Fangs for the Memories: Part 3

By Robyn Peterman

The vampire stood across from me, his large, looming figure silhouetted against the flames. “I need you to remove my fangs.”

I squinted at him in shock. “I’m sorry. What?” 

A vampire without his or her fangs was a dead vamp walking. Not to mention, the removal of fangs was a death sentence for the remove-ee. I was pretty happy with living for a few more decades. If the man wanted to die, surely there were other ways to do it. And I wanted no part of it. I was a witch who spread happiness and light, not death and destruction. The dude might be pretty, but he was definitely nuts.

“You heard me correctly, Lydia,” he stated. “I want you to remove my fangs. I’m old. I’m tired. It’s impossible to off myself, so I figured I’d go out creatively.”

“Look, umm… Mal, I’m not exactly a dentist,” I pointed out weakly wishing like hell I’d paid more attention on the drive. Having no clue where I was wasn’t all that helpful if I was able to make a break for it. “Have you thought about walking into the sunlight?”

He smiled. It was a lady-killer of a grin. I purposely blurred my vision so I wasn’t caught in his spell. Why did all the good-looking ones have to be insane? Not that I’d date a vamp. I had my hands full with idiot warlocks. It wouldn’t be wise to add a deranged undead guy to my list of failed romances. 

“I’m immune to frying to a crisp in the sun. Once a bloodsucker reaches a certain age, the sun is no longer an issue.”

“Garlic?”

“Love it,” he replied smoothly. 

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. 

“No bodily functions, so that’s not an option,” he said. “Although, not sure how that would end me.”

I rolled my eyes. He was a smart ass and a comedian. I wasn’t in the mood to laugh. Death was no laughing matter. “I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“Which is why I am going to provide you with pliers,” he told me, pulling a pair from his pocket. 

I was pretty sure my mouth had formed a perfect O. Nuts was an understatement. This vamp was certifiable. “You want me to use pliers to rip your fangs out of your head?”

“Do you have a better plan?” he inquired with what I thought was a twinkle in his unusual purple eyes. 

“Ummm… yes. I think it would be a fantastic plan if I left…skeedaddled… vamoosed,” I said, standing up. “You need some serious therapy and I’m woefully underqualified. Plus, I’m not sure why you need a witch to yank your fangs out. I’d think a werewolf would be a better choice. Those guys and gals love violence. You feel me?”

His smile was positively sinful and I regretted my words as soon as they’d left my lips. “I’d love to feel you, but as I said, I’m old and tired. It’s time to die.” 

I flopped back down on the chair. “You’re not going to let me leave until I end you, are you?”

“Afraid not,” Mal said. “I chose you for a reason. “Your funny, kind, powerful and beautiful. You won’t be suspected. It would be delightful to look upon your face as I leave this world.”

“Dude,” I snapped. “I’ve heard of some screwy stuff in my time, but this is ridiculous. You need to pull up your panties and grow a pair. I’m not going to remove your fangs. Period.”

“I wear boxer briefs.”

Well, crap. Now I was picturing Mr. Crazy Pants mostly nude and in boxer briefs. Who did I screw over to get myself into this situation? Karma was only a bitch if you were a bitch. I wasn’t a bitch, so this wasn’t karma. It was my life… or soon to be lack thereof. 

“Is there any way I can convince you not to die?” I asked. Maybe… just maybe, I could talk the handsome unhinged vampire out of his absurd request. 

The look in his eyes was feral. I felt a little breathless and unsure. Was this idiot using his mojo magic on me? Impossible. As a witch, I was immune to that crap. Or was I? 

“Well, there might be a way you could convince me to change my mind. All you have to do is…”

Tomorrow, Part 4 will be un-coffined Ann Gimple!