Christmas in Transylvania (2 page)

Just then, Nora let out a little squeal and set aside the nutcracker. Running over to the window facing the back courtyard, she said, “It's snowing! It's snowing!”

And Gun said, “Maybe we can make a snowman, just like Frosty.”

And Alex, who was tone-­deaf or close to it, burst out into song, “It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”

And Karl said, “I'm outta here.”

“Can I come with you?” Vikar asked.

“Hell, no, Mr. Scrooge!”

Once Karl was gone, and the children had gone off with a grumbling Lizzie to find some coal and carrots and a cap for Frosty, he and Alex were alone. He glanced pointedly at the open box, and said, “Surely, you don't expect me to . . . come on, Alex, sweetling . . . Santa with fangs? Ha-­ha-­ha.”

She didn't laugh. Instead, she gave him that little secret Mona Lisa smile . . . and, yes, he had met the model for the Mona Lisa painting one time and knew exactly why she had been smiling. “Honey,” Alex purred.

Beware of women who purr.
“No, no, no!” he said. And he continued to insist, “No, no, no,” until Alex yawned and mentioned taking a little nap. He did so enjoy afternoon “naps” with his wife.

Still, he protested, “A Viking Santa?”

Somehow, Alex managed to hop up onto his lap, straddling his hips. With arms looped around his neck, she said, “Please?”

“I will be the laughingstock of Vikings throughout this world and the other,” he said on a groan of surrender.

Oddly, he found that he no longer cared.

 

Chapter Two

Vangel to the rescue . . .

K
ARL HAD TO
get away from the castle.

That was nothing unusual. There were always so many ­people around the vangel homeplace, it was hard to find a private spot to be alone. And Karl was a loner at heart.

At the present time, there were thirty-­five or so vangels in residence. Sometimes, there could be up to two hundred although not so much anymore since Michael had commissioned Ivak to establish another headquarters in Louisiana, and plans were supposedly afoot for more satellite operations. When not out on a mission, vangels here usually helped Vikar with whatever latest restoration job was in progress. Painting, plastering, plumbing, whatever, it was never-­ending. Or they hung out in one of the twenty-­five bedrooms, or the family television room, or the library, or the dormitory, lounge, and weight rooms in the dungeon basement. It was like having dozens of annoying brothers and sisters. And they all loved nothing better than to stick their noses in each other's business. Viking busybodies!

And now Christmas! The castle will be even more chaotic than usual. I'll be damned if I dress up like jolly ol' Nick because sure as sin Alex won't be satisfied with just one Santa. And I'll be damned if I sing Christmas carols. I could make anatomically correct Gingerbread Men and Women, though, like the ones Eric and I made when we were kids before Ma whipped our butts.

The memory brought a smile to his face before he hopped in his ten-­year-­old pickup truck. Before turning on the ignition, he rubbed his hands over his bristly head in frustration. He'd kept his hair military short ever since 'Nam. Maybe it was time for a change.

But not today.

He often got in his pickup truck and just went out for a drive, or stopped at a greasy spoon for a cup of coffee, or on rare occasions parked on a hill overlooking one of the Amish farms outside of town and sat in his vehicle, watching the everyday activities of farm life. Pathetic, really.

But today was different. What was it with that diarrhea of the mouth he'd suddenly developed? Talking nostalgically about his childhood home and family like they'd been the friggin' Waltons or something? Pfff! Next he would be blabbing about his tour in 'Nam, at which point he would have to slit his own throat.

Yeah, maybe it was time for a new hairstyle. Time to rid himself of that last visible reminder of that horrible episode in his life, when he'd committed his great sin. Hah! He could wear a ponytail down to his ass, and that wouldn't change anything. The reminders were embedded forever in his brain.

He drove slowly down the long driveway that led through the hundred-­acre property and nodded as Svein waved him through the electronic gate that had been erected last year. Security was extremely important, not just to keep out the tourists who flooded the whack-­job town of Transylvania, but it was important that the location of the vangel command center be kept a secret from Jasper, king of all the Lucipires, their most hated enemy.

Lucipires were demon vampires, one of Satan's many tools, whose sole purpose was to kill evil ­people, or those about to commit some great sin, before their time, before they had a chance to repent. Those taken were not sent to Hell but to Horror, where Jasper and his minions tortured them until they turned into Lucies themselves.

Lucipires were the reason why vangels had been created to begin with. And humans, who had been guilty of some grave sin during their human life, like himself, were more than grateful for this second chance at redemption. It was either that or go south to that other place. Really south. Where it was hotter than Hades. Wait a minute. It
was
Hades.

Karl shook his head at the idiocy of making jokes with himself. Next he would be talking to himself. And babbling like a moron.
Here's a news flash, Mortensen, you already did that.

He passed the “Welcome to Transylvania” billboard, then St. Vladamir's Church, where the outdoor sign read, “God Loves All His Creations . . . Even You.” He had to give the town credit. It had been a depressed, dying burg here in the boondocks until about seven years ago, when some enterprising fellow came up with the idea of jumping on the vampire bandwagon. Back then, the book
Twilight
had been published with great acclaim, and that
True Blood
series was just taking off.

They changed the name of the town to Transylvania, and every business developed a vampire slant, one dorkier than the other. The naysayers had predicted the vampire craze would die out, but thus far, that hadn't happened. Tourists swamped the town year-­round, except for the coldest months, but even now the town council was planning some big Christmas bash that would draw vampire aficionados, despite the weather.

The good thing was that vangels, who'd taken over the long-­abandoned, run-­down castle up on the hill, built by a lumber baron a century or so ago, didn't stand out in the crowds here. Not even when they were wearing long cloaks to hide their weapons. The townfolks thought the castle was being renovated into a hotel.

Snow was coming down harder now. Big, fat flakes. Karl turned the windshield wipers on and amped up the heat as he passed slowly through town. He was wearing only an unlined denim jacket, and the temperature was dropping by the minute.

Here and there, Karl waved to ­people he knew. Well, not really “knew.” Acquaintances. Vangels tried not to get too close to humans for fear of revealing their true selves.

Maury Bernstein, owner of Good Bites, who stood in the open doorway of his restaurant watching the snow come down, was probably wondering if it would affect his dinner crowd. There were at least twenty restaurants and bars serving food and drinks in the area. Everything from The Bloody Burger Joint to Drac's Dungeon to The Dark Side. A signature drink at most of the bars was called a “Bloody Fang.”

Stella Cantrell was hanging a wreath on the door of Stinking Roses, a tiny shop that specialized in everything involving garlic.
Stinking rose
was another name for garlic, Karl had learned on moving here. Apparently garlic was supposed to repel vampires though the town's purpose was to attract them, of course. Personally, he liked garlic, in moderation. Anyhow, Stella's wreath had garlic bulbs adorning it as well as holly berries.

Other stores sold capes, fake fangs, crosses on heavy gold chains, even stakes, which could double for tomato-­plant supports, and posters. Several T-­shirt shops did a flourishing business with logos like “Fangbangers,” “Got Blood,” “Sookie Got Screwed,” “Bitten,” and so on. The adult video store had been forced to move last year to the outskirts of town by conservatives outraged at the vulgar titles in the window. They were probably right since tourists often brought kids with them, but the titles of some of them
had
been funny. Like
Ejacula
,
Intercourse with
a Vampire,
Fang
Me, Bang Me,
or
Vlad Had a Really Big Impaler.

Leaving the town proper, Karl headed west toward Penn State University though it was a good distance away. Two miles out of town, he passed the Bed & Blood Bed-­and-­Breakfast, run by an Amish ­couple, who were being shunned by their community. The husband made hand-­carved specialty caskets that he sold on the Internet, probably the reason they were ostracized by their order. Alex was friends with them and bought lots of fresh produce there.

Karl had been feeling jumpy all day. The skin-­crawling sensation he often got before a mission. Which was odd because there was no particular mission on the agenda as far as he knew. He'd quit smoking last month. That was probably what was affecting him so. Or maybe he needed a cup of coffee. Caffeine had the opposite effect on him as some folks. It tended to calm him down.

He pulled into the almost empty parking lot of Drac's Diner off Route 322. There was something . . . rather, someone . . . he needed to check on here.

The bell on the door tinkled when he entered. The only other customers were a ­couple in a back booth and a truck driver sitting at the far end of the counter having an early dinner. Other than the name of the diner, this place didn't do much to push the vampire theme, except during the high season, when the staff might don fake fangs. Their menu hadn't changed in years.

“Hey, stranger,” the manager and co-­owner, Jeanette Morgan, called out. “Coffee and a piece of apple pie?”

“Just coffee today, thanks.”

He sat down at the counter, near the register, and straddled the stool. “Where's Faith today?”

Faith was a young waitress that worked here. A tiny bird of a woman who always looked frightened. She reminded him a little of his deceased wife Sally, except Faith was way thinner, and her blonde hair was always lank, and her blue eyes dull.

Jeanette rolled her eyes and leaned over the counter toward him. “She called in sick again today. I'm worried about her.”

That prickly sensation on his skin turned pricklier. “Why?”

“She's being abused by that no-­good bastard she lives with. Leroy Brown, named after that junkyard-­dog song, no doubt. Can't hold a job or his temper. Never has two pennies to rub together but plenty for that souped-­up Harley of his and for the booze. Meanwhile, she drives a twenty-­year-­old, rusted-­out Volkswagen with bald tires. The jerk lives off Faith's piddly tips when he's unemployed, which is most of the time. Fashions himself some kind of heavy metal musician in local dives. Pfff! Heavy metal jackass, if you ask me!”

The fine hairs on the back of Karl's neck stood out with alarm. “What do you mean by abuse? Yelling, verbal insults, that kind of thing?”

“I wish! Not that making her feel like crap isn't his M.O., but he hits her, too. Last year, he broke her wrist. One time, when he was really plastered, he carved his initials on her thigh.”

Karl saw red, literally, for a moment. “Why does she stay with him if . . . never mind. I know about the abused-­wife syndrome. Every TV shrink in the world talks about it.”

“She's not his wife, thank God. But same as, I guess. Problem is that business slows down for us here during the winter, and her tips have been smaller. I suspect that Leroy the Loser thinks she's holding out on him. He usually hides any marks he puts on her, but last week I noticed finger marks on her neck. He's escalating. Poor Faith! She doesn't deserve this.”

That was it! Karl stood abruptly, causing his coffee to splash over into the saucer. “Where does she live? I'll go check on her.”

“Would you?” Jeanette asked hopefully. “I thought about calling the police, but a trooper who was in here yesterday told me they have to have cause for even knocking on a door, not just suspicions. And she has never filed a complaint, I don't think. These days, the law protects the perps as much as the victims. The trooper's words, not mine.”

“What's the address?”

“I'm not sure. She lives in a small trailer park off the road between Reedsville and Belleville. Called Floral Heaven, or Floral Oaks, or some such thing.”

Somehow, Karl would find her. “What's her last name?” he asked, finding it hard to believe he was off to rescue someone whose name he didn't even know.

“Larson. Faith Larson.”

He reached for his wallet, about to pay for his coffee, when Jeanette waved his hand aside. “On the house, buddy. And, hey, would you please let me know what you find out, either way?”

“Sure,” he said.

It was a fifteen-­minute drive along Route 322 under normal circumstances, but today the snow continued to fall heavily, and the going was slow. Especially when he made the turnoff onto the two-­lane Route 655 at Reedsville and kept getting caught behind one Amish buggy after another. They were picturesque as anything here in Big Valley, but when you were in a hurry, nothing but a nuisance. He took a deep breath and deliberately tamped down his anxious nerves, taking in the sights. One antique shop after another. Peachey's Meat Market, where Lizzie often bought whole carcasses of beef or pork or lamb, or fresh vegetables at the farmers' market in the summer months. The Rustic Log Furniture Barn. Brookmere Winery. A woodcarver and several fabric and quilt shops. Alex purchased many Amish quilts for the beds back at the castle. They were pretty and very expensive.

Finally, unable thus far to find any trailer park at all, he had to give up and ask for directions. He stopped and went into Dayze Gone Bye Carriage Rides, which offered tours of the Amish farms in better weather. There were no customers today, of course.

“Goot day!” said the Amish fellow, who wore the traditional plain clothes of his order, black pants and jacket, blue shirt, long beard, and hair that looked liked it had been cut with a bowl over the head. “Kin I help ya?”

Karl went up to the counter, and asked the young man, “Can you tell me where to find Floral Oaks Trailer Park, or maybe it's Floral Heaven?”

“Can't say I ever heard of . . . oh, ya mean Rose Haven. Ya gotta turn back t'ward the highway 'bout a mile or so. Turn right at Yoder's Orchard, then drive 'bout a quarter mile up the road.”

“Thanks,” he said, giving a little salute. Another thing he needed to stop doing.

He soon found the place, and what a pitiful excuse for a trailer park it was, too. About a dozen rusty old trailers with propane tanks outside for heat sat around in a cluster. Even covered with snow, their sorry condition couldn't be hidden. An old VW bug was parked in front of one of them, and, luckily, no motorcycle was in sight.

He knocked on the door, and, although he heard some music playing lightly in the background . . . a country music song by the sounds of it . . . no one answered the door. He knocked some more, “Open up, Faith. It's me, Karl Mortensen. Jeanette asked me to come check on you.”