Page 4 of Desperately Seeking Vampire
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
“What do the others say?” he asked, craning to see them.
“This is the Priestess. She tells me that I need to look within and listen to my own thoughts rather than those of others.”
“She is smart,” Andreas said, nodding. “And that one?”
“Seven of cups. It means I’ve been trying to do too many things, and I need to focus on one goal and, in the process, stay connected to what I really want. Which is my passport and money, in case you were wondering,” I said, hoping against hope.
He shook his head, and pointed at the Priestess card. “The lady, she says you need to talk to yourself and not others. I am others.”
“Sadly,” I told him as I gathered up my cards and slid them into their wrap, “that is all too true. Please pass along my request to the detectives investigating my boss that they hurry up with the return of my stuff, or else I’ll have to throw myself on the mercy of the Canadian embassy.”
He waggled his hand and turned to greet a woman who entered the police station.
I went outside, rubbing my arms against the chill wind. There was simply no other choice—I could make a scene and find myself thrown into a cell next to Jason, or I could gather my dignity and pray that the local police were swift in determining my innocence.
“At least I have my emergency five hundred Czech crowns,” I said softly to myself, pulling a tampon out of my bag, and carefully spreading the cottony inner fibers to reveal the bill I’d tucked away in case my wallet was stolen. I clutched the money—worth a little more than twenty dollars—as I glanced around nervously. I debated spending some of its precious amount to get out to the north pasture where GothFaire was hosting the Harvest Festival Battle of the Bands, and decided, with a martyred sigh, that I would survive the chilly three-mile walk.
To say the festival was pandemonium would be understating the level of chaotic energy that all but made the air crackle with electricity.
“What’s going to happen to the contest?” The questions pelted me as soon as I arrived at the outskirts of the temporary stage. “Is it true the organizer skipped out with the prize money? Are we not going to be able to play?”
The questions went on and on for a good four minutes in a variety of languages. I let everyone have their say before I held up my hands, climbed onto a portable picnic table, and announced, “Guys, the police have Jason Amiri in the local jail. They also have the prize money, which they said they will release in the next couple of days, pending investigation. I’ve given them the information about the festival, Jason’s role in organizing it, and provided them with all the details I had in my possession. The rest, I assume, they got from Jason’s laptop. From what the lead detective said, the festival is a go, although the winners may have to wait a bit for their prizes.”
They didn’t like that, but there wasn’t much I could do beyond repeating my statement several more times. A couple of people had some snarky things to say to me, personally.
“Look, I’m just as much a victim as you are,” I told one particularly vocal man from the US. He was clad in clothing sporting Confederate flags, and seemed to have an attitude to go with it. “More so because I don’t even have my own personal money or credit cards. I don’t have a place to stay for the next three days, food, or anything I need, because my luggage was confiscated along with everything else. So yeah, it sucks that my boss is a lying jerkwad, but a little bit of compassion toward those of us who aren’t would be greatly appreciated.”
“Crazy English bitch,” the man said, spitting out a stream of brown tobacco juice perilously near my feet before stomping away in a petulant manner that would have done a cranky toddler proud.
“That’s crazy Canadian bitch to you,” I called after him, at that moment feeling the weight of the world as several other people closed in around me.
Luckily, the man heading up a traveling circus known as GothFaire, which was hosting the festival, heard the commotion and came over to reassure everyone before anyone else could go for my blood.
“My friends, my very dear friends, do not allow yourself to worry. All is well with the battle of the bands,” Dominic, co-owner of the GothFaire, reassured everyone, spreading his hands wide. I was a bit startled to see that he sported fangs, and gave him a good close look, but he didn’t appear to have come by them naturally.
That was interesting, I thought to myself as Dominic continued to tell everyone that the Faire would ensure that everyone due a monetary prize would receive it in good order, no matter how the police investigation into Jason’s attempted embezzlement was proceeding.
The crowd dispersed at that, all but four young people who looked like they were in their early twenties. They waited until the blond, handsome Dominic moved off to consult with a few of the more vocal bands; then a slight woman with long black hair approached.
“Pardon,” she said in a French accent. “What you said, it is true?”
“Yes, absolutely. I don’t lie unless it’s a life-or-death situation, and even then, I get a bit weird about speaking falsely. I really do have nothing to do with what Jason was pulling—”
“No,” she said, glancing back at her companions. “You do not have a place to sleep? We, also, do not. Antoine forgot our tent, and Zuzu was supposed to bring her mother’s card, but did not because her mother, she does not approve.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, wondering what they wanted me to do. I had a horrible feeling I was about to be touched, and tightened an arm across my chest, reassured by the slight pressure of my five-hundred-crown bill where I had tucked it into my bra.
“Last night, we found a room. Very quiet, very private, you know? And Antoine, he was looking around, and said there were several other rooms just as quiet. So I thought I would mention that, so that you, too, can sleep.”
“I had a room at the hotel—” I started to say, but the young man with hair almost as long and glossy as the woman’s moved forward. He looked very much like an Antoine.
“It is not the hotel,” he said quickly, then gestured to the southwest, at the edge of the impressive castle that I’d noticed during my march to the festival grounds. “There are stone houses—what is the word? Cabins? And in there, you can sleep out of the weather. They are not warm, but if you have a bedroll, it is cozy.”
I let my gaze wander along the west side of the castle, and squinted a little at a couple of pointy stone roofs. “Are those mausoleums? You guys were sleeping in mausoleums? With dead people?”
“Non!” Antoine said, then switched to French. “Two of the cabins are empty inside. There are shelves, yes, where coffins might be placed, but they are empty. The other two are locked. We assumed they were occupied with the ancestors of the castle owner.”
