After the cast left for the evening, Kyle loped around the empty stage, too pent up to sit. Over the past two years, since his first introduction to the Night Fright vampires, named after the club where they worked, he’d learned to control his trembling. He still agonized about what mood they’d be in. A lot depended on how frequently they’d fed. There were times he thought they’d just as soon drain him as enlist him.
The three vamps dropped silently, one by one, from the theater’s rafters, and Kyle stiffened. Before they had a chance to grill him, he said, “Abby played right into my hands. She fell for the Malcolm McClellan ploy … hook, line, and sinker.”
Arlo, who generally served as the spokesperson for the vamps — spokevamp? — said, “No surprise there. He’s the prototype of the archaic, duty-bound vamp, exactly the kind we’re trying to obliterate.” He worked his tongue like a serpent, flicking it rapidly. The notion of obliteration had obviously excited him.
“Cool,” Kyle said. “We’ve come a long way since I gave you guys a tour of the campus two years ago. Who’d have thought we’d get so tight?”
Arlo smacked his lips and nodded at his compatriots. “Yes, you were very helpful, pointing out the vulnerable coeds. I can still taste the blood of that sweet little freshman. She was tantalizing.” Kyle could have sworn Arlo’s tongue was forked as he licked his lips.
“That was my point of no return,” Kyle said. “The terror in her eyes was the biggest turn on I’d ever experienced.” It induced a yearning in him to abandon his humanity and join their ranks.
“Yes, and here we are — close to our goal.” Arlo smiled. “Once Malcolm’s dust, we’ll turn you.”
“I’ve always believed vampires were real, but I sure didn’t suspect Malcolm McClellan was one,” Kyle said, shaking his head. “How could a vampire function in daylight?”
“That’s why we want him,” Arlo said.
Sometimes Kyle wondered if the other two Night Fright boys could even talk, but he’d once seen Arlo clip the platinum blonde one on the head for opening his mouth, so he figured they were cautious.
“Only a handful of vampires in history have possessed the ability to not burn in sunlight, but unfortunately, they’ve been an honorable lot. They could have shared their unique genetic code by creating more vampires, but they won’t doom humans to their fate except under dire circumstances … or because of love. The vampire council has attempted to harness their trait for centuries. Imagine how we could mainstream.” Arlo paced the stage, gesturing in sweeping arm movements. “If any of these vamps had been willing to surrender just a few vials of their blood, the council could have already created an army of daylight vamps.”
“I don’t get why you haven’t just grabbed him, tied him down, stuck a needle in his arm and taken some blood,” Kyle said.
“The council had hoped to find a vamp willing to share, but over the years, the vamps with that specific genetic code have dispersed throughout the world. It’s all come back to Malcolm,” Arlo said. “And now we’re delightfully close. It’s ideal, really — a vampire playing a vampire. Malcolm won’t be able to resist displaying some vampire characteristics on stage, and that’s all the proof the council will need. Just a flash of fang or display of red eyes will be enough for the council to nab him.”
“And just to help things along, I thought I’d get the cast together for one of Gettysburg’s famous ghost tours. Sort of loosen things up a bit,” Kyle said.
“Brilliant idea,” said Arlo. “The more comfortable Malcolm becomes in his role as a vampire, the more likely he’ll be to let his guard down.”
Arlo signaled to the other Night Fright boys, and without so much as a wave goodbye, they flew back up to the rafters. Kyle assumed they would morph to bat form and exit through an eave.
The winter chill permeated the old theater, and Kyle rubbed his arms to dispel his goose bumps. He chuckled to himself. When he became a vampire, he wouldn’t have to worry about severe Pennsylvania winters. He’d be immune to heat and cold. It couldn’t happen fast enough for him. Once they drained and decapitated Malcolm, they promised Kyle he could join their ranks.
The Night Fright boys would be lurking in corners tomorrow evening, no doubt salivating over some of the cute coeds. Damn, he couldn’t wait to be lurking with them, and now his dreams were within his grasp.
• • •
Of all the idiotic plans Malcolm had to endure from humans, attending a ghost tour would have been at the top of the list. Close proximity to a group of humans whose blood would be pumping wildly from the excitement of the tour, and thus making him salivate, would only be trumped by the lame and inaccurate stories about ghosts in Gettysburg. He’d heard the guides embellished the tall tales per the enthusiasm of the crowd. And this crowd of thespians would surely be enthusiastic. He’d be biting his tongue to keep from correcting the flubs. Flubs? That was a word Abby would use. He smiled. Maybe the tour wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps he could comfort her if she squealed from fear. He’d wrap her in his arms and press her head to his chest. Her hair smelled like the sweet peas in his mother’s garden. Malcolm scrubbed a hand across his eyes. Stop these nonsensical thoughts.
When he arrived at Ghost Tours of Gettysburg, which assembled at the Best Western Gettysburg Hotel, he learned that their group would be taking the “extreme” tour. By all means, kick it up a notch. This tour would meander through town and end at Gettysburg Cemetery, where Lincoln had delivered his Gettysburg Address. Bite his tongue? Add smoke pouring from his ears.
The rest of the cast trickled in, though Abby was still absent. They assembled in front of the Best Western, all of them puffing the winter air and hopping with the chill. Malcolm stood stone still. He could put up a front of minding the cold, but he was too irritated by the situation to play along. Until he saw Abby, and his icy mood thawed.
“Sorry I’m late.” She joined the hopping crowd. Her breasts bounced. Lovely.
When Kyle arrived, his eyes darted around Lincoln Square in front of the hotel.
“We’re all here,” Abby said. “We just need our tour guide.”
And wouldn’t you know, sweeping around the corner in head-to-toe black came the inimitable Miss Fontaine, Gettysburg’s mistress of the supernatural. She’d written a widely distributed pamphlet on Gettysburg ghosts that made Malcolm gag. Sarah’s sister, Caroline, was one of her featured stories. Thank God she hadn’t written about Malcolm and Sarah. He couldn’t have endured that.
“Well, citizens,” Miss Fontaine began, “thank you for joining me this evening.” She cupped a hand to her ear. “I can hear you ruminating. You’re wondering what I have in store. Well, well, well. Don’t be tortured by uncertain wonders. I’m here to share a passel of memories. You see, I was in Gettysburg on those fateful three days that changed our fair city. I was, in fact, pressed into service by the Union Army as a spy.” She swept an arm around the square. “I witnessed the seeds of our destruction being sowed, but that’s neither here nor someplace else.” She clapped her hands. “Time to quit this square.”
Miss Fontaine held a closed umbrella in the air and pointed it to the south. “We shall commence to the graveyard by way of Mrs. Caroline Foster’s house.”
Oh, God, no. Malcolm had avoided the house where Sarah died for more than a hundred years. Would he ever get past his sorrow and guilt? He swallowed the lump in his throat. Damn his human feelings.
“Will we be going to the Dobbins House?” Kyle asked.
“I haven’t decided that to a definite aim,” Miss Fontaine said, “but I reckon you all can stop there after the cemetery. I don’t typically go through the woods, though it being winter and all, there won’t be copperheads performing misdeeds.” She motioned for the group to follow her.
Malcolm was actually impressed with Miss Fontaine’s Civil War aphorisms. At least there was some amusement in this wretched excursion. And observing Abby, he could long for her, not that that was a good thing. He stayed at the back of the group as they meandered past downtown Gettysburg’s storefronts, though he could hear her conversation.
“Why do you want to go to the Dobbins House?” Abby nudged Kyle.
“Oh, a couple of my friends are going to be there, and I thought I’d meet up with them.”
“You’re kind of jumpy tonight,” Abby said.
“Who me? Nah.” Kyle stumbled off the curb.
Abby shook her head.
Needing a distraction, Malcolm caught up with Abby and steered her to the front of the group. “I thought you might enjoy some historical facts as we go along. Facts being the operative word.”
“What, Miss Fontaine isn’t accurate enough for you?” She looked up at him. “She’s sure got the lingo down.”
“Yes, I’ll give her that, but there were no recorded female spies in Gettysburg.”
“So, her credibility did an abrupt nosedive with you, eh?” Abby chuckled.
God, she was appealing when she laughed. He wanted to suck on her bottom lip.
“Miss Fontaine is entertaining, and as long as she doesn’t butcher the facts too badly, I should be able to keep my mouth shut,” Malcolm said.
“Shall I pinch you if you get out of line?”
“You can do more than pinch me.”
Simultaneously, they stopped and faced each other. The rest of the group walked around them to keep up with Miss Fontaine, leaving Abby and Malcolm standing under one of the city’s vintage streetlamps.
“Malcolm, I don’t know what kind of power you have over me, but it’s making me very uncomfortable.” She crossed her arms … under her breasts.
“You’re the one who suggested a pinch.”
“I know, but I’m not myself when I’m around you. God knows what I’ll say next.”
“How about ‘Would you like to bite my neck?’”
“What?” Abby backed up, clutching her throat. She stopped when she smacked the window of the florist shop. She stared at Malcolm in horror. “That’s not funny.”
He raked a hand through his hair. He had repressed the human feelings surrounding his grief for Sarah. In their place, his vampire lust had risen to the surface. “Sorry, bad joke. I’m getting a bit carried away with this role I’m playing. Let’s join the others.” He offered his hand, but Abby didn’t take it. Instead, she sprinted to catch up with the group.
Again, nice move, Malcolm. Abby talked about the power he had over her, but it was the other way around. She had the power. If she wanted, she could bring him to his knees. And she had no idea. He purposefully lagged behind. He didn’t want to hear what Miss Fontaine had to say about his sister-in-law, but when he caught up with the group at the Foster residence, she’d just begun her dissertation.
“I am much obliged to the current owners of this home,” Miss Fontaine said as she herded the group on the expansive front porch of the Foster homestead. “Since this is a private residence, we won’t go inside, but they graciously allow us to congregate here on the porch where Caroline Foster used to cool the pies and Irish soda bread she provided to the hospitals following the Battle of Gettysburg.”
At least she got that right.
“Gather around. I’d like to read a letter written by Caroline Foster. Her sister, Sarah, died in this house, and hers is the spirit that still roams this property at eventide.”
Malcolm stiffened. He was stuck with this band of humans and his damn grief.
“This letter was written to Caroline’s kin in Harrisburg. The original is in a museum there, but I was privileged to obtain a copy. It begins ‘I have no news since first frost of the year past. My dear brother-in-law, Malcolm, is still missing, and I may only presume that he died during the final days in Virginia. I believe his will to live departed when Sarah died. We have all suffered as a result of this terrible conflict. I was glad to hear that your daughter and her beau are intended, and I hope to get there to see them rightly married. Your cousin, Caroline.’”
Malcolm stole a glance at Abby, who stared at him, wide-eyed. She opened her mouth, and then shut it. She cleared her throat, and then in a hoarse whisper said, “Perhaps Dr. McClellan can expand on the history of this family.”
“Not I,” Malcolm said quickly. His eyes didn’t leave Abby’s.
“We can’t tarry,” Miss Fontaine interjected. “The graveyard awaits.” She probably wasn’t interested in anyone else’s account anyway. Heaven forbid someone should prove her wrong, and that someone would not be Malcolm.
“Excellent idea,” Malcolm said. Miss Fontaine was dead wrong about one thing. Sarah’s spirit did not roam this house. If it did, Malcolm was sure he’d be able to sense it. It didn’t make him any less sad, however. Hearing Caroline’s letter flooded his heart with painful memories. He needed to get away from this house. Leaping off the porch, he headed for the street.
“Uh, excuse me,” Miss Fontaine shouted after him. “We’re going through the rose garden first.”
Over his shoulder, Malcolm said, “I’m not. I’ll join you at the cemetery.” He couldn’t bear to see the garden Sarah had cultivated for her sister, nor the bench Caroline had added in memory of Sarah. With long strides, he rounded the corner back to Baltimore Pike. This was idiocy … the play … those horrible memories … Abby. He picked up his pace.
Abby wanted to catch up with Malcolm, but what would she say? That Foster house had obviously rattled him. When Miss Fontaine read Caroline’s letter, he froze. It was as though the letter was about him. Her knees buckled, and she stopped to catch her breath. Wait, she’d been down this train of thought before. The Malcolm she knew couldn’t have been alive in 1860. He didn’t look a day over thirty-five, so how could he be one hundred and fifty? Of course, since she’d been his student, he hadn’t aged a day. Vampires didn’t age. Stop it, Abby.
And what was up with Kyle? This ghost tour had been his idea, but he was sure acting nervous. He couldn’t be taking this stuff seriously. Anyway, Miss Fontaine’s spiel was more entertaining than spooky.
Abby stayed in the back of the group. The four-block walk to the cemetery took them outside the parameters of downtown, and Miss Fontaine passed out flashlights as they neared the black wrought-iron gates. This place was eerie in the daylight, but tonight a dense fog blanketed the rolling hills, making visibility negligible. The flashlights created weird patterns through the fog, almost like ghosts rising from the graves.
As she caught up with everyone, Malcolm stood by a tall gravestone, peering across the vast graveyard. The corners of his mouth turned down in a sorrowful expression, and Abby’s heart ached for him. Her parents had told her she had too much sympathy. Both doctors, they said she’d need to toughen up if she expected to follow in their footsteps. Medicine had been her original dream … until she’d taken a class from Malcolm McClellan, and she veered to teaching. But the pain that swelled in her heart for Malcolm was more than sympathy. It was empathy. She grieved with him. Damn. This ghost tour was turning out to be a very bad idea indeed.
She looked at Kyle, who was blowing on his fingers. She could strangle him for suggesting this stupid tour. He didn’t even seem to be enjoying it.
Miss Fontaine droned on and on about various markers and how flowers disappeared on graves and then magically appeared again. Yada yada.
Malcolm meandered through the markers, stopping at a few, but not seeming engaged. He wore a blank expression, which was an improvement over his sorrowful one. A wave of relief washed over Abby’s heart.
Now that Malcolm had calmed, Abby’s attention turned to the plummeting temperature. She didn’t want to appear rude, but her toes were numb in her sheepskin boots, and she could sure use a beer. She nudged Kyle, who took the hint.
When Miss Fontaine paused, Kyle interjected, “If you don’t mind, Miss Fontaine, we’re going to peel off and head to Dobbins for a brew. It’s been enlightening … and loads of fun.” He applauded, and the group followed suit. “Thanks so much.”
“Thank you,” Abby whispered under her breath to Kyle. “One more ghost anecdote, and I may have puked.”
“Don’t puke yet. Not until you’ve gotten a few ales under your belt, at least.”
Ordinarily, Kyle would have jabbed her in the ribs and laughed with a comment like that, but he just headed off to the exit gate. Weird.
Dobbins Tavern was crowded as usual. For a raucous time, you couldn’t beat the old tavern. It was housed in Gettysburg’s oldest, most historic home. Abby loved the beamed ceilings, bookcases, and cozy atmosphere of the place. And tonight, the fireplaces would definitely be appreciated. The old house had played a role during the Civil War, harboring slaves on their journey to freedom. Abby headed straight for one of the fireplaces and began warming her hands over the glowing embers. Though she wanted to search the group for Malcolm, she resisted. Before she’d had a chance to order, Kyle brought her a tankard.
“Porter, correct?” He handed her the brew.
“Perfect.” She sipped. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, fine.”
He didn’t look fine. “Okay, whatever you say.” Abby turned back to the fireplace, and then a hand circled her waist. She jumped when she looked up at the face of the bartender from Night Fright. She’d have recognized that wall-eyed glare anywhere.
“Whoa, where’d you come from?” She looked from the bartender to Kyle, who grinned.
“This is my friend, Arlo,” Kyle said, clipping Arlo on the shoulder.
“You’re kidding. I mean, really?” Abby backed away from Arlo’s chummy hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a friend at Night Fright when I went to Philly?”
“What, and spoil the fun for independent you?” Kyle chuckled. “Arlo and a couple of his cohorts will be hanging around the theater to keep an eye on our star. Make sure his portrayal is authentic.”
“I suppose he sees his share of vampire wannabes.” Abby looked sideways at Arlo. “Mighty accommodating of you.”
“Where is our star?” Arlo asked.
Abby scanned the dark tavern, but Malcolm was nowhere in sight. “He must have peeled off after the cemetery.” Abby chugged her tankard, and then she slapped her thigh. “I think I’ll head out.” She started to hold out a hand to shake Arlo’s, and then thought better of it, scratching her nose instead.
“Nice to see you again,” Arlo said. He half grinned.
As Abby left the tavern, the tour guide’s words played in her head. That letter she’d read, with the soldier named Malcolm, had punched Abby in the gut. Of course, Malcolm was an old-fashioned name, and in the nineteenth century, it was used more prevalently than today, but as Abby recalled the Civil War photographs on Malcolm’s mantel, a shiver that wasn’t due to the cold temperature rose up her spine. Had he really been a Union soldier? She shook her head. Nonsense.