“So, that creepy old guy was human?” said Nine Thyme. She scratched at the white cloth bandaged on the inside of her arm just above her wrist. The tattoo had hurt for a bit, but now it itched. With the protective cloth over it, she couldn’t quite scratch, just rub at it, which she was warned not to do.

At the table, sitting adjacent to Nine, Augustus stared at his half-empty mug of coffee. He wore all black, always black tie with a black shirt, for as long as Nine could remember. It seemed fitting for a mortician, but he hadn’t always dressed for the part. He started wearing only black in the days after that night at Pine Mountain Tavern. In mourning for his lost son, according to him, anyway. Nine felt certain there was more to it. He couldn’t still be mourning after all these years. Black suited him well. Her grandfather continued staring at the mug with that intense gaze of his.

He would do this sometimes in the middle of a story, dive deep into his thoughts. Telling this tale was difficult for him, and Nine didn’t want to rush him. She already knew about Jonathan Villeneuve. Not that Augustus had killed him, but about Villeneuve being employed by Vampire Thyme. It was part of her studies her grandfather had set her on in the last week. Fifty-two years ago, Villeneuve had been a mortician for Thyme Funeral Services, a run-down establishment in Bend. Even with the family name in common, her grandfather had never heard of it. Very few had known about it. Unlike their own family business, Thyme Funeral Home in Roseland was actually fairly popular. For a funeral service, anyway.

The old man didn’t appear ready to go on just yet, so Nine grabbed his mug and stepped over to the kitchen counter to fetch more coffee from the pot. She returned and set the mug in the same spot so the old man didn’t miss it. He continued staring at the mug as if it had never moved, but now Nine could see a troubling darkness in his eyes. There was something more about his story he wasn’t telling, or something much darker yet to come. It was always hard to tell with Augustus. Sitting so still like that, he could have died and nobody would have been the wiser until checking his pulse, something she had tried before, but had learned touching him in his state could spook the old timer. He looked great for a ninety-three year-old man, better than most seventy year-olds, but he also appeared as fragile.

“What about the police?” said Nine. She rubbed at the dressing on her arm, but her flesh continued itching.

“I waited for the police to show for a week,” said Augustus. He slipped the hook of his cane from his arm and tapped the floor twice. Another quirk of his. “They never did, and I suspected Vampire Thyme had something to do with that.”

“That was when you decided to start studying,” said Nine. Her guess was based on other tidbits she had picked up over the years, listening to various stories.

Augustus nodded. His eyes brightened a bit, but some of the darkness held on.

“On Helen’s recommendation,” he said. His head hung low. “I had gone back to Kandy’s store for advice as well, but she told me the same. Know thy enemy.”

Helen was the older lady living in the mansion up on the hill. A recluse, but she came down from her perch every now and then for tea with Augustus.

“The books you have me reading,” said Nine. One of them was on the table, and she slid it over. A family tree for various known vampires including the original Thyme. The name on the book was pseudonym for an unknown author, but Nine suspected Helen had written it. Parts of the family descriptions had her way with words.

“And what have you learned from your studies?”

“The Itoril people believe they are descendents of Ithuriel, a blood-thirsty god-like being. They are thought to be the inspiration for vampire myths due to their fangs. Didn’t you say Villeneuve didn’t have fangs after all? You only thought he did.”

“Nine, things are rarely black and white,” said Augustus. “And stop picking at that or it will get infected.”

Pulling her hand away from the dressing, she realized she had been absently rubbing it again. Why did the tattoo have to itch so much? She might need a thicker dressing to keep from irritating it. Maybe some oil would help, she thought.

“I hadn’t realized it then,” said Augustus, “but I was beginning to recognize the subtler traits of an Itoril.”

“The iridescent eyes,” said Nine.

“And other cues,” said Augustus. He took a slow sip of coffee and set the mug gently on the table. “I didn’t know if he had filed his fangs down to fit in with society, or simply never had any. Low hanging fruit on his family tree, I suppose. Blood is sure-fire confirmation. Some of Villenueve’s blood ended up on my hands and arm, and I tested it finding his blood very different from human blood.”

This hadn’t been covered in her reading, and she hadn’t considered their blood being different. Perhaps the Itoril people weren’t as closely related to homo sapiens as she had first believed.

Her grandfather smiled breaking the gloom. He said, “It’s your sixteenth birthday. I’m certain you have better things in mind today than listening to an old man’s story.”

“Are you kidding?” Nine gave her grandfather a scolding look. “This is the best birthday present ever. You have to tell me how you got Daddy back!”

Expression darkening, her grandfather gazed down at his mug. He seemed transfixed for a moment as if he saw something terrible inside the mug, but at last his lips began to move. And then he spoke.

“Much later,” said Augustus. “Maxine Berkshire had lost her third and final son. Not the war this time, but illness. Hospital care wasn’t so good in those days.

“It was a dark day. Clouds threatening rain that never came. The funeral had gone smoothly, and at the very end, that kind old lady, Berkshire, approached me and took my arm. She thanked me for the service. And then she gave me her blessing, telling me she felt certain my son would return.

“I held back my tears. Men weren’t supposed to cry in those days, but I nearly did. And after she left, I trembled. I’ll never forget her words. ‘God promised your son will return,’ she said. Her son had told her so not long before he had passed.”

Eyes watering, Nine dabbed at them with her finger. Darkness seemed to envelope the kitchen. She watched her grandfather take a dry gulp, and she took one of her own.

“The Itoril people may be more or less, people,” said Augustus. “For the most part. But, I soon realized the truth.

“There are terrible things in this world. That night I learned what it means to look upon evil. Vampires truly exist, Nine, and when one allows you to see it in all its horror, there is no uncertainty. To gaze upon a vampire is to look upon the devil.

“After the funeral, Old Thyme paid me a visit.”

The vampire stepped inside the tavern, and the door closed behind him. Dressed in a gentleman’s attire more at home in the 1940s, the vampire stood like a gaunt statue with that same distant look he had held while waiting in the Cadillac that night he had chauffeured Susan to the funeral home.

“Ring of Fire” played over the jukebox.

“I see my message found you,” said the vampire.

“Where’s my son?” said Augustus. He didn’t recall pulling his revolver out, but there it was held in his hand. His heart thundered.

The unmistakable sound of the pumping action pushing a round into the barrel of a shotgun came followed by the deep, demanding voice of the bartender. “Take it outside fellas.”

Not appearing the least bit concerned, the vampire grinned showing off his terrible fangs. Augustus’s hand began to shake, and he gripped the revolver tight.

There was a pop sound, maybe even glass shattering. Gun kicking in his hand, Augustus cringed fighting to hold his hand steady. There was no going back now, he squeezed the trigger twice more at the monstrous kidnapper as he backpedaled knocking a stool over, his left elbow smashing into the scrawny fellow. He had hit his mark, he felt sure of it, but that evil grin wouldn’t go away.

Shotgun blasted, the jukebox exploded spitting glass, the music died.

Turning about, Augustus fired in the direction of the bar. Another blast and birdshot tore into his leg. As he crumpled over, he fired again, and the bartender fell over. Augustus hit hard on his side, but managed to hold onto the revolver. Pain shot up his leg, and he growled through clenched teeth.

Sitting up, he spotted the scrawny fellow, Neville, lying still on the floor hugging a fallen stool. Slumped against the front door, the vampire sat there spitting blood.

Loud ringing in his ear made hearing difficult. Fearing the bartender might be hidden behind the bar and reloading, Augustus leaped up onto his feet. His knee felt like it was on fire, and he grunted trying to hold back the inferno racing through his veins. Holding his gun out, he hobbled to the bar and peered over.

The bartender sat against the back counter, his mouth agape and eyes hanging open. Blood gushed from the dead man’s temple. Neville was dead, too, but Augustus didn’t find a reason. Heart attack, perhaps.

The kidnapper still hadn’t moved, but he coughed blood. As the ringing faded, Augustus could make out heavy breathing accompanied with a round of spitting. Looking at him now, he realized the old man didn’t appear much like a vampire. Dragging his injured leg, he made it over to the front door. The old man looked up at him as he knelt beside him.

Plenty of blood in the old man’s mouth, but no fangs.

“Your son,” said the old man, voice raspy. He licked blood from his lip, and appeared like he was going to continue, but instead let his head droop. His shirt was soaked through, and he was choking on blood. This old man wasn’t a vampire after all.

“Where is he?” said Augustus. He removed his finger from the trigger, and lowered his gun. “Is he at the ranch?”

The old man fell silent.

Augustus searched the dead man’s pockets, discovering a wallet and a set of keys. According to his driver’s license, the old man was Jonathan Villeneuve of Bend. He found a business card for Old Thyme Funeral Services, which struck Augustus odd, since his business was named, Thyme Funeral Home, but it quickly came to him. The family business went back further than he had realized, here in Bend, where Villeneuve had been employed.

Augustus took the business card and left the wallet on the floor. Glancing around the tavern, he was looking at two murders, possibly a third. Death had enough business for one night. Opening the door, he let the kidnapper’s body fall over. No sirens, but the tavern stood far enough on the edge of town that it would likely take a few more minutes.

Dragging his leg to the hearse, he felt dazed, and didn’t know where to go. Not the ranch, not with a knee shredded by birdshot. The local hospital meant an invite to jail. Home, naturally, he thought, where he had everything he needed to patch himself up and enough booze to wash away the pain.

The drive home was the longest drive of his life.

The highway snaked through evergreens, over the mountains where firs gave way to pines, and then the forest ended suddenly. A bolt piercing the desert, the highway seemed to glow in moonlight. Sagebrush flickered through headlights, spidery ghosts dodging the 1951 Buick hearse speeding along the midnight ribbon with the mortician at the wheel and Death, a silent passenger along for the ride.

The little town of Bend, nestled beside volcanic peaks, sat at the crossroads between timber and ranching. The hearse lumbered through town, splashing through light of streetlamps revealing quiet parking lots housing sleeping automobiles and the occasional pedestrians on the sidewalk. At the southern edge of town the sidewalk gave way to burnt red rock and pine trees. The hearse rolled into a dusty parking lot and stopped beside a ‘57 Chevy.

Augustus Thyme climbed out of the Buick and gave the establishment a crooked look. Pine Mountain Tavern according to the hand-carved sign on the roof. The light was on, and he could make out music playing inside. He checked his revolver in the holster and pulled his coat closed. Out here in ranch country with a gun hanging from his belt, he felt a little like a cowboy—a cowboy without cattle. Trying to hold back his nervousness, he bit his lip.

Inside, the jukebox played “Love Me Tender.” The fat man behind the bar shot Augustus a glance and went back to reading a book. Sitting at the bar, head hanging with troubles of the day, a scrawny man in a gray suit nursed a beer along like he was savoring his last drink on Earth.

Augustus ordered a shot of whiskey. As the bartender poured the drink, Augustus politely asked for directions to the ranch.

“I can’t imagine the Pine-Bar expecting you so late,” said the bartender.

The scrawny man snickered and said, “Pine-Bar not expecting nobody no more.”

“Shutdown years ago,” said the bartender. He looked up at the ceiling in thought. “That old codger still lives there if I reckon correctly. Neville, what’s the old man’s name, again?”

Neville slurped from his beer and stared at the glass for a moment.

“Hell if I know.”

“What can you tell me about this old timer?” asked Augustus.

“Keeps to himself,” said Neville. He gazed at the bartender with narrowed eyes. “They say that old fart is over a hundred years old.”

The bartender shook his head and batted his hand at Neville.

It was starting to sound like whomever had left the note on his door had pointed him in the right direction. All he needed now was a proper vampire hunter, someone with experience in these matters. How does one go about hiring a vampire hunter? It wasn’t like he could browse the phone book. The wanted ads, perhaps, but less crazy.

“Who’s they?” said Augustus.

Johnny Cash’s voice came over the jukebox singing, “Ring of Fire.”

“Them,” said Neville. He lazily twirled his finger in the air and shot Augustus a crooked look. “Old folk in town.”

Augustus downed the whiskey, but it didn’t extinguish his nerves. He pushed the glass around with his fingers. He didn’t want to go to the ranch alone, not at night anyway. He didn’t want to wait long to find out if his son was there, either. Maybe a quick gander.

Gaze roving over the coat bulging over Augustus’s hip, a look of curious concern darkened the bartender’s face. He asked, “What’s your business with Pine-Bar, stranger?”

Augustus studied the bartender’s face, the building suspicion. The man sneered revealing teeth, sharp teeth like a vampire. Feeling his eyes bulge, Augustus gritted his teeth trying to hide his surprise. Recalling his earlier episode, he reminded himself it was his intoxicated imagination seeing vampires everywhere. Searching for the truth, he focused. The sneer seemed to fade, but his eyes grew heavy and he looked down at the empty shot glass.

“Family business,” said Augustus. His hand shook, and he clenched his fist.

“Another?”

He stole a quick peek finding the bartender appearing normal. He nodded.

“Cool beans, man,” said Neville. “Drink up for it’s the witching hour!”

Heat scrambled up Augustus’s legs, and he began to perspire. Music from the jukebox mutated, horns blaring, and Johnny Cash’s voice lowering an octave, slowing. Neville cackled like a witch in slow motion. Cash’s voice took on a disturbing tone like Sam Hill inviting Augustus into the fire.

The bartender set the shot down, and Augustus slammed it back feeling the fire racing down his throat.

Creaking door swinging open let the cool breeze extinguish the heat. Neville and the bartender glanced over at the entrance, and Augustus twisted around to look.

Standing in the doorway was the driver of the dark Cadillac, the vampire whom had taken young Samuel Thyme.

The machine thumped like a heart pushing embalming fluid through tubes into the body, and blood exited the corpse through other tubes filling a cylinder on the floor. Helping the flow, Augustus massaged the flesh with a soapy sponge. He watched the skin color for signs of a problem. The rhythmic thumping calmed him even as his thoughts kept turning back to what he had learned from the historian on top of the hill, the troubling implication about his family name. Gradually, the flesh firmed and turned rosy. All went well for Henry Gerson in death. If only life passed as smoothly.

After Augustus turned the embalming machine off, silence in the windowless mortuary began to creep inside.

Vampires didn’t procreate. The historian, Helen, had confirmed it. These creatures weren’t the vampires of legend, but procreation was impossible, which meant Vampire Thyme could be his ancestor by name alone. Unless the old one had been human once.

Checking his pocket watch, he realized it was already nearly sunset. Quickly, he unhooked the body and began cleaning up. Cavity excavation would have to wait until after he locked down the funeral home for the night. The noise kept the silence away, but his thoughts banged around in his head. Only three things calmed him anymore: jazz music, the embalming machine, and alcohol. In his rush, he nearly tipped the fluid waste receptacle over, the cylinder wheeled around on its base.

Augustus hurried upstairs, first through the lobby, he checked the main entrance. Still locked. Next, he checked the residential front door and then the back. In his bedroom, he unlocked the gun cabinet and retrieved his revolver and strapped the belt around his waist. He opened the cartridge, quickly pushed bullets into place, pressed the cartridge closed, and dropped the revolver into his holster.

After three weeks, this routine was beginning to feel all too familiar and reassuring. He wasn’t a gunslinger by any means, but he could shoot straight enough. At beer bottles, anyway.

From the closet, he snatched up his grandfather’s broadsword, a weapon carried by officers during the civil war. If the gun proved ineffective, the blade would have to do. He didn’t actually expect Vampire Thyme, or any other creature, to come to the funeral home. Vampire Thyme already had what he wanted: his baby son, Samuel.

Following his nightly routine, Augustus headed to the study where he set the sword on the reading table, went to the cupboard, and poured a shot of bourbon. He slammed it back and poured another. Taking a seat at the reading table, he rested his weary legs. He stared at the glass in his hand as if it were the devil calling him.

Of course, the lockdown routine was a pretense. No matter how many lies he told himself, something deep inside spoke loudly. Hunt the fucker down, it told him. Kill that demon spawn of Lilith.

He’d reason with the vampire, he thought, make the old fart see the light at the end of the barrel.

Augustus began humming a blues lullaby, something he’d heard on the radio. Like the prior evenings, it didn’t help, but he continued humming until his tightening grip on the glass became unbearable. He drank the bourbon down and set the glass on the table.

The room began to buzz.

Branches scratched the side of the house like a creature trying to fight its way inside.

The late Henry Gerson wasn’t going to extract his own guts, so Augustus forced himself out of the chair. Carrying the sword like a security blanket, he headed downstairs. At the receiving doors, he gave the knob a twist.

The door popped open letting in a rush of cold air, and the door swung back clanging against the steel frame.

Augustus froze.

Had he checked the receiving doors earlier?

He took a deep breath and pulled his revolver free of the holster. Holding the broadsword by the scabbard in his left hand, he tapped the sword handle against the door. Another deep breath he gulped down.

Using the sword, he pushed the door open, and aimed his revolver at the empty parking area. The wind fought him, and leaning a shoulder against the door, he stepped outside. The cold wind curled around ankles sending shivers up his legs.

The sky burned orange against puffy clouds. Augustus scanned the shadows within the woods finding swaying branches. The forest howled making it difficult to hear much if there was something to hear.

Retreating, Augustus turned back spotting an envelope fluttering from the latch of the closed door. He snatched it, tearing the corner, and stepped inside. The door slammed closed. He returned the revolver to his holster, and locked the doors, giving both knobs a good shake.

He tore the envelope open, unfolded the letter, and read the handwritten note. In few words, it told him that Samuel was among other boys and girls at the Pine-Bar Ranch.

No signature. The envelope, without a clue, sank in his hand.

Pine-Bar. Tip or trap, it was something.

The historian lived near Thyme Funeral Home, a short drive to the top of the same hillside. So short, Augustus Thyme decided to hike an old footpath through the woods. The fog grew dense, but as he neared the peak, clouds gave way to blue sky. Emerging from the forest, he gazed out over the valley. Roseland hid beneath the cloud deck leaving a breathtaking view of the mountains appearing like the rolling backside of a green dragon swimming in a frothy sea. Four snowcapped volcanic peaks running north to south were the dragon’s rugged armor plates.

After catching his breath, Augustus walked to the what appeared like a tiny castle, a Victorian manor, surrounded by manicured hedges and lawn. The antique business paid better than he had guessed.

The butler led him to a windowless library decorated in late 19th century furniture with early electric lighting. The room felt cold, and Augustus eyed the small flames within the fireplace with suspicion.

While waiting, Augustus strolled around the room scanning titles. The books were arranged by subject. Judging by the vast majority, science must have been the antiquity expert’s favorite subject. He paused a moment at a shelf crowded with mortuary science texts and recognized several of his favorite authors. As he approached the next shelf, a title caught his eye: The Vampyr: A Family Tree.

Augustus took the book and settled into a chair at a round table. Flipping through the hefty tome, he scanned headings and lists broken by brief passages describing individuals. Quickly, he began to realize the book indeed outlined a tree breaking down prominent members and their lines. Flipping back to the beginning, he found a familiar name at the very top: Ithuriel.

A single paragraph described Ithuriel as violent and quite mad. Also, possibly a myth created by the passing of stories to new generations over a millennia. More evidence convincing Augustus there was no Ithuriel, certainly no longer, as this text suggested the source of all vampires had disappeared long, long ago. Whomever Susan had referred to as patriarch was somebody else.

Glancing around, Augustus spotted a woman standing in the doorway. Dressed in something his mother might have worn to church, the woman appeared like a doll. The woman’s eyes hid behind smoky spectacles, but Augustus could feel her studying him.

“You must be Augustus Thyme,” said the woman. Her soft voice sounded authoritative.

Augustus stood and inclined his head.

Approaching the table, her shoes barely made a sound on the wood floor. She told him her name.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, Helen,” said Augustus.

“We’ve been practically neighbors for years,” said Helen. She shrugged. “It’s surprising we haven’t met until now.”

Eager to escape pleasantries and move onto business, Augustus held out the card the woman from the record store had given him.

Helen took the card and set it on the table. Her dark spectacles made it difficult to tell if she had glanced at it.

After taking their seats, Augustus told Helen his story starting with the day he met Susan and the old man in the Cadillac. He described in detail how his son had been taken from the hospital. Helen listened closely, nodding at times. The smoky spectacles began to irritate him. Helen was impossible to read, but he kept going, telling her about collecting books and his research into the descendents of Ithuriel.

“Now, I’m uncertain to whom Susan had referred to as patriarch,” said Augustus, feeling spent.

Helen leaned closer. Augustus could barely make out her eyes moving behind the smoky lenses, and he felt like a lab rat under her scrutinizing gaze. Smiling, Helen revealed her teeth, all perfectly natural in appearance. If she was trying to make him feel more comfortable, it wasn’t working. Those dark glasses put him on edge.

“Tell me, Augustus, what will you do when you meet the one responsible for taking your son?”

“Reason with him,” said Augustus. It wasn’t a lie, but he felt guilty. A part of him wanted to hurt the old man in the Cadillac. If that man was a vampire, violence seemed a more reasonable solution.

“Normally in a situation like this,” said, Helen, “I’d advise you find a truly good lawyer, but my suspicion tells me a lawyer will do you little good.”

“Because he’s a vampire,” said Augustus.

“Because he may have a legitimate claim,” said Helen. Pulling the book closer to her, she began flipping pages.

Augustus couldn’t imagine how any vampire could have a right to take his son, but he grew curious about what information might be in the vampire lineage book that could help him.

“Here we are,” said Helen. She tapped the page with her finger. “My suspicion is that your wife and her father had made a deal with this one.”

The book slid across the table, and Augustus found his surname at the top of the page.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Augustus.

“Perhaps you’re a surrogate father for the first Thyme,” said Helen.

Augustus studied the page.

The text implied that his family name was derived from a vampire named, Thyme.