Saturday 3:48 A.M.

Bruno watched the wipers of his limousine swipe over his fogged windshield. The rain came sudden, and unexpected, and did little for the muggy night. He frowned wiping his nose. "Weathermen, hah! Any numskull can say only two percent chance."

The down pour continued for another ten minutes and vanished as quickly as it came. Steam seeped from manholes and hovered over the paved street like ghosts wakened from their eternal sleep. Dark clouds over New York City cleared, giving way to black heavens. Bruno saw only a few stars, too much artificial lighting for the rest to shine through.

"Bruno . . ." a deep voice spoke over his portable radio. "Come pick us up. We'll be out back."

He snapped from his trance. "I'm on my way." Bruno placed the radio on the seat beside him and drove down the street. "My employer must be calling it early." He grinned. "If I had someone here to bet with, I'd bet he has a chic on his arm."

The Prince and his two bodyguards stood at the corner behind the theater. A blonde woman stroked the young boy's brown hair as the two suits scanned the shadows. At 4 A.M. the woman could only be a party girl. And did the Prince like his women. He had at least one every other night.

"Money in my pocket, if only..." Bruno slowed to a stop. "For such a young kid, he sure gets lucky. Or is his wallet talking?" He exited the front, opening the side door for his foreign employer. "That's the only weird thing about this job," he thought. "I mean the kid's what ten?" Bruno worked for the Prince nearly a year, and still wasn't sure which country he came from. "What do I care. The pay's great, and I work nights. No early dawn drives."

Bruno straightened, putting a hand behind his back as he held open the door. "I guess it's the perks for being rich and royalty."

The four started toward him, then one of the guards drew his weapon as he listened to his headset. The guard looked into the shadows where two more of his men were positioned. Gunfire shattered the quiet night. Bruno dove to the sidewalk as did the blonde woman. From the dark alley, animalistic screams pierced the sultry summer air. The blonde glanced around, raced back into the theater, and escaped the madness.

The young Prince shouted after her, "No, wait! Come back. There is nothing to fear. Everything will be fine. My men are well trained." He frowned as though he lost his beloved and turned his attention to the dark alley. "It is late," he grumbled to one of his guards like a spoiled child. "I'll not find another." The Prince continued standing in his arrogant posture, sure nothing could hurt him. Fear never gripped his face.

Bruno noticed the guards were not as sure. Their faces tightened, controlling their anxiety.

Whatever stalked the shadows fought furiously. The other guards engaged the unknown assailant as their panicked cries filled the alley. More shots rang out, then confused shouts.

"Where is it?"

"I don't know!"

"Where is it?"

The head guard yelled over his headset, "Who's out there?" He seemed to get no response for he yelled again, "What are you shooting at? How many?"

The animalistic screams faded, plunging the alley into silence. "Prince, quickly into the vehicle," the head guard ordered. "We must get you to safety."

"If you insist." The young boy's preoccupation remained with the blonde. "Why don't you call in more men if you are afraid." He looked toward the theater. "Some of them can search for my escort."

The head guard glanced at the arrogant Prince. His belief in his immortality would be his end. "My Lord, please into the vehicle!"

Before the boy reacted, a figure stepped from the

shadows, and paused on sidewalk across from them. The moon's pale glow hit the figure's black trench coat, and a gentle breeze blew her short auburn hair. In silence, the woman studied them. An unforgettable magnetism emanated from her like a sleek panther stalking the jungles. The woman’s stare transformed into a glare, knowing the prey laid before her.

Bruno peeked up from hugging asphalt. "What

does she want?"

No one acknowledged his question as she slowly made her way to them. As far as he could tell, she was unarmed. The head guard raised his weapon firing. The woman dodged the speeding projectiles with uncanny speed as if possessing the ability to see the bullets streak toward her. She growled at them like a wildcat and proceeded at her eerie pace. Both guards looked at each other bewildered, turned, and fired a barrage of metal. This time the woman leaped into the air like a black raven soaring into the sky. One of the bullets grazed her shoulder. She cried out in pain and landed on one knee, holding her wound. The woman glowered at the Prince as rage saturated her body and soul. Her eyes glowed like blue lightning, and she snarled, revealing large canines.

"Vampire!" Bruno uttered. "She's . . . She's a freakin’ Vampire!"

The guards were as surprised as the driver. They holstered their guns, removing machetes they had hidden in their coats. The woman grinned, rising to her feet. The guards charged her, and she dove behind the limousine. They rounded the vehicle, discovering she'd disappeared.

The guards turned back to back, scanning the darkness. There was no sign of the woman. Bruno also probed the blackness, then he saw her. The vampire stood on a window ledge of the building behind him. Her blue lightning eyes crackled in the darkness. He started to utter her location when she pounced. She flew through the air with her trench coat fluttering about, sounding like the snapping of whips. The woman knocked the second guard to the street and grabbed his machete. He quickly rose, drawing his gun. With one quick motion, she sliced off his head, spraying blood across the limousine. She stood there, holding the blade out as his head toppled back and rolled down the street like an odd shaped bowling ball. The guard's body collapsed, disappearing to the street. Bruno stared wide eyed at the last guard. He and the vampire began their dance of death, circling one another, looking for a vulnerable spots. The guard charged her. She lifted her left fist, aimed a miniature crossbow strapped to her wrist, and shot a bolt. The projectile hit him in the heart, and he collapsed to his knees.

"Who are you?" he asked with his dying breath. He couldn't understand what stood before him. "What are you?" He gasped and fell face first to the street.

Bruno stood, grabbing the Prince by the hand. "Get in the car! We're getting outta here!" He whipped the boy into the back seat. "I don't get paid enough to fight vampires . . . or die by one."

The vampire leaped over the limousine, landing in the alley behind the driver. She reappeared, coming out of the shadows like a mad apparition. She grabbed Bruno, lifting his 250 pound bulk off the ground like he weighed nothing. He cried out horrified. Her face wasn't as pale as he expected, but her eyes, her erupting eyes glared deep into his soul. She studied his face and paused as if changing her mind about killing him. The vampire threw him into the building's side like discarded trash. Bruno hit his head hard and slid into a heap. He looked up at the woman as she dragged the Prince from the car. His vision blurred as he fought to keep conscious. She growled at the boy, revealing her sharp gleaming teeth.

"You were a hard one to hunt, boy!" She stared deep into his wide eyes.

"Who are you?" the Prince asked in a quivering voice. Finally fear appeared on his face like that of a cornered rabbit facing a wolf.

Bruno crawled toward them, fighting the void rushing in.

"I'm called Lily." She stroked the child's soft face. "But you will know me as death."

"Lily?" The Prince gazed into her face, unable to comprehend the monstrosity. "What are you?"

"No, Lily," Bruno screamed, pleading to whatever humanity she may have. He crawled closer. "Don't kill the Prince, he's innocent. Don't hurt him."

The vampire hissed at the driver, opened her fanged mouth as Bruno's strength failed, and he blacked out. Bruno heard the Prince shriek the pangs of death and all sound and color faded into darkness.

* * *

One year later . . .

Tuesday 6:48 P.M.

A man in his early fifties glanced at his pocket watch and said with a Texan accent, "There she is now, and right on time." Matt stepped from the mansion's sidewalk as a tinted car pulled up. He opened the driver’s side door. "Howdy, Ms. Staplehouse." He removed his tengallon hat, holding it against his chest. "Did you have a pleasant trip?"

"Yes." She took his hand, stepped from the rental, and surveyed the lush green southern plantation. "Thank you Mr. Steed." Night's early twilight pushed back the orange sky, sending the sun into the thralls of the horizon. "Though it was a long ride."

"Would you like to retire to your room?" He placed his tan hat back on his graying head. "I had our housekeeper, Cathy, make up one in case you agreed to join us."

"No thank you." She straighten her long sleeve milky blouse and looked into his green-brown eyes. "I would like to go ahead and meet the group."

"Then right this way, ma'am." Matt gestured to the large white mansion. "They're all gathered in the meeting room."

Ms. Staplehouse entered the redwood carved vestibule and moved into a richly decorated marble hall. "This place is huge," she thought. "Not what I expected for a southern mansion, but impressive." The old estate surrounded by live oaks and long forgotten tobacco fields now stood as a place of hope. Or at least that was the pitch given to her. "I wonder what kind of group would want me to join them?"

Mr. Steed politely walked behind her. "Now I know Ms. Staplehouse, that you might be reluctant to join our group. That you believe our work is nothing but hogwash. But that's why we need you, to bring balance. The Florida House recently lost one of its members and is desperate to fill the void. Money's no object."

She listened while studying the mansion's fascinating paintings and statues. Finally, he said who they were, and she almost laughed.

Ms. Staplehouse started, "Let me see if I have this right.” She pointed at him. “You are a group of monster hunters and I, a debunker of such myths, am high on your recruitment list?"

"Yes ma'am, that's right. As I said we need balance. If all of us are gun ho about whatever anomaly . . ." He cupped his hand to his mouth, whispering, "That's what we call monsters." He continued in his normal voice. "Like I said, if we're all gun ho about an anomaly we're investigating, we might miss the simplest explanation to the problem. Not every case we take ends up being a stallion, most are geldings."

She paused, turning to the taller well rounded man. "Okay, I understand so far, but why seek replacement outside your circle? Don't you have others willing to fill your void?"

"Well you see ma'am, that's another thing all together. No one from the other Houses wants to work with my guys." Matt removed his hat, fiddling with its rim. "The best way to spell it out for you is to say, they're all weird. Yes, I know a harsh thing to say about my own boys, but gash darn it! They don't work well with others." He scratched his graying head. "I don't see how this House has stayed operational this long with these outcasts. No one would work with them, so I brought them together. The Foundation won't support us, so it's only my money keeping us afloat."

Her eyebrows raised. "If this is your spiel, I think you have a little work to do on it."

"Yes, ma'am. I only wanted you fully prepared before we go in." Matt placed his hat back on. "If you're going to sell a sow, you might as well tell the buyer she can't have piglets. That way he knows, he's only getting bacon."

She stared, bewildered at him, and shook off her surprise. "Fine, let's see this . . . bacon."

"She's right," Matt thought. "I'd never make it as a peddler. Maybe I should hire someone to do this next time.” He shook his head. “What am I saying? I don't want to have to do this again."

Matt opened double oak doors, leading into a library. Inside three men sat, spaced around a large table. Ms. Staplehouse and the tycoon proceeded in. Half way in she paused, not so much afraid, but jolted.

"Mr. Steed," she said almost in a whisper. "Why is that man wearing an elf costume?"

"So it begins." Matt shook his head. "He's not dressed up like an elf, ma'am. Right now he's Savik, a Vulcan Starfleet officer. He wears the blue uniform of a medical officer." Mr. Steed cleared his throat. "His real identity is Kirk T. James, a trekkie and our resident Watcher. His passion for the Star Trek franchise is rooted deep in his family."

"I see." Ms. Staplehouse said and mumbled to herself, "I've entered a madhouse."

Kirk lifted his hand, separating his fingers into pairs, stuck his thumb out, and formed the Vulcan hand salute. "Live long and prosper."

"Not your typical run of the mill cuckoos," she thought. Ms. Staplehouse forced a smile, walking past the straight faced man. "Yes Mr. James, and may the force be with you."

Kirk raised a fake up swept brow. "There is no Mr. James here. I am Savik." He thought, "I bet she wouldn't know a phaser from a tricorder. No matter . . ." He searched the table. "Now where did I put my Spock pen?"

Mr. Steed proceeded with the introductions. "Our next member is a Cryptozoologist and resident hacker. He's also our medical expert . . ." He leaned over and whispered, "And very paranoid." Matt straightened and motioned to a very muscular man with thick black rimmed glasses. "This is Dr. Doubt." Before Ms. Staplehouse had a chance to crack a smile, Mr. Steed whispered, "Don't laugh ma'am, it's his real name."

"Oh." She controlled her laughter.

"Orval, say hello to Ms. Staplehouse." Mr. Steed coaxed the thirty something man.

She offered her hand, and Dr. Doubt looked at it as if it was an infectious disease.

"Do you work for the government?" Orval asked, studying the reddish-brown haired woman. "She must," he thought, running her name through his computer. "It's only a matter of finding out which branch she's working for, or maybe its branches, or even governments."

"No." After grabbing air, Ms. Staplehouse withdrew her hand. "I just work for myself."

"You look awfully young for someone in your profession." Orval brown eyes narrowed, thinking, "For all we know, she's working for a rival House, sent here to shut us down." He straightened his glasses and asked, "What makes you an expert in your field?"

"Ah . . . I'm a subscriber to the Skeptic's Disclosure," she answered with a hopeful smile.

Orval looked at her ID on the computer screen and turned to Mr. Steed. "Did you thoroughly check her background?"

"Tripled checked, son. Now pipe down and give our guest some room to breathe." Matt ushered Ms. Staplehouse past the doctor. "And our last member, Juan is our Slayer. He's master of weapons and in the art of making monsters dead. Also, he's a self proclaimed lone wolf."

The Hispanic man rested his boots on the table, while he sharpened a stake with a large knife. "Hola," Juan muttered, pausing from his work, and rubbed a gold cross around his neck.

"Hello." Ms. Staplehouse replied and grabbed Mr. Steed's elbow. "Does he speak English?"

"Can he speak it? Yes." Matt paused. "Does he speak it? No. And his Spanish is bad to say the least, but what can you do?" He shook his head. "That's one of the things we're trying to work on in our group. Juan refuses to speak English . . . Orval doesn't trust anyone . . . And Kirk's too lost in his five year mission, to come down to Earth long enough to communicate with us mere humans. So you see our biggest problem. I've done my best, but I'm no group therapist."

Juan looked her over, thinking, "Another lamb for the slaughter."

Ms. Staplehouse paced the library in thought.

Matt looked hopeful. "So ma'am, are you in?"

"Do you charge for your services?"

"Only if the problem's solved, and we only charge what the client can afford. Most of our cases we don't get paid a thing. Not saying we don't solve their problem, it's only most of our clients don't have the money." Mr. Steed removed a silver cigarette case from his inside coat pocket. "Or in most cases, they don't know we're working for them. It's hard to charge admission, when they don't know they've clumb on the ride."

She looked at him puzzled and continued, "I have one other question. What happened to the member I'm replacing?" She folded her arms, grinning. "Did they grow tired of chasing hoaxes and would-be phantoms?"

"No," Juan spoke up, agitated at her disbelief. "Chupacabras." He then thought, "Look at her. She thinks she knows everything."

Ms. Staplehouse's smile faded. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"He said Chupacabras, also known as the Goatsucker," Orval interjected. "About a month ago our team went to the Caribbean island of Puerto Rico. We were investigating the savage deaths of many dogs, cats, and livestock. The corpses were found drained of blood and minus various organs." He straightened his glasses. "Miss. Carolina, the member in question, fatefully encountered the Chupacabras alone. Later, Juan tracked and killed the Goatsucker, and I discovered pieces of the partially digested woman. Later, the authorities confiscated the creature, so I was unable to conduct a thorough autopsy."

Ms. Staplehouse made a face and regained her composure. "I can tell by how you talk about her you were all close." She glanced around the room at the emotionless faces. "I can tell by your expressions you miss her deeply."

Orval ignored her snide comment. "Some say the origins of this creature are extraterrestrial."

"Extraterrestrial?" Savik, the Vulcan, tilted his head. "Yes, space the final frontier..."

"No!" Orval snapped, quieting Kirk. "Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut-up!" He took a couple of deep breaths and continued, "As I was saying, I don't believe they're extraterrestrial, but that a grotesque top-secret agency genetically engineered the monsters as bio-weapons, and they escaped their captors."

"Of course you would think that." Ms. Staplehouse shook her head. "It couldn't have been a deformed monkey or anything that simple."

Orval and Juan sneered at her. Kirk opened up his Star Trek Encyclopedia, browsing through it.

Ms. Staplehouse rubbed her neck, deciding. "Well, because of the warmth and love I feel in this room I'll join you, but I have some conditions." She lifted her index finger. "I get my days off." She paused. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but monster hunting is at night."

"Not all monsters are nocturnal," Savik interrupted.

"No matter," Matt said quickly. "You can have your days off."

"Good." She placed her hands in her slacks pockets, getting more comfortable. "That way I can continue my work and still keep you gentlemen on the straight and narrow." She rocked back and forth on her dress shoes. "Second, you will provide any equipment I need and pay me twice what I'm making now. Third, you’re getting me as is. Which brings me to the last thing. I'm here as long as I desire to be."

"Deal." Matt eagerly reached out his large hand, shaking hers before she changed her mind about joining his asylum. "Anything you need ma'am let me know." He opened the cigarette case, retrieving a small stick. At Ms. Staplehouse odd glance, he explained, "They're licorice roots. They're helping me quit smoking."

"I'm glad you're quitting." She wrinkled her nose at the thought of fire and smoke. "It's a nasty habit."

"Now ma'am, one last thing before we make your

membership official. Do you prefer to be called Ms. Staplehouse or may we use your first name?"

She waved her hand. "No, please call me by my first name. Ms. Staplehouse is so formal." She smiled, hiding a fangy grin. "You may call me Lily."

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