“We need to talk.”
The four words no male wants to hear – especially after eight hundred of death.
“Can we do it tomorrow?”
The five words no female wants to hear – especially after eight hundred years of marriage.
“No, we need to talk NOW!”
The six words…
In a flourish, the count flapped to the window. He swept aside the drapes, revealing the thin glow of dawn. “Look,” he said, “I warned you about moving to Scandinavia: the short summer nights barely leave time for a snack.”
The countess raised an eyebrow. A question mark formed on her pale forehead.
“We’ll have talk on the run. How about Papa Murphy’s?” he asked.
“I had him last night.”
“No,” she says, “he’s been bled white, beside we need to talk.”
The count collapsed back into his chair. “Alright, about what?”
Typical of an undead woman, the minute he agreed to talk, she clammed up. Instead she stood, arms folded, silhouetted against the window.
“Gosh,” he thought to himself, “Sweden agrees with the old girl, she’s put on a few pounds.” He added quickly (least she read his thoughts), “though she still is a looker.”
And of course she had read his thought but instead of beating him senseless, the countess smiled that smile of hers, the one that melts the count. Sashaying around the edge of his desk, she cooed, “Do you remember why we moved here?”
“Sure,” he purred, growing amorous. “For the long, long winter nights.”
Smooth as smoke, she flowed onto his lap and curled an arm around his neck. Breathing into his ear, she whispered, “Uh-huh, and do you remember those endless evenings snuggled by the fire?”
“Oh, you betcha!”
Her fingernail traced a line across his jaw. “And how about those wild spring nights?”
“But most of all,” she asked, “do you remember that glorious midnight under the last full moon in May?”
He shot a glance at the red streak rising over a distant hill. “It’ll have to be quick.”
And quick she was.
In eight hundred years – nothing had hit him that hard.
“What? What was that for?”
Far below, among the green folds of a lush valley, a rooster crowed.
Throughout the muddy alleys of a quaintly thatched medieval village, shutters creaked cautiously open as neighbor tentatively called out to neighbor. For the first time since the new tenants moved into the castle, each hesitant greeting found in its mate, a hearty response.
While high on castle hill, the towers trembled and a voice, as ancient and terrible as death, reverberated among the hills.
“YOU ARE WHAT?”