Free His Vampyrrhic Bride by Simon Clark

in.’
    ‘Good. And it’s in France. You’ll get to see the sights, too.’
    ‘France?’ Tom hadn’t expected that.
    ‘Jack’s starting work on the units after the weekend. He’ll want you on site then.’
    Tom Westonby had been expecting to spend the summer in this beautiful corner of Yorkshire.
    More importantly: what about Nicola Bekk? He’d be leaving before he’d really got to know her.

THIRTEEN
    W hen Tom Westonby strolled into Chester Kenyon’s workshop, ‘Cheery’ Chester had some surprising news. So surprising, in fact, that Tom didn’t think he’d heard right.
    ‘Married?’ Tom echoed. ‘You’re getting married?’
    Chester grinned as he unscrewed bolts on an old lawnmower. ‘Yes. Married. Joined in holy deadlock.’
    ‘You’ll find the word’s
wedlock
.’ Tom was smiling as much as Chester. ‘When? Where?
Who
!’
    ‘The last Saturday in August.’
Clack
. He dropped the bolts into a steel bowl. ‘At Saint George’s.’
Clack.
‘You’re invited, Mr Westonby.’
Clack.
He pointed an oily finger out through the workshop door. ‘And that’s who I’m marrying.’
    ‘Grace Harrap? Isn’t she the one who shoves ice inside your shirt?’
    ‘Romantic, isn’t it?’ Chester wiped his fingers on a rag. ‘We’ve had this on-off thing for years.’
    Tom held out his hand. ‘Congratulations. I’m pleased for you both.’
    Chester whistled to Grace. Grace smiled back, though for some reason she shook her fist rather than waving.
Maybe in these little Yorkshire villages the gesture means something different
, Tom thought.
Fist shakes might be as good as blowing kisses.
    ‘She looks pleased to see you,’ Tom said optimistically.
    ‘Nah, she’s mad at me. I’m not asking her brother to be best man.’
    ‘Any ideas about a best man?’
    ‘You.’
    Tom thought he’d been asked a question. ‘I don’t know who should be your best man, Chester. That’s for you to decide.’
    ‘No, I mean: YOU.’
    Tom blinked in surprise. ‘I’ve only known you for a few weeks. Are you sure—?’
    ‘I’ll be blowing fanfares if you would. You’re a good bloke, Tom. You see . . .’ Chester was habitually cheerful. Yet revealing his true emotions came tougher. ‘For one of those city wimps you can take your beer with the best of them.’
    ‘Thank you, Chester. But . . .’
    ‘But what?’
    ‘Won’t Grace still be angry at you? After all, if she wants her brother as best man.’
    ‘Nah, Liam’s a twit.’
    ‘If you want me to be best man, Chester, then yes, sure. I mean, I’m honoured.’
    ‘Great. I’ll tell Grace.’ He gave a big, beaming grin. ‘Though I’ll probably end up with a whole iceberg down my shirt when she hears.’
    ‘I won’t be offended if you change your mind. After all, I don’t want to be the one to cause rows between you and your fiancée.’
    ‘She’ll come round. Will you grab the hammer? It’s outside on the bench.’
    Tom stepped out into the sunlight. On the other side of the village’s main street was St George’s. The church was in the typical Yorkshire style. Its walls were built of white stone that uncannily resembled the local white cheese. The main part of the church dated back a thousand years or so, while the square tower would be seventeenth century.
    A notice board stood by the graveyard gate. At the top of the board, a painting depicted St George in golden armour driving a lance into an evil-looking green dragon. Tom hadn’t realized its significance before, in relation to Danby-Mask. St George, the patron saint of England, was also the famous dragon-slayer. He began to wonder if dedicating the parish church to St George, the knight who killed the dragon, had any connection to Mrs Bekk’s wild stories about her ancestors being guarded by such a creature, which had also rampaged through the village centuries ago.
    ‘Any luck finding the hammer, Tom?’
    ‘Sure. Right here.’ As he headed back he heard a commotion along the street. Tom