Vampire$

“I’ll try,” replied Cat with an absolutely straight face. “But you have such a big ass. And I have such a small hobby.”

“Children!” snapped Annabelle, pretending offense.

“Right,” agreed Jack. “Enough of this shit.” He stopped mixing more drinks and came around from behind the bar. “C’mon, Annabelle. Let’s go get it over with.”

“You want to do the tape now?”

“Yeah. Let’s get it done.”

“But you can’t go under drunk!”

He gave her a hug and lifted her off the stool to the floor. “Young lady, you’d be damn surprised at the stuff I’ve done drunk.”

“Humph,” she said, rearranging her skirt. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Hell,” Jack cackled, “I’ve even fought vampires drunk.”

She stopped, looked serious and school-teacher-like. “You have never gone to battle drunk.”

Jack nodded. “True. But if things keep on like this, I’m gonna start.'’

And together, arm in arm, they marched in step from the room.

So Cat and Carl sat and talked to the young Father Adam to see what he was about. The first thing they discovered, with more than a little embarrassment, was that he considered them both to be heroes — make that Heroes. Heroes for Mankind, Heroes for the Church, Heroes for God.

It was awful.

Cat not only hated it but found it a complete mystery. This kid has heard my tapes and still thinks I’m a hero? Has heard all the times I was scared and all the times I screamed?

Hell, he’s heard me scream, by God, ’cause Annabelle said I did that once making a tape under hypnosis. And he thinks I’m a hero?

Cat fixed himself another drink and eyed the young man suspiciously.

I wonder if he’s on something, he thought to himself.

Carl was pretty much miserable, too. Not as much as Cat. Being base man got him a little less (but damn well not enough less) hero worship from the priest.

They learned a lot more about him. He was, for one thing, a good one. Adam was true Boy Scout blue, secure in his faith and in what it all meant and eager to do the right thing.

Maybe a little too eager, actually, but who knew if that was bad in this stupid job?

Born Adam Larrance, originally, in Berkeley, California, and infused with the “in” thinking of both that place and the new leftist leanings of so many priests concerning Liberation Theology for the masses in Central and South America, gun control, the death penalty, women’s lib, the two superpowers as synonymous and, of course, more welfare. But even with all of that, and the driving antiviolence that pervaded it, the lad knew just why he was there — to kill vampires. Just kill them. He didn’t want to “communicate” with them or get them government benefits or free mental health care or even try to bring them back to God.

He wanted them slain, purged, wiped out, wiped away.

He wanted them gone.

The punk had even learned to shoot a goddamned crossbow.

And yes, he did believe the silver bullets would work. And better still, he didn’t tell them why he thought so. It was close, but they managed to stay out of the werewolf business, too.

Then the kid did something else that surprised and confused and pleased them. He got up to go to the bathroom, paused, looked back at them and spoke: “I just want to say that I know I acted like an ass at the airport about the press thing. It was wrong of me. I humbly apologize.” And then he was gone to pee.

Carl and Cat looked at each other and frowned. They didn’t speak. Then Carl leaned away from the bar and fixed them both another drink. They went back to sipping and staring. Still, they said nothing.

Adam came back in shortly and resumed his place in the triangle. He looked a bit nervous and stayed quiet. At last, Carl met Cat’s eyes and turned to Adam.

“If you’re gonna apologize that easy,” he said, “you’re not gonna be much fun to pick on.”

Annabelle returned to tell them that she and Jack were up to date and Cat thought she looked damn good, considering. A little pale, a little shook up, but overall just fine.

Maybe it was better to do it drunk.

And then again, he reminded himself, she’s already cried for all of them once.

Jack was sleeping comfortably, she informed them, and would continue to do so for another forty-three minutes on the nose.

Aha! thought Cat. So it took you seventeen minutes to get yourself together before coming back in to see us. Still damned good, Annie.

And he gave her a little mental pat.

But he was still worried about Jack.

“Is he all right?” Cat asked gently.

She looked at him, surprised. Then she smiled reassuringly. “You heard him, Cherry.”

He considered, thought back. “So I did,” he replied and smiled himself.

“Who’s that?” asked Adam, gazing past them out the leaded-glass window.

They all turned to look. A young lady with light blond hair and rumpled clothing was walking rather stiffly up the walkway to the front door. She was trying, all at the same time, to smooth out her dress, check her makeup in a hand mirror, and feel her teeth with her tongue to see if they were clean enough.

“Aha,” announced Carl, lifting his glass. “The press has arrived.”

“The reporter?” Adam asked nervously.

“Yep,” Cat told him. “Looks like she spent the night in her car waiting for us. Or part of the afternoon anyway.”

“Bless her heart,” mused Annabelle. “She must want this awfully bad.” She looked at Adam. “Relax, dear. We just won’t tell her you’re a priest.”

“Naw,” offered Carl. “She’ll find out if she’s any good at all. Better just make her keep that part tied down. Off the record or whatever it is they call it.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Adam wanted to know.

Cat grinned. “Our father’s met the press before, sounds like.”

“Oh, I think she will,” said Annabelle.

“But what if she doesn’t?” insisted Adam.

“Then,” snarled Carl, “we’ll knit her tits together.” He drained his glass. “Behind her back. Somebody wanna answer the door?”

Somebody did. Cat fetched her to the bar and offered her a drink. She declined, looking nervous and flustered and…

And incredibly beautiful, Adam realized. Incredibly beautiful and incredibly vulnerable and something else, too, as Cat had said. Imperial. Regal. As though touching her was possible but a horrible sin.

It was very strange. Adam saw her no more sexually than any other priest but her aura was still unmistakable.

My Lord, he thought to himself, what a reporter she’s going to make! People would tell her anything.

He rose from his stool to be introduced. Annabelle called him simply Adam Larrance. Her hand was cool and her eyes warm and friendly but also penetrating and assertive. Adam wondered how she learned so much so young.

There was an awkward pause after they met until Annabelle patted the stool next to her and she took it. Adam, feeling unreasonably at sea, nudged Carl Joplin beside him.

Carl glanced at him, read his unease, felt it necessary to provide a little in-character show of tedium, and then proceeded to explain to the girl what Adam was and what it meant and what she could write about it — which was zero.

He did not mention her tits.

He didn’t need to. One glance around her and Davette saw they meant it. They were polite and friendly and they liked her (she felt sure of that) but they were also quite firm. Don’t write about the priest. She tried comforting herself with the thought that she had never meant to. But there was no way around the fact that it