Page 12 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

After starving out the Jewish rebels at Masada, the Roman soldiers had set the bodies afire. That’s when Zeb had arrived, just back from the Saxon lands where he’d been posted for the past two years, just in time to clean up “the mess.”

Zeb screamed silently, and madness swirled and teased at his brain. Then abated. No such relief.

Please, God, if you are there for such a wretched soul as me, Zeb prayed, help me.

He got his answer that night when he was alone with only Craven, who slept in his recliner, snoring and snorting in his deep sleep, popping out noxious gases from his nether end. It was not the answer he’d expected, or wanted.

Standing in the doorway that led into the tunnel connecting the cave to the castle above was a woman wearing a black tunic belted over tight black pants tucked into black boots. Really tight black pants. Numerous knives of various sizes were tucked into special sheaths in her belt, and she held one in each of her hands. A long black cloak, also fitted with weapons, was shoved back off her shoulders. Her hair was red, and her skin smooth as cream. She looked just like . . .

“Oh shit!” he muttered. “It’s Satan’s sister.”

“Think again, lackwit. I am Regina, the answer to your prayers.”

Craven shifted in his recliner and appeared to be waking, but then he fell back asleep. When Zeb glanced back to the doorway, the woman was gone.

Had he imagined her?

The Lone Ranger and the Three Musketeers, all rolled into one . . .

“Ah doan understand,” Beau said after they left Horror’s cave torture chamber, known as “The Pit,” and were locked in a broom closet, all four of them! “How is watching movies torture? Ah love goin’ ta the movies. Better yet, playin’ videos on mah own TV. Ah have . . . had . . . a collection of DVDs that reached mah ceiling. After a day of trappin’ down the bayou, ain’t nothin’ like a good ol’ Die Hard flick while snackin’ on some sweet tea and pork rinds.”

He flashed a mischievous grin at them all, which made Regina wonder if Beau didn’t put on an act as a dumb redneck. Even so, Regina had to remind herself that he was a young Lucie, only twenty demon years on top of his thirty human years. He would be familiar, somewhat, with modern technology, at least up to the age of DVDs.

“Fool!” Patience said. “That wasn’t movie movies. Didn’t you see that Zebulan was in those pictures?” Patience, on the other hand, had passed more than three hundred years, since the Salem witch trials, or so she’d told Regina this morning. Still, Patience had been a demon in modern times long enough to be aware of the changing world, somewhat, like Beau.

“Maybe they were home movies,” Beau persisted.

Grimelda rolled her rheumy eyes. “Lackwits, all of ye! Didn’t ye catch the scent of Satan down there? For a certainty, Satan don’t do no entertaining of his victims.”

They all nodded at that observation, including Regina.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist, or even an above-average-in-intelligence vangel witch like Regina, after a few minutes in Horror’s cave torture chamber, to figure out what all those flashing pictures meant. Satan had come up with a devious plan for driving Zeb crazy with tormenting pictures of his past life.

On that not so happy note, Regina agreed to stay in the broom closet during the day while the three demon witches went about their regular duties at the castle. They would meet together later that night to come up with a plan for Zeb’s rescue. At the least, they would take Regina back to talk with him, if possible.

And so, twenty-two and a half hours later (but who was counting?), Regina found herself being driven crazy, just like Zeb, except her tormenters were three demon witches (well, two witches and a warlock) as she stayed hidden in the infernal broom closet (ironical, huh? Brooms, witches, get it?) waiting for the opportunity to approach Zeb again. The only sounds outside her locked door were intermittent screams coming from the distance.

Regina wondered if some of those screams came from Zeb. But, no, she was too far away, here in the castle itself, to hear him in the cave.

The space was actually rather large for a utility closet, about six by ten. Who knew that so many brooms would be needed for a castle or that there were so many types? Floor, fireplace, snow, whisk, push, angled, wet/dry, cobweb chaser. The only ones missing were racing brooms. Harry Potter cornered the market on those. Ha, ha, ha. It was a sign of her diminishing sanity that she could find humor in her situation. There were even demon-tail fluffer brooms. Don’t ask.

Her three cohorts-in-madness never came to beleaguer her all together. One at a time was more than enough, believe you me. They were trying their best not to draw attention to her presence as they went about their daily routines.

Grimelda was working in the castle kitchens that day, and whew-boy did she stink of blood. Now, vangels were no different than demons in that they had built-in yearnings for blood, but the Lucipires overdid it, using blood in practically all their dishes. Not just the usual black pudding (sausage) or blodplattar (Nordic pancakes made with blood), substituting human fluids for animals. Everything had at least a dash of hemoglobin. Today, they were making meatballs and pasta with vodka sauce, heavy on the blood in the red gravy. Yuck, yuck, yuck!

“Try it. You’ll like it,” Grimelda said with a cackle, handing her a foil-wrapped meatball sandwich.

There was an overhead light in the closet which could be turned on or off with a long chain, thus allowing Regina to see the old witch clearly. She wore her usual scruffy black attire with the open-sided Viking apron, its white color splotched with red sauce (or blood). Her long gray hair was bunched up into a hair net (who knew demons were so fastidious?), and her fangs had a reddish hue today, presumably from tasting so much . . . well, you know what.

“Maybe later,” Regina said, placing the sandwich on a shelf behind her.

“’Tis only half blood, half crushed tomatoes,” Grimelda told her with a wicked gleam in her rheumy eyes.

Regina wasn’t sure what that gleam implied. Probably that there were toad hairs or eye of newt in the sauce, too. Or that the crone had crushed the tomatoes herself . . . with her very own feet, or something equally distasteful.

She did take a drink of the bottled water Grimelda had brought with her, though, making sure to limit herself to a few sips. Otherwise, she would have to find a bathroom soon.

“Another hour and you should be able to visit the prisoner,” Grimelda said abruptly as she examined a set of old-fashioned corn brooms. “I put a potion in Craven’s beer. He should be out for at least three hours.”