Meanwhile, somewhere upstairs, and in a far corner of the house, was tucked away a small room—a ‘garret’ as Mrs. Trollope was so fond of calling it—in which some very strange goings-on were taking place. In an apparent embrace, Mrs. Trollope and Clara were seated on a blood-red velvet love seat. In actuality, however, Mrs. Trollope’s fangs were buried deep in Clara’s throat. The sounds of a vampire feasting on a young woman’s essence, though soft they may have been, still were loud enough to be heard just outside the door. And it was then, and perhaps for the first time in her existence, that Mrs. Trollope was taken unawares.

    The door, with an explosive crash, burst open. And even as her astonished eyes found the cause of this disturbance, Jack had grabbed Clara’s wrist, yanked her from the sofa, and with unflinching fire in his eyes, was backing away. With lustful admiration the vampire’s gaze followed his movements. Never had she known a mortal to move so swiftly. So competently. So fearlessly.  What a glorious addition he was going to make to the family.
    “You may have her back, my lion cub, for my thirst’s been satisfied at last. But fret not, child, and feel thee not neglected; for tomorrow, and as surely as the sun does set, your turn will come.”
    The Countess Constance Trollope then, and with a royal gesture, granted him permission to withdraw.
   
    A bloody pair of pinpricks, positioned precisely at her jugular, glistened in the moonlight; her breath, as if searching for each in turn before being allowed to take it, came in short, ragged gasps. Jack ripped off his shirt, spat on the sleeve, and washed the wounds.
    “Come on babe,”—just above a whisper. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
    She seemed to focus on him, but who was it, he wondered, staring at him from behind those eyes? This time he pressed her hard, ordering her to return to him. Whereupon the vacant look turned to one of terror, followed closely by a blood-curdling scream, and finally by a head buried in her husband’s ready shoulder.
    “Oh Jack! I had the awfullest dream. So awfully, awfully awful.”
    He held her, stroked her hair, made soft shushing sounds.
    “I’m so tired. So completely exhausted. Let me go back to sleep. Please . . .”   
    And like the dying heroine upon the silver screen, her arms and head went limp. He lay her down; he touched his lips to hers; and shaken to the core he pulled away: her lips were hers no longer but were those as if belonging to a corpse.

    Barely had the sun peeked above the horizon and Jack was hard at work rousing his wife.
    “Go ’way,” she said at his persistent attempts. “I’m too sleepy. Too, too sleepy.”
    “Sorry babe,” he said, pulling her off the bed and setting her up on her feet, “it’s time to go. When we get home, you can sleep until the cows come home.”
    “Thirsty,” she said, her eyes barely open. “My throat’s like a desert.”
    From the puddle of perspirated fright Clara’d left on the sheets, Jack didn’t wonder at her being so dehydrated. Then, having finally bothered to give himself a second thought, he realized he was pretty thirsty himself.
    “I’ll see what I can drum up. And try to stay awake, okay?”
    “No problemo.”—A phrase she’d last used at a frat party in college. The one time in her life she’d ever drunk to excess.
    On his way to the kitchen, Jack stopped off a moment to check on an essential ingredient for his escape plan. And while it didn’t take long to determine that nothing short of a bulldozer was getting past that door, it was of no matter. Because there was another way.

    At the kitchen sink, Jack gingerly grasped a faucet likely as old as the owner of the house. But howsoever it appeared, yet it turned easily, opening up a stream of cold, crystal-clear water. He noted his lack of surprise at realizing she’d had the plumbing repaired in preparation for their dropping in. After all, without water, how could she have been expected to prepare her special blend of tea? A grim smile formed as he thought about Clara’s comment—the one about his stoic skepticism’s rude awakening. Truer words . . .
    He doused his head, and directly from the tap, quenched his thirst. From the cupboard above the sink he took a sparkling clean pitcher, filled it, and returned upstairs to find Clara’d closed the door. He turned the doorknob. Unthinkingly, she’d locked it.
    “Clara, open the door.”
    No response. He swore softly to himself. And then, “Dammit Clara,”—his fist pummeling the door like a jackhammer, “wake up!”
    Meanwhile, inside the room, Clara, her back supported by the door, was fast asleep upon her feet. The reverberations set off by Jack’s fist went through her like an electric current; her eyelids snapped open.
    “What’s the matter with me?” she said, letting Jack back in. “I’ve never felt so tired in my life.” Softly then, and with added despair, “What’s the matter with me?”
    “Whatever it is, let’s save worrying about it until we’ve got you safely home. In the meantime, take a swig of this.”
    She snatched the pitcher from his hand, and faster than she could swallow, poured a good deal of the contents down her throat. What remained she savored while observing that Jack had busily engaged himself in some project or other. What in the world was he doing, she wondered, and expressed her curiosity aloud.
    “Escaping.”
    “Oh. Cool. Mind if I tag along?”
    He didn’t even roll his eyes.
    Clara made herself comfortable on the chair by the writing desk, and as if entertaining friends out on the veranda, sipped her water. Her love for her husband, as she watched him expertly tie the corners of the sheets together, filled her to overflowing.
    “Are we really escaping? Really and truly?”
    “Yeah. Really and truly.”
    Now he was testing the knots; testing the sheets themselves to make sure they had no inherent weaknesses. It would have been fairly anticlimactic were he to wind up splattered across the rocks below.
    “How? Exactly?”
    “The room she came out of last night?” Jack said, while tying one end of the sheets to the bedpost. “I’d lay odds that the way out of this place is waiting for us in there.”
    “It’s a long way down,” Clara said, leaning out the window.
    “Yeah, no kidding. But this should hold pretty well.”
    The bed had been moved to the window; all the knots had been tested and retested; and satisfied, Jack threw the loose end out the window.
    “I guess you don’t need me telling you to be careful.”
    At this Jack smiled; he took Clara’s head in his hands. And though it chilled him to the bone to do so, he touched his lips to hers. “You’re aware that I’m trained for this kind of thing, right?”
    She gave him the best look of confidence that she was able; a noble effort given the circumstances.
    “I’ll be right back for you, okay? All I’m going down there for is to make sure it’s our ticket out of here.”
    And nimbly as his namesake—that celebrated ‘Jack’ who once upon a time jumped over the candlestick—Jack went over the windowsill. And as she’d daily done when last he’d been upon the battlefield, Clara prayed to God for her husband’s safe return.
    Effortlessly Jack lowered himself to the floor below. Not surprisingly the window was locked; a quick jab of his elbow shattered the glass. The bolt was turned, the window opened, and Jack dropped lightly into the witch’s boudoir.
    Insects, large and small; alive, dead, and dying crunched beneath his feet as he brushed aside a solidly woven cobweb curtain. What he found when done with his cursory housecleaning made him all the more aware  that his heart was still a vital part of him, for there stood two doors. One which led back into the house, and the other which opened—as he wasted no time in determining—onto a staircase leading down, down, down into an ominous black void.
    “Paydirt,” he muttered, his sigh of relief not quite as easy as he’d have liked. The stairs back to the third floor were taken three at a time; and Clara, this time wide awake, was waiting for him in the doorway. Spending no time in pleasant reminiscences, nor leaving even a short note saying, Thank you, we must do this again some time , away they flew. Though a moment’s pause to see if they’d forgotten anything would have proved prudent. For then Clara’s purse would unlikely have been left behind.

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If you'll go to rembrandtpublishing.com, you'll find the start of what's been called a vampire novel like none since Dracula. You'll also find the location of the next chapter posted there.

Brought to you by Jim Humble 's Miracle Mineral Solution . For without it I doubt I'd have lived to tell the tale.

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