the cold case of JACK GEMINI (sample)

 

1. Unsolved

                Damn it, this case wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped.

                I braced myself and inched along the ledge, closer to death.

                I was on familiar terms with Death.  Too familiar.  We’d become more than acquaintances of late and I owed him a drink or two for all the close calls, near misses and narrow escapes.  I’d owe him another drink if, tonight, I lived.

                This case, the case that had brought me to this precipice, was a case that had haunted me for years.  I’d solved it, again and again, but it kept coming back for more.

                Goddammit.

                I shuffled further along.

                Only cats had nine lives, right?

                Just ahead, my target, a dark shape against the feeble lighting of this sector, poked out from the corner of the building, and even though its form was only a silhouette, it gave off an aura of malevolence; the damned thing was almost certainly directing its evil eye at my fragile body.

                I made the mistake of looking down, beyond my feet, just for a second.

Oh damn…

Most of my life, before and after the vortex accident, I’d been under the impression I was good with heights, but now, I was beginning to regret that viewpoint; my head spun, and my balance quivered.  I pressed myself back against the wall.  Damn it.  Goddammit.  I imagined myself falling to my death, screaming, passing out; I imagined my body, my blood and viscera, spread across the pavement, roads, several buildings, the latest artwork of Sector Three.  Very avant-garde.  I swallowed, a pathetic attempt to rid myself of the dryness in my throat.  Damn it.  I had to regain my composure.  Had to.  Or my splattered remains would become the hottest exhibition for the bourgeois students and crusty haut monde crowd of Space Station Delta.

                I pressed my head back, against the wall behind me and away from certain death below me.  I stared out into the gloom.

                Sector Three.

                This case had brought me far from home, from one side of the station to the other; it was getting out of hand.  Any other client, I would’ve given up a long time ago, but Mrs Lafferty was one of the richest on my books, and hell knew I needed the credits.  Especially after the damned fiasco with Tribeca Systems last year.  Lots of hard work for a generous pay out all flushed down the toilet by a contractual loophole.  Bastards.

                I needed a goddamned drink.  Several.  If I survived this fiasco.

                I edged closer to my prey.

I found myself in front of a window and I prayed to any deity that was listening that whichever uptight arsehole that lived inside wasn’t watching and judging my desperate endeavour.  That was the last thing I needed.  And they would certainly call the cops on me.  I also prayed that they didn’t open the window and knock me into the looming abyss below.

                But, if I finally closed this case once and for all, my death might be worth it.  Although, I’d rather be alive enough to enjoy the prize.

                I edged passed the window and reached the corner.  My target was within reach at last.  I just needed to somehow duck down to the damned thing’s level, that would not be an easy feat while balancing on a narrow ledge, and grab it.

                It sauntered toward me, and its ginger tail flittered, somewhat smugly, almost as if the creature knew of my dilemma.

                This was closest I’d been to Mrs Lafferty’s elusive goddamned cat in over a year.

                I’d caught it before, more than twice before, but it always escaped, always gave me the damned run-around.

                I kept my back to the wall, my coat scuffed the brickwork, and eased myself downwards, squatting; it was the only way to make sure I was balanced.  This was dangerous.  I could feel the winds from the air filtration system whip around me and try to knock me off kilter.  I had a sinking feeling in my gut that this wasn’t going to go to plan.

                I glanced to my right; the glowing green eyes of the satanic beast glared back at me in the moonlight.  Evil cat.  It mewed pathetically.  A scam.  I knew its real intentions; it would knock me from the ledge the first chance it got.  Ah, and now it was happening; the damned thing had chosen its moment to murder me; it rubbed against my legs.  Bastard.  I was suddenly regretting my choice to scale this death trap of an apartment complex at this time of night.  I pressed myself against the wall to prevent the cat from tripping me and it purred maniacally.  There was no way I was going to fall to my death because of this foul feline.

                I didn’t know how I was going to grab the damned thing.

                And… get down from this ledge.

                I really hadn’t thought this through enough.

                I tried to reach down and seize the cat by its scruff, but the devious thing just kept looping in and around my legs.  My thighs, and the surrounding muscles, ached with the tension of squatting.  Painful.  I couldn’t stand, not without being knocked off balance by the feral monster, and I couldn’t sit on the ledge, or I’d squash the biggest payday of my life.  I wasn’t going to be able to keep this up forever; the longer I stayed in this position, the greater the chances of terminal velocity.

                Goddammit.

                The cat curled up underneath my posterior and settled down.

                Fucking goddammit.

                The flash of blue lights and the echo of a siren trilled below.

                God-fucking-dammit.

                That’s all I needed.

The cops.

                With the cat safely immobile beneath me, I pushed against my aching legs and straightened out; my balance was more stable, but there would be no way I could grab the damned thing from this position.

                Part of me wished I was still a smoker since now would’ve been the perfect time for a cigarette, time for me to think, time for me to work out what I needed to do next.  The cop car’s lights still blinked and flashed below me.  They would be on their way up to me, and I didn’t have enough time to dawdle by thinking up the best way to capture the cat; I needed to just go for it.

                I took a careful step to the left and over the dozing creature.  I hadn’t disturbed it; the cat stayed curled on the ledge.  Bastard thing.  Right now, it looked innocent, but appearances were deceiving.  I let out a sigh of relief.  I’d made it; I’d moved from my precarious position where some of my most valuable assets had been most at risk from sharpened claws.            

                I still needed to figure out how to grab the cursed animal without falling and I had an inkling that the thing wouldn’t be wholly cooperative, despite its current serenity.

                I returned to a squat position by pressing my back against the wall and edging downwards.  The cat was still sleeping.  Or at least, it appeared to be.  Damned bastard beast.  Its ears turned to my direction; it was listening, hearing my under-breath curses, waiting for its chance to strike.

                I didn’t want to die with this particular unsolved case written in my obituary.

                Cramp began to set in within my thighs; all this squatting wasn’t good for my constitution, or for my old leg injury from last year.  I shifted my feet, my weight, and some debris from the ledge crunched and plummeted below.  I didn’t see it hit the ground.

                That could easily have been me.

                Damned cat.

                The ache in my legs was weakening the muscles in my legs and I needed to move into a more sustainable position; I needed to sit and let my legs dangle from the edge.

                I glanced at the beast to my left.  It was still there, content as ever, patient as ever, waiting for my demise.  Perhaps the creature was, in reality, Death wearing a disguise ready to collect on my debts.  Bastard.

                I shimmied down the wall and kicked out a foot from under myself.  My weight shifted onto my bad leg, and I screamed, a disturbing sound for the residents of the building; the gunshot wound from last year, that I hadn’t looked after very well, still liked to remind of that fact from time to time.  I wobbled, dizzy.  I caught myself before I toppled forward and propped myself up with an arm, outstretched hand pressed firmly on the ledge to my left.  Goddammit, I needed a drink.  The memory of my wounded leg pounded throughout my muscles; I needed to move, or I’d pay the consequences with my life.  One knee in my face, the other dangling over the edge.  I shifted.  Pressure eased from my aching muscles and hurting thigh.  The ledge was narrow, too narrow for my bum, and my cheeks dug into the corners of the stone.  I’d traded discomfort for more discomfort, but at least I was safer.

                The ginger cat still slept.

                Apparently.

                It purred; its ears were still focused on me.

                It was listening.

                Waiting.

                Comfortably.

                Unlike me.  Even my hands were uncomfortable; I gripped the hard and rough edge, determined not to slip.  The cat, my ultimate foe, was curled up, balanced, unafraid.

                I sighed; I desperately needed a cigarette and a drink.

                Goddammit.

                Blue lights still flashed below.  The cops wouldn’t take long to find me, or my remains if I fell; my organs would be spread across the streets and my bones would leave an impression in the roof of their autocar, if my aim were true.

                I couldn’t help but survey my surroundings, up here in the dark, cold heights of Sector Three.  I could see most of the sector, or at least it’s lights.  Pinpoints and streams of white and yellow illuminating one of the most affluent places on Space Station Delta.  Flowers in the dark.  It was beautiful.  And a reminder of how shit my home sector was.  The social and economic divide was a permanent fixture, and it was never going to improve, only widen.

                Damn, I was getting too old for this shit.

                Something wet and cold prodded my hand, the nose of the beast; it was awake.  It sniffed me, sized me up for its next meal, with a bejewelled collar that sparkled with demonic intent as it slinked close.  I daren’t move; I didn’t want to scare the damned creature away.  Not after what I’d been through today; I hadn’t climbed onto this ledge for nothing.  Its wet nose, damned thing, trailed snot along my fingers.  It licked.  Sandpaper.  Moist sandpaper.  The bloody thing was taunting me.  And I had no choice but to let it.

                For now.

                I needed patience.  Any sudden move to grab the cat or to pin it, could lead to either the cat fleeing, me falling or both.  If I was fast, if I didn’t think about it too much, I could lift my hand, suddenly and hastily, and grab the damned beast by its scruff.

                I looked down at the thing.  It stared back, unmoving.  No sniffing anymore, no licking.  I got the feeling it was reading my thoughts, waiting for me to make a mistake.

                It was now or never.

                I took a deep breath, mentally prepared myself, and lifted my hand, the one nearest the beast, quickly; I felt a brief tremble as my balance on the ledge destabilised and my palm careened at the creature’s neck.

                I missed.

                My knuckles grazed with the stone, but that wasn’t the end of it.  The cat, the damned monstrous beast, flew at my stricken hand with claws and teeth.  A furry ball of death and destruction.

                Goddammit!

                I reeled back instinctively, and it was the worst possible thing I could’ve done.

                I slipped.  My backside slipped from the edge.  My spine scraped the stone and the back of my head echoed against it.

It all happened so fast.

My heart, organs, jumped and I almost felt my soul, if I had one, leave my body.

I fell.

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He had a thing for Virgins (short story)

 

HE HAD A THING FOR VIRGINS

It was a common misconception that people like him had no reflection.  He picked up the wine glass from the table and stared at himself.  It really wasn’t true.  He sighed and twisted the glass in his hand, checking that his widow’s peak was still fashionably pointed and that the collar of his velvet-lined cloak was still upright and in place.  Starch had been a wonderful invention.  One of many fascinating things in this modern era.  He glanced over to the bar and watched as one of the waiters tapped on a painting that changed with each touch of his fingers.  Fascinating.  It had certainly been worth rising from his coffin after all those long centuries.

 And here he was, a Count, sat waiting in a restaurant, dating again.  He was attracting a lot of attention, as he had expected.  A few sideways glances and whispers were aimed in his direction.  Some things never changed but of course, dating was very different back in his day.  He remembered a lot of wind swept evenings, full moons, open windows and flimsy nightdresses.  Not the best clothing to wear on a cold evening.  Then again, that was the sort of thing that was expected back then.  Not now.  Dating had changed.  Gone were the days of coy innocence.  The thrill of the chase.  The passion.  Gone were the days of midnight rendezvouses.  Of almost being caught.  Now, were the days of technology.  Instant gratification.  But he didn’t feel quite ready to let go of his old-fashioned ways, determined not let the old ways die out.  The restaurant and upcoming meal had been a compromise.  Igor, his loyal manservant, had acquired a device, a smartphone, which had painted his picture instantly to its glass face, and after only a few taps to this device had found him a virgin to... dine with.

 He had a thing for virgins.

 Igor had helped pick a particularly buxom one.

 Just like the old days.

 “Sir?”  A waiter stood to his right holding a pad and paper in his hand.  “Would you like something to drink while you wait?  Some wine?”

 “I do not drink… vine.”

 “Maybe you just haven’t found the right one yet sir.  I’m a fan of red myself.”  The Count eyed the young man up and down.  “No?  How about some beer?”  He wore the tightest pair of trousers he’d ever seen.  They didn’t leave much to the imagination and for some reason reminded him of those flimsy nightdresses from his past.  Fabric bulged and strained.  The waiter coughed, drawing the Count’s eyes back up.  “Or we have a selection of soft drinks?”

 “I vill try some… vine.”

 “Red or white sir?”

 “I vill require red… vine.  Red like the blood in the depths of the heart as it beats its rhythm passionately complimenting the music of the night.”

 “I’ll get you the house red sir.”  The waiter spun on his heel and headed toward the bar.  The trousers were just as tight at the back too.

 “You know,” said a voice opposite, “you haven’t changed one bit.”

 Sat across from him wasn’t the breasty brunette he expected.

 “Van Kelsing?”

 “Close,” said the bearded man, “but he died a very long time ago; I’m his descendant.  You, however, haven’t changed since you had that portrait painted way back when.”  He held out his hand.  “I’m Adam van Kelsing.”

 “You are the very image of my nemesis.”  The Count reached out and shook Adam’s hand.  The scion of his foe was dressed in a grubby t-shirt with a frayed jacket thrown over it.  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

 The man nodded.  “Count.”

 “Forgive my rudeness but I am expecting company this evening.”  He stood and waved his arm toward the entrance.  “Perhaps another time?”

 “Please sit.  I’m sure your lady friend wouldn’t mind.  She’s not here yet.”  The Count sat back down.  “When I heard you’d risen again I thought I might come and introduce myself.”

 “And you have done so.”  He stared hard into the man’s blue eyes.  “You vill suddenly remember you have to be somevhere, something important has just come up.  You vill leave with haste.”

 “I… vill?”  Adam laughed and placed a wooden stake on the table.  “I’m afraid your mental powers won’t work on me; I’ve had training.  I don’t think Abraham van Kelsing would have lasted long against you without a few tricks up his sleeve?”

 “He was indeed a formidable foe.”

 A glass was placed next to him before being filled with a dark red wine.

 The waiter in the tight trousers had returned.

 “Some wine for your date sir?”

 “Yes.  Please,” said van Kelsing, holding up a small glass from the table.

 “He is not my date,” the Count replied.

 The waiter stood awkwardly between them not knowing what to do.

 “Come on, I haven’t had a tipple in a while.”

 The Count sighed and nodded reluctantly.  “Just the vun then.”  The waiter topped up Adam’s glass.  “But I implore you to leave my date and I to our business vhen she arrives.”

 “Will there be anything else, sir?” said the waiter, placing the bottle in the centre of the table.

 “I require nothing else… for now.” said the Count.

 “Yes sir.”

 The Count watched the waiter head back to the bar before turning back to a puzzled expression on the face of van Kelsing.

 “Vhat?”

 “You dirty dog!”  Adam took a sip of his wine and grimaced.

 “I do not know to vhat you are referring.”

 “If you say so.”  He placed his glass on the table.  “This is strong stuff.”

 “I do not often drink… vine.”  The Count held his own glass near his nose.  He sniffed.

 “I know what you drink.”

 “Vhat I drink in private is none of your concern.”

 “You’re right.”  He took hold of the stake and rolled it between his hands.  “Whatever two consenting adults get up to is none of my business.”  He balanced the wooden tip against the table and stared at the Count.  “But what you do is different; it’s monstrous and deplorable.  It’s immoral.”

 “Vhatever you think you know is incorrect.”  The Count sipped at the wine.  Vinegary but sweet on his tongue.  “You vill not understand unless you try it yourself.”

 “Was that an offer?”  Adam let the stake fall and lifted his wine to his lips.  “I didn’t think I was your type.”

 “Vhy are you here?”

 He placed the glass back on the table without touching the liquid inside.  “I want to know what you’re up to.  Abraham van Kelsing was never very trusting of your kind and neither am I.”

 “I have avoken in a different time; I simply wish to find someone to settle down vith.  As is expected of young men of this era.”

 “You are not a young man.”

 “No, but I vish to ingratiate myself back into society.  I have seen your moving paintings; this era is much more accepting of my kind.  You do not ostracise us.  If I am to succeed in my endeavour, then the first step is a date.”  The Count took another sip of wine and carefully placed his glass onto the table.  “Now, if you vill, I vould appreciate it if you vould leave me to my personal life.”

 Van Kelsing downed his drink, and picking up the wooden stake, stood to leave.  “Fine.”  He pointed at the Count.  “I’m watching you.”

 “So be it.”  He bowed his head to the descendant of his most prolific foe.  “I extend an invitation to my home tomorrow.  I vould very much like to continue this conversation.  Just not tonight.”

 “Don’t think you’re off the hook,” said Adam.  He tucked the stake into the inside of his jacket.

 “Tell me, before you leave, Mr van Kelsing, are you married?”

 “No.  And I hope that wasn’t a threat.”

 “No threat, but surely you can understand the need to find someone to quell the cries of a lonely unbeating heart and make an eternity vun vhere I can feel alive again?  Aren’t you lonely Mr van Kelsing?”

 “I just haven’t found the right person.”

 “Perhaps vhen you do, ve can date vith doubles?”

 “I don’t think so.  As I said, I don’t trust your kind.”

 “I vill change your mind.  You vill see.”

 “If you don’t…”  He patted his pocket.  The one that held the stake.

 The Count nodded in reply.

 He watched as van Kelsing left.  He seemed to also like wearing tight trousers.  It must be in fashion in this time for men to wear clothes tight enough to reveal every aspect of their personality.  Perhaps he too would try this.  Igor was good at acquiring whatever he needed, which is exactly how he’d ended up here waiting for his date.

 He poured a little more of the wine into his glass and glanced around.

 The waiter was busy with another patron of the restaurant, and fortunately the glances and whispers seemed to have died down.  He adjusted the carnation on the lapel of his cloak and looked up to see a brunette in a tight black dress enter the restaurant.  A carnation peeked up from her cleavage.

 His date.

 The Count stood and made the effort of a smile.  The lady seemed a little confused but approached anyway.  A nervous smile appeared as she reached him.  He greeted her and pulled out her chair before she sat, thanking him.

 “You look vunderful my lady,” he said as he retook his own seat, “and indeed rather ravishing.”

 “Umm…” she said looking from side to side, “I thought your profile pic was from Halloween…?”

 “I alvays dress formal; it is beneficial to one’s health to make an effort.  Do you not agree?”

 “It’s just that… isn’t that rather old fashioned?”

 “I am an old-fashioned gentleman; a man of the old vorld if you vill.  You will forgive my eccentricities.”  The Count waved to the waiter.  “Vould you like a drink?”

 “White wine please.”  She held out her hand to shake.  “I’m Wanda.”

 He took hold of her hand and kissed it gently.  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Vanda.  I am Count Vladmir Hercule Aquinas von Undervald.  You may call me Vlad.”

 “Oh!  That explains it.”  Her eyes looked him up and down, and she smiled again.  “Pleased to meet you Vlad.”

 “Sir?”  The waiter in the tight trousers appeared to the right, his little pen and pad ready.

 “A vhite… vine for the lady if you please.  The house vhite.”

 “Certainly sir,” said the waiter.  “Would you like the menu?”

 “Please,” said Wanda. “I’m famished!”

 “As am I.”  The Count could see the woman was struggling to get comfortable in her tight dress; she pulled at the top to keep her buxomness contained.

 The waiter disappeared, soon returning with the lady’s wine and a couple of menus.

 “Do you mind if take this out?”  Wanda pulled the red carnation from her cleavage and placed it on the table.  “It’s really itchy.”  She pulled at her dress again.  “So… what do you do for a living Vlad?”

 “I… I do not vork; I am a…”

 “A Count.  I remember.”  She sipped at her wine leaving lipstick on the rim.  “What do you do in your spare time?”

 “For last few hundred years I have rested.  Now I re-join this vorld.”

 “I know that feeling.”  She rolled her eyes.  “A few years ago, the company I worked for made me redundant.  I was off work for about three months.  Didn’t know what to do with myself.  It’s so nice to be back in the workplace again.”

 “And vhat vork do you do Vanda?”  He went to pick up his wine but stopped; there would be sweeter things to dine on this evening.

 “Insurance.”  The woman opened the menu.  “I know it sounds boring, but it can be quite interesting.”

 “Vhat is this... insurance?”

 “I suppose someone like you doesn’t need to worry about that kind of thing.  Being a Count and all.  Any idea what you want to eat?”

 He realised he hadn’t opened his own menu.  He flipped open the little leather book and a quick glance revealed a rather bare list of options.  There wasn’t much he could sink his teeth into.

 “Are you going to have a starter?”  Wanda was running her finger along the barren menu.  “I think I’m going to skip straight to the main.  You?”

 “Vhatever you vish my lady.”

 “Then we’ll have some room for dessert.  I love dessert!”  Wanda adjusted her dress.  “Okay, I know what I want.  Do you know what you want?”

 “I vill have vhatever you are having.”

 “Good.”  She sipped at the wine, before waving the waiter to return to the table.

 He was busy with another customer but soon joined them.

 “Yes, ma’am, sir.”

 “The lady vill order first,” said the Count indicating his date with his hand.

 “I’ll have the steak please.”

 “Stake?” The Count glanced around.  Had van Kelsing returned?

 “Oh, do you not like steak?  I can have something else if you want.”

 “I vill have the… stake.”

 She smiled at him and turned to the waiter.  “I’ll have mine rare please.  Vlad?”

 “I vill have the rare… stake too.”

 The waiter departed with their order; Vlad watched him walk to the bar.

 Wanda talked almost non-stop and he listened as much as he could.  He struggled to make sense of the topics she burned through and they seemed as expendable as they were inane.  He didn’t remember virgins being quite so talkative in his day.  They were more direct yet more mysterious.  A glance, or slight gesture, was all it took to convey exactly what they wanted.  Wanda didn’t stop.  Maybe a flimsy nightdress would be more alluring?  That had seemed to work in the past.  It was expected.  And he had always done what was expected of him.  He didn’t really know what that was anymore.  Times had certainly changed.  He looked around for the waiter in the tight trousers, hoping their food was ready.  The man was bending over to pick something up a customer had dropped from a nearby table.  He realised he was staring and the Count quickly changed his gaze to his date, who was still talking, and fortunately hadn’t seen his lapse in manners.

 “So, do you live nearby?”  Wanda asked.  Her glass was almost empty, the small amount of liquid sloshed up to the rim as she gesticulated.

 “My home is Castle Undervald.”  He picked up his own wine, which he had barely touched since his date arrived, and took a sip.  “It is deep in the Gardathian Mountains.”

 “Is that in Wales?”

 “It is in my homeland.  I have a residence here; an old church.  St. Cuthbert’s.”

 “I thought that was derelict.”

 “It is under renovation.  A home from home.”

 “That’s nice.  Do you mind?”  She pointed to the bottle of red wine.  He shook his head, and she grabbed it, tipping the liquid straight into her glass.  “I live on Oxford Road.  Not a fancy place.  Not like a church or a castle.  Just a small flat, but it’s mine.”  She wasn’t being careful with the wine; the glass overflowed.  “Silly me.”  A puddle formed and rolled across onto her lap.  “Shit.  Sorry.”  She leant forward to sip the wine and simultaneously grabbed hold of a napkin.  Her breasts almost spilled like the wine, but she quickly stood, holding her arm across her chest and dabbing at her lap with her free hand.  “If you’ll excuse me.  I just need to freshen up.”  Wanda darted away to the ladies’ conveniences, leaving him alone.

 The Count sighed.  He picked up his own napkin and wiped up the spilled wine.  This was certainly turning into an interesting evening.  He looked around for the waiter, but he was nowhere to be seen.  The sooner they had their meal the better.

 The napkin soaked up the dark red easily and the Count grew hungry.  Perhaps he should have just taken into the night and prowled the evening for buxom beauties in flimsy nightdresses.  He knew that would’ve been a fruitless endeavour.  This modern world was not what he had thought it would be.  Talk was cheap and vacuous.  No conversation.  Maybe he could just go back to his homeland and wait out another few centuries?  Igor had tried his best to acclimatise him, but he was not enjoying himself anymore.  He’d had more fun talking to van Kelsing.  Brief though it was.

 “Thank goodness I didn’t wear the white one,” said Wanda as she returned, sitting back down opposite.  “Any news on our steaks?”

 He flinched.  “Nothing yet my lady.”

 “I’m sure it’ll be along soon.”  She lifted her wine and took a mouthful.  “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an excellent listener?”

 “I listen like the night.  Silent, stalking, permeating the very essence of mankind.  The heart beats loud to the call of the evening, fluttering like a moth to flame, oblivious to the danger it reveals itself to and determined to answer the melody of the dark with its thundering voice.”

 “That’s beautiful.  Is it from a film?”

 “It is the great poet Valter Vexford.”

 “We didn’t do him in school.”  She took another sip of wine.  “Do you watch Inauguration Way?  I love that soap.”

 “Soap?”

 “Yeah, the soap opera?”

 “I prefer Mozart or Vagner.”

 “Are they soaps from your homeland?  We don’t get them over here.”

 Words deserted him.

 Fortunately, he was saved by the arrival of the waiter in the tight trousers.  The man placed the plates deftly onto the table and asked if they required anything else.

 “More wine,” said Wanda.  “This red is lovely!”

 “Anything for sir?”  The waiter jotted away on his pad.

 “I have enough… vine.”  He held up the nearly full glass.

 The waiter nodded, turned and walked to the bar.  The Count watched him leave before quickly turning his attention back to his date.  She hadn’t noticed his indiscretion.  He would have to be careful with his manners and keep his attention on the woman sat opposite.

 “This looks delicious,” she said.  She gripped her knife and fork ready to dig in.

 “It pales in comparison to the ravishing beauty of thyself my lady.”

 Wanda giggled.  “Aren’t you a charmer?  Shall we eat?”

 He motioned for her to begin.  “Ladies first.”  He waited until she had cut a slice of the rare meat, red juices oozing from the flesh, and she had taken a bite before he picked up his own cutlery.

 “This is nice.”  She spoke while she chewed.  Manners were certainly a lost art in this age.  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I have not dined on… meat in a very long time.”  He cut into the steak, eviscerating the flesh.  It felt rather alien to him to use the knife, but decorum dictated his actions.

 “Were you vegetarian?”  Wanda lifted her glass.  “I was vegetarian once.”  She took a sip.  “But it didn’t last.”  She giggled.  “I like my meat too much and I couldn’t stand eating only chicken all the time.”

 The Count lifted a piece on his fork and looked at.  Almost as good as the real thing.  The meat touched his tongue and he closed his lips around the metal of the fork.

 He almost choked.

 Garlic.

 The steak had been cooked in garlic.

 He fought against the burning in his mouth, every instinct telling him to spit out the poisonous meat.  He couldn’t.  Spitting would be impolite, and he couldn’t possibly upset the lady by hurling a chunk of meat at her.  He chewed.  Forcing his teeth to grind against the food.  Gums, skin and bone felt aflame, and he could feel his face turning red.  Burning.  Wanda hadn’t seemed to notice; she prattled on, her words barely registering in his ears.  He chewed.  It felt like an eternity as his teeth ground the fiery garlic steak.  He had to swallow.  He couldn’t keep this thing in his mouth any longer.  He gulped hard.  A hot hard lump forced its way down his oesophagus, and he quickly chugged some of his wine to quench the horrendous pain.

 “Are you alright?”  Wanda asked as he slammed his glass onto the table.

 The Count nodded.  He rubbed his throat.  “It was a little too… hot.”

 “You should blow it first.  That’s what my mother used to say.”

 “I’ll bear that in mind my lady.”

 “Did I tell you I think you’re hot?”

 “My temperature vill be back to normal shortly.”

 Wanda laughed.  “Hot and a sense of humour!”  She cut another piece of her steak and lifted it to her mouth.  “I’m enjoying myself immensely tonight Vlad; I hope this won’t be the last time we have dinner together.”

 “This evening has certainly been intriguing.”

 “I’m glad you feel the same way.”

 He tried to avoid the food as much as he could for the rest of the evening.  Wanda didn’t seem to notice; she just continued to talk, and he only had to nod occasionally.  He cut the food into pieces and moved them around the plate, lifted pieces to his mouth but didn’t actually eat.  He could not risk the garlic a second time.

 He sipped at his wine to give himself something to do.

 Soon the waiter in the tight trousers returned and took their plates away.  A fork fell to the floor.  The Count leant down to retrieve it and his eyes fell across the man’s bulge for a second time.  Those trousers certainly were rather revealing.  He sat back up and placed the utensil onto one of the plates with the waiter acknowledging thanks.

 “Would you like me to return with the dessert menu sir?” he said.

 “I think I have all the dessert I want right here.”  Wanda grinned at the Count before finishing the last dregs of wine in her glass.  “Can you fetch the bill please?”

 The waiter looked to the Count who nodded.  The sooner this evening was over the better.

 “So,” said his date, “coffee at yours or mine?  It’s just I’ve never been inside a castle before.”

 “Castle Undervald is in the homeland.”

 Wanda giggled.  “Sorry I forgot.  Wales is probably a little far anyway.”

 The waiter placed the bill on the table.  “Whenever you’re ready sir.”

 The Count picked up the bill and handed it back to the man.  “My assistant vill be along in the morning to settle my account.”

 “I’m sorry sir but we don’t offer a line of credit.”

 He stared into the waiter’s deep blue eyes.  “This vill be acceptable to you.  A man such as myself does not carry money and you vill vant my custom again.”

 “This is acceptable to me.”  The Counts influences had worked.  “Of course, a man of your stature does not carry money, and ve certainly vant your custom again.”  The waiter blinked and shook his head.  “I’ll sort this out straight away sir.”

 He felt something stroking his leg, reaching higher and higher.  Wanda was staring at him, her smirking face resting in her hands as she leant forward on the table.

 “You’re so masterful,” she said. Her foot had reached his inner thigh.  “I don’t usually do this on a first date but…”

 His chair scraped loudly against floor as he suddenly pushed himself away from the table. 

 “My thoughts exactly,” said Wanda, standing.  “Time to go?”

 Home was certainly more appealing.  He would escort her home and bring an end to this date.  Then he would court the night.  Alone.

 She hadn’t brought a coat, and soon found himself standing next to the shivering woman outside the restaurant.

 “You are cold,” he said.  He slipped his cloak from his shoulders and placed it over her shoulders.

 “Thank you, I’m okay.”  Wanda handed the cloak back and hugged her bosom.  “The alcohol will warm me up.”

 “I insist my lady.”

 “No no I’m fine.”  She pulled her smartphone device from her bag, almost dropping it from her shivering hands.  A glow lit up her face.  “Shall I get us a taxi?”

 “There is no need.”  He replaced his clothing and swept his arm across in front of them.  “I vill arrange travel.”

 The clip clop of hooves penetrated the night air introducing the roll of wooden wheels on concrete.  Carriage was the only way to travel in style.  It shimmered in the moonlight.  Two black horses dressed in intricate silver with black feathery plumes, hauled the similarly dressed coach along the road.  Igor, a short stout man, brought the horses to a halt in front of them.

 “My lady,” said the Count, smiling at his date.  Wanda seemed too shocked to talk; the first time all evening she had been left speechless.

 Maybe this evening was going to get better.

 “Ooh… how romantic!  They’re beautiful!”  Wanda petted the horse nearest to her, looking up to the manservant.  “What are their names?”

 Igor shrugged, grunting.

 “Mephistopheles and Azazel,” said the Count.  “You must forgive Igor; he is a man of few vords.  He does not get out much.  Sometimes I think he vould be lost vithout me to talk for him.”  Igor rolled his eyes at Vlad as he moved the lady’s side.  “They are such magnificent animals.  Strong.  Powerful.  My horses have served me ever since I was a child.”

 “I wanted a pony when I was little.”  Her eyes wandered up and down the horse.  “Never got one.  My parents told me I wouldn’t like it.  I think they were just being mean.”  Her eyes paused near the horse’s head.  “That’s strange.  I’ve never seen a horse with red eyes before…”

 He placed his arm around her waist and turned her away.  “I think it is time ve vere going my lady.”

 “They almost look like they’re glowing…”  Wanda shook him off, turning back to the creatures.

 The Count flung open the coach door.  “Your carriage avaits!”  He kicked at the foot step underneath and it popped out ready to ease their passage inside.  His arm swept out, inviting the lady to board.  “My lady.”

 “Oh... yes…”  Wanda turned to him and stepped inside the coach.  “My place is closer.”

 “Igor,” said the Count placing one foot on the step, “Oxford Road if you please.”

 “Number 23b,” called his date.

 Igor nodded, and Vlad heard the familiar whinny of the horses as he joined his date and closed the door.  He made a point of sitting opposite her.

 “It must have been nice growing up with all this fancy stuff around you.”

 “It vas not alvays this vay.”

 The carriage bobbed, and Wanda tugged at her dress. “Oh?  Have you always been a Count?”

 “Fortunes have vaxed and vaned like the lunar goddess, vealth ebbing and rising vith each svell of her radiant and shimmering breast.  The zenith...”  She looked confused.  “I inherited the title from my father; I am the last of the bloodline.”

 “So you’re looking for a long-term relationship?”  Wanda tried to stand.  “Children?”

 The carriage hit a bump.

 She fell face first into his lap.

 He whimpered.

 “Shit.”  Her voice was muffled and quiet in the depths of his trousers.  “Sorry.”  She rolled onto the floor.  “I just thought we could sit a little closer.”

 He held out his hand and pulled her up into the seat next to him.  She snuggled up to him.

 “You were saying…?” she said, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping an arm around his back.

 “Yes?”  It was not comfortable.

 “About being the last of your bloodline.”

 “Yes, I am the last of the bloodline.”

 “Oh.”

 The carriage came to a halt.  A knock on the wall behind his head saved the conversation.

 “That vill be Igor.”  The Count turned in the seat.  He lifted the small hatch to reveal the grouchy face of his manservant.  “Yes?”

 Igor’s quiet rasping voice murmured into his ear.

 “It seems ve are lost,” said the Count.  “Or rather Igor is lost.”

 “These streets can be a bit of a maze in the dark.”  Wanda turned and knelt on the seat.  “I get lost all the time.  I’ll give him some directions.”

 The evening felt eternal.  Was it never going to end?

 “You need to turn around; you’ve gone completely the wrong way.”

 He longed for the cold embrace of the night.  The carriage jolted forward.  They were moving again.  Her behind bumped his arm and the stench of the spilled wine from earlier in the evening drifted into his nostrils.  At least she didn’t have any more wine.  He did not want any spillages on the soft leather seats.

 “Then left at the top of the High Street.  Not that left.”

 Perhaps he could use his influences on her?

 “Then right into Queensway.”

 He had spent the evening avoiding mesmerizing his date out of courtesy.

 “You’ve missed the turning.  Can you back this thing up?”

 It was tempting.

 “Then can you turn around again?  Why not?  Look, you can pull into George Avenue and then take the ring road to get back to the Queensway.”

 Very tempting.

 “Alright, now left.  Left.  No.  Left.  There.  That left.”

 Unfortunately, if he was going to fit into this modern world he could not go around hypnotising young women and bending them to his will.  Not that he’d needed to back in the day.

 Under Wanda’s direction, Igor finally pulled into Oxford Road.  They came to halt outside 23b.

 The Count stepped outside, took his date’s hand and helped her down the step.  She tripped into his arms and giggled.

 He was sure she’d done it on purpose.

 He looked around.  Lit only by streetlamps, the street was empty.

 “I vill escort you to your door my lady.”  He took her arm.

 “Aren’t you coming in?”  She led down a path to the front door.  “For coffee?”

 “I do not drink… coffee.”

 “Tea?”

 He shook his head.  She let go of his arm as she rummaged in her bag for her keys.

 “I don’t want this evening to end.”  The keys jangled in her hand.  “It’s been wonderful.”  Smiling, her free hand touched his chest and she stepped closer.  Buxom pillows pressed against him.  “The night is young.  And so are we.”

 “The night is ancient, ancestral.  My progenitor.”  He tried to step back but a fence hindered his escape.  It creaked.  “I am not as young as I seem.”

 “Nonsense.”  Fingers caressed his face.  “And I’m sure one small coffee isn’t going to kill you.”

 “I…”

 “I insist.  One coffee.  I promise.”

 He gulped.  “Just the vun then.”

 “Good.”  She moved back and winked. “I make the best coffee.”  Wanda slid the key into the lock.  “Oh, there’s no parking on the street.  For cars anyway.  You better tell Igor to go home.  I’ll order you a taxi after coffee.  I don’t want him to get into trouble, poor thing.”

 “Igor vill vait.”

 “You can’t leave him out in the cold while we have… coffee.”

 “Then I vill ask him to join us.”

 “That’s a little weird.”  The door opened, and light flooded the pathway.  “I wanted it to be just us.”

 “As you vish my lady.”

 “I’ll go put the kettle on.”  Wanda stepped inside and threw off her shoes.  “Just come straight in when you’re done.”  She moved a little further in.  “Oh, and say goodbye to Mister Toffees and Hazel for me.”

 The Count returned to his carriage, and patted Mephistopheles on the rump.

 “Igor,” he said, “please return to St Cuthbert's.  I will be staying for vun coffee.”

 The manservant muttered something in reply.

 “No and it is only vun coffee.  I vill make my own vay home.”

 Another grumbled string of words came from the driver’s seat of the coach.

 “Igor!  That sort of language is not amusing.  Do as I ask.”

 The reins whipped, the horses breaking into a trot, and the Count watched as the carriage rolled to the end of the street and turned the corner.

 He sighed.

 It was only coffee.

 A wind picked up, blowing a chill air along his cloak.  He listened, hoping to hear the music of the night.  There was only the distant sound of traffic.

 Someone coughed.

 There was a figure at the end of the street just outside of the circle of light cast by a streetlight.  Stood in the dark.  A hood covered the face and a long coat hid the body.  Mysterious.

 The Count turned on his heel to head back inside.

 He paused.

 Could that have been van Kelsing?

 He stole a glance to his right.

 There was no-one there.

 He shrugged and headed for the door of Wanda’s flat.  Time to get this over with.

 “I’m in the kitchen,” came her voice.  “The living room is on the left.  Please excuse the mess.”

 Mess was an understatement.

 “Make yourself at home.”

 It was difficult to tell where the furniture ended, and the floor began.  Wrinkled discarded clothing, dirty dishes and just general clutter seemed to consume every surface.  He couldn’t move.  He didn’t want to.  Every muscle, every instinct, every bone in his body screamed at him to tidy up.

 His nose twitched at the intrusion of a strange smell.  Sour.  With a little hint of fruitiness.  Its source, whatever it was, hid deep within the mounds of detritus littering the room.

 How could someone live like this?

 Tidy house.  Tidy mind.

 Maybe if he just cleaned a little bit.  Just a little bit of decluttering.

 He couldn’t.

 He knew if started he wouldn't be able to stop; he’d be here the rest of the night.

 And probably the rest of tomorrow too.

 He carefully made his way to what seemed to be the sofa, or a sofa shaped mass of clothing, stepping over and between the various heaps littering the space around his shoes.  A little bit of black leather peeped out between the multicoloured mess.  Must be the sofa.  Unless she was into that kind of thing.

 He used his sleeve to push open a space to sit and perched himself on the edge.

 His eyes surveyed the room.  It could be a decent living room if only it were cleaner.  Patches of creamy carpet looked back at him from beneath the ever-consuming turmoil on the floor.

 He clasped his hands together and sighed.

 Some of the disorder from the room had attached itself to the cufflink on one of his sleeves.  It dangled there, contagious.  He used the tip of his fingers to unhook the frilly white fabric and realised what it was.

 Surely underwear was meant to protect your modesty.  To cover things.  Definitely not practical.  Not at all.

 He hurled them to his left, adding to the mountain of clothing at the other end of the sofa.

 Yellow eyes were watching him.

 A messy ball of grey fluff, now with a frilly pair of knickers draped across its back, was curled on the other end of the sofa.

 The hideous creature hissed at him.

 “Don’t mind Mister Tiddles,” said Wanda entering the room with two glasses of wine.  “He’s just jealous ‘cos mummy’s having a good time.”  She handed one of the glass to the Count.  Red liquid sloshed.  “Aren’t you darling?”  The cat’s angry stare didn’t abate as the woman removed the article of thin fabric from its back, and scratched behind its ears.

   “I’m out of coffee,” said his date perching herself right next to him.  Her legs pressed up against his.  “And the kettle doesn’t seem to be working.  And I can’t find any mugs.  So, I had to find something else to drink.  Wine is a much better choice anyway, don’t you agree?”

 “It vill be acceptable.”

 Mister Tiddles jumped from the sofa and the Count grimaced as it took up a place in front of his feet.  It glared at him.  He’d never seen a creature with so much malevolence it its eyes.

 “You’re not much of a cat person, are you?”

 “I am not fond of… cats.”  The thing hissed at him again.  He turned his gaze into the cat’s eyes and concentrated.  “You vill leave.”

 Mister Tiddles turned and ran as fast as it could out of the room.

 “You have a way with animals,” said Wanda.  A hand fell onto his knee.  “Animal magnetism.  It’s hot.”

 “The veak villed bend to my influence.”

 “You’re so mysterious.”  Her hand crept along his thigh.  “I like it.”  Her face was close to his and he could smell the wine on her breath.  “How about we skip the wine and go straight upstairs?”

 “Oh, vill you look at the time!”  The Count stood up quickly.  “I really must be going.”

 “But we’re only just getting started.”  Wanda grinned and grabbed his arm, pulling him back onto the sofa.  “Don’t be shy; I know how to please a man.”

 “I thought you said you vere a virgin?”

 She leant close.  “I’ve never married.”

 “I really must be going.”  He stood again, stepped forward and tripped over something on the floor.  He fell fast, landing on something soft.  It didn’t stop the glass in his hand cracking.  He felt wine wet his white shirt.

 He rolled onto his back and groaned.  His shirt was ruined.

 Wanda giggled.  “We could always do it here.”  She straddled him.  “I’ve never done it on the floor before.”

 “Er…”

 The woman leant forward, her face coming close to his.  “Shall we get you out of those wet clothes.”  Her hands reached up and unbuttoned his shirt.

 He was trapped.

 The Count quickly pushed, rolling them both and changing their positions.

 Wanda giggled.

 And then the window smashed.

 A loud shatter propelled a shadow across the room, particles of glass sparkling as they followed in its wake.  Cold night air flooded in.  The intruder was at their side in moments.

 Hands grabbed at the Count and he was thrown from the woman beneath him.  She screamed.  He tumbled.  The shadow kicked and hit at him.  Grappling, he fought back trying to get the upper hand, but it was to no avail.  The shadow caught him behind the ankle and he fell to the floor once more.  He wasn’t going down alone.  His hands reached up and grabbed clothing, pulling his attacker down with him.  The shadowy figure landed on top.  A familiar face came close and he felt the pressure of a forearm pressed against his neck.

 “I knew you were up to no good,” said van Kelsing.

 “It vasn’t vhat it looked like.”  He could feel van Kelsing’s muscled form pressing against his body, warm against his own.  Vlad was completely pinned down.  “Your stake is poking me in the hip.”

 “Excuse me,” said Wanda, “but who are you?  And why are you attacking my date?”

 Van Kelsing lifted himself up, easing the pressure from the Count’s body.

 “I am Adam van Kelsing ma’am.  And I may have just saved your life.”

 “We were only fooling around; it’s not like he was going to murder me and drink my blood or something.”

 “I really vasn’t,” said the Count getting to his feet.  “I vas just leaving.”

 “He really wasn’t hurting you?”  Van Kelsing tapped his pockets looking for something.

 “No.  We were just about to…”  said Wanda.

 “No ve vere not.”  The Count picked up the wooden stake from the floor and handed it to van Kelsing.  A confused look came back in return.  The man certainly had very blue eyes.  “I told you before that this was just a date.”

 “You were on top of her,” said van Kelsing.

 The Count rolled his eyes.

 “Oh,” said Wanda staring at them both, “I understand now.  You’re…”

 “Yes,” said the Count.  “For as long as I can remember.”

 “I can’t say that I’m not disappointed.  Some things are just not meant to be.”  She sat down on the sofa and picked up her glass of wine.  She held it up.  “You be proud of who you are.”  The glass was lifted to her lips and she took a heavy swig of the red liquid.  “You be proud of who you are.  I just don’t understand why your friend here had to break my window.”

 “Sorry,” said van Kelsing.  “I’ll get it fixed.”

 “Damn right you will.”  She took another drink of her wine.  “At least the steak was nice.  And the carriage ride.”

 “You took her in your carriage?”  The man smirked.  “You must really be pulling out all the stops.  No wonder she invited you in.”

 “I am a gentleman,” said the Count.  “I only vished to see the lady home safely.”

 “Look, I think it’s time you both left.”  Wanda finished off her wine.  “It’s been an eventful evening, but I think I want to just go to bed now.”

 “Vhat about the vindow?”

 “Just give me the money for it; I’ll sort it out in the morning.”

 “You cannot go all night with no vindow.  I insist that ve at least board it up with something.  Do you have any vood?”

 “I’ll just pin a couple of bin liners over it.”

 “But…”

 Wanda shook her head and yawned loudly.

 “As you vish my lady.”

 Van Kelsing wrote a cheque and they both left through the front door.  The Count bid his disastrous date goodbye as he walked with his foe to the end of the path.

 “We still need to talk,” said Adam, stopping on the pavement.  “I still want to know what you’re up to.”

 “Tomorrow as ve arranged.”  Vlad looked over to the man at his side.  Somehow the frilly underwear he’d tried to discard earlier was stuck to the side of his coat.  He reached for it, but other man moved away.  “You have…”

 Van Kelsing pulled a face and flicked the undergarment to the ground.  “Until tomorrow then,” he said.

 “Yes.”

 “I look forward to it.”  The descendent of his most powerful enemy smiled at him.  He turned, and started walking down the street.

 “I vill prepare some dinner,” the Count called after him.

 “It’s a date.”  He waved without turning around.

 Count Vladmir Hercule Aquinas von Undervald watched as van Kelsing strode to the end of Oxford Road before disappearing from view.

 Tomorrow would be interesting.

 He closed his eyes and transformed.

 The bat embraced the freedom of the night, flapped its long leathery wings and flew high.

The End.

Buy the book where this story lives by clicking HERE
Cover art by Tim Jenkins