The Vampire's Housekeeper Chronicles: Volume 1 by J Bennett

Author:J Bennett [Bennett, J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J Bennett
Published: 2014-09-29T16:00:00+00:00

Part Six

Apprenticeship With A Vampire

I walk slowly through the dining room, placing every footfall carefully.

“Come here,” I murmur. “Come here you gross, little…”

There! A long pink tail peeks from beneath the velvet curtains. Got you! I creep close to the mutant rat.

DONG, DONG, DONG

The huge grandfather clock in the parlor claims the hours, twelve of them, each loud chime echoing through the long corridors of Nathaniel’s mansion. I’ve gotten used to those hollow, chilling sounds, but the noise sends the rat scurrying across the floor just as I swoop down to grab it. My hands come up empty, and I watch that long tail slide past my feet. The rodent turns to look back as it runs and blinks all three eyes. It opens its mouth…

“Don’t you…”

…and hurls a green glob.

“…dare,” I groan as I watch the goo splatter across the new sandals I’d bought at Payless yesterday. I stare down, watch the goo slide into the cleavage of my toes, and sigh. It’s almost surprising how none of this surprises me anymore. Life as a vampire’s housekeeper has its twists, turns, and occasional danger, but mostly it has stains. Lots of stains.

“Is he here yet?” a giddy voice speaks behind me. “I gots some mad tricks I be running. This fool gonna crap his pants or blow a heart valve.”

I pull out a kerchief from my pocket, which I always keep handy, and wipe at the goop on my sandal. At least it’s not ectoplasm, I remind myself. Nothing gets out ectoplasm. Today is going to be a good day…okay, not a horrible day.

“I told him the stroke of midnight,” I reply to Sloppy Joe. “He should be here any minute.”

“Good, good,” Joe says as he floats back and forth in the air. As a poltergeist, Sloppy Joe can change his appearance at will, and yet he sticks with the white rapper persona he was in real life. Ghostly jeans sag on his hips, and his wife beater hugs a skinny chest. No matter how many times I point out the fact he is neither black nor particularly good at rapping, he refuses to yield the doo-rag.

“Where’s Dex?” I ask, wondering if I actually want to know the answer.

“He’s getting somethin’ together. Somethin’ weird and artsy.”

Yep, don’t want to know.

“You sure you gave ‘em the right directions?” Joe pipes up again.

“What happened to the No Live Animals rule?” I cross my arms. “Your three-eyed rat coughed up slime on my new sandals.”

Joe studies my poor, damaged wedges. “The rat did that?” He beams like his kid just made the winning run in tee-ball.

God, if he were corporeal, I’d be tempted to choke him with his own stupid doo-rag. Joe doesn’t abide by any of my rules, not the No Live Animals rule, the No Animating the Furniture rule, the No Turning Food Into Things That Are Not Food rule (which usually ends up breaking the No Live Animals rule at the same time), and the No Leaving The Toilet Seats Up rule.

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