Or undisturbed, just the way he preferred. He’d always sought out quiet spots, away from crowds where he could think and observe. And if necessary, leave just as quickly.
Three red-pleather covered swivel seats sat empty. Most customers didn’t care to sit so closely to the restrooms or the swinging kitchen doors. He dropped his tall, lithe body down on the middle one and unzippered the brown leather jacket a kind cyclist had given him.
Well, it had been more of an action of ‘surrendered,’ but the lad wouldn’t remember anything about the incident. He also made sure to leave the young man’s motorcycle in the parking lot of the bar at the end of town, fully gassed, of course.
It would be easier for the business owner to phone in or for the police to discover.
That had always been his way — to be kind to those who had helped him, despite the unconscious actions he forced upon them.
Finally ready, his lowly stomach growling, he watched the young waitress fill up coffee cups and replenish napkins at the other end. She moved with a fluid grace, reminding him of someone else. Another part of his body awakened, one which had long slept. No matter the time or distance, there was one woman he could never forget.
His soul wouldn’t allow it.
The waitress glanced in his direction and nodded before she staked some papers onto rings suspended from the top frame of the kitchen window. “Orders in!” she announced as she rushed by, picked up a cup and saucer, and headed towards him.
The waitress was young, but as his gaze followed her, it was apparent that her actions relayed experience. The way her eyes swooped over every inch of the counter surface, he bet she made mental notes of the half-filled sugar shakers and the cake display, which housed a lone slice of apple pie.
“Good evening.” She placed the cup and its dish in front of him. “Coffee?”
Her glance swept over his disheveled appearance, the windblown hair, and mud-stained hands. She jerked her chin in the direction behind him. “The men’s room is empty if you want to freshen up. Know what you want?”
He nodded, instantly liking her warm, friendly tone. She was pretty too. “I’ll take the shepherd’s pie, please. Coffee black. Thanks.” When he stood, she’d already gone to retrieve the carafe.
The restroom was empty.
She even kept track of that. A woman with fantastic attention to details.
He pumped the dispenser for lots of pink liquid soap and washed. The amount of dirt on his hands and arms alarmed him. No wonder the waitress directed him in here. The splash of warm water across his face woke up his senses.
He was alive, human, and safe. In charge of his own life.
Once clean, he removed the black beanie from his head (another gift from the same guy who’d handed over the clothing) and finger-combed his hair, settling the shoulder-length locks into place. Afterward, he rolled up and shoved his hat into his back jeans pocket, before he dried his face with scruffy paper towels. He smiled at his image in the mirror.
How long had it been since he’d seen his face? Despite not aging, his amber eyes reflected the haunting memories of the past years. The growth of a hard life filled his jaw. One forced upon him.
Soon, he would exact his revenge. He’d already sent word a couple of towns over.
Switching his concentration to something else, he grimaced at the walls. Even in here garish decorations followed him. Taped to the walls, colorful cardboard witches with wart-covered green faces stood or sat suspended on brooms along with their black cats.
Humans and their peculiar fascination with witches and their familiars. How clueless they indeed were!
Orange and black crepe paper bordered the mirror and window. At least he had made it this far. Almost home.
Soon he would be inside his house — safe and locked away from those who caused trouble. Once they maintained the upper advantage, they made living for ones like him hellish.
Not anymore. He refused to be treated that way. Never again had been the promise he made himself and for those he’d seen, those who hadn’t made it.
When he returned, his cup was filled. A bowl which held a garden salad with a side of house dressing waited. Besides that, a dinner roll and patch of butter on a small plate beckoned him over. He salivated. How many months without a decent meal?
Grabbing a fork, the crisp lettuce and two cherry tomatoes disappeared in seconds. He’d forgotten the dressing but took his time with the roll, slathering butter across its folds. Relishing his second bite of bread, he felt someone’s stare. Looking up, he met her brown eyes and noted the abundance of crow’s nest in the corners, her skin now sallow with age. A smile spread across her lips as she hurried down, his dinner in her hands.
“It’s so good to see you back, Alistair, sir!” She kept her voice low enough for only them while she put his plate down and picked up the empty ones.
“Hello, Mrs. Horan. Good to be back.” Was that his voice now? That dry, scratchy-sound so foreign to his ears?
She stepped back to peer at him, taking in every inch of him, just like the young woman had. Then he noted the resemblance between them.
“How have you been?” Mrs. Horan inquired, moving closer. She laid a hand with raised veins covered in age spots across his arm. For some, time left behind visible memories across their skin. Not him.
He didn’t age.
“I’m well,” was all he could muster without having his voice reveal anything of his ordeal.
Rubbing the top of his hand, she smiled again before reining it back. “She missed you something awful, sir. Those first few months she didn’t show herself. I worried about her…”
This was the real reason he came here. Information. “Is she — — ”
“Ms. Abbott is fine. Now. Beautiful as ever. Has hardly aged a day. Her business is doing well. She’s a busy woman.”
He sipped his coffee. The warm, acidic blend of beans woke up his taste buds as it raced down his throat. From the owner’s inquisitive stare, he knew she wondered if he’d already made a stop somewhere else before coming here. He shook his head. “This is the first place I came, Mrs. Horan. I smelled the dinner special and had to get in here.”
She nodded a bunch of times. “Good, good. You look like you haven’t eaten many good meals. Now that you’re back make sure to come in every day. I’ll take care of you, sir. Just like I did with your dad. God bless his soul.”
The young woman topped off his cup and walked away. Mrs. Horan’s brown eyes filled with pride. “Can you believe that’s my granddaughter? Sarah’s all grown up. Taking college classes.” While she spoke, she ran the dish towel along the counter sides and twisted the ketchup bottle closed. The dinner rush had ended. Only a handful of people sat in various spots.
He ate quickly, the food was delicious. The ground beef seasoned well, the peas and carrots exploded with flavor when he bit into them. Not wanting to embarrass himself, he kept his moans non-existent. Two mounds of homemade mashed potatoes, made with chunks of turnips and bathed in butter, held wells of the meat sauce that spilled over when his fork broke through.
Delightful.
Mrs. Horan watched him eat. Satisfaction at his silence was evident in her stance. When his spoon returned empty after the third attempt to pick anything remaining in the bowl failed, she spoke. “Are you back to stay, sir?”
He put the spoon down on his napkin and mulled over her question. Soon he said, “Yes. I believe I am. I missed being home.”
Miller’s Vale was home and had been for decades. His family had established the town in the late eighteenth century after they fled Massachusetts. Someone had recommended this section of upstate New York, so they came and here they remained.
“Good. Good. Your neighbors have a party tonight. The Mortimer family is an odd bunch, keep to themselves, but they always donate to town events. Have you seen Miss Pene
lope yet?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Oh, okay.” Mrs. Horan returned the towel under the counter. “Penny stopped in earlier for a piece of pumpkin pie after she finished cleaning your house. She’s retiring soon, you know. Selling her business to her son and daughter-in-law and moving to Florida.”
Finishing his coffee, he allowed himself a gentle smile. Another trustworthy friend, Penny kept his house pristine whenever he had been called away on Council business. “She deserves it after all of her hard work.” He nodded at the young woman as she approached with his bill.
Mrs. Horan noticed. “No dessert? Sarah, box one of the Dutch apple pies. They’re on the cooling racks.” She laughed. He handed over a fifty-dollar bill over and motioned with his hand that he wanted no change.
Sarah offered him a grin along with a demure invitation which he politely declined with downcast eyes. As attractive as she was, she was no match for a particular other woman.
The owner swatted her granddaughter. “He’s already taken. Go get the pie!” When space was empty, Mrs. Horan leaned towards him. “Sir, something is going on in town you should know about.”
He’d secured his beanie on his head and stopped fiddling with the rim. She had his complete attention. From the fine lines etched across her forehead, he knew she had something to confide in him.
“Yes, Julia, go ahead.”
She blinked, not accustomed to hearing him say her name. “Well, sir, someone’s been killing the cats. A few days ago, small dogs began disappearing. I keep my Pomeranian babies inside, my Lovey and Dovey.”
Her eyes watered, and he waited for more details.
“After I lost Mr. Horan, well, my cats gave me comfort. At one point, I had ten feline babies, besides my dogs. But four are gone. I found three bodies and buried them.” Pausing, she wiped some tears away. He offered her a napkin which she took and used.
“My babies didn’t look right, sir. They had bite marks and no blood in them. I took them to Sam, the vet. He said other people have complained about the same thing.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Alistair gripped her hands in his. “Don’t fret now, Mrs. Horan. You know I will investigate this matter and take care of it. Not a word to anyone.”
Sarah waited by the register with a cake box. A couple paid their bills and left.
Mrs. Horan gathered herself and withdrew from his clutch. “Thank you, sir. I know how invested you are in our town and keeping things running smoothly in the background. I’m so glad you’ve returned, Mr. Reid.”
Alistair nodded. “I am pleased to be home, Mrs. Horan.” More than you know, he thought. Back in time to kill a vampire.
Chapter Three
The annual Mortimer masquerade party was underway. The rock band set up in the ballroom only performed at one volume: extremely loud. The five guys all wore tight black suits and sported messy hair. Ollie listened to the singer go on about someone named Bela Lugosi being dead. The irony, he guessed.
Walking around, keeping to the outer edges of the first-floor rooms, the teen watched all the guests. The kitchen was off-limits since they never used it. The dining room offered fresh drinks: two bodies stretched out on the table for anyone’s enjoyment. No one minded the shackles on the wrists and ankles of these human ‘guests,’ or the tape across their mouths. Instead, it seemed to excite any who entered. Ollie even overheard some vamps leaving the room remark on how the fear of the guests made their blood taste even more appealing.
The darkened living room was set up for the teens in the coven. One widescreen TV played vampire-made movies and videos and the other one was hooked up to a video game console. A bunch of them gathered around to watch others play. Some of the ‘couples’ made out in various corners. One such twosome was his sister and the guy who cleaned their pool.
His stomach turned, and Ollie walked out. Most of the coven kids considered him weird or too good for them. He didn’t argue with their assumptions, no matter how wrong they were. How could he help it if he didn’t want to embrace the vampire life” thrust upon him?
For a masquerade party, most wore simple masks attached around their heads and didn’t bother with costumes.
Only the Mortimer’s wore appropriate holiday-themed outfits. His parents became pirates and Baxtra morphed into a sexy nurse. Funny, each year her clothing choices became smaller and skimpier. Mom said she’d attract a suitor quicker. Ollie didn’t think so. Everyone knew her reputation.
Ollie passed by the door leading to the basement. About ten vamps stood on a line while a bald, burly guy allowed a handful down every few minutes. Dad had announced there would be an “Adults Only” spot. He guessed that’s where it was.
Last year’s party had been quite eventful. A werewolf had somehow made it through his parent’s tough guards stationed at the front door. The woman was Alpha of a local pack. Enraged at having her mate slaughtered by one of Dad’s friends, she came to exact her vengeance.
That seemed fair. Ollie figured he would have done the same thing if he’d senselessly lost his girlfriend or wife. All natural-born vampires have free will. They’re wired to know when the life of the person they’re drinking from is reaching a critical stage. Marco, the coven’s second-in-command and Dad’s bestie since college, didn’t care. He killed the man.
Ollie saw through the glamour the Alpha lady had purchased from the black market located along the border of the nearest city. He’d kept quiet and waited. When she struck, she took out four vampires, mostly newlings, before his parents subdued her. Dad let Marco finish her off.
That had been a horrible scene and one his mom had forced him to witness. Baxtra enjoyed it, especially when Marco let her drink from the werewolf. Ollie refused and was sent up to his room as punishment. Too bad he couldn’t disappear tonight.
Last year’s band had been all female. They were decent. These guys seemed bland and yet tonight’s crowd danced in the ballroom, while others stood in groups, chatting, and sipping Mom’s famous blood cocktails. Many had attended last year. Most seemed to have forgotten the goings-on.
The boy didn’t. Again, Ollie knew something was coming. Ever since he felt the stone wall It was on the way.
After a turn around each room, various heads nodding in his direction, he slipped out through the side door and headed towards the backyard. His parents had cleared out an acre of the four they owned to have the area landscaped into gardens. Garish topiaries shaped like monsters and statues of naked angels dotted the area filled with flowers, bushes, ornamental trees, and shrubs.
Ollie had a favorite spot. The gazebo. Quiet greeted him while he traveled along the pebble covered trail. As he approached the round wooded hideaway, he heard the smack of lips and a zipper closing. Great, he thought. About to turn around, the cape of his costume snagged on a broken branch of a shrub, halting him.
“See you, Scar,” a guy yelled and rushed by him. A strong, heady scent Ollie assumed could only be sex, trailed behind him.
Now he didn’t want to go any further.
“Hey, let me get that.” Her honeyed voice did strange things to Ollie’s belly. Always had, even when he was younger, and she babysat him in another town. His parents’ coven always traveled together.
She came into his view. Long blond hair, flapper’s dress, feather headband, and colorful beads around her neck. Scarlett Underwood.
He moved his head to see her lean over and unwind the material. A rip sounded. “Sorry, Olls,” her voice almost a whisper.
“That’s…okay,” he managed, keenly aware that the back of her dress was unzipped. From the way she bent, he admired the contours of her spine, how moonlight gleamed off her skin. A twinge in his pants caused him to gasp.
She stood quickly, her large, blue eyes locked on his. “Is your Mom gonna go ballistic if this is slightly ruined?” In her extended hands she clutched the bottom o
f his damaged accessory.
He shook his head and she beamed at him. “I get it! You’re a knight. Very cool.”
It pleased him to hear genuine emotion in her voice. Unlike the crowd this evening who greeted him with fake airs, fake air kisses, and words of admiration delivered with condescending attitudes.
Scarlett dropped the velvet and let her long arms rest by her sides. Her dress sleeveless and tight, he allowed himself a few seconds to wash over her form. None of the girls at school came close. Even if she was six years older and Marco’s bastard daughter, he didn’t care.
She stepped in front of him, blocking out the light. “That didn’t mean anything. I mean, you seeing Bones take off that way. He’s a mongrel like me. I tend to keep with my own kind.”
That Ollie knew well. As the leaders of the coven, his parents had drilled into him the importance of blood relations and associating with the ‘right’ families.’ Despite her headstrong ways, even Baxtra subscribed to those beliefs.
Ollie did not.
“You come out here to go in there?” She angled her head in the direction of the gazebo.
“Yeah.” He sounded like a kid.
With a developing smile, she grabbed his hand in hers and led him towards it. Once she stepped inside and went to sit on the built-in bench, he stopped her. “Wait. Let me fix your — ”
She giggled then, a light, flirty noise that went straight below his gut. “Bones forgot. He was worried we’d get caught, but he’s so good.”
That’s another reason she appealed to him. Scarlett didn’t guard her mouth or her thoughts. His fingers trembled while he pulled the zipper together with one hand and kept her hair out of the way with the other. The tendrils so soft to the touch. Not paying attention, the zipper reached the end, but his fingers kept tugging. A small portion of skin on his tips caught on the metal and he yelped.
Tricks or Treats: An Anthology for Charity Page 31
