Friday, February 28, 2014


Tomas called Doctor Franklin. He got on his armonica thing, trying to detect changes in ethereal vibrations. They picked up the elfin-folk over in Laurel Hill Cemetery right away. Magic folk, or whatever you want to call them, have a certain aura.They give off this 'thing.' So I guess there is a physical component to it all, or maybe that's just the way it manifests in our particular universe? Baylah was back in town, so she came right over too. I don't know how much help Leo and Conrad are gonna be. Sure, they're vampires, but lets just say if vampires had professional representation, they wouldn't be signed by a big agency. And the 'familiars' are just mortals. They can't do anything. Likewise the cops. 

The ghosts fingered Pig Blood Annie's husband, Little Joe, right away. Johannon asked Tomas if he wanted him to scare the dirty, runty bastard off. Was all set to drift into his corpse-burnt-in-a-fire phase, which is what he was. That is how he died. No lips. No eyelids. Nose all gone. Skin like a pepper left on the grill too long. But Tomas told him not to. 

Sarah, Tomas' consort, took it upon herself. She simply opened the big, red, lacquered door, stepped out upon the white, marble stoop, looked down at the strange, little man and whispered (since it was quite late and very cold) - Can I help you? Can I be of any assistance?.... And she made sure he saw the fangs..... He was flustered, but just a bit. Being spouse to a big, old, powerful born-witch, like Pig Blood Annie gave him some measure of accomplishment. After all, she ain't crushed him yet. So he rose up to his full, substandard height, thrust out his weak, little chin and said - My lady wants her grandbaby back...... Nineteen heartbeats later he was seated by the big, granite island in the kitchen giving everybody nervous looks. What big teeth they had, don't you know. Not 'big.' That's really an inaccurate word. Wouldn't want to give any new readers the wrong idea. 'Noble' vampires have discrete fangs... a tiny bit longer... sharper and pointier. That's all. But a scalpel doesn't have to be a machete and the rustic, Piney 'gentleman' got the point.

Tomas told him they didn't have the dumpling in question and were doing everything enchanted beings could do to get her back. Then he asked - Where are the parents in all this? .... Little Joe sniffed and said - We don't speak about them. .... Why? - asked Sarah. The mother, isn't she a born-witch too?.... She a born-slut. That's what she is. Sometimes it skip a generation. - he said. Wanna be a whore. Sent her to the best whore school money can buy. But she flunk out once already and look like she fixin' to do it again. How you know that baby ain't dead?..... Sarah said - In a house filled with supernatural beings we feel things. I walk through her room, the place where she slept and I know. Your granddaughter is alive. And it looks as if she wasn't taken...... She ain't my granddaughter. She's my step-granddaughter and what do you mean? - the really rather sad, little man asked.... Well - said Sarah, It looks as if she just left...... Little Joe put his head in his hands and cried..... She gone kill me. She gone kill me. My sainted wife gone bust my head like a sausage casing.... And he cried some more. Edith gave him a mug of tea. But he say he want Sprite and a doughnut instead. They don't have no Sprite, 'cause only ones what drink soda is Edith and Billy and all they go for is diet iced tea and diet Coke. So she give him diet Coke and a TastyKake. That like a Philadelphia Twinkie only better. Chocolate cupcakes, I think it was.....

Meanwhile, seven miles away, in the freezing, winter woods of Laurel Hill, the nine or ten month old born-witchling named Boopsie clapped her little mitts and made warm, orange light orbs to keep away the chill, as she and the elferinas and elferinos ( including the new one, Peter) passed around two, old, disoriented drunks, taking little blood drinks from each. Would they live? Probably, but don't ask me to guarantee it.  That 'Peter' make 'em do things a little bit different. Not the drunks. The elfin-folk, I mean.

An' folks what got telescopes 'round the city get quite a show, watchin' them hills they got in there, 'cause them warm, orange light orbs seep out a that snug, little, never-used mausoleum an' go floatin' all over the place, just like 'ghosts' an' 'aliens.'


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