F Wilson - Midnight Mass

Being a cowboy wasn't so bad, really. You could be assigned to keep an eye on their nests, make sure no save-the-world types—Stan liked to call them rustlers—got in there and started splashing holy water around and driving stakes into their cold little hearts. Or you could be part of a posse, which meant you spent the day riding around hunting strays. One good way to earn brownie points with the bloodsuckers was to have a stray cow or two ready for them after sundown.

They had a cow in the trunk right now. Some old bitch who'd scratched and clawed at them when they rounded her up. Deserved what she had comin to her. Plus she was good for brownie points.

Those points weren't nothing to sneer at. Earn enough of them and you got to spend some stud time on one of their cattle ranches—where all the cows were human. And young.

Neither Al or Kenny or any of their pack had been to one of the farms yet, but they'd all heard it was like incredible. You came back sore, man.

Al didn't particularly like working for the vampires. But then he couldn't remember ever liking anybody he'd worked for. The bloodsuckers gave him the creeps, but what was he supposed to do? If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Plenty of guys felt the same way.

Another thing that didn't set too well was being at the bottom of the pecking order. Seemed he had to take orders from everybody except Kenny. Stan said that would change. Told them how he'd started at the bottom too. Learned the ropes and soon got to be leader of his own posse.

Stan and Jackie was some sorta team. A good one. Al looked at Jackie. Not the greatest looking piece with that wild bottle-blond hair all black at the roots, but considering the severe lack of poontang around these parts lately, she was starting to look drop-dead gorgeous. Al could've really used a piece of her, but he knew if he went for it he'd wind up on the wrong end of that Bowie knife Stan kept strapped to his belt.

Jackie might cut him too. Just for fun. One tough broad, that Jackie. But her real talent was smoking out the ladies. Like the old bitch in the trunk. Jackie pulls out her piercings, gets dressed up in clothes that hide her tats, then goes knocking door to door, pretending to be looking for her little girl. Nobody figures a broad's gonna be working for the bloodsuckers, so sooner or later one of them answers the door and then blammo, the posse's there like coons on an open garbage can.

Al just wished the old bitch was younger. Then he coulda had a little fun with her before—

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," Jackie said as they rounded a corner and pulled up before St. Anthony's. "And there's Gregor." She grinned at Kenny. "Maybe you should go ask him what you gotta do to earn your wings. I'm sure he'll be glad to sit down and chat about it."

Kenny didn't say nothing.

The old church was like the unofficial meeting place for Stan's posse and Gregor, the numero uno bloodsucker in charge of the Jersey Shore. One mean son of an undead bitch, that Gregor. Even the other vampires seemed to be like afraid of him. He was big, with these wide shoulders, long dark hair, ice cold blue eyes, and square pale face. But then all the bloodsuckers had pale faces. It was his smile that got to Al. Most times it looked painted on, but with all those sharp teeth of his it managed to make him look both happy and very, very hungry at the same time.

The posses had to meet with Gregor every night and tell him how things had gone while he was cutting his Z's or whatever it was the bloodsuckers did when the sun was up. It was part of the job. Al's least favorite part of the job. He didn't know what it was that made his skin crawl every time he got near one. Wasn't their looks, their dirty clothes, their stink. Something else, something you couldn't see or smell. Something you felt.

Al spotted Gregor by the church steps with his guards. He was dressed as usual in a dark suit, white shirt, no tie. Always the same, like he was going to a business meeting or something. Which put him a cut above most vampires, who never changed their clothes. Ever.

Hey, this was weird. Usually he had one or two undead goons guarding him. Tonight he had four. What was up?

Al didn't get the bodyguard thing. Like who'd ever mess with Gregor? But he didn't seem to go anywhere without them. They didn't look like the typical pumped-up guard dog types, but all four carried Glocks and razor-sharp machetes on their belts.

The local undead bigshots stood around Gregor: Mayor Davis, Council-woman Ellis, Rabbi Goldstein, and the only black face in sight, big fat Reverend Dalton.

Al had lived around Lakewood for years and never knew any of these peopie's names—like he needed to know who was mayor, right?—but he knew them now.

He looked around for the priest, Palmeri, who was usually with Gregor, but didn't see him. Just as well. There was a bad dude. Almost as creepy as Gregor.

As Stan eased the car into the curb, one of the bodyguards came over. He wore black jeans, a black shirt crusted with old blood, and a worried expression.

"No report tonight," he said in some sort of fag British accent. "Do you 'ave something for Gregor?"

Here was another thing not to like about the vampires. All the high-ups were one kind of foreigner or another. Gregor looked like John Travolta but sounded like Bela Lugosi. His guard here sounded like Mick Jagger.

"Yeah," Stan said. "Got a cow in the trunk. What's up?"

"Not your concern. I'll bring 'er to Gregor."

"Okay. Al, you and Kenny wanna get her out?"

They did that. The ride in the trunk seemed to have taken most of the fight out of the old broad. She had to be sixty-five or seventy and she didn't look so hot at first, but she came to life, screaming and yelling when she saw the bloodsuckers.

The bodyguard made a face when he saw her. " 'Ere now, what's this? She the best you could do?"

"We hit a dry neighborhood. We'll do better tomorrow."

"See that you do." He grabbed the old broad's arm and she fainted. He barely seemed to notice. "Move on. Get to your 'omes and stay inside. We'll wake you at the usual time."

As Gregor's guard dragged the unconscious broad toward the church, Stan peeled away from the curb.

"Somethin's up," Jackie said.

Stan nodded. "Wonder what's eatin them?"

"You don't think another one of us bought it, do you?" Kenny said looking all nervous.

Al knew how he felt. Someone had been offing cowboys lately. Nothing big scale, just one here, one there, but enough to make you start looking over your shoulder.

"Nah," Stan said. "They'd tell us that. This is somethin else."

As Stan cranked up Slipknot again, Al looked back at the receding church.

The local undead were carrying the old broad up the church steps. Gregor stayed on the sidewalk, his guards tight around them.

What could get vampires shook up enough that they didn't want their own posses near them? It gave him a crawly feeling in his gut.

As they turned a corner Al thought he saw a female vampire with her own set of bodyguards step out of the shadows and move toward Gregor.

GREGOR . . .

His get-guards tensed and turned at Olivia's approach but Gregor did not acknowledge it. He'd been informed of her arrival from New York an hour ago and had been aware of her presence in the shadows, watching him. He waited till she spoke.

"Good evening, Gregor," she said with a light French accent.

He whirled and smiled. "Why, Olivia. What a wonderful surprise!"

It appeared she'd dressed for the occasion: a red gown—plucked from the window of a Fifth Avenue designer shop, no doubt—and an elaborate Marie Antoinette wig over her own hair which Gregor knew to be short and mousy brown.

Their guards—she'd brought six with her—stood around and between them.