Eight: Lair of the Beast
***
Bolt loved the cold and rain. From his nightly November walks through newly opened Hyde Park in 17th century London, to his lonesome hiking trips upon the snowy slopes of present day Alaska, there gleamed not the faintest ray of moonlight he mourned, nor was there a single star in the sky he envied. Bolt’s mentor, a woman named Anissa, had been fond of intoning time and again: Let lovers have the moon, and workers have the sun; darkness is for scoundrels. Bolt stood by it as steadfastly today as he had five hundred years ago, when she’d first uttered the words, which was why northern Ohio—with its uncommon amount of dark days and chilly nights—made for such a fine place to live. He liked it here, and intended to stay for as long as he could. Not only was the weather perfect, but the police were fairly stupid as well. He’d been killing in the area for fifteen years.
Anissa…
Ah, she’d been a fine lady! His first love, and still his only love. She’d taken his blood, and in return, provided eternity. On evenings like this one, Bolt liked to spend a few extra minutes lying in his coffin just to think back on their time together: her delicate curves, her long red hair, her green eyes. Her shark-fanged mouth with teeth so jagged they tore human flesh into wrecked battle flags. She’d been a sexy beast, no doubt about it.
“And why should I let you live?” the fangs had asked on the very first night, so long ago, she’d invaded Bolt’s small farmhouse near Frodsham. He’d been pinned on the floor like a mouse. Her hands were exquisitely cold, her eyes the same.
“I love you,” he whispered, unable to speak anything but the truth in the grip of such terror.
“I’m sorry?” she’d asked. “What was that?”
“You heard me. I love you. And I mean it.” He felt the hands loosen a little on his wrists. “Don’t do that. Please.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” the creature holding him had asked.
“I can’t think of anything that hurts right now. You may kill me, if you like. Then I can tell my maker I died for the woman I love. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like your mind has gone. But since no one has spoken to me like that in about a thousand years I’m going to let you go.”
“But I just asked you not to do that.”
“My Lord? Are you in there?”
Bolt blinked. Anissa’s toothy smile became cloudy, and disappeared. That was all right; he could always dream of her later.
“Yes, Lloyd,” he said into the blackness of his coffin. “You want to step back so I can open this thing up?”
“Indeed, My Lord.”
Bolt pushed on the lid. Nothing happened. He pushed again. “Goddammit. Lloyd? The latch is stuck again.”
“A pity, My Lord,” he heard his servant say.
“Yeah. I’m in here crying my eyes out. Give the lid a kick for me.”
“My Lord?”
Bolt rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Kick the fucking coffin, Lloyd! The latch is stuck!”
Everything shook as something that felt like an elephant struck the side of the coffin. Tumbling sideways, Bolt let out a cry. A moment later he was spilled onto the basement floor, with the casket lying open on its side.
“My Lord!” Lloyd exhaled. “Oh, my dear, sweet Lord!”
Bolt stood and dusted himself off. He looked at the wreckage of his coffin. The latch was no longer jammed; it was broken in two. “Well, we got the fucking thing open, anyway,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs, Lloyd. I’m hungry.”
***
“My Lord?” Lloyd said, as Bolt rummaged through the refrigerator. “I thought vampires were incapable of ingesting normal foods.” Lloyd was an old man, though nowhere near as old as some. He had only just recently come under Bolt’s employ, hired out of a service in Port Clinton for the simple reason that they asked the fewest questions.
Bolt snatched a container of spaghetti and a can of Diet Coke off the shelf before answering. “Vampires don’t exist, old bean. That means we can eat whatever the hell we want.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He handed the spaghetti to Lloyd. “Nuke this, will you?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“And cut it out with the Yes, My Lord shit. It’s annoying.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He ate his meal in the kitchen with the television tuned to CNN. Mildly grim news about politics, stocks, and the entertainment industry floated over the table. Donald Trump’s microphone had caught fire during a speech but nobody was hurt. Two male actors had come out of the closet as gay and were now vacationing together in Hawaii. Wolf Blitzer, looking disappointed with no airplane crashes to talk about, reported on a suspicious-looking suitcase found in the New York subway system.
After dinner he went into the living room. Silent and composed, Lloyd followed. The butler had already lit the fireplace and turned on the PC. A picture of Chris Sarandon wearing a grey overcoat lit up the screen. Bolt briefly considered sitting down in front of the keys, then placed himself on the couch instead. The local newspaper lay open on the coffee table. More grimness. Norwalk was still refusing to spray for mosquitoes. Three more blighted homes had been set for demolition.
“Bah,” Bold said, refusing to read any of it. His eye wandered back to Chris Sarandon. “What’s on the internet tonight, Lloyd?”
“Porn, My Lord.”
Bolt grunted at this. “Good porn or bad porn?”
“I’m not certain I can understand the difference, My Lord. There are straights and homosexuals. Doms, subs. Bestiality. And of course sodomy.”
“Of course. We mustn’t leave that one out.”
“Do women truly enjoy sodomy, My Lord?” Lloyd asked, in a tone that seemed appalled by the very idea.
“I suppose it all depends on what color the guy’s cock is,” Bolt answered.
“Have you ever bitten a man, My Lord?”
The vampire stopped for a moment. Here lay a question that proposed some awkward responses indeed. Except in this case, Bolt had none to give. “No,” he told his servant, “I can’t say I ever have, Lloyd.”
“Isn’t that a bit sexist, My Lord?”
Bolt snorted. If tonight’s conversation wasn’t ridiculous already, then this topic certainly made it so. “Sexist against whom, Lloyd?”
“Why, the ladies, of course.”
“Because I’m killing them and not the men?”
“Indeed, My Lord.”
“Lloyd,” Bolt said, “if you wanted to work for a gay vampire, then you should have put it on your resume.” He picked up the newspaper. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else. I hate listening to how difficult females and non-whites have things.” He could almost feel the butler’s incredulity at this remark. It was amusing, and it made him smile within the safety of the headlines.
“But My Lord…you’re black,” Lloyd pointed out.
Bolt looked away from an article about pig farming to consider his arm. “Yes. So I am.”
“My Lord?”
“Lloyd, do you honestly think I would sit here and blame white people for every shitty thing that’s ever happened to me?”
“It would be a rather convenient thing to do, My Lord.”
“Convenient and lazy are often closely related. If a white person were ever to have the insane courage to say to me: Bolt, old bean, you can’t do that. You’re black. Black people aren’t good enough for that. I wouldn’t call that person a racist, I’d call him an asshole. Then I would set out to prove him wrong. Ah!” A headline near the bottom of page three caught his eye. “Listen to this, Lloyd. Two Children Missing From Norwalk’s Juvenile Detention Center.”
The butler made a sound of approval.
“Two children are believed to have left the juvenile detention center on Benedict Avenue without permission last Sunday night,” Bolt continued, “and have not returned. Martin Calinga and Keltie Burke, both age sixteen, were last seen at bedtime on the night of February nineteenth. They were reported missing the next morning by receptionist Lucinda Cobb after friends noticed they had not come down for breakfast.” He paused here to smile up at Lloyd. “Likely they became breakfast themselves.”
“So Miss Burke is no longer a threat to your species?” Lloyd put forth.
“She was never a threat, Lloyd. Just a pain in the ass.” He looked back at the article. “But I’m rather surprised Vera decided to take her own brother as well.”
“Perhaps he interfered with her engagement, My Lord.”
“I suppose that could be it. I’ll have to ask her tonight how it all went down.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“I would have taken care of it myself, except that Keltie is—was—a smoker. Bah.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Satisfied with the night’s news, Bolt tossed the newspaper back onto the table. “Anyway. With that bit of unpleasantness finally out of the way, we can proceed to the next order of business. Let’s see,” he went on, rising from the couch, “if there are any cute Cleveland girls on Facebook I can hook up with later.” He batted a wink at Lloyd before taking a seat in front of the computer. “For some clubbing and spirits. You know.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the butler replied. “Indeed I do.”