The Phony Spiritualist

Face pinched with anxiety, Natasha wrung her hands. “Diadra isn’t here, yet.” She glanced at her watch. “She told me she’d be here by nine-thirty. It’s a quarter to ten, now.”

Marvin Tuestad came bounding down the stairs where they stood. In a pleasant tone he said, “Hi, Zofia.” He turned to Natasha, noticing her expression. In a lower, more aggravated voice he said, “Now what?”

“Diadra isn’t here, yet. It’s a quarter to ten and I’m running out of food.”

“Get a grip, Eleanor. So the woman’s running a little late. So what? Mediums and spiritualists are on their own clocks, not yours or mine.” He adjusted the beads over his tie-died tee shirt. Zofia had never seen him in that shirt before. The jeans and sandals were more of his trademark.

Seeing the timorous look on Natasha’s face, Zofia countered her husband’s caustic words with her own tender voice of reason. “He’s right, Natasha, these people do things differently. Besides, a person could be running late for many reasons. I waited for two trains just the other day. I must’ve sat there for nearly a half hour.”

“There, you see? There’s probably a good explanation she’s late,” Marvin said. “Now, just go throw some more soy chips into a bowl and go back out there.”

Natasha nodded. Her silver and amber earrings rocked and caught the light, throwing sparkles back into Zofia’s eyes. She turned and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Zofia alone with Marvin.

“Deity save us!” Marvin said, blowing out a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you’re here, Zofia.” Then, lowering his voice and leaning closer he said, “She’s been hyperventilating all day.”

“Really?” Zofia said, breathing in the rich exotic essence of patchouli oil exuding from him. Avoiding his deep gaze, her own went to the floor and found his hairy toes. Yish. She brought her gaze back up only to find her gaze now zeroed in on his nose hair. Darting her glance to the side of his face, and to his ears, she found tuffs of hair around his ears. Okay, great, I'll just stare at his forehead.

“Well, nearly. I had to step clear of it, you know? This was her big day.” He made air quotes. Straightening, he plastered an ingratiating smile onto his face as Natasha whisked by with a large green bowl of chips.

Marvin watched his wife become swallowed up by her guests in the living room. Hands behind his back, he turned to Zofia and said, “So, when can we expect to see you in for a nice, relaxing massage at my clinic? We have a very good staff, you know. And the new rebirthing classes are excellent—well, you’ve seen the transformation of my wife,” he said. “That’s how Natasha was able to dredge up buried memories of her past lives. It enabled her to realize who she really is, and let go the old, dreary persona.

“Also,” he went on, “we have some excellent psychic classes, as well as meditation. Good for relaxation, you know.”

He sounded like a radio add. Zofia wished she could simply change the dial. Mentally chastising herself for having allowed herself to be left alone with Marvin, who saw fit to push his New Age Center to anyone with ears, she turned and smiled at him. “I really don’t have time to—”

His hand came up. Zofia jerked away, but realized he wasn't going to hurt her. Long fingers brushed a wayward strand of dark hair out of her eyes.

“That’s okay, Zofia.” His blue-gray eyes were like two marbles set in ivory. A little too intense and unblinking. “I accept that you’re a very complex and intricate work of art with many layers and levels of consciousness. Just remember, the freer we are, the more powerful we become.”

She blinked at him, totally confused as to what exactly he was saying—nothing unusual for this Ugwump.

“Ah, there you are, darling.”

Dorian’s velvet voice made Zofia spin about. A rush of relief washed over her when she found him slouched against the threshold of the wide door arch, scoping out the situation he’d just walked in on.

“Dorian, meet our host, Marvin Tuestad. Marvin, this is my husband, Dorian,” Zofia said, trying very hard not to smile as though she’d put one over on the man.

“Husband!” Marvin nearly choked the word. “I-I thought you were dead—I-I mean—” He looked absolutely flabbergasted, then he covered it up with a nervous chuckle. “That's what you told me, Zofia.”

Smiling, Zofia found odd satisfaction from his reaction. Maybe he wont leer at me quite so much, now.

“That’s been the general consensus,” Dorian slurred, giving Zofia a slitted look.

Appearing to recuperate from his shock, Marvin stepped toward Dorian and offered him his hand. Dorian shook his hand briefly. Zofia made a little start, but relaxed remembering Dorian was no longer a wizard, and could no longer give anyone a nice hefty zap. She imagined, if she were Dorian, that’s exactly what she would have wanted to do to this Ugwump, if he could. The strange look that sprang onto Marvin’s face was just as satisfying. She was quite certain that the icy-cold touch of Dorian’s grasp had just sent shivers down his spine.

From the kitchen Natasha motioned to them. In a hoarse whisper she said, “She’s here!”

“Finally,” Marvin said, scooting toward the living room as if anxious to get away from a particularly uncomfortable moment.

Natasha glided into the living room, her voice spearing everyone’s attention.

“All right, everyone. Everyone, please,” Natasha said in a clear, loud voice. Motioning to Marvin she said, “Cut the lights.”

Darkness fell around them. The only illumination came from several candles strategically stationed around the room. Chairs borrowed from the dining room and kitchen were arranged in a large ellipse around the coffee table, most of them occupied. In the center was a large cake candle glowing warmly, throwing shadows across the walls.

“With no further ado,” Natasha announced, “I give you the very amazing Diadra.”

Everyone turned toward the kitchen doorway and applauded as a woman in a long, black sequined dress swept into the room. Minus the dark sunglasses of this morning, Diadra wore heavy crimson lipstick and thick eye-liner, giving her exotic Cleopatra-eyes. Gaze settling upon Zofia, it became like a scalpel cutting right through her. Zofia looked away and quickly joined Dorian who’d commandeered two chairs near the wide doorway, nearest the hall.

“Hold onto your purses, ladies,” Dorian said low into Zofia’s ear.

“Shhh!” Zofia jammed an elbow into Dorian’s ribs.

He grunted sharply, then stabbed Zofia with a cutting look, but said nothing further.

Meanwhile, the spiritualist made a trajectory toward the red wing-backed chair in front of the fireplace. The candle flames jumped as she twirled about to face the room. She paused like some overly dramatic actress, and then motioned for everyone to be seated. Once they were, she dropped into her seat. Glittering rings on her fingers winked and glimmered, as did her dress. The room became as quiet as a crypt.

“Please join hands,” she instructed in that deep, husky voice.

Everyone sat and did as she asked.

With eyes closed, she said, “There is an unbeliever among us.” She opened her eyes and stared at Dorian.

Every eye in the room followed her gaze and rested on him.

“Some people can’t take a joke, it seems,” Dorian said passed tightly clenched teeth.

“You do not believe in the afterlife?” Diadra asked him pointedly.

“I believe in it, all right.” He paused before delivering his stinger. “I just don’t believe in you.”

Zofia wasn't surprised by the chuckles, considering they came mostly from the men.

“Silence!”

Everyone jumped, except for Dorian. Gazes snapped back to Diadra. Once again her eyes were closed.

“You’ve been away,” she said in a misty, voice. “Far, far away for a very long time.” Her eyes popped open and she stared at him again. “You are no longer the man you once were.”

Dorian leaned toward Zofia. “Who’s been telling her my secrets?” he asked

“I allow no disbelievers into my circle,” she said sternly.

“As you wish, madam.” Dorian rose. “I’ll take my leave of you all.” Lifting a chin toward Natasha, he said, “My thanks to my hosts. Good evening.” He negotiated his way between the chairs, arrowed toward the front door and was gone.

Monique parked herself in the chair Dorian had just vacated and whispered to Zofia, “Well, that was just rude.”

Zofia gave her a look, wondering who she meant; Dorian for leaving, or Diadra for telling him to.

“You think I should ask her about Kenny?” she whispered again.

“Please,” Diadra said in an unearthly voice.

The room quieted once again.

“Let us all close our eyes and take a few deep breaths before we continue. Let us get our auras in line,” she encouraged. “We need a nice, orange glow from our auras. Yes, yes, that’s it. Calm the mind,” Diadra coached. For many moments no one spoke. Zofia felt as though she were floating, and so checked to make sure her butt was firmly on the chair. It was. That would have been embarrassing.

“There is someone here who is worried about a loved one... someone who is in the hospital? Everything will turn out well,” she assured. “Please, concentrate, all of you. Give me your deepest, most troubling questions,” she intoned. “Open up your minds. Your thoughts will be transmitted to me through your auric fields, down your arms, through your hands, from hand to hand, and finally to mine.”

Another long moment of silence drew out. Zofia cracked one eye open to peek at Diadra. She sat with her eyes closed, looking as though she were concentrating very hard. She certainly had all the mystical trappings, and could command the room, but Zofia had to wonder about her abilities. After all, she didn’t have a skull to consult, not even a crystal ball, or cards, or animal entrails. There were many forms of divination. She wondered what form of divination Diadra used. Perhaps she used the flames of the candles. That was called pyromancy. However, if she were a sciomancer, she would need the skull of a dead person, like some of the Knights of the Witenagemont used.

Before Zofia could deduce the form of omen-reading used by this so-called psychic, a noise, divorced from the small coughs and throat clearing of the room, caught Zofia’s attention. It was brief, and had come from down the hall. She leaned her head back slightly and stared toward the other entrance to the kitchen. Darkness doused the entire house. The only light glowed from candles. A shiver ran up Zofia’s spine, then it slid down her arms, spiking the hairs there.

Diadra’s dramatically loud voice disturbed the stillness, startling Zofia. Heart thundering like a drum in Zofia’s ears, the odd noise came again from the Tuestad’s kitchen. Zofia looked around the room. Everyone had their eyes closed. Had no one else heard that?

“There is a woman present who is concerned about someone they are close to. A man. A boyfriend, perhaps?”

Monique pulled in a sharp gasp and squeezed Zofia’s hand.

“I’m getting a name... Mo—Mona—?”

“Ouch, Monique! Geewiz!” cried Janet who sat on Monique’s other side.

“Monique, yes,” said Diadra.

Zofia rolled her eyes. How hard was that?

“Monique, you are concerned about the man you’ve been seeing, yes?” Diadra said.

“Yes,” Monique answered.

“I’m getting confusing messages,” Diadra said, frowning deeply.

Another sound caught Zofia’s attention. She recognized it as the creak of a floorboard. Gooseflesh rose on Zofia’s arms. She had not imagined that. It had come from down the hall not six feet away. She leaned back trying to dilate her eyes, but she just couldn’t pick anything out of the shadows. It wasn’t Dorian. He’d gone out the front door.

“I’d like to know—” Monique began.

“He is not the same man as you once knew before,” Diadra spoke over her in her most theatrical, deep voice. The exchange of the two women was like listening to a couple of blenders making Margaritas.

Zofia gazed across the room at Diadra to see her smiling. It was an odd, wicked smile.

“I’m afraid, my dear, you’ll never see him again,” the medium said darkly.

Monique’s hand dug into Zofia’s palm still deeper as the room went tomb-quiet.

A sudden loud bang made everyone jump in their seats. Eyes popped open. Hands once joined, parted.

“The spirits—they speak!” Diadra said quickly.

There came another heavy thump, and a thud after that. It came from the kitchen, and they were not spirits. A sound of something large and heavy had been thrown against the wall. Then, a groan carried into the room. There was someone in the kitchen.

“Ignore that. The spirits are upset... very upset and—”

Voices from the hallway stopped everyone cold. They all turned, gazing expectantly toward the hallway. Diadra jumped to her feet, looking anxiously in the same direction as everyone else. Oddly, the woman looked more agitated than alarmed.

The hall lights blinked on.

Someone let out a sharp screech. Janet gasped, “Ohmygawd!”

Everyone shifted in their seats. Only a few men were up on their feet. Eshwan, the giant African American, who took up the space of two humans, was one of them. His voice loudly asked, “What in the name of steroids is going on here?”

“Who’s there?” Marvin asked briskly, sounding less intimidating, however.

Twisting in her seat, Zofia saw Dorian standing five feet away. In his hand was a small black pistol. She followed the direction in which he was pointing it. There, slumped on the floor were two men clad entirely in black, with black knit caps drawn carelessly up, revealing their rough features. They had dazed looks on their faces, as though someone—like Dorian—had clunked their heads together. What was he doing with the gun and how had he gotten back into the house, and thirdly, who were those men he held the gun on?

“I’ve an idea, Diadra, why not tell us all who these blokes are?” Dorian said.

In two heartbeats the circle broke apart. Everyone jumped up. Startled gasps came from women in the crowd as they scurried to the opposite end of the room. Marvin surged forward. Eshwan lumbered toward the two men in black.

“Where did these two come from?” Marvin asked bewildered, his eyes as round and large as the beads he wore.

“I saw them skulking around outside your house,” Dorian said with a smug expression, still holding the gun on the two thugs. “Men dressed in black at night tend to draw my attention. Anyway, I followed them around, saw them enter your back door and—ZOFIA, QUICK! THE FRONT DOOR!”

Zofia turned, as did everyone else, to see Diadra slipping stealthily toward the front door. She was making a break toward the door. Zofia thrust her hand out and barked, “Twizzle!” Sparks jettisoned from Zofia’s fingertips and zipped toward the door’s lock. The dead bolt clicked into place, but everyone was too busy to notice this. At the same time, Janet and Betty Unger lunged and grabbed Diadra by the arms, pulling her back. Diadra nearly fell to the floor, but they guided her awkward, backward tumble onto the couch where she landed like and ungraceful opera star. Her shimmering dress and heavy make-up making her look a little clownish, now.

“Phone the police, Natasha,” Marvin said. “We've been bamboozled.”

Lorelei Bell's very first self-published work here as an ebook,
complete with a brand new shiny cover.Spell of the Black Unicorn

"Can you still get mummy dust?"



Lorelei Bell's debut novel has become an eBook
available @ AMAZON



“Can you still get mummy dust, these days?” Dorian asked, mystified.

“Yes, but the cost. It’s a bit dear,” Tillie said.

“Well, of course it would be,” Dorian said. “After all, you don’t just find mummy dust lying about, do you?”

“Goes for seven grand on the black market,” Zofia informed, then shoveled popcorn into her mouth and munched.

He directed his sneer to her. To Tillie he said, “How’s it used? In the spell, I mean.”

“It’s put in the hole I dig for the Mandrake.”

“A Mandrake, and mummy dust. Hmm. Well, all right then. I can shell out a few grand to put my soul back, I expect.”

Zofia’s mouth unhinged. “You have Ugwump money?”

Tillie turned to stare back at him, too.

He returned their stares. “Why not? What d’you think? I have been here for three years and I’ve not exactly been idle, I’ll have you know. A man has to have a dwelling, and—quit looking at me like that!”

“You have a job?” Zofia asked incredulous.

“Not exactly a job—”

Zofia scoffed at him.

“Look, I’ve got the money—don’t ask me how—I can pay whatever the amount,” he huffed. “Now. Moving on.” He turned to Tillie. “You said something about a Mandrake?”

“Yeah—”

“Wait just a Troll minute,” Zofia interrupted. “You came here, to my house with nothing. No car, not even a suitcase. Just the clothes on your back. Where’s all this money at?”

He heaved a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes skyward. “Oh, for the love of Karballa Wizards, woman.” His gaze fell back on her. “Look, for one thing, I don’t need a car. Besides, the insurance will kill you. But I do have some possessions which I’ve sent for. They should be arriving here in a day or so. Just so you know.”

“How do you get around?” Zofia asked. “On little bat wings?”

Tillie and Zofia both tittered uncontrollably at this. Zofia imagined Dorian with wings like a bat.

“Very funny,” he said. “Can we just get on with this?”

The snickers died and Tillie turned back to the spell book.

“We must make a Mandrake,” Tillie said. “It must be carved in your image. I suggest that we use the root of bitter nightshade for this.”

“Why’s that?”

“It grows quickly, even after it’s been carved and replanted.” she said, tapping the page. “The other ingredients are rue, bitter aloes, henbane, a pinch of sulfur, hemlock, wolfs bane, and dragon’s blood resin. Everything here we either carry in our shop, or grow out back.”

“Wait a minute—hemlock?” Dorian looked pensive.

“And pulverized juniper wood, the berries as well as yew—all of it easily obtained. No problem.”

“That list is highly toxic, Ottillie.” He squeezed his eyes at her. “I’m not going to drink it. Am I?”

“What’s the matter?” Zofia asked. “Afraid it’ll kill you?” she said. Then, snapping her fingers said, “Oh, that’s right, you’re all ready dead, aren’t you?”

“Not funny, Zofia,” Dorian said, his voice stern and husky. A wild longing surged through her with vague thoughts of his touching her intimately. Stop that!

“How long will this take?” he asked Tillie.

“The usual time for spells of this nature. About fourteen days.”

“Fourteen days!” he echoed. “Why so long?”

“Because that’s how long it takes,” Tillie said, giving him a stern look. “Now, the Mandrake must be replanted beneath a waxing moon and be allowed to grow. It also must be watered regularly. I think I’ll add a bit of blood to the distilled water.”

“Blood? Why blood?”

“Because that is what you’re nourished by, dufus. Blood,” she said, glancing over her glasses at him. “Then, a few days before it’s ready, I’ll exchange the few drops of blood with milk. That’s traditional for humans.”

“Then what?”

She turned back to the spell book. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything remotely like this before.”

“Oh, great. Just great!” Dorian threw his hands up and dropped them.

“You mean this doesn’t say what’s supposed to happen at the end of fourteen days?” Zofia asked.

Carefully Tillie flipped the page to see if there was more. Finding nothing else on this spell, she turned back to the original page. She leaned close to the lower edge of the page and read a final passage at the bottom. “It says, ‘The cursed shall be restored to his or her original self by the fourteenth day’.” She turned to Dorian. “It’s entirely up to you. If you’re serious about getting your soul back, you’ll put your money where your mouth is.”

He returned one of his most broodiest looks.

“I’ll have to order the mummy dust. That may take a few days to get here. The sooner you decide, the sooner we can start the ball of wax rolling,” Tillie said.

k UnicornSpell of the Black UnicornSpell of the Black Unicorn

My Vampire is in the Bathtub, and he can't get up!



Zofia Trickenbod is about to save her planet from the dark ex-wizard, Vesselvod
Blood, whether she wants to or not!

Hello, my pretties. Well, yes. There's this vampire in my tub! Why? Because he says that he woke up smoldering in the attic and needed a windowless room in which to hide. Poor fella. Well, I just couldn't leave him up in the attic with the threat of being burned up, so I went along with his request.

I thought I would share with you a portion of chapter 4 of Spell of the Black Unicorn, today. Enjoy. Then buy!

Zofia charged up the steps. “It’s probably your father,” Zofia informed her, as she passed Blanche in the stairway. Who else could it be?

“But—he’s in the bath tub!”

Zofia opened the door to find Dorian lounging back in the tub, fully clothed and propped up by many pillows, looking very comfortable. Zofia also noticed with irritation some of those pillows had come off her own bed.

“Sorry about that,” he said, glancing up from the book he was reading, tossing her a nonchalant smile. “Didn’t mean to frighten her. I didn’t have a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign to put out. Whoever she is, make my apologies, please.”

“Whoever she is?” Zofia said. She stepped into the room, one fist claiming a spot at the curve of her waist. “That was your daughter, Blanche.”

“Blanche?” He looked startled. “No. Can’t be. Last time I saw her she was this tall.” Palm facing the floor, he indicated how tall his daughter had been when last he’d seen her.

“She was eleven—then—and that was five years ago. She’s going to be sixteen this summer. You’ve missed a few birthdays around here.”

“I’ve missed a few of my own,” he said with a sarcastic sniff.

Tillie’s form appeared in the open doorway and eyed Dorian with a look of disdain. “Not all of us can claim we’ve missed a few birthdays.” She snorted for good measure.

Dorian squinted as though he didn’t recognize her at first. Then, the spark of recognition came with a hesitant smile. “Ottillie?”

“Why is he in the tub with a bunch of pillows?” Tillie asked Zofia, ignoring Dorian.

“Good question.” Zofia turned back to Dorian. “Why are you in here? I thought you were up in the attic taking a nap.”

“I woke up smoldering. Not a pleasant thing, that,” Dorian said scowling. “There’s a small window in the ceiling, apparently.” He now scanned his surroundings. “This is the only windowless room on the second floor. This should suffice me.”

“But, this is the bathroom!” Zofia cried, her face squeezing into a tight frown. “You can’t just claim it like a-a dog.”

He frowned at her metaphor, then said, “You’ve no other to use?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then I can take this one for shelter during the day. I won’t require it at night.”

“How typical of a Knight of the Witenagemont,” Tillie said, sneering.

His expression went from mild annoyance to one of discombobulation.

“I’m not certain what that means, but for your information I haven’t been a Knight in five First World years, Ottillie. I’d hold my tongue were I you.”

“Or what? You’ll turn me into a toad?” she said, looking unimpressed. “Fat chance!”

“No,” he said. “But maybe I could give you a pair of wings, you old bat.”

“Okay, stop it, you two.” Zofia had to break it up before it went on and on. She'd nearly forgotten how terribly they'd gotten along. She gave them both looks of annoyance. “Just because there’s bad blood between your families—”

“Bad blood?” Dorian’s brow raised beneath an untamed wisp of jet-black hair.

“You don’t remember?” Zofia said, dismissing the suggestive tone he’d used. She didn’t know if he could go into relapse at the mention of blood, or if he’d be fine. She watched him warily.

“No, I can’t say that I do,” he said as he straightened up in the tub.

“Good. Maybe your memory lapse will ease the tension for the time being.”

Tillie’s gaze begged an explanation.

“It seems that somehow Blood took his memory as well as his soul,” Zofia said.

“Flying lizards!” Tillie said, returning her gaze to Dorian. “Blood can’t have done all this to you. He has no powers!”

“However he did it, it doesn’t really matter, does it now? I am what I am.”

“The Heathweian Council of Wizards and Immortals took away his powers ages ago,” Tillie continued. “He must’ve had help in this.”

“Must we go over something that’s been pummeled to death all ready?” Dorian said wearily.

“But, I mean, how could he turn you into a vampire? He’s not one himself... not that it would hardly make any difference at all, as he's so into evil and darkness,” Tillie said, sliding her eyes back to Zofia.

“Couldn’t he have used The Key of Dr. Faustus? Or some other dark Grimoire?” Zofia wondered aloud.

“Might have,” Tillie said looking thoughtful. “Ever since he escaped Hamparzum’s there’s no telling what he’s been up to or who he’s been hanging with. Once he escaped, he went totally off the grid.”

“Unless he used the Lesser Key of Dr. Faustus,” Dorian said offhandedly. “What does it matter how he’s done it? I only know I’m doomed to remain as I am—a blood-drinking, night-vision vampire.” He gazed up at Tillie. “Unless, of course, you know of a spell that might reverse this curse, Ottillie?”

Tillie eyed Dorian. They stared at one another for a long moment. Zofia wasn’t sure if they were putting hexes on one another, or just trying to win a staring match.

Just when Zofia thought she should intervene, Tillie spoke up. “I, on the other hand, have in my possession two Grimoires,” she said, her snowy eyebrows dancing high.

Zofia took in a sharp breath and stared at her. To have even one Grimoire in one’s possession on Euphoria was against The Code of Ethics, big time. Zofia and Dorian both stared at her dumbfounded.

“You do?” Dorian broke the stunned silence. There was a dark, conspiratorial glint in his eyes to go with his crooked grin. “I would never have guessed you, of all people, to possess such a thing.” His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Zofia.

“Where on Ugwump World would you come across two Grimoires, Aunt Tillie?” Zofia asked, astonishment washing through her.

“I’ve my sources,” she said, one hand flicked in the air dismissively.

“On Ebay?”

The look of superiority deflated on Tillie’s face. “Yes,” she hissed.

“I don’t suppose you could look through them to find some sort of counter curse, or spell, could you?” Dorian asked.

Knobby finger tapping her chin, she hummed in thought. “I might.”

“Please, Ottillie? I’d be forever in your gratitude.”

Tillie smiled with a sinister gleam in her eyes. “A Grandier showing me gratitude—and pleading to boot! I’ll be a Troll’s aunt! I think I like that. I like it a lot. But you’ll owe me, Grandier. And much more than mere words of gratitude, I’m thinking. After all, besides Zofia with the Stone, I’m the only one on First World who can perform any complex spell which might return your soul, and change you back into a wizard again.”

“I-I can’t use the Stone to—” Zofia started, but Dorian interrupted.

“Anything, Ottillie. Name it. If it’s within my powers, I promise I’ll grant it,” he said, rising a little bit out of the tub.

“Seal of Katowice?” Tillie held up her left hand, palm out to him, index and middle fingers crossed as were the third and pinky in the sacred pledge.

Dorian held up his hand in the same way. “Seal of Katowice.”

Clapping her hands, Tillie jumped up and down, her braids became lively white ropes. “So mote it be!” She stopped jumping. “Tonight I’ll look through my Grimoires.” She pointed at Dorian with her crooked finger. “Mark my words, Dorian, you’ll not regret this, and neither will I.” She turned and left them.

Youthful voices filled the hall.

“Blanche said Dad’s in the bath... tub.” Elton appeared in the doorway, his mouth falling open as he took in the sight of his father in the tub. “Dragon buggers! It is Dad!”

“Not certain I like being mentioned in the same breath as ‘dragon buggers’,” Dorian said, squeezing his eyes.

“Mom?” Blanche’s voice made Zofia turn to find her peering into the room from the hallway. Wearing a deep scowl, arms crossed, she was in one of those mutinous teenager stances. After all she thought this was her bathroom.

“It’s all right,” Zofia said, unable to come up with any other soothing words to offer. “It’s just your father.” She turned back to the room, not quite ready to handle the next storm over the Grandier bath.

“Come in! Come in!” Dorian said, stepping out of his comfortable lounge, pillows plopping to the tiled floor as he did. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” He chuckled lightly. “Really I don’t.” Zofia noticed his fangs were retracted, thank wizards for small favors.

“These can’t be my children!” he said, stepping slowly toward them.

“This is Elton, and Blanche.”

Dorian's eyes narrowed at Zofia. “I thought we named him Eltony.”

“We did. But, we had to change it when we came here because he got a lot of teasing his first year in school,” she explained.

“It’s a sissy name,” Elton said with contempt.

“Sissy!” Dorian was aghast. “I’ll have you know that my great-great-great- grandfather’s name is Eltony, and he isn’t one bit embarrassed by it.” Dorian’s eyes lifted to engage Zofia’s. “He just turned two hundred.”

“Really?” Zofia said, not sure how to react to that. She’d never cared for the old sourpuss.

“I know he’ll go on to live at least another two-hundred-and-fifty more, easy!”

“Wow!” Elton gasped, impressed.

“He can exorcise demons, evanesce in a snap, and—”

“Evanesce? What's that?” Elton asked.

“Evanesce,” Dorian said. “You know, eh, vaporize. Disappear.”

“Ohhh.”

“Also, he can transmute any metal into gold with the Philosopher’s Stone. He’s also an expert necromancer, and is the Administrate on the Heathweian Council, and has been for the last one hundred years, now. Not everyone is chosen for that, you know.”

“Cool!” Elton said, looking impressed.

“I’m to take that as a colloquial for something good?” Dorian asked, eying Zofia.

“Yes. Cool is good,” she assured.

“Are you really a vampire?” Elton asked, still goggling Dorian as though he were an exotic snake.

“Unfortunately.”

“Sweet!”

“Again with the vulgar slang.”

“Why is it so good that your father’s a vampire?” Zofia wondered.

Elton shrugged and said, “How many other kid’s fathers are vampires?”

“Not something we’re allowed to speak about to anyone. Understood?”

Elton made a disappointed whine, “Aww--I never get to tell anyone anything!” Dorian cuffed Elton on the back. “It’s for the best, son. Here, the Ugwumps rule. But, on our planet, we rule. Sorcery is a way of life on Euphoria, not something to be ashamed of.”

“We aren’t ashamed of it!” Zofia blurted.

“It’s as though you are,” Dorian argued, hands going to his slim waist. “The boy should be proud of who he is. How much have you told him about our world, exactly?”

“I know that it’s the first planet in our solar system,” Elton said quickly. “Antares is our sun, it’s orange-red—I remember that. We’ve twenty-five months, three moons, plus an asteroid that only we can see, called Achamoth. That means wisdom—”

“That’s marvelous, son,” Dorian said, patting him on the head.

“I can name all the months. You wanna hear?”

“Not just now—”

“Amber, Bethany, Cyrillus, Durazo—”

“Yes, yes. That’s very good—”

“—Esaddaeus, Formalhunt—”

“That’s fine, Elton,” Zofia intervened, grasping his shoulders, turning him toward the door. “You and your father will have a chance to chat later. Meanwhile, I need a moment alone with him first.”

Elton gave her an indignant expression, looking as though she’d just told him to gargle with vinegar.

“We’ll talk later, son, and you can tell me everything you know about Euphoria,” Dorian attempted to ease that sour expression on his son’s face.

“Yeah, yeah,” Elton pulled away from both of them. “You always send me out of the room when you want to talk about something interesting,” he grumbled, trudging out the door.

Dorian chuckled lightly. “At least he’s curious.”

“A little too curious,” Zofia said with a half-smile.

Dorian regarded her silently, and then gazed past her to take in Blanche. “And she’s got her mother’s features, this one has,” he said, grinning. “Sixteen? You must be able to transvect by now and do some easy spell casting?” Transvecting was being able to levitate and fly without aid of a broom—as was often misinterpreted here on First World.

“I’ll turn sixteen next week, and yes, I can transvect,” she informed in monotone. Turning to Zofia she said, “Is he really going to be staying in here? All my things are in here. My make-up, hair dryer, shampoo—just everything!” Her hands went out with exasperation.

Noticing the deflated look on Dorian’s face, Zofia said, “I know. We’ll get your things later, but for now go back down stairs. Please?”

“But, Mom—”

“I know, I know,” she said, shunting the girl back out into the hall. “I’ll get your things later, and put them in my bathroom. Okay?” she said through a three-inch crack, before shutting the door.

“Sorry about that.” Turning, Zofia gave Dorian an apologetic look. “She’s a teenager. They tend to be territorial.”

“So I see,” he said. “Alone, at last, my darling,” he took a step toward her. She brought up her hand and stiff-armed him.

He stopped and gave her a wounded look. “I’m not going to bite you, if that’s what you think.”

“That’s not what I was afraid of.”

Folding his arms, he stared at her. “And snogging is definitely out of the question, apparently,” he said with a disappointed expression.

Was he kidding? Kiss her, where would that lead? Bite her? That was the last thing she was afraid of. Well, maybe not the last thing. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Nice tan,” he said, thrusting his milky white arm up next to hers.

“Thanks. From gardening.”

“Are you like that all over?”

“No.”

“Can I see your tan lines?”

“NO!” she said, giving him an exasperated look. His fangs were fully extended. They looked as sharp as ice picks. She cringed, her insides going cold. The thought of kissing him made her heart thump and stomach flip-flop. She also noticed that he’d fixed her with his sapphire gaze. A picture of him kissing her, him touching her in intimate places, them doing it right there on the bathroom tiled floor, filled her mind.

She shook her head and broke eye contact. She realized these were his thoughts, not hers, and he had been broadcasting them to her in order to bend her will.

“Stop it!” she barked. But it was too late to cover her sudden hot flash. The warmth spread all the way down to her collar bone, and points south.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he said, giving her a sheepish grin.

She tried to achieve an angry glare, but couldn’t quite pull it off. Somehow he looked too guileless, as though he was joking around with her, like always.

“I must say, though, you’re still as lovely as ever, my goddess.”

“Please,” she said, her face still warm under his smirk. “Are you joking? It’s been five First World years.” She turned to the mirror and raked her fingers through her bountiful mane. “We age faster down here. Heart beats faster. I must look at least ten years older!”

“I wouldn’t know about the heart beating faster,” he said glumly.

“Not to mention how different things are here, on First World,” she continued with her thoughts. “The technology—the cars, planes, TVs, phones—things are done at the push of a button.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “They’ve almost caught up with us,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, right,” they both said in unison.

“Well, you definitely look the same,” she said, taking him in. She had the sudden urge to run her fingers through his thick, black hair. Oh, yeah. Touching him would be the worst thing she could do at the moment. She could see it in his eyes. He was waiting for her to make the wrong move—right for him, wrong for her.

He stood beside Zofia and turned toward the bathroom mirror to gaze at his own reflection. Zofia looked in the mirror at him. Funny how the vampire lore had it that vampires had no reflection. They certainly did.