The Case of the Uninvited Guest
It was Halloween, the season for jollification of the macabre.
Kindly grown-ups indulged swarms of excited young’uns in trick-or-treating. Nightclubs lured singletons with the offer of naughty costume parties, dancing, and tequila shots. The channels teemed with devils, ghouls, ghosts, skeletons, anything that goes bump in the night, and hardly anyone got hurt.
For
kuudere detective Olympe Viola Reese, though, it was a time of dark memories.
One Halloween there had been an outbreak of Japanese bakemono; everyday objects like umbrellas which became possessed and animated by spirits. An office dial-phone had turned feral. The detective took a bad whack on the head while fighting it, and spent a week in Central Hospital, comatose and half-blind.
Now a full moon loomed, often the harbinger of dire events in her experience.
She decided to get out of town. She booked an AirBnB in a remote village, filled it with food and drink, and set everything up for a quiet night in with some good films.
*
I’ll put on a costume just for myself,* she thought, unwrapping a navy blue Bunny Girl outfit she had kept from a casino undercover job several years earlier. *
At least, I’ll try if it still fits.*
She was happy to find it fitted rather well. Her athletic figure was enhanced, made more feminine by the clever engineering of the bodice. She went bare-legged, because tights were uncomfortable on her unshaven legs. *
That’s a fashion anyway,* Olympe told herself.
She slipped into matching high heels and struck a pose in the full-length mirror. Her long bunny ears tapped the low ceiling. She folded them halfway down and threw some more shapes, admiring herself hugely. Suddenly she thought it was a serious error to hide such glory away on a big party night.
*
Nothing bad’s going to happen. If I drive fast I can get home before midnight and go clubbing. I’ll meet someone gorgeous who’ll fall in love with me.*
She changed into her Jimmy Choo combat boots, the ones with a cute white stripe on the ankle cuff, which were better for driving.
There was a sudden knock on the front door.
Olympe froze. The hamlet was small, sleepy, and her cottage was on the outskirts. Hardly a place where kids would be trick or treating. None of her friends knew she was there. Who could it be?
The knock came again, three firm raps. The knocker did not mean to be denied.
She slipped her tiny PSA-25 pistol into the secret pocket in the small of her back, hidden by her big puffy cottontail, before she went downstairs.
It was dark outside. Skeins of mist twisted across the scene, glowing from the light of the full moon. Silhouetted on the spooky backdrop was a looming figure, draped in a short cloak,
with the head of a fox! Olympe shrank back.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Mizz,” said the fox in a smooth male voice, “But my car has broken down and I have lost my way. Might I come in to check where I am, and ring for a cab?”
A clear, precise accent, not native English, maybe eastern European? But muffled. The fox’s mouth had not moved while it was speaking. Olympe relaxed.
“Let me see your face.”
The figure slid the fox mask off and tucked it under an elbow. The boi smiled. His eyes twinkled and his teeth gleamed in the light from the front room.
“I am sorry. I was foolish to keep it on but it is cold out here.”
Ancient custom bade Olympe to offer hospitality to a stranded traveller. Besides, he was too handsome to turn away.
“Yes, yes, come in, come in.” She stepped back into her cottage, and he followed.
“Thank you!” The newcomer hung his mask and cape on a peg inside the door, revealing a James Bond style dinner suit with a blood red bow tie. He moved with easy grace. He looked Olympe up and down.
“I was startled to see a giant rabbit open the door to me. Now I find my rescuer is a lovely bunny girl.”
“Oh, it’s just some old thing I had lying around,” she said dismissively. “I thought I’d try it on to see how it looked, Mr…”
“Lac, Radu Lac. Please call me Radu,” he said, with another appealing smile.
“I’m Olympe. Why don’t I make you something to eat while you ring for a taxi.”
“You are too kind, Olympe.”
Radu took out his smartphone and began to search for a cab company which could take a booking out in the sticks on one of the busiest nights of the year. Meanwhile Olympe went to the galley style kitchen and checked her supplies.
“My Croque Monsieur brings all the bois to the yard…” she sang. She quickly assembled two sandwiches and slid them under the grill.
Radu came in.
“I am sorry but there is no taxi I can find. May I presume upon your hospitality for a while, Olympe?” His eyes gleamed and his teeth sparkled.
“Yeah, sure. We can watch a film or something. I’ve got some food nearly ready. Would you like a drink?”
“I am not thirsty yet, but I wonder what you may offer later.”
Olympe flipped the half-toasted sandwiches to grill on their other side, and waved her hand at the counter, where serried ranks of bottles stood.
“Wine, red of course, or cocktails; a Dirty Martini -- I make 'em filthy -- Negroni, or a proper Stinger. I can do an Espresso Martini if you like, Radu.”
“You sound delicious.”
The timer went off. Olympe hopped to the grill to turn out the freshly made sandwiches onto warmed plates.
“Here, let’s be slobs and eat in front of the TV.” They went back into the living room and sat on the sofa with their plates on their knees. Olympe booted up Netflix and began to look for a good film. Radu ate a small bite of his sandwich.
“You are very tasty cook, Olympe.”
“Thanks, I try. So, what shall we watch? There’s a Halloween Hammer House of Horror special on. That might be fun.”
“Whatever you like, it is my pleasure to watch with you.”
She munched away while the hokey film “Kiss of the Vampire” streamed in glowing, low resolution Technicolor. The suspense built towards the big reveal of the central horror. After a while, however, Olympe began to feel a bit sleepy. Radu casually stretched his right arm along the sofa behind her. His hand came gently to rest on her bare shoulder.
“Easy, tiger!” She shuffled restlessly. “We’ve only just met.” She put her empty plate down on a side table.
“But you must know I want you very much.” Radu had barely touched his sandwich, though he looked hungry. Olympe paused the film and stared at him. He opened his mouth wide.
“Fucc! You’re a vampire, aren’t you!?”
“Yes! I am sorry but I am thirsty!”
He leant forward, pulling her to him, and she grabbed for her tiny pistol.
Radu got on top of Olympe easily, but she shot him in the guts with a muffled pop and his grip loosened. She snatched up her empty plate to smash over his head. He yelped. She brought her knees up and levered him off her with her rower’s muscles. She flopped off the sofa, almost popping out of her tight costume as she rolled towards the TV and took up a combat ready pose. Her will to live burned fiercely. *
Being undead would be SO BORING!*
The film began to play again. Vampire shrieks filled the room. Olympe’s bunny ears were flapping half off her head. She threw them at Radu left-handed.
“I am SO THIRSTY!” he moaned, and ran at her, arms reaching out, his hands claws. She dodged and swung a long leg. A Jimmy Choo snagged his ankle and he face-dove the TV, glass-kissing an enervated victim of the real fake Dracula on the silver screen. Christopher Lee, handsome and horrific in equal measures, hissed with his fangs from beyond the 4th wall.
Olympe bolted for the kitchen. Radu groaned, heaved himself up, and chased her. She turned at bay, her ridiculous toy of a pistol in one hand and a long cooking chopstick in the other.
“I know Krav Maga,” she threatened. The undead creature ignored her warning. He sprang, hissing, his hands reaching for her throat and Olympe stabbed her chopstick in and out of Radu’s chest. He gasped and sagged, fell onto the heavy iron stove, creasing his forehead on the hob. The vampire collapsed on the floor, apparently knocked out. The detective sighted her gun carefully on his head and began to squeeze the trigger, but there was no blam. She relaxed her grip.
“
FUCCIT!”
She got a roll of Saran Wrap and used five minutes to truss up the limp body until she was sure Radu couldn’t escape. Then she dragged him back to the sofa and laid him out comfortably. Thirsty from the exercise, she fixed herself a large, strong Espresso Martini, with gin rather than vodka, for its medicinal value.
Some time later Radu woke to the distant sound of screams.
He dragged his eyes open. It seemed like a cosy cottage, dark wood beams and a low, uneven ceiling. The air was laden with smells; toasted ham and cheese, gin, coffee, and girl sweat combined with some expensive scent. And burnt gunpowder.
The screaming stopped suddenly. A female face, framed by a choppy blonde pixie cut, loomed over him. Navy blue rabbit ears topped her head and her neck was ringed with a bunny girl collar and bow tie.
“You’re awake. Good. I didn’t want to kill you,” the girl said, and smiled.
“Uurgh, I think you did. I feel like 10,000 kilometres of beaten gak,” Radu groaned.
“Kind of mixing your similes there, but I get the gist. Well, you deserve it. You’re lucky I didn’t stake you for good.”
“Why did you not?” He strained at his bonds, but it was no good. He was as helpless as
Roy Orbison in Clingfilm.
“Because I’m not a stone killer, not any more, anyway. These days I aim for non-violent conflict resolution.”
“You call this non-violent!?” His head, chest and abdomen all throbbed with pain.
“It’s a girl’s prerogative to change her mind. Anyway you’re not dead, so stop complaining. I have to figure out what to do with you.”
“Olympe, I am sorry I attacked you but I am so thirsty and you are so attractive!”
“Yes, yes, I am,” the blonde smirked, “But it’s not enough of an excuse. Now. Tell me how you became a vampire.”
“The same way as anyone. I was bitten by a vampire and became her… her child, I suppose you could say. Or servant.”
“When was this?”
“Last Saturday, after an early Halloween party. We were going home together when she jumped on me. I enjoyed it at first.”
“Hmmm. You said your name is Radu Lac?”
“Yes.”
“Then why does your driving licence say you’re Lucas Fimiani and live at 13425.33551.89767.33410 in Blue Home.” She waved his empty wallet at Radu.
“Hey! Where are my Coins?” He wriggled angrily.
“I’m the police. I ask the questions.” Olympe replied sternly. “Now that I know what’s happened to you, I’m going to cure you.”
“What? There are no police in The Server, only the Mods. What do you mean you know what has happened to me? It is obvious. I was bitten by a vampire, so I became a vampire. How can I be cured? Maybe I do not want to be cured.”
Radu began to sweat inside his plastic cocoon. Olympe wasn’t only a much tougher victim than he had expected, she seemed to have a worrying plan of her own.
“Okay, I’m not the police but
I am a detective and I work for the Mods, which comes to the same thing. At any rate, you’re wrapped in Clingfilm so you’re going to do what I want. I want to cure you of being a vampire. You'll
want to be cured when you find out how I’ll do it." She smiled. "I’m going to let you drink my blood.”
“Oooh!” Radu stared at the hot pulse in Olympe’s white throat, just above her bunny girl collar. His mouth opened wide. He thirsted to get his fangs into her.
“No, not like that, too messy.” She drummed lightly on his bruised forehead with a chopstick. “I’ll make you a nice cocktail.”
Olympe heaved Radu into some kind of a sitting position, an awkward slump really, but he was more or less upright, facing the TV. She searched up a show called Pui Pui Molcar. It was some Japanese weirdness about a world in which automobiles were giant, sentient guinea pigs. Or maybe the humans were tiny. Stop motion animation. Each episode was a hot minute long.
Radu boggled as the guinea pig cars got involved in a bank robbery, a time-travel adventure, a romantic dance on ice, an illegal rave. His mind was blown. He didn’t want to watch, but when he looked away there were only horse brasses nailed on dark wood beams, twee watercolour landscapes, feature lighting, and chintz. His head ached. He began to weep softly.
Meanwhile Olympe was in the kitchen working on a very special Bloody Mary.
“It’s bad to drink alone,” she muttered hypocritically, since she did often. “What shall I have to accompany Radu?” The bottles were all inviting, as she had chosen them.
Olympe made a very cold Stinger for herself. She sucked down half of it, and built a Gin Bloody Mary for the vampire. She seasoned it with her own blood, stabbed out of a fingertip with a needle and some painful yelps. It was only a few red drops, but with magic, she knew that symbolism is more important than reality. She stirred the Bloody Mary with her pricked finger, which she sucked clean and put a Band-Aid on before she went back to the living room.
“Time for your medicine,” she said, and held the glass to Radu’s mouth. He smelt the usual ingredients of a Bloody Mary, plus juniper, and the haemoglobin he craved.
And
something else.
“What is in it?” he asked, hesitant to drink the concoction, but Olympe would not be brooked. She pinched his nose and tilted the fragrant mixture to his lips. He sipped, then drank deeply, gulping until the tumbler was empty. He could not help himself, the tincture of her fresh blood was too luscious.
Something
fizzed in his stomach.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE
TO ME?”
“Nothing very bad, Radu.” She rubbed her left ear, where a subtle scar was barely visible in the low light. It was a toothy pattern, part human, part animal. A few sparks of mana drifted away from her fingertips.
“This one time I got bit by Skyen the Mod,” she revealed.
“The Mod who is a Wolfgirl? So it is true,
the Mods do bite, despite what they say.”
“No, that’s mostly a rumour, I don’t think they make a habit of it. But the point is,
I was bitten by Skyen. Her magic passed into my blood, and I became her servant. I got a kiss too, so it wasn’t all bad. Now I’ll kiss you, and you’ll become her servant.”
“No! I REFUSE!” He wept again.
“It’s not so bad, Radu. There are worse masters than a Mod.”
Olympe drank off her Stinger and leant over Radu. She dabbed away his tears, held his face with both hands, and pressed her lips to his. He could not avoid the kiss, trussed helplessly as he was. Her lips were warm with life, with a kind of tough love, maybe. She kissed him gently with a closed mouth, like a sister would. She smelt of mint and brandy.
“There. You’ll be cured by the morning, if you want to be. If not, I suppose the rising sun will get you.”
She stepped to the windows, threw wide the curtains. Bright moonlight cast her bunny silhouette across the room.
“I’m going to bed now. Don’t try any vampire tricks. I’m going to put mashed garlic all around my door and window, and sleep with a pair of chopsticks.”
Olympe barricaded her bedroom. She slept well, though the strong aroma of garlic provoked a weird dream in which unseasonable snow began to fall. It covered the garden, the whole village, and the countryside beyond. It was a powdery snow, drifting in the breeze, piling up against the cottage windows and her car.
When she woke, it was a typical late autumn morning, dull, damp and cold, and no snow. She went downstairs to see how Radu had got on.
There was no trace of him, only the sofa draped with swags of Clingfilm.
THE END
