be tortured by uncertain wonders. I’m here to share a passel of memories. You see, I was in Gettysburg on those fateful three days that changed our fair city. I was, in fact, pressed into service by the Union Army as a spy.” She swept an arm around the square. “I witnessed the seeds of our destruction being sowed, but that’s neither here nor someplace else.” She clapped her hands. “Time to quit this square.”
Miss Fontaine held a closed umbrella in the air and pointed it to the south. “We shall commence to the graveyard by way of Mrs. Caroline Foster’s house.”
Oh, God, no. Malcolm had avoided the house where Sarah died for more than a hundred years. Would he ever get past his sorrow and guilt? He swallowed the lump in his throat. Damn his human feelings.
“Will we be going to the Dobbins House?” Kyle asked.
“I haven’t decided that to a definite aim,” Miss Fontaine said, “but I reckon you all can stop there after the cemetery. I don’t typically go through the woods, though it being winter and all, there won’t be copperheads performing misdeeds.” She motioned for the group to follow her.
Malcolm was actually impressed with Miss Fontaine’s Civil War aphorisms. At least there was some amusement in this wretched excursion. And observing Abby, he could long for her, not that that was a good thing. He stayed at the back of the group as they meandered past downtown Gettysburg’s storefronts, though he could hear her conversation.
“Why do you want to go to the Dobbins House?” Abby nudged Kyle.
“Oh, a couple of my friends are going to be there, and I thought I’d meet up with them.”
“You’re kind of jumpy tonight,” Abby said.
“Who me? Nah.” Kyle stumbled off the curb.
Abby shook her head.
Needing a distraction, Malcolm caught up with Abby and steered her to the front of the group. “I thought you might enjoy some historical facts as we go along. Facts being the operative word.”
“What, Miss Fontaine isn’t accurate enough for you?” She looked up at him. “She’s sure got the lingo down.”
“Yes, I’ll give her that, but there were no recorded female spies in Gettysburg.”
“So, her credibility did an abrupt nosedive with you, eh?” Abby chuckled.
God, she was appealing when she laughed. He wanted to suck on her bottom lip.
“Miss Fontaine is entertaining, and as long as she doesn’t butcher the facts too badly, I should be able to keep my mouth shut,” Malcolm said.
“Shall I pinch you if you get out of line?”
“You can do more than pinch me.”
Simultaneously, they stopped and faced each other. The rest of the group walked around them to keep up with Miss Fontaine, leaving Abby and Malcolm standing under one of the city’s vintage streetlamps.
“Malcolm, I don’t know what kind of power you have over me, but it’s making me very uncomfortable.” She crossed her arms … under her breasts.
“You’re the one who suggested a pinch.”
“I know, but I’m not myself when I’m around you. God knows what I’ll say next.”
“How about ‘Would you like to bite my neck?’”
“What?” Abby backed up, clutching her throat. She stopped when she smacked the window of the florist shop. She stared at Malcolm in horror. “That’s not funny.”
He raked a hand through his hair. He had repressed the human feelings surrounding his grief for Sarah. In their place, his vampire lust had risen to the surface. “Sorry, bad joke. I’m getting a bit carried away with this role I’m playing. Let’s join the others.” He offered his hand, but Abby didn’t take it. Instead, she sprinted to catch up with the group.
Again, nice move, Malcolm. Abby talked about the power he had over her, but it was the other way around. She had the power. If she wanted, she could bring him to his knees. And she had no idea. He purposefully lagged behind. He didn’t want to hear what Miss Fontaine had to say about his sister-in-law, but when he caught up with the group at the Foster residence, she’d just begun her dissertation.
“I am much obliged to the current owners of this home,” Miss Fontaine said as she herded the group on the expansive front porch of the Foster homestead. “Since this is a private residence, we won’t go inside, but they graciously allow us to congregate here on the porch where Caroline Foster used to cool the pies and Irish soda bread she provided to the hospitals following the Battle of Gettysburg.”
At least she got that right.
“Gather around. I’d like to read a letter written by Caroline Foster. Her sister, Sarah, died in this house, and hers is the spirit that still roams this property at eventide.”
Malcolm stiffened. He was stuck with this band of humans and his damn grief.
“This letter was written to Caroline’s kin in Harrisburg. The original is in a museum there, but I was privileged to obtain a copy. It begins ‘I have no news since first frost of the year past. My dear brother-in-law, Malcolm, is still missing, and I may only presume that he died during the final days in Virginia. I believe his will to live departed when Sarah died. We have all suffered as a result of this terrible conflict. I was glad to hear that your daughter and her beau are intended, and I hope to get ther
e to see them rightly married. Your cousin, Caroline.’”
Malcolm stole a glance at Abby, who stared at him, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, and then shut it. She cleared her throat, and then in a hoarse whisper said, “Perhaps Dr. McClellan can expand on the history of this family.”
“Not I,” Malcolm said quickly. His eyes didn’t leave Abby’s.
“We can’t tarry,” Miss Fontaine interjected. “The graveyard awaits.” She probably wasn’t interested in anyone else’s account anyway. Heaven forbid someone should prove her wrong, and that someone would not be Malcolm.
“Excellent idea,” Malcolm said. Miss Fontaine was dead wrong about one thing. Sarah’s spirit did not roam this house. If it did, Malcolm was sure he’d be able to sense it. It didn’t make him any less sad, however. Hearing Caroline’s letter flooded his heart with painful memories. He needed to get away from this house. Leaping off the porch, he headed for the street.
“Uh, excuse me,” Miss Fontaine shouted after him. “We’re going through the rose garden first.”
Over his shoulder, Malcolm said, “I’m not. I’ll join you at the cemetery.” He couldn’t bear to see the garden Sarah had cultivated for her sister, nor the bench Caroline had added in memory of Sarah. With long strides, he rounded the corner back to Baltimore Pike. This was idiocy … the play … those horrible memories … Abby. He picked up his pace.
Abby wanted to catch up with Malcolm, but what would she say? That Foster house had obviously rattled him. When Miss Fontaine read Caroline’s letter, he froze. It was as though the letter was about him. Her knees buckled, and she stopped to catch her breath. Wait, she’d been down this train of thought before. The Malcolm she knew couldn’t have been alive in 1860. He didn’t look a day over thirty-five, so how could he be one hundred and fifty? Of course, since she’d been his student, he hadn’t aged a day. Vampires didn’t age. Stop it, Abby.
