I looked at the green Ford F One Fifty extended cab as I walked past it to the buildings front door. That truck or one much like it, had been part of my life for as long as I could remember. From twelve and a half feet away (I can't tell you how I knew that measurement, but would bet money it was right) I could feel the heat of the engine block on my skin. Gramps hadn't been here too awful long yet. Good.
The television was on in my apartment, the volume low and I could smell fresh brewed coffee as I walked down the hallway to my door. Bracing myself mentally, I turned the key in the lock and cautiously pushed the door open. The man sitting in my leather chair looked a good ten years younger than his seventy-four years, his features clear in the pool of light from my chair side reading light, the comforting aroma of Captain Black pipe tobacco wafting from his position. The rest of the apartment was dark, except for the little light over the stove in the galley. At five foot eleven, my grandfather is an inch taller than I am, a fact he loves to remind me about. His weight has stayed a remarkably even one hundred and ninety pounds for most of the last four decades, a result of a naturally sound metabolism and a long life of hard physical labor. Dressed in Carhart pants, timberland work boots, and a green John Deere sweatshirt, his flint gray eyes studied me carefully from under a thick head of gray hair. His left hand was wrapped around a mug of coffee (which would be black, no doubt), while his right hand rested on the Smith and Wesson short barreled forty-four magnum that was occupying the armrest. The gun had been my father's, the practical purchase of a thoughtful man, who had enjoyed introducing his young family to the Adirondack wilderness. Gramps and I both had the gun registered on our pistol permits, neither of which were valid within the boundaries of New York City. He looked me over from head to toe (the latter he could see, because I was barefoot).
“Musta been some party you been at?” he remarked. My best guess pegged him at equal parts annoyed and concerned.
“Gramps, you have absolutely no idea,” I said without a hint of levity in my voice. He frowned, picking up on my lack of humor. Gramps always said he went on full alert whenever I stopped being a wiseass, which is pretty much my normal state of being. He shifted slightly in the chair and asked. “You okay, boy?”
“Yes Sir. But I am glad to see you. I tried to call you back in a timely manner, but events have conspired against me for the whole last week.”
“You look leaner, ...and darker, like you been tannin' or some such?” he remarked.
“Yeah, well that's part of the story. Let me get a mug of that java I smell and I'll fill you in. Take about an hour or more, so if you're tired, we can do it later?” I offered.
“Nope, I'm fine. You look all done in, though.” He said.
“I'll survive for a bit more, but I will have some of those Boston crème donuts that you brought.”
He frowned again, no doubt because the pastry box wasn't visible from where I was standing and ordinary people wouldn't have smelled them like I had. Moving into the tiny kitchenette, I found the Dunkin' Donuts box on the stove top and after filling a mug with black coffee, I took the whole thing back into the room, seating myself on the futon.
“You move different.” he accused. “More controlled. Kinda like one of those trained dancers on So You Think You Can Dance. Only not so girly.”
That took me by surprise, because I hadn't been aware of it. I knew I was more coordinated and much faster, but the grace or control of center he was referring to had escaped my attention.
Not knowing what else to do, I told the story chronologically, the same way I've been telling it in these pages. It took a solid fifty minutes to get through all the particulars. He listened carefully, without asking questions or interrupting, the same way he had always listened to my troubles and adventures. I finished and then went into the kitchen to get more coffee, knowing he would think it through a bit before speaking. Settling back onto my futon, I noted sadly that the donuts were long gone, five for me, one for him. He scratched the stubble on his chin, looked at me with a glint in his eye and finally spoke. “A girlfriend? You have a girlfriend?”
“Yes Sir. You'll meet her later if you want to. I'll warn you, though, she might be a bit nervous.”
He started at that. “You said she was the future queen of the vampires.” I nodded.
“And she'll be nervous about meeting me?” He asked.
“Yeah, pretty much. You’re my only family and she has heard all about you. Your opinion of her counts pretty heavy.”
“Will I meet this Lydia too?” He asked.
I laughed, my first since I got in. “Yeah, that's pretty much a given. And she most likely won't be nervous. She's a piece of work. You'll probably like her, although she seems to find great joy in making me nuts.”
He grunted as he thought about meeting a pair of real vampire girls.
“You don't seem very surprised.” I noted.
“I always told you these things...er..beings were real. I saw enough of the world during my time with the Marines to know the truth of that. Saw a vampire in Korea, once. From a distance. Never wanted to see one again. Scary looking thing. Your girl is she....well...does she look normal?”
I laughed again. “Not even close to normal. You know those Victoria Secret catalogs that occasionally show up in the mail and never seem to get thrown out?” He nodded, his eyes widening.
“Well she makes those girls look sad, tired and old.”
“Now you're just braggin' boy.” He said, in disbelief of her looks if not her nature.
“Tell ya what, old man. I got a fifty spot here in my wallet that says you'll eat those words later this evening. Whatta ya say?” Gramps takes betting seriously, so he thought it through, nodded and pulled a crisp portrait of Ulysses Grant from his fat, worn wallet, plunking it down on top of mine in the center of the coffee table.
“You’re on, boy.”
I grinned and stood up to stretch. Another thought lit up in his eyes.
“You're faster?”
I understood. He wanted a demonstration. I motioned him up from his chair and he stood up warily. “Take out your knife.” I said, pointing at the three and a half inch hunting knife that was guaranteed to be on his person if he was wearing pants. Looking even more wary, he pulled the blade from its well-used leather sheath and held it out to me handle first. I shook my head. “Hold it point down over the floor. Whenever you're ready drop it and say 'now'.” I directed, turning my back on him. I didn't have to see him to know that a furrow would be forming between his eyes as he got ready to participate in my little exhibition.
At his crisp “Now!” I felt everything slow down as I turned around. I found the blade dropping as if in zero gravity, leaving me plenty of time to pluck it from the air. Time resumed its normal flow as I handed it back to him handle first. He started as my abrupt motions stopped blurring. Eyes wide, he looked at the knife and then me, pausing to scratch his chin stubble before taking back his blade. “Er..yeah. That's pretty fast. And your girl...Tanya is it?” I nodded, knowing he damn well remembered her name, but was stalling for time to process what he had just witnessed. “Tanya is even faster?”
I nodded. “Quite a bit faster, if she's really motivated.” I said, thinking of her fight with Vadim.
He cleared his throat. “And you're stronger now, as well?”
I didn't say anything, just reached both arms and lifted him by his armpits, like he had done to me when I was a kid. I held his one ninety pounds out at arm’s length long enough to make my point, then set him back down, gently. This time he coughed, his system agitated by the reality of what I had done.