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Vampire Tales Chapter 9
Dorjan called the local university library.
"Hi, I need the number for NAVA, please."
He was embarrassed that after decades of being a vampire he couldn't remember the international hot-line.
"Uh, hold on a moment."
A few minutes later the librarian returned.
"The number is (713) 483-3111."
Dorjan had only been asking so that he could claim that he had tried to contact them. He hadn't thought that their secret phone number was at the library, for heaven's sake!
"The number is (713) 483-3111."
"Uh, thanks," he said, and hung up.
"Hi, may I speak to Ulf Schmidt, please?"
"What department is he in?"
This was new.
"Uh, I didn't know you guys had departments."
"Of course we do! You don't launch rockets without organization, you know!" The voice chuckled.
This was wrong.
"Look, who is this? Who have I called?"
"This is Bob. You've calle
Vampire Tales Chapter 8
"You'll need to take him. I'll get the guns," Ulf said, licking his lips clean.
Fred glanced with disdain at Ted's prone form. "You carry him. You're the one who's suddenly decided to capture a fat one."
"Frederick." Ice dripped from Ulf's vociferation. "You take him."
He locked eyes with Frederick, staring until Frederick was forced to avert his eyes.
"Fine, I'll do it," he grumbled. Picking up Ted by the waist, he lifted him and began running toward the edge of the parking lot. To the distress of all the biologists watching, viz., none, as he reached the sidewalk two giant, leathery wings erupted from his shoulder blades, and with three strong flaps he was airborne. Like a bat out of Wal*mart he rose over the rural neighborhood and vanished into the night sky.
Ulf turned toward the dark hunting store. By sheer coincidence all the light bulbs in the main room of the store had blown si
Vampire Tales Chapter 7
The chief of police jaywalked across Richards Street to the residence of Dr. Janet Tempest Allen. It was a pleasant enough suburban home, complete with an actual picket fence, although it wasn't actually white, but an ostrobogulous species of yellowish off-white which set off the bushes rather nicely. Nothing to give the slightest indication that there had been anything untoward going on, say, vehicular theft.
He was a bulgy man, named Ted, clad in a dark black police uniform and badge. Because it was cold he had pulled over this a hideous sweater that on at least four documented occasions had been known to make babies cry, one of them so hard as to shatter a nearby champagne flute. He had hair in a sort of C shape around the back and sides of his head, leaving the top completely exposed to the hail, which had left little pink dots all over it. His old sneakers squelched as he strode up the driveway to the garage, past the garag
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