by Hal Bodner
Becky looked at him, surprised and slightly offended. “Why should I?”
“Jesus H. Christ! What the hell is going on out here?”
Troy’s jaw dropped in horror as Chris appeared, nude, in the doorway to the bedroom.
Blinded and shielding his eyes from the sunlight streaming in through the dining room window he snapped, “Will you please close those infernal drapes?”
Troy sat, frozen on the floor. Becky rose stiffly and silently and, moving to the windows, firmly pulled the shades closed.
“Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going back to bed.” said Chris irritably, rubbing his eyes with his fists. He turned, about to go back into the bedroom.
“You might at least say thank you,” Becky murmured. She still stood facing the window, unable to bring herself to turn around and look at Chris.
Chris stiffened. Ever so slowly he turned and took two small steps into the living room. The tension was palpable.
“Becky!” he said brightly. “Why didn’t you call?” He shot Troy a look of curious concern.
“She knows,” said Troy helplessly.
Calmly but tentatively, almost in a singsong chant, Chris asked, “What do you mean, she knows?”
Troy began to cry, but this time the tears were real.
“What did you tell her?” Chris roared, serving only to increase the volume of water flowing from Troy’s eyes.
“Knock it off!” Becky snapped, spinning around, her anger winning out over her fear. “He didn’t tell me anything. I stopped by to tell you something. The door was open. I came in and nobody was here. So I went into the other room and saw...” The blood drained from her face once again. “Well...you know.”
Chris feigned embarrassment as best he could, “Look, I’m sorry. Some people are into leather, some are...”
“I tried that,” Troy moaned petulantly through his tears, “She took a pulse, and probably a Breathalyzer test if I know her.” He rose from his position on the floor and threw himself into Chris’s arms, sobbing plaintively.
Over Troy’s shoulder, Chris looked at Becky respectfully, eyes narrowed, measuring.
“I also tried the grieving widow act. She wouldn’t go for it.”
“Well, well, well.” Chris put his hand on Troy’s shoulder and kneaded the muscle gently. “I’m sorry I yelled, monkey.”
Troy clutched at him even tighter, Chris hugged him back and kissed him gently on the forehead until he seemed to relax a bit. Gently moving Troy aside, he turned to Becky and asked, conversationally, “So, what are we going to do about this...ah...situation?”
“I don’t see that we should do anything, do you? I mean, I’m not in any danger, am I?”
She walked back to the vacant chair, her studied casual attitude betrayed by the action of grabbing onto the chair back to keep herself from falling into it. She finally managed to lower herself into the seat and clasped her hands tightly together, the whitened knuckles the only visible sign of tension.
“Danger?” Chris pondered her question, a grave expression on his face. “I hope not,” he said finally, “I guess that depends on you.” He looked at her, an unvoiced question showing clearly on his face.
“Good,” Becky said tersely. “Oh, I’ve got dozens of questions, of course. And I’ll expect answers to every one of them. But the murders started well before you got here. Even if they hadn’t, I know you too well, or at least I thought I did. I can’t imagine you doing something like that.”
“No, you’re right.”
She smiled, weakly. “I do think, though, that it’s going to be tough to carry on an intelligent conversation with you right now.” She indicated Chris’s naked body. “Not that it wouldn’t be fun to try,” she added, trying an attempt at humor, which predictably enough fell flat.
Chris blushed. “Excuse me for a minute.” He disappeared into the bedroom.
“Imagine that,” said Becky, as if she were unconscious of Troy’s presence in the room. “Ten years I’ve wanted to see him like that, but I never thought...I had different circumstances in mind,” she finished, blushing.
Troy glared at her. “Ten minutes ago you were catatonic,” he said. “I’ll thank you to remember that Chris’s lover is the one responsible for making sure your carcass didn’t just melt away into a puddle of mush on the floor.”
“I appreciate that,” Becky said, so sincerely that Troy almost regretted, if not the first glass of water, at least the second.
Chris returned a moment later wrapped in his brown robe, forestalling any retort Troy could have made. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating the bedroom door as he pulled it shut behind him. “I think I’d feel better about the conversation we’re about to have if my, uh, bed weren’t staring us in the face.”
“Please,” Becky said, relieved. “Seeing it once was more than enough.”
Chris sat on the couch and arranged his robe around himself. “Where do we begin?”
“I’m so used to being politically correct around this town,” Becky said, with studied caution, desperately trying to keep her tone conversational. “Is vampire the correct term, or is it offensive? Or, would you prefer something like, say, nutritionally challenged?”
“No, ‘vampire’ is accurate.”
“And Troy...?”
Chris smiled affectionately at his mate, ruffling his curls as he hopped up onto the couch and snuggled next to him. “No, Troy is...something else entirely.”
Becky grinned, weakly. “People say that about him.”
Troy sniffed, indignantly. “I suppose this means I have to be nice to her from now on?”
Chris kissed him gently but otherwise ignored the comment. He turned back to Becky. “You’re wet,” he commented.
“I know,” she said. “Do you want to fill me in, or do we play twenty questions?”
“Go ahead.” Chris yawned, “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m normally asleep at this hour.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Becky said dryly. She thought for a moment. “Just how old are you?” she ventured, hesitantly.
“Let’s just say I’m older than Olvera Street.”
“Let’s not,” she snapped, irritated by the evasion. “I told you I wanted answers.”
“Why?” Chris asked, all wide-eyed innocence.
Becky was more than slightly angry now and let it show. “Listen to me, you smug little bastard. If I’m right, and as of this morning, I’m sure I am, one of your relatives is going around killing people in my city and dropping their heads off on the city manager’s desk.”
“What?” Chris asked, alarmed.
“That’s what I came over to tell you. We don’t know whose it is yet, the head I mean, but the entire town’s in an uproar. You promised to help me, and whatever the hell kind of ghoulie or ghosty you may be, I’m gonna make you stick to your word. I need information, and I need it pronto. I can’t seem to get it from the killer, so I’m gonna get as much as I can from you. Got it?”
“Fair enough.” Chris gathered his thoughts for a moment. He cleared his throat several times.
“When I was born,” he began slowly, “King George was sitting on the throne of England and people over here were beginning to get rather annoyed with him.”
“It’s why we never drink tea,” Troy piped in.
Becky’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped, she made a conscious effort to close it but it just dropped again. She sat gaping like a fish.
“Well, you wanted to know,” Chris said defensively.
“But that means you’re, uh...”
“Two hundred forty-something next month,” Chris told her. “Give or take a decade or two.”
“And he doesn’t look a day over a hundred and twenty.” Troy quipped. “I’m told clean living will do that for you. But, don’t ask me. I wouldn’t know.”
Chris smiled and shrugged apologetically, “We didn’t keep very good records in those days. I know the day I was born but not the year. Sorry.”
“But how...?” she trailed off.
“If you’re asking how it happened, I’m afraid that’s very personal and I won’t go into it right now. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with your problem and the person who did it isn’t here.”
“Dead?”
“In a manner of speaking.” A misty look entered Chris’ eyes and he seemed to be thinking of something else for a moment.
Becky noticed a look of alarm on Troy’s face and quickly changed lanes, bringing Chris back to the present. “What about Troy?”
At the mention of his name, Troy snuggled deeper into Chris’ side as if to avoid unwanted attention.
“What about him?”
“You’re avoiding the question. What is he?”
“Since the turn of the century, this past century that is, some of us would call Troy a ‘renfield’ after Stoker’s book.”
“A name which you should know is not politically correct,” Troy announced snootily. “I find it extremely offensive being compared to a creature that eats...” he paused and shuddered with distaste, “bugs.”
“He has a thing about insects,” Chris explained, “Sort of a phobia.”
Shaking his finger admonishingly at Becky, Troy continued, “If I ever hear that word come out of you, I will personally wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Relax, monkey,” said Chris. He explained further. “Troy doesn’t have my strength and he’d be a lot easier to kill,” he said cautiously, “If anyone was inclined to try.”
Becky waved the comment aside, “We’ve been through that. You’re safe with me.”
“I hope so,” Chris said, guardedly. “Well, let’s see. He’s not as sensitive to sunlight as I am and he doesn’t have my, ah, shall we say, dietary restrictions?”
“Karen Carpenter explained.” Becky mused.
“Exactly.” Chris couldn’t help grinning again.
“Some of us, however,” said Troy haughtily, “Do not have problems entering peoples houses without an invitation.”
“You’re kidding?” Becky’s curiosity was fully aroused. “What about mirrors?”
“They can be...disorienting.”
“Crosses? Holy water?”
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Chris replied. “I can also recite Kaddish if you like. I’m a Protestant, or at least I was, Church of England, actually. But I was also bar mitzvahed in 1917,” he explained, “It’s a long story.”
“I’ll bet. Garlic?”
“How should I know? I don’t eat. I’m not fond of the smell on someone’s breath, of course, but I assume you aren’t either.”
“The stake through the heart?”
“Try it on yourself first and let me know how you feel.”
“That’s not an answer,” Becky snapped.
“It’s a sensitive subject,” Chris retorted angrily.
Becky sighed, “Look, Chris, I’m not about to nail you with a piece of picket fence, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I’ve got some maniac out there who probably buys his bedroom furniture at the same mortuary you do. If I have to run him through with a hunk of palm tree to stop him, I will. Capisce? Now, back to business. Can you turn into a wolf? A bat?”
Troy collapsed in a fit of laughter. Even Chris chuckled.
“Pure nonsense,” he said, and added musingly, “It would be convenient, though, wouldn’t it?” He grew serious for a moment. “Here, let me help you out.” He began to tick the items off, one by one, on his fingers. “One: I’ve crossed the Mississippi more times than I can count, although this is the first time I’ve been this far west, so the thing about running water is out. Two: Silver bullets are for werewolves.”
“Werewolves?” Becky looked a little faint.
“Vile, smelly people,” Troy put in.
Becky turned to look at him, unsure whether or not he was serious.
“Becky,” Chris said warningly, regaining her attention, “you don’t want to know. Trust me.” Faced with her continued look of disbelief, he added, grudgingly, “He’s allergic.”
“That has nothing to do with it!” Troy exclaimed, outraged that Chris should have exposed to Becky’s view what Troy considered an extremely private failing.
“They tend to be very family oriented, if you know what I mean,” Chris explained. “After all, they do live in packs.”
“They don’t approve of our lifestyle,” Troy said haughtily.
“Your lifestyle?” Becky repeated.
Troy playfully slipped one hand inside the open neck of Chris’s robe and stroked his bare chest. “We’re both male,” he explained.
“Stop it. No tickling while I’m trying to talk.” He pushed Troy away gently. “They see themselves as the arbiters of morality in our world. Some of the younger ones are loosening up, though.”
“Just tell me,” Becky said, faintly, “do I have to worry about laying in an extra supply of Nair if I see a German Shepherd on a full moon?”
“That’s balderdash,” Chris snorted. “It’s genetic. Anyway, I think the nearest pack is somewhere out in Riverside.”
“Where was I?” he continued. “Oh, yes! Three. As for demonic possession, I’m of the opinion that exorcisms are the Catholic Church’s feeble contribution to bad performance art.”
“I never met a demon I didn’t like,” Troy quipped.
“Cut it out, monkey. She’ll think you’re serious.”
Troy began to devote undue attention to examining his cuticles, a wicked smirk on his face. “Well, what about that guy we met in Atlantic City a couple of years ago?”
“That was an incubus,” Chris said sternly, “And I still haven’t completely forgiven you for that. She’ll think we’re talking about horns, tails and pitchforks. Stuff a sock in it.”
Becky looked slightly dazed.
“Now the facts,” Chris continued. “If someone were to cut my head off, I’d die. Same with fire. Anything that destroys the spinal column. That’s why stakes are so effective. They usually fracture the spine.”
Chris leaned back, crossing his arms behind his neck.
“So concludes your lesson in vampirism 101. Any questions, class?”
“Just one more thing,” Becky said.
“Yes?” Chris was politely inquisitive.
“How do you, well, you know...ah...drink?”
Chris smiled broadly and leaned forward so that Becky could get a clear, unobstructed view. “Why, I’ve got fangs, of course!”
Becky O’Brian, doctor of medicine, forensic surgeon, pathologist and performer of hundreds of autopsies, simply and without making a sound, swooned.
Chris and Troy sat looking silently at Becky’s unconscious form.
“Is she dead?” Troy finally whispered.
“Good God, I hope not.” Chris leaned forward and took the file folder containing the most recent autopsy report from the coffee table where Becky had dropped it. He opened it and began to read, commenting absently, “I’d forgotten how off-putting my dental work can be.”
“Should we bring her round?”
“Not just yet. She’ll come to on her own in a few minutes.”
“I just think it’s kinda rude to leave her all spread out like that. I mean, she is a guest.”
“If your must practice your ‘hostess with the mostest’ routine, just have a damp cloth for her when she comes out of it.”
“Oh, shit!” Troy cried. “I forgot the wash!” He rushed out of the apartment, this time being certain to close the door behind him.
Chris read silently while Troy was gone. Occasionally he frowned, and once or twice he shook his head in dismay. Finally, he closed the file and placed it back on the table. He leaned back, head tilted as if he were staring at the ceiling, and closed his eyes to think.
Troy came tiptoeing in a few minutes later with a small armload of sodden cloth.
“Is she back yet?” he whispered.
“No,” Chris replied, eyes still closed.
“I’m gonna hang these up to dry in the bathroom. Do you want me to make the bed?”
“No, I’ll go back to sleep after Becky leaves.” He opened his eyes to look at Troy. “Do me a favor? Could you stay in there for a while? I need time to talk to her alone.” At Troy’s look of dismayed disappointment, Chris kissed him consolingly and added, “You can eavesdrop, if you want. Just don’t come out for a bit, OK?”
Troy nodded, mollified, and left the room as Chris closed his eyes again and sank back into deep thought.
Several minutes passed, the silence broken only by the low murmur of the traffic on Harper. Becky groaned once, not loudly, and slowly came to.
“That’s very disconcerting,” she said hoarsely after a moment or two.
“What is?”
“You sitting there. Eyes closed. Not breathing.”
Chris looked at her. “You’ll get used to it,” he promised.
She sighed. “I doubt it.”
Chris took up the folder and tossed it into her lap. “I peeked while you were out,” he said.
Becky blushed, her pudgy cheeks resembling huge red apples. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect...” She stopped, flustered and taking a huge breath, continued as if paying Chris the sincerest of compliments, “Your teeth are very impressive.”
“Two of them anyway,” Chris chuckled. “The original tooth fairy, that’s me! Well, now!” He rubbed his thighs with his palms and then clapped his hands sharply together. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
Becky tried to look attentive.
“First, there’s no doubt there’s another one of us in town. I saw that right away from the stuff you showed me when we met at the Abbey the other night. We also know a couple of other things—I’ll explain how later.” He started to tick off the points on his fingers again, a habit Becky was beginning to find faintly annoying.
“One: The killer is male. Two: He’s probably very good-looking. I’d guess he appears to be in his early twenties to mid thirties. Three: He’s actually very old, certainly older than I am. Four: He’s probably a little on the short side in height.”
“Huh? How the heck do you know the guy’s freaking height?”
“Easy. As you go further back in history, people get shorter and shorter. In my day, for example, I was considered to be fairly tall. Now, hush. Don’t interrupt.”
