Wolf at the Door

chapter Seven



Could there be a scarier, worse day?

Edward thought not. He had been surveilling the mansion occupied by the queen of the vampires for the last two days, two days of lies. Two days of lies, betrayal, and cruel funhouse mirrors. The more normal and Ansel Adams–esque the picture was, the worse it was to realize it was more like Charles Addams.

He had been staying at the AmericInn Hotel in St. Paul Park, a cute little city just a twenty-minute drive from Summit Avenue. And every day he went out to get a look at the enemy’s burrow. He was proceeding on the assumption that the newsletter was real, that it was all real.

Of course you are, you always do . . .

That’s true, but this time it was a safety issue, he told his inner voice. Given the subject matter, he figured it was much safer to err on the side of caution. If it all turned out to be a lie, some silly or mean lie to stir things up and make mischief, at worst he was out only a few hours of his time and what little money the disguises cost.

And it was bound to be a lie. And that was a terrible thing. Not because he thought the human race was in trouble from some secret vampire uprising (although that was always a theoretical concern, he figured that when it came to the undead gaining mastery over the earth, a zombie apocalypse was much more likely).

No, he didn’t fear that . . . at least, not much. But as for what he did fear . . .

Boys and girls, gather around and I’ll tell you a story.

The thing was this: all that stuff? That weird paranormal Twilight-ey shiny weird vampire stuff? It was all true. But that wasn’t even the huge thing.

The huge thing was, it wasn’t all that exciting. The huge thing was, people accepted vampires and vampire hunters as neighbors. The huge thing was, people in your building didn’t care if you were dead as long as you didn’t stick Canadian nickels in the dryers.

And if the weird cool shiny stuff was true about vampires, didn’t that call into question the “mythology” of things like fairies and werewolves and leprechauns and mermaids? That meant there was a whole world out there, not just one he’d never been able to find, but one he didn’t know existed. It proved that although he felt his life had been full of undead shenanigans with Boo and Greg, it was just a sliver. Just a tiny bit. And the thought of how big it all really was, the dreadful sensation that it wasn’t the shark fin but the shark . . . that was terrifying. Iceberg right ahead! terrifying. And he was fresh out of James Camerons.

Boo said nay. Boo and Gregory said assuming vampires proved the existence of werewolves was like assuming plumbers proved the existence of accountants. And they should know, since Greg had been, in the course of his seventy-two years, an accountant and a plumber. (Also a bookstore clerk, a ship’s captain, and a travel writer.) He’d seen things, terrible awful things. Polio and U.S. Customs and early-release copies of V.C. Andrews books (talk about the fierce undead!). Greg saw those things, knew those things; he ought to know about this.

But maybe it wasn’t true. And if it wasn’t true . . .

Right! So he was off! Or, in this case, back to the scene of the crime(s).

He had worn khaki pants, a red shirt, and a tool belt the first day. He knew he could pass, at a glance, as a utility worker and a Target employee. In this way he was able to skulk in the back lawns, the lawn of the undead as well as the ones on either side of it.

And what a yard! A gigantic yard, a wonderful yard. Nobody had yards in Boston; they had oversized postage stamp–shaped parcels of land with grass and hostas growing on them. And this yard had a fence, wrapping around the whole thing like the ribbon on a Christmas present. No cool sinister iron doors swinging shut with the shriek of rusty hinges (Eeeeennnnnhhhhhh!) , but the old-fashioned black bars were good enough.

There was a garden shed and lilac bushes and, on the left, a croquet set. He didn’t want to think about the terrible things the vampire queen could get up to with a croquet mallet.

The second day, he wore black jeans, a black long-sleeved dress shirt, and his old black sport coat. Black tennis shoes and black socks . . . it didn’t go, but he was hoping no one would care enough about him to get a look at his footgear. Who cared about what kind of shoes you wore to a neighborhood skulking?

He’d dressed up a little because, if he was stopped today, he’d play Lost Business Guy. Summit was only a few blocks away from all sorts of offices, plus there was a Catholic school and a junior high on the street itself.

Besides, he felt more comfortable in dark clothing, even in late afternoon (he had been sleeping in each morning and staking out the Summit Avenue Crypt in the late afternoon and early . . . very early . . . evening). He was sure no one had put his aimless wandering together with a supposed Target employee who had been called to recommend what kind of lawn chairs went with a gigantic mansion built in the eighteen hundreds. But that didn’t mean no one would ever spot him, or have questions for him. Thus, the black clothing. It was almost impossible to work up a really good lurk in pastels. It went against nature.

Today he had seen a few more people come and go; it was busier than last night. The big fat black girl, and a dark-haired guy wearing scrubs. Oh—whoops. Not fat; pregnant. Maybe her obstetrician? Anyone who lived in a big old gorgeous mansion like that could afford her own fleet of doctors, so it only made sense to—

Oh my God.

Was the vampire queen growing her own army of evil babies? The undead couldn’t have children, could never know the thrill of suckling life from within, that noble calling, that utter demand from our species that we replenish and replace our population. Could the nefarious woman decide in her own ghastly way that, cheated of ever suckling life, she in turn would cheat other women? Perhaps . . . a score of women? Perhaps . . . perhaps he normally couldn’t use suckling twice in thirty seconds, and was that a good thing or a bad thing? Probably an irrelevant thing.

He peeked through the branches of a lilac tree and watched the pretty, dark-skinned expectant mother and her (imprisoned? blackmailed?) obstetrician-to-the-damned and gasped with the horror of it. Even in his worst imaginings, he never thought there would be an army of enslaved evil babies to contend with.

Maybe it’ll only be one enslaved evil baby. Maybe that baby’s special . . . or the mom-to-be is.

That was when it had stopped being more fun than worry. In fact, that was exactly when it became more worry than fun . . . he was scared.

And stupid. Until he saw her, he hadn’t truly appreciated the cost to the innocents. It had been more game than mission: try to find out if the newsletter is real or just a big tease; try to get an idea how many numbers the mansion had; try to find out what these Minnesotan vampires were up to.

Now, though. Now he just wanted to tattle on the vampire queen to Boo and then step aside while his best friend got her feet wet.