“Samson D. Kline.”
“Miss Alcmedi.” He grinned at me. “Didn’t expect me, did ya?” he said with a laugh. “Well I didn’t expect what I’ve heard that you’ve done, either.”
“What have you heard?”
His grin turned sly. “Gossip on the front porch. How very white-trash. I expected better of the great Persephone Alcmedi, the witch who tempted Menessos back into a circle.”
“What do you mean ‘back’?”
He made a mock show of sympathy. “It’s girls like you who end up disappeared and on the alarmist, scandal-mongering media better known as the evening news. Girls like you who don’t find out enough about the boys they’re playing with.”
“Since background searching led to a near-fatal accident for a friend of mine, why don’t you save me the risk and fill me in yourself, so I can stay off the evening news? I mean, I’d hate to think of you watching those awful shows waiting to hear of my gory end and being infected by the lust-indulging breaks better known as commercials.”
Samson leered. “Fine.”
I opened the door and gestured for him to enter, but didn’t say the inviting words.
He made a show of wiping his boots on my welcome mat, then stepped in, came up beside Johnny, and jerked, startled. As he took in the long line of Johnny’s tall body and his tattooed and pierced face, the preacher seemed to wilt in his blue polyester suit like a kid who has just realized that rope he’s been yanking on is attached to a rather ominous-looking monster.
He recovered himself enough to proceed hurriedly into the living room. “Waterhouse,” he grumbled. “Suits you.”
“I’m surprised you know the artist’s name. I had you pegged as one of those people who decorated with paintings of Jesus on black velvet and considered it high art.”
In the dining room, Nana sniggered but didn’t look up from the notebook.
Samson flopped down onto my couch without having been invited to take a seat. He spread his arms across the back as he put one ankle up on the opposite knee, trying for a pose of comfort and indifference. The position, however, made his pant legs rise up to show that he wore old-man short boots that zipped up the inside. He followed my gaze and slipped out of the position. “Got anything to drink? Like Scotch?”
Beside me, Johnny crossed his arms and took up a mean-bouncer expression.
“I don’t keep liquor, Mr. Kline. How about some water?”
He waved the suggestion off with a sneer like he’d just tasted something very bad. “Well, then, let’s get on with this. Where’s the stake?”
“I thought you were going to tell me about Menessos getting back in the circle.”
“Oh,” he said. “Yes.” He sat forward. “A glass of Scotch would make this a lot easier, though.”
“I still have only water.”
“Not even beer?” He looked Johnny over. “Don’t tell me you don’t keep any beer here.”
Enunciating slowly and loudly, Johnny said, “Waaaa—terrrrrr.”
“Right. Right.” Samson frowned. “It’s simple. Menessos gave up magic when Vivian bested him by creating the stake and keeping it secret from him. He vowed never to use magic again until the stake was destroyed.”
“He broke that oath.”
“Exactly.” Samson grinned lasciviously at me. “Broke it for you.” He sounded like a fifth grader at the lunch table.
“You sure have a way of making people uncomfortable, Mr. Kline.”
“My messages aren’t ever meant to put people at ease. I’m a fire-and-brimstone kind of preacher.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He seemed to take that as a compliment, though I hadn’t meant it that way.
“I’m curious,” I said. “How did you find out about this sensitive subject?”
“That thing that used to be my brother.”
I should have guessed. “Our last talk left me with the impression that you didn’t speak with him anymore.”
“It has its uses.” He glanced around. “Now…that stake?”
I turned for the kitchen and heard Johnny ask, “So what do you get out of this deal?”
Samson must have paused to gauge the wærewolf before answering, because he was just starting to answer as I came back down the hall.
“Do you have any idea who I happen to be?”
Johnny said, “You’re that prick on TV.”
Samson leaned forward, putting his forearms on his knees. His hands rubbed together. “I guess you do.”
“So why are you playing errand boy for a vampire? Isn’t this a new low in your life of hypocrisy?”
“This is my out, son. My—”
“Don’t call me ‘son.’” The darkness in Johnny’s tone sent a shiver down my spine. Made me glad he was on my side.
“My deal is to pick up the stake and destroy it. In return, that bastard Menessos will call off those freaks and wannabes who show up to my every studio sermon.” He grunted. “He sends them down there on purpose with orders that the more fervent and freakish they look, the more they damage my credibility, the more they prove themselves to him. He uses me as a test of loyalty for those wretched jerk-offs.”
“Maybe he’s testing you,” I said from the doorway.
“What?” He straightened. “You don’t mean the Lord—you mean the vampire?”
“Yeah. Maybe if you had the power to get through to those wannabes and change their minds, he would see you as a threat instead of a toy.” I grinned. “Bet you don’t even try, do you? You believe in saving people so much—but just worthy people, right?”
Face flushed, Samson stood, finger wagging and ready to deliver a sermon in my living room. Johnny took a half step forward, a low growl in his throat. “She has a point.”
Samson’s hand fell to his side; his fists were balled tight and his chubby knuckles were white. “You don’t know anything!” he shouted. “You’re filth. You’re all filth.” He gestured to Nana, who hadn’t said anything to him. “And you’ll all rot in Hell.”
“Cut the bullshit,” Nana snapped, rising from the table and coming at him. “Do you think your sparkling life merits any rewards? You’re pathetic.”
“You think I don’t know what you are, you old crone? I’ve suffered too many of you for too damn long!” He held his hand out to me. “Just give me the stake and let me get out of here.”
“I’m glad I don’t have any Scotch,” I said, starting forward. “If I did, you wouldn’t be in a hurry.”
“I can’t expect you to understand my sacred mission. You’re already tainted. Bit into that apple, I hear. Got your mark. You’re well on your way, aren’t you? I knew you wanted to be one of them.” His pious “you-can’t-judge-me” expression—the one that was a cross between an idiot’s blankness and rapture—was set in his wrinkled skin. “The first time I met you, I recognized that gleam in your eyes. It’s the same one worn by all those fools he sends to my studio.”
“I know you’re accustomed to forcing your opinions on others, but save it for the studio, Sam. Everyone here knows what a fraud you are.” I shoved the box at him. “Take it and get out.”
He wrapped his arms lovingly around the box, rubbed his cheek over its upper surface. It was unsettling. “Mark my words, little girl, Menessos is a deceiver. More than any other black-hearted creature ever to walk the creation. But then, we don’t suffer him to live, do we? He’s already dead. And we suffer him yet.”
The door had barely shut when the phone rang.
I jogged to answer it. “Hello?”
“Seph. It’s Nancy. Please don’t hang up.”
She sounded like she was in tears. “Okay. What’s wrong?”
“Would you please, please meet me somewhere? Like in Mansfield? I just have to talk to you.”
I didn’t know what to say.