Free The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks

the broken lock, peered at the shrouded windows, and opened up the coffin. ‘I hadn’t done anything with the ashes, at that point,’ Father Ramon admitted, when the subject was raised. ‘But it didn’t really matter.’ The police, he said, hadn’t seemed very concerned. After examining the coffin, they’d promptly decided that Casimir was mentally ill.
    ‘They were very nice,’ Father Ramon hastened to acknowledge, ‘but I could see what they were thinking. They were thinking that Casimir might have wandered off without telling anyone, since hewas obviously mad. They even asked if he could have broken the lock himself, because he’d forgotten his key.’
    ‘So what are they going to do?’ Sanford queried. ‘Are they going to report him missing?’
    ‘Not until tomorrow,’ the priest replied. ‘They told me to check with his friends, if he had any.’ Father Ramon was looking pale and tired, as if his brush with the law had depleted him. ‘The ash didn’t trouble them at all,’ he finished. ‘One of them suggested that Casimir might have tried to fake his own death, and the other one laughed. They wanted to know if Casimir went around collecting ashes because of his illness.’
    In other words, they had refused even to consider the possibility that Casimir’s coffin really
did
contain his mortal remains. This was good news, of course, though it was also strangely depressing.
    I find it rather hard to accept that I’m not supposed to exist.
    Father Ramon went on to describe the rest of his day, which had been filled with vampire-related errands. On Sanford’s advice, he had paid a quick visit to Horace’s house – where he had found no broken locks or smashed windows. After feeding the guinea pigs (and selecting a few for our dinner), he had then checked Bridget’s old butcher’s shop on his way back home. Again, he had seen nothing suspicious. Sanford’s place had yielded a similar result; like Dave’s house, it bore no signs of forced entry.
    This could have meant that our slayer had been busy at work all day. Or it could have meant that he didn’t have our addresses. As Sanford pointed out, it was too soon to tell.
    ‘We can’t go home yet,’ he declared. ‘We should wait until the weekend, at least. Unless we find him beforehand.’
    ‘And if we do?’ I queried. ‘What happens then?’
    There was no immediate reply. My mother fished in her pocket for a cigarette; she was sitting at the kitchen table, opposite Father Ramon,with a half-drunk cup of tea in front of her. Bridget was perched on another chair, knitting. Gladys was absent-mindedly rearranging fridge magnets, while Sanford paced and Horace yawned.
    The whole room smelled of Mum’s shepherd’s pie, which was baking in the oven. I used to love shepherd’s pie. I used to love fried fish, too. And ice-cream. And coconut cake. But nowadays, even a whiff of cooked food just makes me feel slightly ill.
    ‘If we do find him, then we should persuade him to see the error of his ways,’ Sanford said at last, going on to concede that Casimir’s killer might have to be restrained while he listened to reason. Bridget fretted about this; she wondered aloud if we should also provide refreshments, as a gesture of goodwill. And I was about to say something caustic along the lines of ‘Why not just buy him flowers and chocolates while we’re at it?’ when a creaking, thumping noise indicated that someone was descending the stairs.
    Soon Dave appeared at the kitchen doorway. He looked depressed, but that was nothing unusual. With his slouch, his pallor, and his mournful dark eyes, he always looked depressed.
    We gazed at him in a state of high expectation.
    ‘No message,’ he reported.
    Sanford sighed. My own stomach contracted; I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Mum said, ‘Huh?’
    ‘There’s nothing from Fangseeker.’ Dave propped himself against the doorjamb. ‘Horace didn’t get a response.’
    ‘To