Vampire, The Code of the Fang
A historical gothic suspense written by Sky at Dawn's Sky Taylor
Hot, deserted, evil-ridden desert! What had possessed him to hole up in Texas?
Zandar swatted at the tribe of mosquitoes flocking around him, that were perhaps sensing his undead demeanor. Worse than the rats of England, he spontaneously decided. They were as thick as the stars in the wide open, blackened skies – their stingers probably laced with visions of West Nile Virus.
Zandar gazed at his western idiot savant, Lester, whom he’d transformed into his devoted servant. Lester, however, referred to his title as ‘helper’ which was heavily laced with a Texas twang, and twisted the word into 'heper’. He said it often, too, “I’m yore heper.”
Zandar ran the palm of his hand over his face, trying to erase the frustration that he felt. It was all he could do – not to bite the fang out of his ‘heper’.
Gathering in a deep breath of the hot, sweltering air smothering around them, Zandar questioned Lester, “Okay. Alright. Do you have any idea of when we’ll have the air-conditioning repaired?"
He watched Lester scratch the top of his sparsely-covered head, then he slowly drawled, “Nope.”
The craving to bite him and send him to instant death was almost too strong for Zandar to resist. However, beyond sane reasoning, he withheld the fangs for now, focusing on the paisley western shirt that his ‘heper’ was wearing rather than the strong visible veins that ran the length of Lester's neck.
“Lester, I’m exhausted. You do realize that?”
Zandar expelled a growl from deep inside his parched throat, then continued, “This relentless heat isn’t helping matters, either.”
“That’s a ten-four.”
“Then since you’re so damned agreeable, please tell me why you can’t get the …the…”
“Yes. Yes! Why can’t you get the unit repaired?”
Lester went to scratch his head again, Zandar silently considering that a bad case of dandruff might be the culprit. He tried to focus on his servant as he spoke. "Cause, Boss, thar’s a big ole festibal goin’ on in Spring Creek.”
“Festibal,” Lester repeated. “You going deaf on me?”
“I didn’t understand what you were trying to say,” Zandar twisted out, wondering what had crawled up Lester’s butt and died.
“You know, a ‘par tay’….a….um….hullabaloo,” Lester felt inclined to enhance. One with lots of whiskey drinkin’, woman stealin’, cussin’ till dawn – ya know, the thangs that real men does.”
Zandar silently mocked, ‘And they called his kind heathen.’ Page 2