H.T. Night's 8-Book Vampire Box Set (44 page)

“Oh,” I said, to the three of them. “You
thought you could just roll over on me. You didn’t realize I’m the
baddest motherfucker you’re ever going to get into a street fight
with.”

I dropped down in a 45-degree angle with my
left leg extended and drilled the fat guy on the right’s chin. He
somersaulted backwards.

“15-love,” I said, referring to how a tennis
match is scored.

The black-haired man didn’t like my smug
attitude. He shook his head and came toward me. I jumped over him
like he was a hurdle in the Olympics. I landed about ten feet away
from him with my back to three men. Not the smartest move. The
heavy-set one had gotten back up and tackled me to the ground. I
had to give the obese asshole props, he was pretty damn strong. But
he was no Goliath. But who is?

His fat ass was lying on top of me. I
flipped his 250-pound frame over my head, and then popped up from
my back.

Then the tall blonde guy finally got into
the picture and round-house kicked me and caught my right cheek and
I stumbled back.

“Nice Blondie, good to see us blonde boys
can still hold our own.”

He smirked at me and said, “15-15,”
responding to my reference to a tennis match.

I grinned and charged Blondie and kicked him
in the chest with enough force to send his body one hundred feet in
the air. “Damn!” He hit the back wall of center court and didn’t
move. He didn’t disappear so I knew he was still alive.

I turned to face the other two, “30-15,”
advantage badass motherfucker.

I flung my body into the dark-haired Mani’s
space and grabbed him by his shirt and flew up in the air, still
holding him. He dangled from my clutches and was in absolute
horror. It reminded me of what a scared kitten looks like when you
pick it up. I was about three hundred feet in the sky, still
clutching onto him by his shirt.

“You better transition before you land,” I
said. “Because this is going to hurt.” I back-handed him and hit
him square between the eyes before he fell to the earth and
transitioned into a raven before he hit the ground, like I
suggested.

Good Mani thug, you listened.

He collapsed as he landed on the grass
court.

One left, Chubbo. I stared him down and
said, “40-15,” advantage skinnier guy. He shook his head, already
knowing his fate.

“I tell you what; I’ll spare your ass. Just
get the hell out of here.”

He shook his head and then ran toward me
like a Trojan warrior, but without the sword. Too bad, my swords
were my hands and feet.

He came at me and I ducked, grabbed his arm
and threw him forward like I was a matador screwing with a bull
during a bullfight. He rolled on the ground into the net. He got up
and shook himself off.

“All right, Roly-Poly,” I said. “I gave you
a chance.”

He ran at me again and, frankly, I was tired
of dealing with these three. I floated up and landed on his broad
shoulders. I wrapped my ankles around his neck and twisted my feet
putting him in a leg headlock. He fell to the ground and I cranked
up that puppy by tightening my legs until he passed out.

Game, set, match.

Suddenly, I saw something shoot across the
sky like a meteor. I looked closely to see what it was, but it was
gone. Someone held back and observed. I wonder who. Helen, of
course.

I looked at the three men lying center
court. I wiped myself off and thought, Roger Federer would be
proud. I transitioned into the eagle and flew off, making my way
back to the West End.

I flew back and there was no sign of the
black stretch limousine. West End was really crowded and I decided
to take the subway back and try to appear as normal as
possible.

When I got back to my hotel, part of me was
expecting Helen to already be there, but no luck.

I went through the entrance and made my way
up the elevator to my room.

The room was on the top floor and I realized
once I got to the door that I was never issued a room key.

I took the elevator back down and walked up
to the hotel concierge. He was a short, feminine black man.

“Hello,” I said.

He looked me over and was not impressed. My
tuxedo was ripped and torn and I had grass stains everywhere, “Yes,
may I help you?”

“I was never issued a room key,” I said.

“That is impossible, sir. Have you been to
your room?”

“Yes, but the bell boy let me in.”

“What was his name?”

“Maxwell.”

The concierge smiled. “We don’t have anyone
named Maxwell that works here.”

“Sure you do. He’s about yay high.” I put my
hand a little above my head. “He’s 220-230. Has a big fat
head!”

“Well, you just fit the description of half
our staff, but I can assure you that no Maxwell works in this
establishment.”

The concierge went to his computer. “Okay,
sir. Let’s take a different approach. What is your name?”

“My name is Josiah, but I wasn’t the one who
got the room.”

“Then what is the name of the person who got
your room.”

“Helen, the Duchess of Windsor.”

The concierge smiled. “Sir, if you’re going
to play games with me, please don’t. I’m a busy man.”

“I’m serious. The Duchess and I met on a
plane and she got me the room.”

“Helen? The Duchess of Windsor?” The
concierge stepped away from his computer. “Sir, you can leave on
your own accord, or I can have security help you out.”

“I’m being completely real with you. She got
me the room about four hours ago!”

“That would be some feat if she did,” the
concierge said. “Considering she’s in Australia!”

“Huh?”

He then showed me a British tabloid paper
that had today’s date on it. It read, “Duchess in Sydney!” And
right there on the front cover was the Duchess. I was expecting to
see a medium-height, attractive blonde. Nope, Helen, the Duchess of
Windsor was a tall brunette.

I was played from the word ‘go.’

I walked slowly backwards out of the hotel
and played back in my head everything that had happened in my head.
I never got a key card. I didn’t come through the front door and I
left from the car garage. The whole thing was a set up. I was
completely duped. There was no dinner, no Paul McCartney, no
nothing.

Chapter Six

Now I was stuck in London for the night. Who
the heck was that woman? How could she have known that I wouldn’t
know who she was? How did she reserve all those seats on the plane?
I wish to God I could control my visions. My mind was a complete
blank.

I still had four hundred dollars in cash,
and hopefully that could get me to Romania. If not, I’d have to use
Hector’s credit card. I didn’t want to do that unless I exhausted
all other options.

I transitioned into the eagle and flew to
Heathrow Airport. I transitioned back when I landed and headed
through the double door entrance. I went to the front counter and
told them I missed my connecting flight because I had diarrhea. Not
sick. Diarrhea. I found out early in life, you can get just about
anything you want if you play the ‘I had diarrhea card’ as an
excuse. So that’s exactly what I did, I blamed my missing the
flight on something that no person could control, diarrhea. No one
wants to talk about it, and just saying the word out loud makes the
person uncomfortable and they would rather just move you along.

Once again, the diarrhea excuse worked. I
had a flight to Romania at 8:30 in the morning. That was in about
seven hours. So, I decided to find a corner in Heathrow airport
that was window-free and crash on the floor. I bought a blanket and
pillow at one of the airport stores and then I laid my blanket and
pillow out on the cold, hard airport floor and I slept on it like a
homeless person. If my friends could see me now; I was at one of
the most famous airports in the world…sleeping on the ground.

I was awakened by a little girl picking my
nose. I looked up and a little girl had her finger in my
nostril.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Marybeth!” a man yelled, from across the
terminal. “Leave that hobo alone!”

Yeah, that’s right I’ve been reduced to a
hobo. No better than a drifter or gypsy. I, Josiah Reign, was an
American hobo in London.

I got up off the floor with my pillow and
blanket and sat on one of the chairs in the terminal. I was
starving. I decided to go for a little walk and find a continental
breakfast in one of the airport diners before my flight. As I
walked through the airport, I thought about what had happened the
night before. How did Helen know me? How did she know I was on that
flight? Why did she care? What was she gaining?

I found a café and sat down. I had a
croissant with a glass of orange juice. It was nice after spending
the night on a hard floor. I glanced up and noticed a clock, it
read 8:02. It was time for me to board the plane. I strolled over
and went to the boarding area for my flight. I was, once again, the
last to get on the airplane, but this time the plane was full. No
rows of empty seats, and definitely no Helen, or whatever her name
was. It was a three-hour flight to Romania and I needed to not
worry about that right now.

I sat on the plane and I immediately asked
for a blanket. I put the blanket over my head. Everyone around me
probably thought I was up to something. But I didn’t physically fit
a profile for them to worry about and hopefully they just
remembered that I was the weird guy sleeping on the floor.

I continued to replay the entire evening and
meeting from the day and night before in my head. None of it made
sense to me. I needed to chill. I was about to embark on one of the
most unusual journeys of my life, or anyone else’s, for that
matter. I was traveling to Dracula’s castle, to find a blue gnome,
from a vision I had in a dream. It was just a typical, normal day
for an American vampire in London.

I landed at Henri Coandă International
Airport in Bucharest, Romania. Bucharest was about 100 miles south
of Transylvania. It was the nearest airport to the city.

In the airport terminal, there was a little
store that had a map of tourist attractions in Romania. As you
would think, Dracula’s Castle was high on the list of hot spots.
They were also famous for their beautiful women, wooden shoes, and
wineries. It must have been a real haven for Dracula, with lovely,
inebriated women who couldn’t run away too fast in their wooden
clogs. Most people didn’t realize that Dracula was a real man who
died hundreds of years ago. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if
he really was a vampire. How did I know this? I didn’t. But if a
kid from the Inland Empire could become a vampire, then probably
the most notorious vampire in history was probably a real one, even
if the books written on him were accepted as fiction. I had seen
too many unbelievable things these past couple of months to not
consider that most myths might have truth in them, even if it’s
just a little bit of truth.

I had struggled with the sunlight on the
plane even with the blanket over my head. I had spent most of my
time in the bathroom as the great white eagle. I just sat on the
toilet in my eagle form and would wait for someone to knock. Then I
would transition back and leave so they could take their turn and
then jump back into the bathroom when they left and do it all over
again. Everyone on that flight must have thought I had the worst
case of diarrhea they had ever seen. I guess it validated my story
that I gave the airline.

Once I got outside, I needed to fly north
for about 100 miles. I wasn’t going to take a bus and, frankly, I
could use some fresh air after being cooped up in a stinky bathroom
for three hours. That blue water in the airplane toilet did nothing
to disguise what nature expelled. Even vampires had to go. What a
world.

As I exited through the airport I was having
a hard time with the sun. I needed to get outside fast and
transition quickly. I decided to sprint through the terminal once I
hit the area where sunlight was blasting in through the windows.
The problem with running through an airport is that it draws
attention to the runner. There would be no way to quickly
transition, once I hit outside. I needed to duck behind a large
object, Superman style.

I hustled through the doors and the sun
blazed down on my skin like a spitball of fire. My skin stung as if
I was under a magnifying glass, burning all of the flesh on my body
that was exposed. I’d said it before. Vampires are to the sun like
donuts are to deep fryers. Once again, I was a daylight donut,
sizzling away in agony.

My face, hands and arms felt extreme amounts
of excruciating, horrible pain. I tried to find a place to hide as
I ran through the wide open parking lot. I couldn’t help but feel a
sense of Is this what Hell feels like? Hell? I hope I never had to
get used to this kind of pain!

I saw a giant camper to my left and I
dropped behind it and rolled on the ground. Damn, even the ground
was blazing hot. I looked backwards and forwards. No sign of
anyone! I transitioned as quickly as I could. It had never felt so
amazing to be the great white eagle. Becoming the eagle felt like I
was being baptized into a clean sheet of ice.

I extended my wings and flew up into the
sky. I flew high enough to be out of sight. I try to never take my
gift of flight for granted, but as I flew across the Bucharest sky,
I was highly aware of the magnificent gift I had been given. I have
been cursed and blessed, and, sometimes I need to remind myself of
my blessings. Giant white wings were a blessing.

I flew across the Romanian sky. I passed
cities and mountains and, from the sky, Romania didn’t look much
different than the U.S. It appeared to be more brown, was all.

I eventually made my way to Transylvania and
as I flew into the city you would have thought Dracula himself
would have been horrified to see what a sideshow his name and image
had become. Everywhere you went there was attention to Dracula in a
way that reminded me of a traveling carnival. What did I really
expect? Everybody needed to make a buck, or in this case, the
Romanian leu, worth about 30 cents to our dollar, when I checked
before I left California.