Fright Night (18 page)

Those eyes . . .

They were the source of his power over her, she realized. His gorgeous body, the liquid eroticism of his movements, made it hard to look away; his eyes made it impossible. They glowed at her, a gold luminescence that didn’t frighten, but simply drew her in and in . . .

“No,”
she whispered. He hadn’t taken her will this time, made her a puppet that swayed at the end of his strings. He was seducing it, little by little.
“No,”
she repeated, more strongly this time.

And then forced herself to look away.

“Oh, Amy,” the vampire’s voice crooned from behind her. “Don’t do that. Here I am, working so hard to excite you . . .”

“Stop it,” she whimpered, eyes squeezed tightly shut. In her mind she could still see him moving toward her, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor.

“Not when we’re having so much fun.” The voice was closer now, cutting more easily through the music that went on and on and on.

And the terror and lust and fascination all came together like worms in a can, blindly wriggling and squiggling all over each other, with absolutely nowhere to run. The paralysis was worse than the one that Dandrige imposed, because she’d made it herself.

“Amy . . .”
A sibilant whisper, directly above her now.

She started to cry, curling over onto her side and into the fetal position.

“Ameeeee . . .”
Leaning over her, closer, closer. A gentle, almost etheric touch, sliding over the tight curve of her buttocks . . .

“NOOO!”
she screamed, rolling over and away. Her back hit the wall with a resonant thud. She leaned against it, panting, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Aw, come on,” he enticed her, coyly grinning. She saw the first glimmer of dimly lit fangs. And his eyes had lost their golden glow; the glow was red now, and brighter. “Don’t try to resist me. It’s much nicer if you just give in . . .”

“LEAVE ME ALONE, GOD DAMN YOU! I WANT . . .”

“Your mommy?”

“NO,
CHARLEY,
YOU FUCKER!” she wailed, her fists tightening. Her streaming eyes were locked on his, but the fight was still in her. “I WANT CHARLEY, NOT YOU!”

“You’ll have
Charley,”
he hissed, his voice no longer coy, “as soon as I’m finished with you. That’s a promise.”

“YOU BAS—” she began, moving suddenly to her left.

And then Dandrige lowered the boom.

It got wearying, after a while. Letting her resist him with her puny will was like letting himself get pummeled with a powderpuff. It very quickly lost its charm.

His eyes were not the thing. She was mistaken in that. He could have clamped down on her mind from the next room, if he’d wanted to. In her worn-down state, he might even’ve been able to do it from across the street.

Whatever the case, he clamped down now, and her whole being froze in its tracks. No more resistance. No more trouble at all. She was just a pliant mass of flesh and nerve endings now; her feelings were the only things that she could call her own.

“Come here,” he said, and she rose to her feet: eyes blank, body swaying to the rhythm of the song. Very slowly, she moved into his arms. Very slowly, they began to move together.

. . . And his hands were on her, cold upon her, sliding over buttocks and back and breasts and brow, tracing lines of napalm-bright desire wherever they touched. And his lips were there, an inch from her own, never closing that tantalizing distance.

She found herself hungering for his kiss.

It was building up inside her. He could feel its gathering fury. Even as she ground herself against him, ardent and animal, a psychic g-spot was being stroked into frenzy.

He knew the feeling well. His every movement was designed to provoke it. Over the next few seconds, it would build and build.

And then he would release it.

Slowly, gently, he eased her head forward to rest on his shoulder. Slowly, his lips peeled back to reveal his long, slender, perfect fangs.

Her neck was exposed. The vein he sought was laid out before him. Pulsing. Inviting. His mind reeled dizzily for a moment, the bloodlust ecstatically boiling up within him.

“Now,”
he whispered. She moaned in response.

The penetration began.

. . . And he was entering her, two tiny tiny sharp sharp points sliding past the first layer of flesh, going deeper, finding the hot red liquid center and piercing it through, going deeper, going deeper . . .

. . . And she started to scream as he parted her, her thoughts going
wet omigod I’m so WET
as the thunder inside her swelled up and up . . .

. . . And then he plunged himself into her fully, and she came, bucking and whining and clawing the air, spasms in perfect sync with the blood pumping out of her like ejaculate in reverse, not giving life but
taking
it, just
taking
it . . .

. . . And the peak went on and on and on, agony and ecstasy in perfect concert, then gradually eased itself down and down as her passion, like her life, drained away . . .

TWENTY-TWO

C
harley’s desperate pilgrimage to Peter Vincent’s ate up quite a bit of time, the defeated trek home even more so. It was awfully slow-going on foot.

By the time he got to his house, it was well past two.

He stared at the two houses side by side, noting the contrast that seemed to grow by the minute: his house, so plain and comfortable and utterly unassuming; the other, a hulking monstrosity, pulling in on itself like the eye of a hurricane.

And, somewhere within, the woman he loved.

God damn him,
he cursed silently, thinking of the cowardly Vincent.
God damn him to Hell for being such an incredible ball-less wonder. I wish he could have been there, seen Dandrige at work. Then he’d know he
had
to fight, that there
was
no middle ground, no way out, no . . .

He went on, riffing endlessly about shoving the truth down Vincent’s miserable throat, a nonstop internal dialogue of fear and retribution.

He was so absorbed that he never saw the hand snake out of the bushes toward him.

When it grasped his shoulder, he nearly died. His heart pounded up his throat like it was catching the next flight out, and he turned, bug-eyed, expecting to die.

What he found was Peter Vincent, dressed in his classic vampire-killer mode. A very large, very old satchel, all worn leather and brass fittings, was in his hand.

“Peter Vincent,” he said, bowing smartly, “at your service; ready to do battle with the forces of darkness.”

Charley didn’t know whether to faint or jump for joy. He half expected a trilling rush of violins to accompany the announcement. He tried to speak, failed miserably.

“Huh?” he said.

“Well put,” Peter said. “My sentiments exactly. Now shall we proceed?” He started off toward the house. Charley grabbed him, pulling back.

“Wait a second,” he said. “Why the big change of heart? An hour ago, you wouldn’t even open the door for me. Now you’re walking face-first into this. What gives?”

Peter drew a long face. “Not everybody has a code, Charley. We vampire killers
do,
and I’ve let mine lay fallow for far too long.

“Besides,” he added brightly, “you can’t hunt a proper vampire without the proper tools. And
you
are woefully unprepared. So,
voilà . . .”

He opened the satchel, revealing an arsenal of paraphernalia: several ornate crosses, a bandolier of short crystal vials, and a healthy supply of stout hardwood stakes and mallets.

Charley looked at him earnestly for a moment, then reached and pulled out a cross big enough to play racquetball with, as well as several stakes. He tucked them in his belt. He felt like the Frito Bandito.

“What about Billy?” he asked. “He’s human. What do we use on him?”

Peter smiled like the neighborhood fence and withdrew a thirty-eight-caliber revolver. Nickel-plated. Charley remained skeptical as Peter held the gun aloft. “Dumdum bullets, Charley. They’ll put a hole in him the size of a grapefruit. If they don’t stop him, he
isn’t
human.”

Charley smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “You thought of everything, didn’t you?”

“Let’s hope so.” Peter turned to the house, showing Charley his good side. “Shall we?”

They did.

The portico greeted them, silent as a tomb, the relentless ticking of the clocks underscoring the deep silence. It was familiar without being the least bit inviting. They crossed the vaulted space carefully, determined not to blow it.

They were halfway up the stairs when the voice assailed them.

“Welcome,” it said. “My, my, back so soon? I just
love
having people over for dinner!”

Dandrige emerged from the darkness at the top of the stairs, his night-veil completely lifted: eyes, hands, teeth, all horrible.

Beautiful,
Peter thought.
Like some dark god, putting in an appearance before its court.

Dandrige smiled appreciatively, as if reading his mind. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “Welcome to the
real Fright Night.
You, Mr. Vincent, are tonight’s guest host. And our pesky young friend here,” gesturing at Charley, “gets to watch.”

Something in the vampire’s tone made Peter’s bowels turn to jelly. He gulped, his confidence blown out of the water. With a trembling hand, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a crucifix, brandishing it with all the conviction of a plate of soft-boiled eggs.

“Back, O cursed spawn of Satan!” he cried. His voice was a garbled squeak.

And Dandrige burst out laughing.

Charley and Peter were too stunned to be frightened, at first; but the mirth that Dandrige expressed was hardly one they could share. He laughed on and on, until it seemed he might split a seam somewhere.

Then he stopped. Leveled a mock serious gaze at them. And spoke.

“Really,
now,” he said, stifling a laugh. “May I see?”

He reached down, with no hesitation at all, and plucked the cross from Peter’s hand.

“Hmmmmm,” he said, fingering it derisively. “Shoddy workmanship. Not built to last.”

Then he tightened his grip, crushing the cross into tiny pieces, and flung the remains back in Peter’s face. “I do believe,” he said earnestly, “that you’re missing the critical element, Mr. Vincent.

“Faith.”

Peter stared as if he had blown a circuit. He backed away from Dandrige instinctively, his feet locked on cruise control. Charley wheeled in horror as he made his retreat, thinking
no, you bastard, you can’t give up this easy!
Then the boy pulled his own cross out and thrust it forward, an inch from Dandrige’s face.

“Back,” Charley said.

Dandrige stumbled backward up the steps, eyes slitting like a cat’s.

“Back!” Charley repeated, amazed at how the power flowed out of him. The vampire continued to retreat, unable to stare at the cross in his hand. “We
got
him, Peter!” he cried.

No response.

“Peter?”

He turned to find Peter Vincent almost out the door, his satchel on the stairs where he had dropped it in his haste.

“PETER!” he shouted one last time, turning to face the vampire, betrayal sapping his resolve . . .

. . . as a huge hand caught him right in the face.

The last thing he saw was Billy Cole, smiling grimly as he completed the backhand. Charley spun, the darkness rushing up to meet him.

And the nightmare closed in.

TWENTY-THREE

R
unning, running, the Dandrige house and its aura of horror receding behind him, the Brewster house bright-lit and welcome as a lighthouse beacon. Peter’s thoughts were chaotic, a tangled web of psychobabble that simultaneously wept, pleaded, called the police and burbled in a style usually associated with mouthfuls of Gerber’s Strained Beets.

He reached the front steps of the Brewster house and threw open the door. All was silent inside. “MRS. BREWSTER! MRS. BREWSTER!” he bellowed, slamming the door behind him.

No response.