The Angel Wore Fangs(4)

Perhaps he should be examining his conscience in preparation for the meeting, but then he figured he would find out soon enough what transgressions he’d tallied up this past year. Michael kept meticulous records.

The three-hour trip from his Center City apartment in Philadelphia should put him at the old homestead in Transylvania before eight. Old being the keyword. The vangel headquarters that his brother Vikar had bought four years ago was a rundown castle built by some crazy lumber baron a century or so ago. The hokey, tourist trap of a town, once on the skids, had been renamed a few years back to profit from the vampire craze still hitting the country.

Hah! Little do folks know, being a vampire isn’t all that fun. Cnut ran his tongue over his own set of fangs, which were retracted at the moment. Otherwise, they’d probably have dead bugs on them, like windshields. Fat and buggy, that’s all he needed! Truly, one thousand, one hundred and sixty-six years, and he still wasn’t used to the things. Like a cock, they sometimes had a mind of their own. Popping out with the least provocation. Even with his improved physical condition, Cnut wasn’t a vain man, like some of his brothers—hell, like Vikings in general—but the wolfish teeth did embarrass him, on occasion. Which was probably the point, from Michael’s perspective, since he’d never been particularly fond of Vikings to begin with, and his affection had failed to grow over the years due to their irksome ways, irksome to an angel leastways.

He soon climbed the first of the Seven Mountains, sped through the scenic narrows, but then had to slow down when he got behind an Amish buggy on the way to one of the numerous roadside fruit and vegetable stands. The region was dotted with the neat farms of these “plain people,” an odd contrast to a town of vampire wannabes, but somehow they worked well together. Farms and fangs. Go figure.

There were quite a few Amish farms in this region, but the plain folks kept mostly to themselves.

Soon, Cnut approached the town itself where a billboard announced:

WELCOME TO TRANSYLVANIA, PENNSYLVANIA

DRACULA’S OTHER HOME

(themed restaurants, lodging, and entertainment)

The poster was illustrated with a picture of Ben Franklin sporting fangs and a black cloak, leaning against a Liberty Bell, bats flying overhead. The usual kitschy caricature of vampires.

Cnut had left his black cloak at home, but he did have an ample supply of specially treated knives, a switchblade sword, a pistol, and the like under his black leather jacket. You never knew when you might run into a demon vampire. The castle here in the Pennsylvania mountains being a vangel headquarters had remained a secret so far from the Lucipires. The townfolk thought they were vampire wannabes planning to open a castle hotel eventually once the building restoration was complete, which might be never. Vikar further played on this idea by self-proclaiming himself Lord Vikar, as if he were some friggin’ royalty just slumming it in the Pennsylvania hills.

In any case, Cnut fully expected Jasper, fallen angel and king of the Lucipires, to show up with his cohorts any day. The VIK, composed of Cnut and his brothers, were prepared for that eventuality, and, in fact, were already spreading themselves out into secondary command centers in Louisiana, Key West, and a Caribbean island, taking with them the more than five hundred vangels working under them.

Cnut drove slowly through the main street of Transylvania, where most of the businesses were still asleep. They would be teeming with visitors in an hour or two, this being the summer tourist season.

He always smiled when he saw what the town had to offer in terms of vampire-abilia. Shops sold an array of black cloaks, fake fangs, vampire stakes that did double duty as tomato plant supports, bottled blood aka red Kool-Aid, and T-shirts with logos that were sometimes creative, to say the least. “Fangs for the Memories” was one of his favorites, along with “Bitten But Not Beaten.”

Garlic was sold everywhere, lots of garlic, which was known in these parts as Smelly Roses. Though where anyone got the idea that garlic repelled vampires, Cnut had no idea. Probably some medieval farmer with a surplus of the crop and a vivid imagination for marketing. Cnut personally liked a good garlic pesto on his pasta. Or garlic lime chicken. Garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic marinated filet mignon. Garlic shrimp linguine. Who was he fooling? He liked food, period, and while he didn’t overindulge these days (well, hardly ever), he had become a Food Network fanatic. His secret pleasure. Other men glommed porn or ESPN. He glommed Iron Chef and Chopped and Barefoot Contessa. It was like those priests who self-flagellate as a penance, such as the nutcase cleric in The Da Vinci Code. Yes, I watch way too much TV. Cnut tortured himself watching Bobby Flay barbecue ribs (pun intended) or Ina Garten whip up a crème brûlée (another pun intended).