Free An Unattractive Vampire by Jim McDoniel Page A

turned back to the night he had had. He considered his fellow role-players and how their petty intrigues were destroying his empire. He reflected upon the assassination attempt he’d survived and how insulting it was to be the target of so feeble a plot. He thought about Torvald Blackmyst, née Donald Quiggly, and how he’d decided to quit their group just because he’d gone and gotten himself a girlfriend, the poser.
    “You don’t leave the coven just because Nancy Tompkins kisses you at our lame-o high school reunion,” he shouted to the wind. “You don’t change who you are just to get a girl!” Several dogs in the neighborhood obviously agreed.
    Children of the night,
thought Rusty as he continued to walk and talk. “I mean, if she doesn’t understand your need to live a life of darkness, blood, and betrayal, then she’s not worth dating.”
    The night agreed in the form of a gust of freezing wind. Rusty thanked it with chattering teeth and a few choice curse words. This, in turn, brought the “You’re welcome” of house lights switched on. Rusty metaphorically nodded good-bye by shutting his mouth and running home. Rather, he ran a block, stopped to catch his breath, then continued at the same pace he had started at until he reached his house.
    Rusty quietly unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house was dark and still, a sure sign that his parents had gone to bed. As silently as he could, which, considering a lack of coordination, wasn’t very silent, Rusty made his way to the basement. Not because his room was down there, no, that was on the second floor, but to get to it, he would have had to walk up the squeaky steps, across the creaky floorboards, and past his light-sleeping mom and dad. His mother would undoubtedly wake and cry and ask where she had gone wrong, and in the morning, Pastor Dan would be there to have a little chat with him. So, instead, he went to the basement where he had stashed his laptop, a change of clothes, and a futon. Well, he hadn’t stashed the futon. The futon was always there; more like he was stashing himself there for the evening.
    Rusty had done this often enough to be able to navigate his way around in the dark. He felt his way to the edge of the stairs, stopped, went back to grab a can of soda, 19 and then descended, sans lights.
    In the dark, Rusty did not notice the soft ticking sound. Nor did he pay much mind to the click that muffled it. In fact, it wasn’t until a voice interrupted him midgulp that he noticed anything was amiss.
    “Good evening, Vermillion,” greeted the voice.
    Soda 20 flew from Rusty’s mouth in a fine mist, at least in the movie that played in the young man’s mind. In reality, there was a great deal of spitting and choking.
    A lamp clicked on, and Rusty saw the violator of his sanctum. The distinguished gentleman who sat revealed by the light was just that, a distinguished gentleman. Everything about him shouted an earlier era: his three-piece suit, his white gloves, his pocket watch. He wore a pencil-thin mustache worthy of William Powell, as well as sideburns somewhere between Elvis Presley and Martin Van Buren. Striking gray eyes peered at Rusty over small rectangular reading glasses. The man’s other-timely appearance combined with his dashing good looks made quite the first impression, though Rusty couldn’t help but register that the basement normally didn’t contain the velvet-cushioned antique chair where the man sat. Or a lamp, for that matter.
    Rusty, having spit up on himself, gawked stupidly before attempting to muster some impressive indignation. His stature grew by inches while his girth shifted and sloshed.
    “How do you know that name?” he demanded. Being years out of puberty, his voice didn’t crack, though age had never stopped his acne.
    The man smiled. “What other would I use, Vermillion?”
    Rusty’s mind focused. Only members of his coven called him Vermillion, no matter how hard he tried to get