didn't look like the typical pumped-up
guard dog types, but all four carried Glocks and razor-sharp machetes on their
belts.
The
local undead bigshots stood around Gregor: Mayor Davis, Council-woman Ellis,
Rabbi Goldstein, and the only black face in sight, big fat Reverend Dalton.
Al
had lived around Lakewood for years and never knew any of these peopie's names—like he needed to
know who was mayor, right?—but he knew them now.
He
looked around for the priest, Palmeri, who was usually with Gregor, but didn't
see him. Just as well. There was a bad dude. Almost as creepy as Gregor.
As
Stan eased the car into the curb, one of the bodyguards came over. He wore
black jeans, a black shirt crusted with old blood, and a worried expression.
"No
report tonight," he said in some sort of fag British accent. "Do you
'ave something for Gregor?"
Here
was another thing not to like about the vampires. All the high-ups were one
kind of foreigner or another. Gregor looked like John Travolta but sounded like
Bela Lugosi. His guard here sounded like Mick Jagger.
"Yeah,"
Stan said. "Got a cow in the trunk. What's up?"
"Not
your concern. I'll bring 'er to Gregor."
"Okay.
Al, you and Kenny wanna get her out?"
They
did that. The ride in the trunk seemed to have taken most of the fight out of
the old broad. She had to be sixty-five or seventy and she didn't look so hot
at first, but she came to life, screaming and yelling when she saw the
bloodsuckers.
The
bodyguard made a face when he saw her. " 'Ere now, what's this? She the
best you could do?"
"We
hit a dry neighborhood. We'll do better tomorrow."
"See
that you do." He grabbed the old broad's arm and she fainted. He barely
seemed to notice. "Move on. Get to your 'omes and stay inside. We'll wake
you at the usual time."
As
Gregor's guard dragged the unconscious broad toward the church, Stan peeled
away from the curb.
"Somethin's
up," Jackie said.
Stan
nodded. "Wonder what's eatin them?"
"You
don't think another one of us bought it, do you?" Kenny said looking all
nervous.
Al
knew how he felt. Someone had been offing cowboys lately. Nothing big scale,
just one here, one there, but enough to make you start looking over your
shoulder.
"Nah,"
Stan said. "They'd tell us that. This is somethin else."
As
Stan cranked up Slipknot again, Al looked back at the receding church.
The
local undead were carrying the old broad up the church steps. Gregor stayed on
the sidewalk, his guards tight around them.
What
could get vampires shook up enough that they didn't want their own posses near
them? It gave him a crawly feeling in his gut.
As
they turned a corner Al thought he saw a female vampire with her own set of
bodyguards step out of the shadows and move toward Gregor.
GREGOR
. . .
His
get-guards tensed and turned at Olivia's approach but Gregor did not
acknowledge it. He'd been informed of her arrival from New York an hour ago and had been aware of her
presence in the shadows, watching him. He waited till she spoke.
"Good
evening, Gregor," she said with a light French accent.
He
whirled and smiled. "Why, Olivia. What a wonderful surprise!"
It
appeared she'd dressed for the occasion: a red gown—plucked from the window of
a Fifth
Avenue designer shop, no doubt—and
guard dog types, but all four carried Glocks and razor-sharp machetes on their
belts.
The
local undead bigshots stood around Gregor: Mayor Davis, Council-woman Ellis,
Rabbi Goldstein, and the only black face in sight, big fat Reverend Dalton.
Al
had lived around Lakewood for years and never knew any of these peopie's names—like he needed to
know who was mayor, right?—but he knew them now.
He
looked around for the priest, Palmeri, who was usually with Gregor, but didn't
see him. Just as well. There was a bad dude. Almost as creepy as Gregor.
As
Stan eased the car into the curb, one of the bodyguards came over. He wore
black jeans, a black shirt crusted with old blood, and a worried expression.
"No
report tonight," he said in some sort of fag British accent. "Do you
'ave something for Gregor?"
Here
was another thing not to like about the vampires. All the high-ups were one
kind of foreigner or another. Gregor looked like John Travolta but sounded like
Bela Lugosi. His guard here sounded like Mick Jagger.
"Yeah,"
Stan said. "Got a cow in the trunk. What's up?"
"Not
your concern. I'll bring 'er to Gregor."
"Okay.
Al, you and Kenny wanna get her out?"
They
did that. The ride in the trunk seemed to have taken most of the fight out of
the old broad. She had to be sixty-five or seventy and she didn't look so hot
at first, but she came to life, screaming and yelling when she saw the
bloodsuckers.
The
bodyguard made a face when he saw her. " 'Ere now, what's this? She the
best you could do?"
"We
hit a dry neighborhood. We'll do better tomorrow."
"See
that you do." He grabbed the old broad's arm and she fainted. He barely
seemed to notice. "Move on. Get to your 'omes and stay inside. We'll wake
you at the usual time."
As
Gregor's guard dragged the unconscious broad toward the church, Stan peeled
away from the curb.
"Somethin's
up," Jackie said.
Stan
nodded. "Wonder what's eatin them?"
"You
don't think another one of us bought it, do you?" Kenny said looking all
nervous.
Al
knew how he felt. Someone had been offing cowboys lately. Nothing big scale,
just one here, one there, but enough to make you start looking over your
shoulder.
"Nah,"
Stan said. "They'd tell us that. This is somethin else."
As
Stan cranked up Slipknot again, Al looked back at the receding church.
The
local undead were carrying the old broad up the church steps. Gregor stayed on
the sidewalk, his guards tight around them.
What
could get vampires shook up enough that they didn't want their own posses near
them? It gave him a crawly feeling in his gut.
As
they turned a corner Al thought he saw a female vampire with her own set of
bodyguards step out of the shadows and move toward Gregor.
GREGOR
. . .
His
get-guards tensed and turned at Olivia's approach but Gregor did not
acknowledge it. He'd been informed of her arrival from New York an hour ago and had been aware of her
presence in the shadows, watching him. He waited till she spoke.
"Good
evening, Gregor," she said with a light French accent.
He
whirled and smiled. "Why, Olivia. What a wonderful surprise!"
It
appeared she'd dressed for the occasion: a red gown—plucked from the window of
a Fifth
Avenue designer shop, no doubt—and
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