Happy Valentine's Day!

[aggybird]

For your reading pleasure, a valentine's day horror story. Kind of.



Frank-in-Love

As I stared out the window and watched the blurred trees flash by, I decided that bus rides were the most boring things in the universe, specifically designed to induce that particular sort of monotony that gels the muscles and dulls the senses and causes you to linger in an hypnotic stupor until the ride comes to its rumbling, shuddering stop.

Field trips by bus - that’s just a tiny yellow hell.

I turned up the volume on my MP3 player and shifted my head against the windowpane. The road we were on had turned bumpy a while back when we’d exited the highway, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up with a nasty concussion. The weather outside the bus suited my mood: grey, drizzly, and generally disagreeable with just a hint of sudden squall on the horizon. As long as it improved by nightfall, there wouldn’t be any tired, opening-line clichés about dark nights and inclement weather.

I was just settling down to a good bit of sulking and my favorite band singing me into dissonant oblivion when the seat dipped and a vampire sat down next to me.

I could tell it was a vampire from the impression of pale hands and black clothes I got out of the corner of my eye. And vampires have a sort of metallic smell that clings to them, which I suppose is from all the extra iron they get. Ha ha, extra iron, get it? Nobody understands me.

“Hello,” the vampire said conversationally. “My name is Vlad.”

“Sure you are,” I snorted in reply. Next he’ll tell me Dracula’s his old man, and he just moved here from Transylvania.

“My father is Dracula,” he said. “We just moved from Transylvania. Not a lot of opportunities in the old country anymore - everything has regrettably dried up.” He grinned at his own horrible pun.

Vampires are so predictable.

His only problem with that cool introduction was that I’ve heard the same story about a million and seventeen times already from most other vampire kids I’ve met. Every Tom, Dick, and Lucifer tries to pass himself off as the kid of somebody famous. Personally, I really don’t understand why they’d want to.

I made no reply and continued to stare out the window. There were plenty of other seats on the bus, and with any luck, this idiot would get the hint and move to one of them. Preferably one of them far, far away.

My silence didn’t seem to bother him. He settled down comfortably and shoved his backpack underneath the seat. “You are Frank, correct?”

I sighed, turned from the window, and got my first good look at him. I’ll admit I was surprised.

He played the vampire role perfectly: jet black hair with a widow’s peak sharp enough to carve a turkey - the only consideration made to modern times was his hair’s messy style instead of the traditionally slicked-back-I-vant-to-suck-your-blahd look so popular among movie directors and Halloween packagers. His skin was bone white and just as smooth, drawn tightly over sculpted cheekbones for which I knew my sister Francesca would happily commit murder. All in all, A+ for effect.

His outfit was straight off the cover of a gothic romance novel; if it had been anyone else wearing a black velvet brocade coat, complete with lace cravat, I think I would have laughed at them until I seriously injured myself. But on this guy, the clothes worked. Something about him screamed “eighteenth-century nobleman.”

And “evil predator.” Yeah, it screamed that, too.

“Yes,” I answered cautiously. “I’m Frank.”

“Is your father really -?” he began.

“Yes,” I said shortly, scowling in a manner I hoped would dissuade him from questioning me further. It didn’t work. I really need to start practicing in front of the mirror again.

“Fascinating,” he said. “Our parents must have been acquainted. The old country is not a sprawling urban metropolis, after all; they must have grown up close together. I should tell Father. He will have a bat.”

I stared at him incredulously.

“Listen,” he continued, leaning closer, “I know I told you my name is Vlad, but I prefer to be called Drake. Vlad sounds tiresomely old fashioned. My father is Vlad as well, and it can get confusing at times.” Drake angled his head and smiled strangely, like I’d passed an important test and was now worthy to speak with him. What unnerved me was the feeling that it wasn’t for show - I’m pretty sure that was exactly what he was thinking, a sort of, My, my, this one’s good for more than just a late-night snack, kind of attitude.

He also had extremely long canines, even for a vampire. Now that I looked closely, I could see they stuck out a little over his bottom lip, even with his mouth closed. I must have been staring at them pretty intensely because the next thing I knew, he was up in my face, grinning like a madman.

“Anytime you desire to see them closer, let me know.”

I didn’t miss the underlying menace in his tone. I gulped and sat back, message received. He didn’t appreciate me staring. That was fine with me. I’d be the most non-staringest person he’d ever meet.

The vampire did a neat little trick and retracted his teeth into his mouth far enough to make him look almost normal - if he got a tan, a haircut, and a wardrobe change.

“Um, yeah,” was my stupid reply. C’mon, what can you possibly say to a guy like that? He gave me the willies. Suddenly, I had no trouble believing he was Dracula’s kid.

Now I faced a dilemma: I wanted to turn back to the window and try to ignore this nuisance of a person, but my self-preservation instincts warned me that this would be a bad course of action if I didn’t want to end up on the menu. Instead, I smiled weakly.

“So, pretty lame field trip, huh? Museum of Natural Sciences? What a goof.”

Drake smiled at me, and again I was struck by how, well, dangerous he seemed. My dad’s enough to keep me (and pretty much everyone else he meets) in line, but this guy seemed more the type of person who kept everyone on a hook. With my dad, I like to think people can tell he’s basically good under all the nuts, bolts, and sutures. I was pretty certain Drake would be more like an onion. With really evil layers. And then in the middle? A small core of evil onion nastiness.

“Yes, pretty lame,” he agreed. “You know, you must not look much like your father.”

I got the feeling he wasn’t referring to the fact that all my body parts had originally come attached; I looked more like a scarecrow in training than a village menace. I can’t help it, I’m defensive about it.

“I don’t think anybody looks like my dad,” I replied, scowling again for all I was worth. I’ve been told that when I scowl I look more like my dad, but only because my eyebrows draw together like two hairy caterpillars and give me a protruding brow line.

“A fairly true statement,” he said, smirking. “He is rather one of a kind.”

I tried to decide whether that was an insult. But even if it was, I wasn’t about to call the psycho out on it, so I let it slide. I can pick my battles, after all. Or be a complete weenie and valiantly live to run away another day.

I rolled my eyes, which I felt was an appropriately rebellious gesture given the circumstances, and the two of us sat in silence. Drake kept staring at me, and self-preservation bedamned, I finally snapped, “What?”

He grinned lazily. “You will forgive me, but you really are not what I was expecting. You come from such an old family, but you look so . . . normal.”

I wondered then what he saw when he looked at me. I knew I was nothing special. I hadn’t been pieced together by an insane doctor, but my face still didn’t fit together quite right. My mom told me I’d grow into it, but I privately thought that if I did I’d be one sorry-looking guy.

“Yeah, well, appearances can be deceiving. Any minute now, I’m liable to go on a rampage and start terrorizing villagers.”

Drake threw back his head and laughed. It didn’t sound the least maniacal; I was a little disappointed.

“A sense of humor,” he said. “How quaint.”

I had a feeling this was going to be a long bus ride. We sat in silence. Drake seemed content to let me fidget nervously in the squeaky, fake leather bus seat. I was only thankful I was wearing long trousers because, with the amount I was sweating, my legs would have stuck to the seat in a painful way.

“So, um, how long have you been at school?” I asked, rubbing the back of my neck to relieve sudden tension. Then I realized that I was, y’know, bringing attention to my neck, and given present company that might not be a good idea. My hand stilled very slowly, and I lowered it to my lap, folding my hands together primly. I might or might not have slid down a little lower in the seat.

“Not long,” Drake said, waving a hand airily. “Why do you ask?”

“I haven’t really noticed you before now. We’re three weeks into the school year already,” I pointed out. Someone like him should have stood out, even in a school of freaks, geeks, monsters, and mythological creatures.

“I am good at hiding in the shadows,” said Drake, and I would have laughed except for the dangerous, secretive smile dancing at the corners of his mouth.

“Um, right,” I said.

“Today is my first official day,” said Drake. “I am starting late.”

“Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll like it here?” I hated that it sounded like a question.

“Are you?” said Drake, smiling in an amused way. “Do you like it? I noticed you were not sitting with anyone. You prefer solitude?”

“People annoy me,” I said honestly. “Except for one or two of them.”

“Ah,” replied Drake. He studied me again. “What are you listening to?” he asked, indicating my MP3 player. One of the ear buds had fallen out, and a tinny, forlorn sound was coming from the tiny speaker.

“Phooka and the Screaming Banshees,” I said.

“Really? They came to my old school last year. They were quite good.”

“No way! You saw them play? Oh man, I’m always trying to go see them, but every show is sold out!”

“Nothing is ever sold out for me,” said Drake matter of factly.

“I’ll bet. Must be nice intimidating everyone you meet.”

“You would think so,” said Drake, leaning back. He turned his head away for a second, and when he turned back, I saw a calculating look in his eyes that I didn’t like. “The Black Hags are coming next month. I have a spare ticket. Would you be interested in going?”

My mouth dropped open. You couldn’t get tickets to a Black Hags show. They were legend. It was impossible. You just couldn’t. At that moment, I didn’t care how unsettled Drake made me feel or how pointy his teeth were: This was the Black Hags we were talking about. “Yes?” I nearly squeaked.

“Excellent,” said Drake.

The bus slowed down, and Mrs. Lamia stood up to remind us about the questions we needed to answer as we toured the museum. People groaned, and the sound of zippers opening and papers crinkling filled the bus. It was the typical educational-fun-day crap: questions about dead guys and dates and historical context.

Our bus pulled into the parking lot, and the students bent to gather their things. I put my MP3 player in the side pocket of my backpack, and when I looked up, Drake was gone. I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

When I got off the bus, Drake suddenly appeared at my elbow. “Frank,” he said, falling into step beside me. I was surprised to find that Drake was actually taller than me by several inches. I didn’t really like having to crane my neck to meet his gaze because vampires tended to take an exposed neck as an invitation, and I’ve heard when they RSVP, it’s painful.

“Yeah?” I said warily.

“I imagine we could complete the teacher’s fascinating questionnaire much more quickly if we work as a pair,” Drake said.

It wasn’t actually a question, though to the inexperienced it might have sounded that way. Drake phrased it so perfectly I couldn’t help but agree, thus damning myself to a partner. The bastard was good.

“Yeah,” I said wearily.

We walked into the museum side by side. Drake held his worksheet loosely in one hand as he strolled along. The wind started to blow harder, whipping his coat out and ruffling his cravat. In the grey afternoon light, with thunder rumbling in the distance, I felt like I was on the moors in some regency romance instead of in a crummy museum parking lot. Any minute, there would be swooning heroines in revealing dresses shouting stuff about Heathcliff or Rochester.

“So, what’s Transylvania like?” I ventured.

“Old and smelling vaguely of garlic.” Drake appeared to be studying the worksheet in his hands intently. He wasn’t even watching where he was going, but he hadn’t stumbled. Vampires had a preternatural grace that kept them from looking like clumsy idiots.

“Oh,” I said, scratching my head. “I guess that wasn’t good for the old vampire allergies, huh?”

Drake looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Indeed not.” He opened the door for me, and we stepped into the museum. I nodded my thanks, grateful for the distraction of Mrs. Lamia calling us over to get our tickets and badges before she set us loose on the unsuspecting museum staff. She reminded us that she would be checking up on us periodically and to meet back at the entrance in four hours.

“Here,” said Drake, handing me a small square of glossy black paper. On closer inspection, I discovered that it was a business card with a number inscribed in small red font on the bottom-left corner.

“What’s this?” I asked, turning the card in the light. The black card had a faint red sheen, making me vaguely nauseous at the implications.

“It is my telephone number,” said Drake.

“Uh,” I said.

“So that you may contact me about the concert,” said Drake patiently. “I am beginning to suspect I will be doing most of the work on this pointless worksheet.”

I blushed, and I thought I saw Drake’s eyebrows rise fractionally. “Sorry,” I said. “Right. Thanks.” I pocketed the card and wiped my hands on my jeans nervously.

“Your oratorical skills astound,” said Drake, his lips curling. I think he was teasing me, which was just worlds of wrong. Our cat Bootsie liked to toy with mice before she broke their backs and ate them. I felt like one of those mice. It wasn’t a good feeling.

“Shall we?” said Drake, bowing slightly and indicating the long hallway. “I sincerely doubt we will complete much work loitering here.”

“Then by all means, lead on, Macduff,” I said, combing a hand through my hair and suppressing a sigh.

Drake held up a finger and gave me a look, like he wanted to say something. It was the same kind of look Mrs. Lamia usually got before she corrected someone in class. Instead, Drake shook his head and dropped his hand, thinking better of it. “Indeed,” he said.

----

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I called as I walked in the door later that night.

“Hello, dear!” I heard my mother call from the kitchen. “Did you have fun today don’t you dare leave that book bag by the front door, mister.”

Guiltily, I stopped midmotion, my backpack already halfway to the ground. Sometimes having a psychic gypsy mother wasn’t cool. I walked into the living room and found my father sitting in his recliner, perusing the evening paper. I set my backpack on the coffee table next to my mom's latest issue of Monstermen Quarterly. The Wolfman was on the cover, sporting a new collar.

“Hey, Dad,” I said.

My dad grunted a reply and turned a page in his paper. He wore his spectacles again. He'd been doing that more and more lately. Only one side of the spectacles actually had a prescription; Dad's left eye was the one with the astigmatism. He kept threatening to visit the doctor to get it treated, but Mom didn't want to have to get used to a new eye.

Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. “Have fun?” she asked again.

I thought about this for a minute. I had spent the day as Drake’s personal chaperone, participating in awkward, inane chatter with a vampire who simply refused to take a hint and go away. I found answers to all the questions on the worksheet Mrs. Lamia gave us in record time, thanks to Drake’s help. Then I endured a bus ride home, staring out the window, acutely aware of the vampire on my right who was pointedly staring at me.

“Um,” I said.

“That’s nice, dear,” said Mom, ducking back into the kitchen.

“I met Dracula’s son,” I said conversationally.

Dad finally looked up from his paper. “What?”

“I, uh, met Dracula’s son. Like, the Count Dracula, Dracula’s son. His name's Drake. Apparently they just moved here. Drake sat next to me on the bus. And sort of . . . followed me all day.”

“That’s great!” said Dad, folding the paper and setting it down. He took off his spectacles. His expression was much too excited. “I wondered when the Count would finally make the big move like the rest of us. You should invite the boy over. It’d be nice to see you spending some time with a proper monstering young man.”

“What? You’re nuts!” I said.

“What, what about them?” Dad asked, his hands moving quickly to his neck to see if any adjustments needed to be made.

I smacked my forehead, dragging my hand down my face slowly in exasperation. “Dad,” I said very deliberately. “I met Dracula’s son today, and you want me to invite him over for dinner?”

“Of course,” said my mother, bustling into the room. “His parents, too. You can invite them over for dinner tomorrow night around seven. I have enough to make extras, and that way it isn’t a school night, either. Just make sure you tell them we aren’t on the menu.” She and my father both looked at each other and shared a laugh that I’m sure they thought was very grown up.

“No way,” I said. “That kid creeped me out. I don’t even want to think about his parents.”

“But that’s what monsters do, Franklin!” Dad shook his head sadly. “I knew I should’ve given you more terrorizing lessons when you were younger. I’d like you to spend time with some real monsters for a change. I’m sure the Count raised his son to appreciate the Old Ways.”

I could hear the capitalization in my dad’s voice. We’ve had this argument before. I knew it rankled him, how Francesca and I had turned out. Francesca was scary, of course, but that was because she was my older sister. She could do a passing impression of a vicious harpy. And me, well, I wasn’t likely to win any MQ awards in the near future.

“I hang out with real monsters!” I said. “There’s Flea, and Gill, and, um . . .” I trailed off, aware I wasn’t presenting a very strong case.

My father crossed his arms, and the muscles all over him sort of bulged. “You call those two monsters? A puppy and a fish? No, you invite that young Dracula over here, along with his family.”

“We need to do the neighborly thing,” said Mom. “It’s only polite.”

I know when I’ve lost an argument. “Fine, but he’s not going to be my best friend or anything.”

Mom gave me A Look. “Franklin Stein, you could use a few more friends.” I started to open my mouth to protest and she hurriedly continued. “Not that I don’t love Flea and Gill. You know I think they’re darling. But sweetheart, would it kill you to put yourself out there more? Your sister does, and look how happy it makes her!”

“I like how I am, Mom,” I said. This was another old argument. My parents couldn’t seem to understand how they’d produced two kids who were such polar opposites. Francesca was beautiful and popular, and I was awkward and, as far as they were concerned, socially retarded.

“I like how you are, too, honey,” Mom was quick to reassure me. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy!” I said, frowning.

“Now don’t get angry, Franklin. You know I’m not picking at you! I’m your mother, and I worry about you. Tell him I wasn’t picking at him, Frank.” Mom turned to Dad, gesturing impatiently.

Dad shifted uncomfortably in his chair, holding his newspaper like a shield. “Don’t involve me in this, Maleva. You know I don’t like confrontation.”

“Our son needs our reassurances!” Mom put her hands on her hips. “For God’s sake, Frank, grow a backbone!”

“I have two of them,” said Dad reasonably.

“Oh!” Mom exclaimed. She threw up her hands and stalked out of the room.

Dad and I exchanged glances. “Smooth, Pops,” I said.

Dad scowled. “Don’t you have some inviting you need to be doing?”

It was my turn to scowl. “Yeah, yeah.” I slouched up the stairs to my room, taking my backpack with me.

I dropped my backpack on the floor and flopped onto my bed, belly first. Taking the card Drake had given me out of my back pocket, I tried to tell myself it didn’t feel like sticky, dried blood. The red numbers glared up at me; I noticed a tiny picture I hadn’t seen before next to them. It was a pair of smiling fangs. Subtle.

Heaving myself up to my elbows with a sigh, I grabbed my cordless phone from the nightstand and quickly punched in the number before I lost my resolve.

Someone answered the call before the first ring finished. “Yes?” drawled a cold voice. It was impossible to determine the speaker’s gender.

“Uh, hello,” I said. “This is Frank. I’m calling for Drake.”

“Drake?” the voice questioned coolly.

“Dracula Junior?” I ventured.

There was a long pause on the other end of the line, as though the person were trying to figure out if I was a comedian or an imbecile. I couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Finally, the voice continued: “Wait one moment, while I fetch the young Master.” The phone was placed down gently, and I could hear the click of measured footsteps receding across what I presumed must be tile. I imagined it was black tile, with bones imbedded in it or something.

While I waited, I entertained myself speculating about what a vampire’s idea of decorating would be. I bet they used lots of red, so they didn’t have to clean as much. Their couches were probably covered in plastic, too.

I was shaken from my imaginings by the sound of footsteps returning more rapidly than those that left. Someone picked up the phone, and I heard Drake’s voice on the other end. “Hello?”

“Hey,” I said. “It’s Frank.”

“So I was informed. I was not expecting to hear from you so soon.”

I flipped over on the bed, staring at the ceiling and the glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck up there when I was twelve. “I didn’t expect to be calling, really. My mom wanted me to invite you and your family over for dinner tomorrow night around sevenish.”

“Tomorrow night?” said Drake skeptically. “Isn’t that very short notice?”

“If you can’t make it, that’s no problem,” I said hurriedly. “Really, no problem at all. I’m sure my mom would be happy to arrange another time.” That would give me the chance to talk my parents out of this insanity. Mom might even take offense if they declined; the last person who refused one of her party invitations still hasn’t been found. Mom takes hostessing very seriously.

“I did not say we would be unable to attend,” said Drake, his tone annoyed. “I will have to ask Father.”

“You don’t have to bother him if he’s busy or anything. Really.” I had a deepening sense of foreboding about this whole affair. I’d expected Drake to refuse me right away. Okay, not expected, but hoped. Usually vampires were too good to hang out with the rest of us mere monsters.

“I imagine he is in the middle of his usual pastime,” said Drake dismissively. “One moment, I will return.”

I chewed on my thumbnail absently while I waited, my brain conjuring up lots of images about what “the usual” was. It involved gratuitous amounts of blood and chains and ⎯ was that a scream? I pressed the phone closer to my ear; I was positive I’d heard a scream. The sound came again, far away and its owner in obvious pain. I gulped. A door closed with a heavy slam, and the screaming was abruptly cut off. Drake’s footsteps returned. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, suddenly finding it very stuffy in my room.

“Tomorrow night would be agreeable,” said Drake.

“That’s great,” I said, forgetting to project my enthusiasm. I’d probably have to wear a suit and everything because Mom and Dad considered Drake’s family important guests. Mom was big on dressing up for important guests, too.

“Yes,” said Drake. “Which of your parents forced you to invite us?”

“Both of them,” I answered before I could think. “Uh, I mean ⎯” I was interrupted by Drake’s laughter. I was disappointed again at its remarkable unevilness.

“I understand,” said Drake. “You told me yourself you disliked social gatherings.”

“I did?” I asked.

“More or less,” said Drake. “Do not worry,” he continued. “My father and my mothers will be on their best behavior. They are excited to meet another family from the old country. We shall arrive at precisely seven o’clock.”

“Uh, ok,” I said, bemused.

“Then it is settled. Until tomorrow.” Drake hung up.

I lay there for a long time staring at the phone and thinking: Mothers?

The next day turned out to be pretty hectic. Mom was determined to show the vampire clan a classy, impressive time, and she was busy setting things up all day. She disappeared around noon and came back from the butcher’s with seven different vats of blood. The butcher assured her they were all from freshly drained sources, and my mother, being the genteel woman that she is, decided not to question the “sources.”

I wandered into the kitchen sometime in the late afternoon. Mom was stirring something thick, clotted, and red in a large pan. She had pulled her hair back from her face, but a few strands had escaped and were curling in the steam.

“I’d ask what you’re making,” I said, “But I probably really don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t, sweetie,” Mom said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. “Would you be a dear and fetch me that jar of eyeballs on the counter? And over there, take an apple to munch on too.” She indicated a basket on the counter.

“Old Lady White didn’t bring them, did she?” I said, eyeing the basket distrustfully.

“No, dear,” said Mom. “Her daughter-in-law did.”

“Cool,” I said, snagging an apple from the basket and crunching into it happily. I got the jar for my mom and stood back as she ladled a spoonful of eyeballs into the mix. “Anything else I can help with?” I asked.

“Would you mind setting the table?” asked Mom. “There’s the four of us and the five of them, so we’ll need four plates and five bowls to start with.”

“Bowls?” I asked.

“I’m making them a nice blood and eyeball pudding to begin. Then I have some slices of raw meat and a blood pie for the main course. And blood sherbet for dessert.”

“What are we having?” I asked, feeling queasy.

“Tuna casserole.”

“Right.” I went to go set the table.

Dad and Francesca got home a little after five o’clock, and Mom immediately sent them to get ready. I was similarly banished with the admonition that I’d better wear my best suit for the occasion.

By six-thirty, Mom had everything ready, and at six-fifty-nine, we heard a knock on the front door. Mom clapped her hands together in excitement and went to let our guests in, leaving the rest of us in the kitchen. Francesca wore something new and entirely too pink for my taste. Like me, Dad wore his best suit. Unsurprisingly, it was custom-tailored. I pulled at my tie because it was rubbing against my throat, and I followed Dad and Francesca into the foyer.

Mom was shaking Drake’s hand and exclaiming over his lovely, manicured nails. Drake looked amused. He wore a sharp, tailored black suit. White lace cuffs poked out from underneath the dark sleeves, but it didn’t look silly. It looked expensive.

Drake’s mothers hovered in the background ⎯ one blonde, one brunette, and one redheaded ⎯ dressed in matching dark purple dresses. I guess Drake’s dad wanted one of each; there was something to be said for choice, I suppose.

“We are very ⎯” said the blonde.

“⎯ pleased ⎯” said the brunette.

“⎯ to be here,” finished the redhead.

Mom’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

Dad walked over and faced Count Dracula. The two of them stood staring stonily at each other for a long, silent moment, and then the Count blinked. Dad laughed and slapped him on the back. “You always blink first,” he said. Then he pulled Count Dracula into a manly hug.

When the Count drew away, he was smiling wryly. He looked like an older, more severe version of Drake. His dark hair was speared through with white at the temples, and his face was long and gaunt. “It is good to see you again, old friend,” he said. His voice was faintly accented. “It seems you have done well for yourself here. A lovely home, a wife and family,” he continued, indicating Francesca and me.

Francesca executed a perfect curtsy, and I waved awkwardly. Drake started to laugh and covered it up with a cough, a hand over his mouth. I glared at him.

“Oh, well,” said Dad modestly, waving a hand. “Just got lucky.” Mom elbowed him. Dad looked confused. “Uh, very lucky?” Mom rolled her eyes.

“What are we all standing around here for?” said Mom, breaking in. “Why don’t you come in out of the cold and take a seat in the living room? Francesca, show them the way, honey.”

“Yes, Mom,” said Frankie, leading the guests away.

As they walked by, Drake paused next to me. “Coming?” he inquired.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, tugging on my tie again.

“It is a nice suit,” said Drake, looking me up and down. “Where did you get it?”

“My mom bought it for me,” I said, feeling twelve. “Yours is nice too. Less lace than yesterday.”

One side of Drake’s mouth lifted. “I convinced my father that it was time to update our family’s wardrobe to at least the twentieth century. My mothers took up the call for new clothes and shopped as all women do. My father is considerably poorer now, but we are all considerably better dressed.”

“That’s good,” I said. “You won’t look so weird at school. Um.”

“That was essentially the aim,” said Drake.

When we got to the living room, everyone was already seated. Dad and the Count looked like they were in deep conversation at one end of the cream-colored couch. Mom and Francesca were on the other end of the couch, facing one of the loveseats where Drake’s mothers sat. They were conversing animatedly, and I winced. The only thing that made women that animated was clothes, jewelry, or embarrassing discussion of other males. I would find no help in that quarter.

“Shall we?” said Drake, gesturing at another loveseat by the window. I nodded. Drake folded onto the chair gracefully, arranging his hands on the arms and looking the picture of poise. He reminded me of one those paper bird things my mom liked. Pretty to look at, but lethal with the paper cuts. I flopped down next to him.

“So,” I said, once we were seated.

“So,” repeated Drake.

“A scintillating conversation opener,” I said and jerked when Drake tilted his head and laughed.

“I can smell how nervous you are,” he said.

“Like how people say bears or other large predatory animals can smell your fear?” I said, cursing myself for not putting on any aftershave.

“It’s quite similar,” said Drake.

“Do you think assuming the fetal position helps?”

“The bear, I imagine,” said Drake.

“Probably,” I agreed. “I always thought running would be a wiser decision than staying put.”

“Running certainly makes it more fun,” said Drake.

“I’m sensing we’re not on the same page here.”

Drake merely smiled and replied: “You have a lovely home. It is easy to see that you and your family care for one another.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I’m sure you must get lots of love at home, too, what with all the extra moms and all.” Dear brain, please work before mouth speaks; I thought I sent that memo already.

Drake looked across the room, a small frown on his face. “They are not my mothers,” said Drake. “They are my father’s latest wives. Vampires cannot have children.”

“That’s . . . interesting,” I said. “If confusing. Did you just spontaneously appear one day?”

“No,” said Drake, leaning back in the seat. He put one hand casually on the armrest and let the other rest in the space between us on the cushion. “Vampires cannot have children with other vampires. We use humans to procreate.”

“Oh,” I said, surprised and intrigued despite my misgivings over anyone who actually used the word procreate. I had to admit, I was curious about this sudden crash course in Vampology 101. “So your real mom is ⎯?”

“Human and long dead,” said Drake. “When a vampire impregnates a human female, there is a chance the child will be more human than vampire. If that is the case, the child is a monster and must be killed. I was my father’s ninth attempt and second success.”

I felt really sick to my stomach. There are monsters and then there are monsters. I didn’t miss the irony either: Vampires thought human offspring were monsters, but a blood-sucking baby would be okay. “That’s totally depressing,” I said. “Couldn’t you have waited until after dinner to tell me that?”

Drake looked confused for a moment before his expression cleared. “Ah, I am sorry. I did not clarify. My father did not kill any of his unsuccessful attempts. They all lived unusually long lives and had a tendency to prefer rare steak.”

“Okay,” I said. “What about the other . . . success?”

“My elder brother,” said Drake. “Gregori Nicolaie Wilbur.”

“Wilbur,” I repeated.

“His mother’s idea. He was born several hundred years before me, so I did not grow up with him. The last time he contacted Father, Greg was in California feeding strictly on vegans. Father considers him a bit of a disappointment.”

“Oh,” I said. “Did he leave home on purpose?”

“Yes,” said Drake. “I believe he lived for a time over the border in Holidayland, but some place like that would be too cheerful for even Greg’s tastes. He refuses to come to Monsterland because Father is here now.”

Any more small talk was thankfully cut short as Mom rose from the couch and exclaimed, “The food’s all ready now, so why don’t we go into the dining room and eat? I’m sure everyone is starving.”

We entered the dining room and sat down with a few mumbled words. Conversation was light and pleasant while we all worked our way through the food. I could tell by the appreciative noises the Count was making that he enjoyed the meal. I also noticed Drake ate the eyeballs out of his pudding first.

In between eyeballs, Drake and I made polite conversation. He wasn’t so bad to talk to; just a little weird and formal. We had similar taste in music and film, which lead to some interesting discussions. In no time at all, I was surprised to find dinner over.

Mom cleared away the last of the plates and returned to the table. Everyone was stuffed, so we stayed put, adults lounging on one end, Drake and me on the other. Francesca had excused herself after dessert to make a phone call, and I could hear her giggling in her room.

The Count leaned back casually in his chair and took out a silver filigreed cigarette case and matching lighter. He extracted a cigarette and lit it before anyone could stop him.

“Hnnnnnnrrrhh!” said Dad, standing up and knocking over his chair. “Fire!”

“Oh, demonic saints below,” said the Count. “I forgot.” He put the lighter back in his coat pocket as quickly as possible and stubbed out the cigarette on his plate.

“Fire!” Dad repeated, his eyes glassy.

“Now, dear,” said Mom. “It was just a small fire. No torches or pitchforks at all. Okay? Honey?” Dad didn’t appear to be listening. He started to stagger away from the table. Drake’s mothers looked frightened; across from me, Drake looked fascinated.

I grabbed an eyeball out of the leftover blood pudding, put it on my fork, aimed, and launched it at my dad’s head. It hit him between the eyes with a sickening splat and slid off his nose and onto the table. Eye juice squirted over the tablecloth.

Dad blinked and shook his head. “Thanks, Frank-my-boy. I needed that.” Mom sighed and picked up Dad’s napkin, using it to wipe eyeball residue from his face.

“No problem, Pops,” I said, eating another bite of my tuna casserole.

“Sorry,” apologized Dad. “I get flashbacks.”

“It’s a post-traumatic stress thing,” explained Mom. “From the old country.”

Drake’s mothers didn’t look convinced, but the Count laughed. “Yes, I remember. You were quite the runner back then. Every week a new town, every week a new father chasing after you for his daughter’s honor.”

“Oh, really?” said Mom archly.

“Before he settled down, that is to say,” the Count backpedaled. “No angry mobs since then, I am sure.”

Mom had a look in her eye that was worse than ten angry mobs, and I didn’t envy Dad the Talk they would be having later.

“This was ⎯” said Drake’s first mom.

“ ⎯ an excellent ⎯” said the second.

“⎯ meal,” finished the third, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes,” said the Count. “We thank you for your hospitality. Even though it is still early, we must return to the manor.”

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed twelve.

“Of course,” said Mom, smiling. “I understand. It was lovely having you over. I hope we can do this again.”

The Count and his wives stood up in unison, pushing their chairs back from the table. “We certainly shall. Come along, Drake,” the Count said, motioning to his son. Drake stood up more slowly.

“Yes, thank you,” said Drake. He turned to me. “Frank, it has been an entertaining evening.”

“Likewise,” I replied.

Mom showed them out while I escaped to my room. I’d survived the night, but I had the sinking suspicion that my acquaintance with Drake was far from over.

----

The Monday after the big dinner, Drake showed up outside my front door sporting a pair of designer sunglasses and trendy, modern clothes with nary a lace cravat in sight. The fact that Drake could look almost normal in sunlight was even scarier.

“We can travel to school together,” he said by way of explanation. “It would also be neighborly of you to introduce me to your friends.”

I wondered if hermits ever had to deal with being neighborly. Probably not ⎯ that was the point of being a hermit.

It turned out by a bizarre twist of fate that Drake was in all of my classes. I thought I was the only one interested in 19th Century Industrialization, because not even Flea or Gill was in that class with me, but go figure. So of course this also meant Drake sat next to me in every class. Usually Gill or Flea sat next to me because I had almost all of my classes with at least one of them. During first period Biology, Gill and Flea had taken one look at Drake lounging next to me and gone to the seats directly behind us without a word.

Three weeks later, I was walking to school every day with Drake and found myself very surprised to discover that he had become my best friend.

Occasionally we’d meet up with Gill and Flea on the way to school; they had taken to Drake immediately, and he didn’t seem to mind them, either. Flea and Gill were similarly the sons of famous guys: Flea’s dad was always off on photo shoots or getting groomed for photo shoots, and Gill’s dad headed an aquatic scientific research station currently sailing over the Marianas Trench.

Flea was tiny and excitable and had to shave at least three times a day in order not to grow a beard. He always looked vaguely unkempt, even though I knew his poor mom spent hours trying to make him presentable. He was a year younger than me and three years younger than Gill. Originally, we kept him out of pity, but despite ourselves, Gill and I grew to like the little hairball.

“Is his name really Flea?” asked Drake one morning as we walked to school. We were supposed to stop by Flea’s house on the way and help him carry his science project. “It seems an unfair name for a child, even one so furry.”

“No,” I said. “It’s Lupus von Wulfmann. As you can see, Flea is kinder.”

Drake rolled his eyes. “Will our parents ever learn?”

“You’re asking the wrong monster,” I said. “I don’t even have a middle name. It’s just an ‘N’ like my Dad’s. I’m not sure if my parents thought they were being clever, but I can tell you what I think about it.”

Gill and Drake got along because they were similar in a lot of ways. They had both grown up without any brothers or sisters in the house, unlike Flea and me (Flea was the youngest of his litter), and they discovered they both loved reading poetry. Gill’s taste tended toward the romantic, and Drake’s leaned toward the metaphysical or post-modern, but they still had a lot of common ground.

Gill was enormous, and at first glance, he appeared rather thick. A second and third glance confirmed this excellent observation: Gill had about seven inches of muscle over every bone in his body. He loved poetry more than anyone I’ve ever met and wouldn’t even squash bugs because it sent him into fits of guilt. His skin was always vaguely shiny because of the scales, and his clothes were damp because he had to mist himself with a water bottle every half hour or so. This meant that his books and his homework were also in various states of sogginess.

Every year, Gill’s father tried to get him to join up on some sports team, and every year, Gill very firmly said no and went on to produce and direct the spring and fall school plays. It was usually something Shakespeare, and he always cast Francesca as the lead heroine. He was so obvious about it that I sort of winced for him every time Francesca brushed by in the hallway with a new boyfriend in tow.

She did it again today. The latest model man-candy was a foreign kid who was half-djinn. He kept telling Frankie he was going to grant her every wish, and he was a complete drip. Gill watched the pair until they were out of sight. He sighed heavily and closed his locker door, turning around so that he could lean against it.

“Sucks, man,” I said. “But he won’t last long. They never do.”

Gill looked sideways at me before closing his eyes and tilting his face up toward the ceiling. “Every minute he is with her is a hundred years to me.”

“Geez, grow some balls,” I said. “I know some of you fishy types can do it on command. C’mon, we’re going to be late for class.”

Gill shook his head. “I fear you do not have a romantic bone in your body,” he said. He slung his backpack over one shoulder, clutching a volume of poetry in his right hand. He looked down the hall again.

“Nope, just regular bones in me, despite parentage,” I said. I indicated the book in his hand. “Who’ve you got there?”

“Work by one who knows intimately la belle dame sans merci,” said Gill. He sighed again. “I think I shall refrain from class today, my friend. Would you be kind enough to let Mr. Snowman know that I am working in the auditorium this afternoon?”

“That abominable guy?” I joked. Nothing, not even a smile; Gill was really in the doldrums now. I agreed to tell Mr. Snowman where he’d be and watched Gill squelch away with his shoulders slumped and his head down. I didn’t think Mr. Snowman would mind because, next to Drake, Gill was the best student in our English class; Mr. Snowman also happened to be the sponsor for the drama club.

A hand touched my shoulder lightly, and I turned to find Drake standing behind me. He had a concerned expression on his face. “Where has Gill gone?”

“To mope,” I said, shrugging. “Another episode of acute Francesca-itis.”

“Ah,” said Drake, as we walked toward the classroom. “Have you ever considered perhaps speaking to your sister about Gill?”

“Of course I have,” I said, offended. “She told me she wasn’t interested in anything aquatic.”

“She dated that half-octopus last month,” said Drake doubtfully.

“I don’t think that was love,” I said delicately.

Drake’s eyes widened, and a faint blush stained his cheeks. “I see.”

We turned a corner, and Flea ran up to us, breathing heavily. I wrinkled my nose because, let’s face it, Flea has dog breath.

“Guys,” he panted. “You’ll never guess what!”

“The new exchange student is Hatshepsut, the Mummy’s daughter?” said Drake, tone bored.

Flea looked genuinely disappointed. “Aw, man, you heard already?” Then he perked up. “But she’s pretty hot, yeah? I thought she’d be all covered in bandages and stuff. There sure is somethin’ about those exotic foreign ladies. Rowr.” He elbowed Drake in the ribs and waggled his eyebrows knowingly.

Drake gave Flea a look that should have made him roll over and offer his belly. I decided to step in before the poor bastard got himself killed.

“That’s, uh, great, Flea,” I said. “You got first dibs on her. Why don’t you go talk to her and tell us how it goes?”

It’s hard to explain how anyone can wag their tail when they don’t actually have a tail, but Flea sort of vibrates. It makes you want to give him a treat and pat him on the head. “Yeah, good idea, Frank!” he exclaimed, springing away.

“Aren’t you even curious about this ‘hot’ new exchange student?” I asked, glancing back in the direction Flea had bounded. “Maybe she’s something special. And she’s fresh blood,” I joked.

Drake smiled indulgently. “I’m sure she would not really be my thing,” he said. “She probably tastes dusty.”

I rolled my eyes. “Is food all you ever think about?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Occasionally I think about sex. And murder.”

I glanced at him uneasily. “Funny,” I said. I was proud my voice didn’t shake. For a best friend, I’m still pretty terrified of him. “That poor girl isn’t going to know what hit her.”

Drake dropped a casual arm over my shoulder as we walked toward class. “As long as Flea does not try to mark any territory, I think she should be fine.”

“I just hope he doesn’t try to lick her cheek,” I said, remembering my own first meeting with Flea all too well.

Drake glanced sideways at me. “Do not tell me the furball actually licked your cheek.”

“Among other things,” I said. “I don't even want to delve into the subject of where he sniffed.”

Drake's laughter echoed down the hall as we walked into the classroom.

----

Part Two