I’m a Vampire At War On Halloween Page 2

  They were guaranteed to differ violently on almost every issue. If she did get interested in this War on Halloween thing, she mused, then their tempers and ratings were both sure to rise. Just look how well Bill O’Reilly had done, with that War on Christmas.

  * * * *

  “We are having the Ambassador and Ambassadress of Transylvania on our show this week,” Cassandra Bailey said, as the camera obediently scanned their faces. “We also have his brother and mother here tonight. Our guests will debate the true meaning of Halloween.

  Turning to Victor and Tiffany, she said, “This couple has a very positive view of the modern holiday…that it’s another way for us to celebrate a different culture. Like St. Patrick’s or Columbus Day, only Transylvanian rather than Irish or Italian.”

  This threw Mariutza into a towering rage. “That is exactly the sort of thing we are fighting against!” she cried.

  “Is that the reason for your War on Halloween?” Buck Patrick’s question seemed to be innocence itself, just like the look of curiosity covering his beefy red face.

  His wife, however, was not trying to hide the disgust she felt at his phony bewilderment. It showed on her thin pursed lips as she shook the golden tresses that fell to her shoulders. “Clearly,” her expression said, “he is trying to make trouble and he is sure to succeed.”

  “What do you mean by a War on Halloween?” he asked, in the same bewildered tone. “I mean, isn’t it the second biggest commercial holiday in America, following only Christmas?”

  “That is just what we object to!” the Romanian lady exclaimed, her black eyes flashing in rage. “They have turned our most sacred, special day into a vulgar spending spree…with phony Draculas and witches wearing mini skirts in the shopping centers, urging the children to ask for cheesy costumes. And now the adults are buying even more expensive outfits for their own parties. This is not what Halloween should be.”

  “And what should it be in YOUR opinion, Count Vladimir?” their host inquired, turning to the guest on his right.

  “Sit up straight!” Vlad’s mother hissed, as he started to reply. He responded by squaring his shoulders for a moment, before they inevitably slumped again.

  “A night to tremble before the forces of evil,” he replied, in his most menacing tone, in his thickest Romanian accent. He was obviously about to say more, when his host turned to the left and asked his other male guest, “I believe you would like to answer him, Mr. Ambassador?”

  Victor Vyrdelek needed no urging to sit up straight. Beneath his leather blazer, his broad shoulders were already spread out in a way that would have done justice to a Redskins linebacker, as he glared down at his slouching opponent. Noting this, Vladimir’s mother once more hissed at her eldest son to, “Sit up straight!” with even less effect this time.

  “Halloween is a day when all Americans can enjoy our cultural traditions,” Victor said.

  “What traditions?” his mother burst in. “When do you follow our traditions? You had four brides, as a vampire should, and they were luring men who, in turn, lured women who…well, how do you think we became a big enough minority group to swing your presidential election, with your famous motto, ‘I’m Undead and I Vote.’ And now you even have a vampire running for governor in Minnesota, with the Vampyres, Witches and Pagans Party.”

  At this point, your author must apologize for that last statement. It is so completely unbelievable, it could only have happened in real life. If you still don’t believe me…for which I can’t blame you…look up “Jonathan Sharkey.” And now back to our story.

  “Not, of course, that I think we should be interfering in foreign politics,” the countess dowager added hastily, as she glared across at the red-haired ambassadress and her too-short navy skirt. Her own filmy, clinging white gown was actually much more revealing, but that, too, was part of her heritage.

  “What do you mean, foreign?” Countess Tiffany Vyrdelek demanded. “I was born and died right here in the USA! I am proud that I was able to rally my fellow Undead Americans. Before I married the Romanian ambassador, of course.”

  “And what have you undead-Americans done to our vampire traditions?” Mariutza demanded. “Instead of four brides, my younger son now has only one wife. And what are the others doing?

  “Crina and Ylenia now have…” she dropped her voice as though uttering an obscenity before she added, “husbands! What’s worse, all four are following…” her tone was even lower, as she rasped, ‘careers!’ A Realtor, a Secret Service agent, a hair stylist and a wedding pianist…where is our heritage in that? My younger son did not even invite me to the embassy when I thought directly at him that I was coming here. What tradition was he following there?”

  “I knew you would throw that up at me,” Victor muttered, slouching back in his chair, while his own foot started to jiggle. “That’s why I didn’t answer!”

  Ignoring his protest, she went on, “I sold my soul to the devil, so my sons could have…and give…eternal life…and this is my reward?”

  “At least you can’t add that I’ll be sorry when you’re dead, since you never will be. That’s Tiffany’s mother’s line.”

  “The ambassador is your younger son?” prompted Cassandra, who was still enough of a journalist to pick up on a news item when she heard it, even when it was buried like a jewel of truth in a pile of family feuding.

  “Yes, indeed,” Mariutza muttered. “He is the one whom everyone called ‘Radu the Handsome.’”

  “I see the resemblance,” the newswoman answered tactfully. Indeed, both males had the same thin red lips and black curls. The difference was, Count Victor’s hair was cut so carefully, it seemed completely casual, as though the wind had blown it that way. And his lips appeared between a strong, tapering chin and a nose that was perfectly straight.

  He looked, in short, like David Boreanaz and would, indeed, have been Radu the Handsome, even if he had not invited constant comparison with his older brother, Vladimir the anything but. Nor were that red velvet cap, the bearskin cloak and those dangling curls doing anything for the count.

  Able to read the studio audience’s thoughts, Vlad knew that they were not flattering to him. His mother did, too.

  “Looks aren’t everything,” the mother-in-law of all vampires replied, with a lack of tact that was common to all mothers everywhere, of every species. “Our Vladimir follows our customs.”

  “Was he doing that when he impaled his enemies alive?” her daughter-in-law demanded. “No one ever even accused Radu—I mean, Victor—of doing such a thing.”

  “No one ever made him feel small and insignificant, as I always felt beside him,” Vladimir sniffled in reply.

  “That’s because you are!” his brother snapped.

  “There, you see?” their mother demanded, turning towards the audience in triumph. “We have thrown tradition aside…with younger brothers having no fear or even respect for the older ones…and you see what has happened to our family life. That is one reason why we are demanding…put Hell Back in Halloween.”

  “And we want everyone to go right on enjoying our holiday, as the happiest day of the year…or the second happiest, anyway,” her daughter-in-law flared back at her. “That’s why our new greeting will be…will be…” obviously thinking frantically, she suddenly burst out, “Happy Hallo-day!”

  Buck Patrick was certainly happy, as he poured fuel on the fire by asking, in his most courteous tone, “Is that H-a-l-l-o and then d-a-y? Well, that certainly sounds like something that our own little George or Martha will enjoy.”

  He smiled fondly at his wife, who was seated beside him. She glared in outrage in response.

  “George and Martha?” she demanded. “We’re having Franklin or Eleanor.”

  She glanced at the Countess Vyrdelek for support. Good liberal though she was though…and raised to revere the sacred names of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt…the red-haired undead-American barely heard her hostess’ appeal for aid. Tiffany was too engrossed
in arguing with the dark-haired vampire-ess.

  “Happy Hallo-day?” her mother-in-law was all but shrieking. “What sort of thing is that? Are you ashamed to call it Halloween?’

  “Aren’t you ashamed to talk about putting Hell there, so that no one but you can enjoy it?”

  Mariutza turned to her favorite son, but he, too, was otherwise occupied.

  “Vlad the Impaler!” that son’s younger sibling was snarling, leaning forward so suddenly that the older brother jumped. “If you ask me, the only way you ever impaled any man, was straight up the…”

  “For God’s sake, go to commercial!” the producer howled. He had snuck a cross into his pocket, to hold up if his distinguished undead guests got out of line…but it would not be any use to him against the FCC.

  Not that he much wanted to use the cross, or anything else, to keep that Mariutza Vyrdelek away. He had always gone for that dark, exotic, foreign type. She sure looked great for 595 years old. In fact, she would have looked pretty darn good for 35. Obviously, getting the Dark Kiss was better than Botox.

  If only it hadn’t been for that Hell-in-Halloween thing. He would not have minded that she was a vampire…but he knew enough to stay away from radicals of any persuasion…including the extremist undead.

  * * * *

  If the undead were silent during the daytime, their graves spoke volumes for them. By the next sunrise, cemeteries throughout the country were dotted with some signs saying, “Happy Hallo-days, everyone!” and others calling for the reader to” Put the Hell Back in Halloween.”

  Even the American Association of Deceased Persons was split right down the middle in deciding which motto to use. Clearly, the war over the holiday had begun in earnest, and it was making the famous War on Christmas look like a mild argument.

  * * * *

  “Sweet!” Vlad lamented, as he sat across the rickety kitchen table from his mother in their rented crumbling mansion. It dated back only 200 years, which made it “new construction” as far as they were concerned, but it was the best they could do.

  “That chubby little child said that Vlad the Impaler was ‘Sweet!’” he howled. “Obviously, he did not believe that I was whom I claimed to be…any more than his mother, the teacher did.”

  Gazing at his own parent mournfully, he demanded, “How can we put the Hell Back in Halloween if people are not afraid of us, because they don’t know who we are?” Bitterly, he added, “They think we are, at most, merely two more Undead Americans.” Both shuddered at the term.

  “They should be taught to fear you,” she answered. Her own great eyes glowed the exact same shade as Lancome Red Stiletto, thus matching her favorite lip color, as she added, “Perhaps that schoolteacher will learn to do it, when she feels your fangs in her throat.”

  His own eyes glowed positively True Red by L’Oreal, as he reveled in the thought. Then he shook his head, making the black ringlets bounce on his shoulders. “We cannot do it, though,” he said. “Vampires here can only bite consensually. That’s their law. And that’s why we are reduced to this!”

  He pointed down balefully at the pewter mug of cold plasma, which was purchased by the carton from starving e-book authors. Even worse, most of them drank so much coffee, he could taste it all night and then lay awake all day.

  With a wave of her pointed fingernails, which were also painted Red Stiletto, she dismissed this objection.

  “Law, law!” she exclaimed. “What will the law do to you, when you have drained enough blood to leave her weak with longing for you? Soon the men will feel the same about her, especially if she loses some weight. She will be our test case of your powers!”

  He smiled for a moment at that. In his excitement, his eyes still matched his naturally crimson lips. Then they faded to a more human color as he said, with a sigh, “But she is much bigger than I am.”

  “So is almost everyone,” his mother reminded him. “That’s why you must sit up straight.”

  * * * *

  “Of course we are still going to the Transylvanian embassy for the Happy Hallo-day,” Evelyn O’Neill, the First Witch, assured her daughter Maeve, the First Banshee. “I hope that you and George can make it, too. Naturally, I will bring my bodyguard.”

  Saying this, Mrs. O’Neill tossed back her blond hair as she turned from the Lincoln Bedroom phone to smile briefly at her Secret Service protector. Ylenia was especially looking forward to the occasion because she was a native Transylvanian vampire. It would be like old times for her. Very old, in fact. Seventy-five years, to be exact.

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Maeve replied. “We can’t let this controversy ruin the evening, especially when it is for such a worthy cause.”

  “Certainly not,” her mother assured her. “But it has given me some question about our greeting cards for the season. ‘Happy Halloween’ does not seem quite right any more…but “Put Hell Back in Halloween’ is obviously out of the question…and even ‘Happy Hallo-day’ is too controversial for the paranormal minorities nowadays.” She did not have to mention that her fellow PN’s were the only ones who would be getting this particular greeting card.

  “We’ve been having the same problem,” answered the First Daughter. “But George has thought of something that would cover every occasion. How about, ‘Happy Fall and Winter Holidays?’”

  “That’s a wonderful idea!” her mother exclaimed. “It would also take care of Veteran’s Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa and New Year’s. That should satisfy everyone!”

  * * * *

  Of course, it did no such thing.

  “Now they are not even mentioning our holiday,” Tim Johnson protested to the media, on the set of his latest action thriller, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Vampire III.” Clutching the First Lady’s greeting card theatrically in his powerful brown fist, he exclaimed, “’Happy Fall and Winter Holidays’? This really IS a War on Halloween!”

  * * * *

  As in any war, both sides battled to win the hearts and minds of the young. Ellen Reinecke was therefore not very surprised when Vlad Tepes called to offer to address her advanced history class.

  “I will explain the real meaning of Halloween,” he told her.

  “As my son would put it, that would be sweet,” she assured him.

  “I would like to come visit you to discuss my presentation,” he added, in a more hesitant tone.

  “That would be cool, too.”

  “So I will be welcome at your home?”

  “You certainly will!”

  “Then that’s…sweet!”

  * * * *

  “Of course, we also want to hear the other point of view,” Mrs. Reinecke said, in her next call. “I phoned the Transylvanian embassy because I hope you can send someone to me. Count Vladimir is coming to my home tomorrow evening, to discuss his presentation, and your, er, person is more than welcome to visit whenever he pleases.”

  “Oh, really?” Countess Tiffany answered, and was grateful that her caller could not see that her eyes now resembled A Different Red by Clinique…or, alternatively, her Nantucket Red pattern handbag by Vera Bradley. Those were her two favorite products, since both avoided animal cruelty. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

  I certainly will, she assured herself. I will save your victim from becoming your next bride. And it’s a good thing for her that you have welcomed us into your home to do it, because we could not have gone there otherwise.

  * * * *

  When Ellen Reinecke invited Vlad Tepes into her home, she assumed that he would walk through the door. Therefore, she was startled to see him bobbing up and down in front of the bedroom window instead.

  While she could not, in fact, stop herself from jumping with fear, she did manage to avoid taking her comb and brush set from the bedside table and forming them into a cross.

  Hoping that he had not noticed that very inhospitable reaction, she hastened to unlatch the window and fumbled to raise it. As he bobbed into the room, the cheery red-an
d-yellow checked curtains covered his face, so he had to fight free of them. Trying to ignore that embarrassing moment, he stood staring at her with bulging eyes.

  “Are you trying to hypnotize me against my will?” she whispered.

  “No,” he answered. “But you are still wearing your bathrobe.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, before she hastily pulled the white terrycloth sash tighter and raised the collar to her neck. The effect was to outline her ample curves, making him gaze even more ardently. She could feel her face turning even pinker as a result.

  “Well, then, why don’t you go wait in the living room while I get dressed?”

  “Is Luther waiting for us there?” he asked, rather miserably.

  “No, he’s with his father for the weekend.”

  “You are divorced,” he told her.

  “You sound shocked about that.”

  “Well, in my day, it was very shocking.”

  Just in time, she stopped herself from asking indignantly if it was any more shocking than being a vampire, not to mention the Vlad the Impaler thing. He was her guest, after all, and he was here for a business meeting.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” she assured him briskly. “So you go wait out there and I’ll be right with you.” Helpfully, she added, “You can watch ‘Law and Order’ in the meantime.”

  “Is it on Saturday night?”

  “It’s on all the time.”

  * * * *

  That was certainly true, as Vlad remembered from his own recent evenings at home. At home in Northern Virginia, that was. Back in Transylvania…why, Law and Order had been HIM! And no one had ever told him to go wait in the living room while she changed clothes.

  As that thought struck him, he raced back into her bedroom, pulled himself to his full height, so that his head reached her chin, and swept her into his arms. She struggled vainly against him until, looking only slightly upwards, he caught and held her gaze with his compelling eyes.