he didn’t even look very interested. He just seemed . . . empty. The great fire of Yulric Bile, which once had threatened to consume the world, had been doused, and nothing could reignite it.
Except—
“Ow!” yelled Yulric, climbing over the back of the couch and rubbing his head. On the other side, a stoic-faced cherub stood, notebook in hand. At the sight of the small boy, Yulric’s eyes flamed, his fangs bared, and even his lungs, which worked selectively, began to creak under the weight of his quickening breath.
“Pestilent, dog-eared offspring of a worm-ridden hag!” he screamed. “I’ll stick your head in that infernal box stove 11 till your eyeballs pop. May your hair turn to leeches and the days of your life peter out into . . .” At this point, he became so incensed that he began switching languages, from French to Arabic to some nonsensical, squishing noise, and finally into the most incomprehensible of all, Welsh.
The boy scribbled something in his notebook and walked away. Slowly, Yulric’s rage faded. As it did, he slid down the couch and returned to watching a woman talk to women about women. That is, until—“Ow!”
Up popped the bald, bat-eared head once more. Again, the child stood ready to take notes. This time, the fiery eyes of the beast sought out the objects that had struck it.
“Horseshoes?” cried the creature. “Horseshoes? You interrupted the accounts by survivors of the breast plague to test me with iron?” He took a moment to hurl the offending steel back at the boy. Simon, used to an environment where anyone abnormal was singled out and pelted with welt-inducing objects, adeptly stepped aside, with the reflexes forged in a thousand games of dodgeball.
Amanda watched the scene play out from the safety of the kitchen threshold. Since the creature, Yulric Bile, had taken custody of the living room sofa, Simon had begun a series of identifying experiments. Mostly, they involved lobbing various supernatural deterrents over the back of the couch to gauge the level of outrage they caused. Inevitably, these tests ended in a chase, which Amanda would have to break up before death or fire ensued. So she would tell Simon to stop disturbing their guest, and she would tell their guest to halt his attempts at murder. Both would mutter under their breath and go to their respective corners until Simon found something else he could easily toss.
Except this time. Amanda had suggested the horseshoes.
It hadn’t been a problem, the vampire and the TV, it really hadn’t. Amanda was usually asleep or at work, and Simon, well, he didn’t really watch TV anyway. And despite the occasional outburst of unbridled wrath when he tried to remember how the telephone worked, Yulric’s presence was more than bearable. It was actually kind of comforting. So long as he was lounging around, he couldn’t hurt anyone. And as long as he didn’t hurt anyone, she had nothing to feel guilty about.
But day followed day, and still the vampire retained his spindly clutch on the remote. The weekend came and went. Monday passed and Tuesday, too, and still no sign that the vampire would voluntarily relent from his channel surfing vigil. Amanda had grown concerned that her haven, her sanctuary, the one bright spot in what had become her tedious existence, would be sacrificed on the altar of this intruder’s brooding. Something had to be done. And so, something was. As the creature and Simon began their grand chase, Amanda stole into the living room. With his fists full of horseshoes, the vampire had left behind the remote, which Amanda took up now. Her fingers moved on their own to press the channel number. With bated breath, she sat through five car-insurance commercials until finally the screen turned black, two silver eyes opened, and a husky voice said, “Last time on
The Phantom Vampire Mysteries
. . .”
“What is this?”
Dread crept into Amanda’s body. As last week’s recap commenced,
Except—
“Ow!” yelled Yulric, climbing over the back of the couch and rubbing his head. On the other side, a stoic-faced cherub stood, notebook in hand. At the sight of the small boy, Yulric’s eyes flamed, his fangs bared, and even his lungs, which worked selectively, began to creak under the weight of his quickening breath.
“Pestilent, dog-eared offspring of a worm-ridden hag!” he screamed. “I’ll stick your head in that infernal box stove 11 till your eyeballs pop. May your hair turn to leeches and the days of your life peter out into . . .” At this point, he became so incensed that he began switching languages, from French to Arabic to some nonsensical, squishing noise, and finally into the most incomprehensible of all, Welsh.
The boy scribbled something in his notebook and walked away. Slowly, Yulric’s rage faded. As it did, he slid down the couch and returned to watching a woman talk to women about women. That is, until—“Ow!”
Up popped the bald, bat-eared head once more. Again, the child stood ready to take notes. This time, the fiery eyes of the beast sought out the objects that had struck it.
“Horseshoes?” cried the creature. “Horseshoes? You interrupted the accounts by survivors of the breast plague to test me with iron?” He took a moment to hurl the offending steel back at the boy. Simon, used to an environment where anyone abnormal was singled out and pelted with welt-inducing objects, adeptly stepped aside, with the reflexes forged in a thousand games of dodgeball.
Amanda watched the scene play out from the safety of the kitchen threshold. Since the creature, Yulric Bile, had taken custody of the living room sofa, Simon had begun a series of identifying experiments. Mostly, they involved lobbing various supernatural deterrents over the back of the couch to gauge the level of outrage they caused. Inevitably, these tests ended in a chase, which Amanda would have to break up before death or fire ensued. So she would tell Simon to stop disturbing their guest, and she would tell their guest to halt his attempts at murder. Both would mutter under their breath and go to their respective corners until Simon found something else he could easily toss.
Except this time. Amanda had suggested the horseshoes.
It hadn’t been a problem, the vampire and the TV, it really hadn’t. Amanda was usually asleep or at work, and Simon, well, he didn’t really watch TV anyway. And despite the occasional outburst of unbridled wrath when he tried to remember how the telephone worked, Yulric’s presence was more than bearable. It was actually kind of comforting. So long as he was lounging around, he couldn’t hurt anyone. And as long as he didn’t hurt anyone, she had nothing to feel guilty about.
But day followed day, and still the vampire retained his spindly clutch on the remote. The weekend came and went. Monday passed and Tuesday, too, and still no sign that the vampire would voluntarily relent from his channel surfing vigil. Amanda had grown concerned that her haven, her sanctuary, the one bright spot in what had become her tedious existence, would be sacrificed on the altar of this intruder’s brooding. Something had to be done. And so, something was. As the creature and Simon began their grand chase, Amanda stole into the living room. With his fists full of horseshoes, the vampire had left behind the remote, which Amanda took up now. Her fingers moved on their own to press the channel number. With bated breath, she sat through five car-insurance commercials until finally the screen turned black, two silver eyes opened, and a husky voice said, “Last time on
The Phantom Vampire Mysteries
. . .”
“What is this?”
Dread crept into Amanda’s body. As last week’s recap commenced,
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