Page 3

Startled, she turned, and her heart leapt to her mouth. Dressed in jeans and biker gang regalia, flowing hair, beard, and all, was the most handsome vampire she’d ever seen.

"You were Miss Hyde’s lover, weren’t you?" Miss Frankenstein asked, feeling her knees grow wobbly.

"Does it show that much?" the vampire grinned ruefully. "Are you a friend of hers?"

"No," Miss Frankenstein said quickly. "I only know her to say hi to."

"Ah, well, you don’t have to worry. I’m no longer in love with her, so I’m not going to go over and make a scene." The vampire sent a sardonic glance across the room. "And she seems fine with her new beau, doesn’t she? Mind you, from what I know of centaurs..." He broke off abruptly.

"What?" Miss Frankenstein asked eagerly.

"Never mind. It’s not for delicate ears like yours."

"But," Miss Frankenstein said, piqued, "your appearance is all right for delicate eyeslike mine, I take it? Even when you’re hung about with biker patches and tattoos and things?"

"Touché." The vampire threw back his head and laughed. "After she left, since I couldn’t shave myself without risking cutting my throat, I had to grow a beard. Since I had to grow a beard, I thought I might as well get an image makeover to go with the beard. After all, everyone knows that all of us vampires are suave, so we try to compete with each other in suavity. It gets mighty tiring to be cultured all the time, I can tell you."

"So," Miss Frankenstein asked, "what’s your name?"

"Alucard, of course," the vampire said. "I thought you knew. All vampires are called Alucard."

"Oh. And my name is..."

"Viktoria Frankenstein." The vampire smiled at her expression. "I know all about you, my dear. I’ve been watching you for a long time."

Little Miss Frankenstein blushed. "Why? I mean, I’m nothing special..."

"Aren’t you?" The vampire looked at her in a way that made her blush some more. "Ever been on a motorbike?" he asked abruptly.

"What?" She blinked. "No."

"Right, then, come for a ride with me, and I’ll tell you all about why you’re special." He raised an eyebrow. "Shall we go?"

"You mean right now?" She looked around at that party where nobody else had even looked at her. "Yes."

Meanwhile, Euryale Gorgon had conducted the Romeros through the throng to a table which was covered only with brain dishes; stewed brain, fried brain, sautéed brain, brain centrifuged into a soup, even some raw sliced brain, pink and grey and quivering. "Specially catered for your husband, my dear," she told Mrs Romero, as though George couldn’t hear and understand. "Please do ask him to help himself."

The zombie looked at the crowd of people and non-people gathered round, eagerly waiting to watch him eat, and shook his head deprecatingly. "Not huuuuungryyyy..." he moaned. "Perhapsssss lateeeeeeeeerrrr."

Disappointed, the crowd began to drift away, though not too far in case something happened at which to gawk. Mrs Romero, leaving her husband’s side for a moment, went to fill her plate at the human buffet. When she returned, it was to find George talking to the mummy.

"He underssssstandsssss me," the zombie moaned, an arm around the Pharaoh’s withered, linen-bandaged shoulder. "He’sssss not like thossssssse othersssss."

"Your husband, lady," the mummy acknowledged, in a voice like the wind blowing across the Valley of Kings, "is the only one to appreciate just what it is we undead go through. While our experiences are somewhat different, of course, because..."

At that precise moment there was a terrific blast and part of the wall disintegrated. Before anyone realised quite what was happening, a squad of ISIS jihadis rushed in, wearing black flags around their heads. One jumped up on the nearest table, sending all the dishes cascading to the floor in a rain of smashed glass and stewed, fried, raw and sautéed brain.

[ Continue to page 4 ]