Rafe's Rules Read Free Page B

indecent assault, drug trafficking and operating a Satanic cult in Muscogee County. The man in the picture accompanying the article had thinning hair and mole-like eyes behind Coke-bottle lenses. So no, I guess you could safely say my padre wasn’t after all the most devout of men.)
     
    *
     
    I parked the station wagon out on the street and sauntered up the driveway. It was next morning, Sunday. Letitia had gone visiting with some girlfriends – they’d stopped by for her an hour ago, as I’d seen from the vantage point of my car – and as far as I knew, Oscar was home alone.
    My hair was pulled back into a ponytail and I had a University of Georgia cap down over my eyes, which were further hidden behind a pair of cheap shades. A college jersey, baggy jeans and sneakers complemented the ensemble. I looked about nineteen years old, I reckoned, and I’d even stuffed wads of tissue paper in my cheeks to resemble puppy fat. In my hands I carried a flat cardboard box. 
    Slung across my back was the bag with the tools of my trade.
    (Just what is in that bag? you’re wondering. Ah, but that will have to wait till later.)
    I pressed the doorbell and waited. After around a minute I heard footsteps and the door opened.
    I caught my breath.
    Oscar DeVane stood there in a bathrobe, his hair wet and tousled as if he’d toweled it in a hurry. His feet had left faint damp prints on the parquet floor behind him. The front of the robe had been carelessly belted and a deep V of hard, taut, muscular chest was visible. His head was lowered a little, his eyes a sharp gray, almost silver, under thick sooty lashes. It was the first time I’d seen him up close and his features were impossibly handsome. Beautiful, even. His nose was thin and straight, his lips curved and full.
    I might have looked nineteen, but at that moment I felt sixteen again.
    ‘Yes?’
    His voice was a rich baritone, not arrogant but gently curious. He didn’t look at all self conscious. Even with my shades on I felt a jab of nervousness at letting my gaze dart down to his chest, his sinewy legs below where the robe ended, in case he noticed.
    In a moment I realized it was my turn to speak. I wrenched my face into a big, shit-eating grin.
    ‘Hi!’ I chirped, pitching my voice an octave higher than normal. ‘Pardon me for troubling you, sir, but the Girl Guide group I manage, the West River Woodchucks, is doing a fundraiser for homeless animals.’ I’d pulled the name out of the air. ‘We’re baking cookies, and I’d really love for you to sample some.’
    I opened the box with a conjurer’s flourish. They really did look good, if I say so myself. I’d spent my Sunday morning preparing them using my own special recipe.
    Oscar’s gaze lingered on my face for a few seconds, and I felt a delicious and quite unexpected tightening at the tips of my breasts as my nipples rose. I didn’t think they’d show through my bra and sweater, but I raised the box of cookies a little higher just to be on the safe side.
    No member of the living dead had ever made me feel this way before. It was disorienting.
    He dropped his gaze to the cookies, a slight frown appearing at his brow as he examined them.
    ‘They look good,’ he said.
    And he reached for one.
    Rule Number Two: garlic makes vampires puke, and also gets them real pissed off.
    Again, this is one of those myths that’s more-or-less accurate. In fiction you’ll see the undead kept at bay by clumps of the stuff. It’s not quite as powerful as that, and they can just about bear the smell of it, but tasting it makes them have a reaction like alcoholics have when they’re on that Antabuse stuff and take a drink. Getting a vampire actually to ingest garlic isn’t easy, as they’re really careful about what they put in their mouths – God knows how they get by in places like Italy or France – which is why you have to disguise it.
    In my case, I’d baked a ton of the stuff into my cookies, using my special