Page 8 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

“So,” I grumble, searching for conversation to break the tense silence that’s fallen between us, “you’re a vampire slayer. What’s that like?”

“Like you’d imagine, I guess. Hey, out of curiosity, do you think a pencil might work in place of a stake? You know, if you were a vampire, say, and I was to slay you?” She eyes the stack of white legal pads in the holder on the back of the driver’s seat, and the cupholder of pens and one pencil next to them.

I often work from my car. No time lost, is my motto. Too much to do, and not only because I’ve wasted the better part of eight hundred years perched on a roof scaring pigeons, as she said. No, keeping busy lets me clear my brain of all the useless nostalgia and regrets that clog it so full.

“If you stab me with a pencil, you’re going to ruin another shirt.”

“Or suit.”

“This one is only good for the trash now. The makeup said it was waterproof.” I hold up my sleeve where the human coloring has darkened the edge.

“Guess they didn’t account for holy water.”

“Minx.” But the way she’s eyeing my chest makes me add, “If you ruin any more of my clothing, I’m apt to take it personally. Be a good girl. Neither of us wants me to take you over my lap and give you the spanking you deserve.”

And… there it is. The bright red she blushes is like a fist squeezing my balls. It’s like a breath of fresh air and a gut-punch all at the same moment.

This scheme is going to be so much harder than I anticipated.

“You were saying?” I continue, after silence dampens the entire interior. “About being a slayer? What are the highlights, would you say? Or what things don’t you like about your chosen profession?”

She huffs.

“What?” I can’t help smiling.

Her shoulders ripple, undulating that wonderful bust of hers, and drawing me in like waves into a terrifying ocean. My stomach cramps again. Another vise clamps around my cock. The urge to rub between my legs to relieve some of the pressure is near irresistible.

This is such a bad idea. I should just drop her off. Humanity be damned.

“It’s not so much a chosen profession as it is the one I was handed when I was born. I was more or less . named after a famous, fictional slayer by parents who seriously needed to get out more. Or less. They probably could have avoided their fate that way.” She sniffs.

“Dead?”

She nods and sniffs again.

My heart aches for her obvious loss. I understand it so well. What I don’t understand is to how to lift her out of grief, so instead, I say nothing.

The car inches along. If only Manhattan traffic didn’t snarl like fine gold chains in a drawer, I could already be home, keeping busy, setting her up in her suite, putting space between us. We really need more space between us.

Suddenly, she says, “I like staking vampires. A lot.”

I have to force myself back to the conversation. “Have there been many?”

She shrugs again.

I can’t help smiling. “I’m your first, aren’t I?”

Another flush of red. Bingo.

Suddenly, I can’t help but laugh. She’s as delightful as a real angel. They have the greatest senses of humor, but mostly, it’s fun to be around them because they stumble over themselves so much. Being with them is like watching funny cat videos, but she’s cuter. And sexier.

“Everyone starts somewhere, stone-boy.”

“Stone-man, Bumps. Very much a man.” I watch the shift of pink across her features before I turn the subject. “ow did you know where to find me to stake me?”

She begins picking at the skin around her thumb nail. “I heard a couple guys discussing you. I told my tutelary, so he contacted The Network. They have connections, so knew you’d be taping a show, but they failed to tell me it would be a live broadcast. Also, they agreed with the two nitwits in Café that you bear all the hallmarks of a vamp.”

“The Network consists of lamentably small-IQ do-gooders. What are my vamp hallmarks?”