Snowbirds of Prey

by Ward Parker

  She found out why on the second round of her job interviews.

  “Like we told you before, your experience working in the ICU is a real plus,” Deborah, the human resources director of Acceptance Home Care, had said. She was rather young to be in charge of HR, with her copious tattoos and piercings. “We need someone who is compassionate, yet strong. You seem to have a thick skin.”

  “You need to have one when you work in the ICU. It was a rollercoaster of emotions.”

  “You can’t tell from the stock photos of attractive seniors on our website, but we have a highly unique clientele.”

  “How so?” Missy asked.

  “Are you strictly religious, or more open-minded?”

  “Don’t tell me your clients are nudists. Or swingers? I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . .”

  “No, no, nothing of the sort,” Deborah said. She was performing the delicate ritual of a sales job.

  “To answer your question, I’m not really into conventional, established churches,” Missy said, trying to indicate she was still interested. “I’m a bit of a pagan actually.”

  Deborah perked up. “Okay, so you’re not opposed to the concept of the supernatural?”

  “No, I’m not, but . . . why do you ask?”

  “Our clients have special needs and some people might be frightened by them, or offended by their needs.”

  “Is this about something illegal?” Missy asked.

  “Not as it pertains to us. It’s just that our clientele is often shunned by society.”

  “Are you talking about circus freaks?”

  “I’m talking about vampires. And werewolves. Fauns, ogres, trolls, etcetera, etcetera. Some fairies and elves, but elves tend to retire in Arizona rather than Florida. They hate humidity.”

  Missy forced a laugh. “Arizona? Good one. But seriously.”

  “I’m serious. Look, supernatural creatures get old, too, and there’s something in the laws of the universe that mandates when you get old you move to Florida. And later, after years of complaining about Florida, you move to North Carolina.”

  “Vampires get old? I thought they were immortal.”

  “Yes, but if they happened to be old when they were made into vampires, that’s the age they remain. So they come down here as snowbirds every winter, or they live here full time. I’m pleased you appear to be accepting of what I’ve told you.”

  “I knew a vampire once, briefly. Years ago,” Missy said, fighting the sadness accompanying her memories.

  “People say, ‘vampires in the Sunshine State?’ Well, old creatures don’t like the cold. And it doesn’t matter how many sunny days we have, because they only come out at night. And we have werewolves, too, who age like mortal creatures. Other creatures age very, very slowly but do eventually get old. And that’s where Acceptance Home Care comes in. We care for them with the respect and compassion they deserve. Without judgement.”

  Missy thought of her grandmother, a victim of elder abuse, her assets stolen before dying in a horrible nursing home. This painful memory, along with her dad’s cancer, was one of the main reasons Missy went to nursing school, vowing to build a career helping others.

  “We’re all God’s creatures,” Deborah said, “even those whom you might think are on Satan’s team. They’re not really. Only demons are. And divorce lawyers. And we don’t have any demons as clients.”

  “What about divorce lawyers?”

  “Um, we have a few.”

  “How can you ensure my safety?”

  “The rules are very strict. If any of our clientele violated the safety agreement, they’d be banned from their community and forfeit their savings. Besides, they’re all so grateful to be cared for. They would never bite the hand that feeds them. Oh, I shouldn’t have said ‘bite.’”

  Missy accepted Deborah’s job offer. And then signed a very, very extensive non-disclosure agreement.

  It took some time afterwards for her to realize why she took the job. She didn’t want her empathy for patients to dry up. And if she could empathize with supernatural monsters, it meant she still had a heart after all.

  She pulled up to the gatehouse of Squid Tower. The creepy guard stuck his head out of the door of the booth, saw the cardboard visitor’s pass on her dashboard, and gave her a creepy smile before raising the gate arm. She parked in the same spot she always used. The residents here didn’t get many visitors.

  It was during the gloaming, after sunset but not quite fully night. Watching the last vestiges of light slip away always made her melancholy. The orange glow faded from the sky and its reflections in windows not covered by shutters died. In less than an hour, the Blood Bus would arrive and elderly vampires would line up beside it. Others would start their cars and drive out through the gate, seeking prey in town or going to Mega-Mart. None, she hoped, would be hunting for humans on the beach or along the jogging path beside A1A.

  She entered the lobby with her tote bag filled with medical supplies and a few charms and amulets. While she waited for the elevator, an ancient woman using a walker hobbled over from one of the common rooms.

  “Oh, Missy, I’m so glad I ran into you,” the lady said.

  “Hello. Have we met?”

  “No, but I know all about you from some of your patients. I’ve been meaning to set up an appointment with you. My name is Victoria but everyone calls me Vicky.”

  “Of course, Vicky,” Missy said. “I have an appointment now, but I can meet with you right afterwards. Do you need screenings, or is anything wrong?”

  “My knees, heavens to Betsy, they’ve been killing me lately.”

  The elevator arrived. Missy got on, followed by the lady sliding her walker, and punched the button for the eleventh floor.

  “What floor are you going to?” Missy asked.

  “I’ve got nothing to do, I’ll just ride with you. As I was saying, my knees. I was turned only a few years ago and becoming a vampire definitely improved them. I could barely walk before and suddenly I’m able to chase down prey half my age! But whenever a weather front comes through, I’m in agony and have to use this damn thing.”

  “Sounds like osteoarthritis,” Missy said.

  “My doctor said the same thing. Before I was turned.”

  What was left unsaid was that she could never see her doctor again now in her undead state.

  The elevator beeped as it reached the eleventh floor.

  “I’ll let you go,” the lady said. “I’ll be down in the card room waiting. Thank you so much!”

  As she walked down the hallway, Missy thought about Vicky’s predicament. Missy would have referred Vicky to a specialist for knee replacement surgery to end her chronic pain. If she were still a mortal human. Now, as a vampire, Vicky didn’t have that option.

  There were a few physicians in South Florida who specialized in vampires and other supernatural creatures, but they worked under the radar of the American Medical Association. They were all unlicensed, backroom practices and they didn’t have the resources to perform major surgery like a knee replacement. And there’s no way a hospital for humans would accept and comprehend an undead patient, let alone understand their special requirements. Maybe someday a secret hospital will exist for freaks, but in the meantime people like Missy would bear the responsibility for their healthcare. Vampires don’t need much of it, thanks to their supernatural healing abilities. But those abilities simply can’t transform a sixty-something’s damaged knees, whose cartilage has worn away causing bone spurs, into the knees of a twenty-something. A vampire’s body can heal a bone that breaks in an accident, but not repair damage to a body that occurred over a period of decades when it was human.

  Before she reached her patient’s door, Missy briefly considered the therapies she would recommend for Vicky. Surely magick could help the vampire’s suffering somehow. Missy decided that as she learned the art of witchcraft and watched her latent powers grow, she would develop spells, charms, and potions to aid vampire medicine.r />
  She could bring untold benefits to these geriatric creatures. And the werewolves next door, too.

  Missy realized she might not belong here, but she was needed. Anyone who needed her—the sick, the infirm, the helpless—deserved her full dedication and commitment. And she was making a big difference in their existence.

  With this sense of responsibility, she vowed to do whatever she could to find the murderer, whether it was a resident or an outsider. If it were the latter, she would make sure the police knew it.

  7

  Party Animals

  The condo complex next door where the werewolves lived was a pair of low-rise buildings that were not as luxurious as the vampires’ building. It was called Seaweed Manor. Perhaps not coincidentally, every time Missy visited the distinct smell of weed drifted through the hallways.

  The folks here were the proverbial animals who loved to party. Morning, noon, and night. In fact, it was not long after sunrise, after her patient visits of the vampires in Squid Tower had wrapped up. It wasn’t by any measure close to happy hour, no matter what kind of creature you were. Nevertheless, bass thumped behind many a front door along with moaning guitar riffs from forgotten ‘70s jam bands. Raucous laughter and shattered glass erupted in the condo next to her destination: A-714.

  She knocked. A tall woman with gray hair in ponytails answered. She wore a psychedelic Grateful Dead T-shirt, cutoff jeans, copious beads, and a large bronze crucifix. Many of the werewolves living here were well aware they had a colony of vampires next door and the Joint Cooperation Agreement between their two condo associations banning predation upon each other wasn’t enough to ensure the werewolves they were safe.

  The feeling was mutual. The vampires kept their distance from Seaweed Manor on nights with a full moon, and Missy generally avoided patient visits there. No sense taking extra risks. The few normal humans living here were supposedly clueless about any supernatural creatures, even though one or two would pass away under mysterious circumstances every season. Which goes to show how well the Joint Cooperation Agreement was enforced.

  Cynthia Roarke warmly welcomed Missy and offered her tea while Missy went into the master bedroom to examine Harry.

  “Hey sweetheart, how are you?” he asked, sitting on a chair facing a TV.

  He was a hulking specimen of lupine masculinity with a big beard and long silver hair. A retired contractor from New Jersey, he had found Jesus, got infected in a near-fatal werewolf attack in the Pine Barrens, became a werewolf, lost Jesus, and then found Satan. After he walked away from the dark lord when the allure faded, the Roarkes took up surfing and that’s where their passions now resided. They particularly enjoyed surfing during a full moon in werewolf form and, remarkably, have managed to avoid being seen by the public while doing it.

  When in human form, Mr. Roarke was also on the condo board. He had a reputation for hostility against the vampires, often filing frivolous lawsuits against the board of Squid Tower. Residents of the two communities coexisted peacefully, but the two condo boards feuded with more bitterness than the Hatfields and McCoys.

  “I’m good, Mr. Roarke. How are you?”

  “Oh, it’s horrible to grow old. You should avoid it. Aside from the usual aches and pains, I’ve been okay lately, just some constipation.”

  “Have you been eating enough roughage?”

  “I eat bones sometimes.”

  “That’s not roughage. Roughage is fiber, like grains and vegetables. Mr. Roarke, you can’t survive on raw meat alone.”

  “I like to say I have a vegetarian diet. I eat vegetarians whenever I can catch them.”

  “Which reminds me,” Missy said, wrapping a beefy bicep with a blood-pressure cuff, “do the werewolves who live here hunt close to home?”

  “Naw, we have rules against that.”

  “Have you heard about the people who have been found murdered nearby?”

  “Yeah. Everyone figures the damn vampires are doing it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the bodies were drained of blood, of course.”

  “One-fifty over ninety. Kinda high, Mr. Roarke. Have you been taking your blood-pressure medication?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let me check it again. Have you had any disputes with the vampires lately?” She squeezed the bulb to inflate the cuff.

  “No. I’ve been a perfect angel.”

  “Has anyone else here had problems with the vampires?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “One-seventy over a hundred. Am I stressing you out?”

  “No. I just don’t like talking about the vampires. Bunch of damn snobs who think they’re better than us.”

  “Maybe their snobbishness led someone to frame them—make it look like the vampires killed those people?”

  “Exactly what the vampires would have you believe,” he grumbled.

  “I’m serious. A lot of werewolves live here and some of them are . . . how do I put this?”

  “Rough characters?”

  “Yeah. Maybe one of them killed some people and then drained their blood to make it look like a vampire did it.”

  “Werewolves don’t kill people for the fun of it,” Roarke said. He was getting annoyed. “We do it to eat them. Or out of uncontrollable rage. So the bodies would be missing a whole lot more than blood.”

  “Did you fast today?” Missy asked as she unpacked her blood kit and checked his arm for prominent veins.

  “I haven’t eaten anyone since the last full moon.”

  “You know what I meant.”

  “Yes, I fasted. And, by the way, we eat animals, not people. Most of the time, at least.”

  As she drew his blood into a specimen tube, he watched her and then turned his head away.

  “How anyone could survive on blood alone is beyond me. Damn vampires,” he said. “As for me, when I’m not in wolf form, the sight of blood freaks me out, to be completely honest.”

  When Missy walked across the Seaweed Manor visitor parking lot, a man was leaning against a car near hers. He watched her approach. Although she should be safe in broad daylight, she reached into her bag for the pepper spray just in case. She was fortified against supernatural creatures thanks to charms and protective spells, but pepper spray was still the best potion for repelling men.

  “Hi,” the man said. He wore shades and a shy smile. “Are you a nurse?”

  She stopped in surprise. “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, nothing. I saw you leaving the building next door and then going here, carrying a large bag, and I tried to figure out what you were doing. You don’t look like a cleaning lady. Then it occurred to me, with all the seniors living here you might be a healthcare worker.”

  “What do you want?” she asked without hiding the suspicion in her voice.

  He took off his shades. “I’m Matt Rosen with the Jellyfish Beach Journal. Can I ask you some questions?”

  Now she recognized him. He was one of the reporters in the televised press conference about the mayor’s daughter’s murder. He was the one who made a big deal about the victim’s exsanguination.

  “No. I’m in a hurry.” It was true. She needed to get home and sleep a little before she had to put in some time for her part-time job at Luisa’s botánica.

  “C’mon, it’ll only take a minute.” He was tall with dark, curly hair and a trimmed beard. He had a bit of a surfer vibe and was actually kind of cute in an intellectual way. He looked better in person than he had on TV.

  “Let me ask one,” she said. “Why are you stalking me?”

  “I’m a reporter. That’s what we do. We stalk, hunt, surveil, observe. Sometimes we just ask questions.”

  “You sound like a tabloid reporter. Have you mistaken me for someone famous?”

  “Funny,” he said in a tone meaning she wasn’t funny. “What’s your name?”

  “Missy. I’m not giving you a last name because you’re a reporter.”

  He
followed her until she reached her ancient silver Toyota Corolla. She didn’t have one of those key fobs with the emergency button on it. In fact, she didn’t have a key fob at all. She fished her keys from her bag and unlocked her car manually. Then she grabbed the pepper spray again, keeping it out of view in the bag.

  “A young woman was murdered a couple of nights ago,” the reporter said. “The mayor’s daughter, if you haven’t heard. Her body was found in the beach between these two buildings. So, for lack of any leads, I was hanging around, checking out what kind of residents live here.”

  “Old people. You must be new to Jellyfish Beach.”

  “No. I grew up here, on the mainland side. And over the years I’ve noticed more and more strange things going on.”

  “Like what?” Missy was beginning to get concerned about his knowledge of those she vowed to protect.

  “Other murders like these over the years in which the victim was drained of blood. And lots of second-hand stories of weird stuff. The kind of things that start rumors about vampires and werewolves and such.”

  “Are you sure you’re a reporter and not a novelist?” Missy asked.

  “Yes, I prefer to make money with my writing.”

  “Well, if you were really a reporter, you wouldn’t waste your time with rumors. Just because the victim bled out—”

  “And no blood was found on the ground or anywhere.”

  Missy was frustrated. “Don’t you think the sensible course would be to find out if anyone had a motive for murdering the mayor’s daughter?”

  “It’s on my to-do list.”

  “Well you go do that. I have to leave now.”

  “I seemed to have hit a nerve,” he said.

  “Many of the residents here are my patients and I truly care about them. You show up and imply one of them is the murderer, then you mention wacky crap about vampires and werewolves. How am I supposed to react? You’re obnoxious. Don’t treat seniors like they’re oddities. These could be your parents or grandparents.”