Date: Tue, 10 Sep 1996 19:33:41 -0400 From: "Susan M. Garrett" Subject: Erica:Of Shorts and Socks and Summer For Erica, wishing that she gets well quickly and comes back to us, a little bit of nonsense. And another important note at the bottom. * * * * Of Shorts and Socks and Summer by Susan M. Garrett (susang@vitinc.com) It was over. It was all over. Nick knelt down beside Natalie and took her hand, feeling the presence of his master behind him. It wouldn't hurt for long and then it would be over. "Damn you, Nicholas!" cried LaCroix from behind him. He felt the breeze from the swing of the stake, then fell to the floor, stunned, as the stick collided with the side of his head. That hurt. Big time. Nick shook his head, but his vision was doubled. Two LaCroixs stepped over him and bent to lift Natalie. "No more, Nicholas. I'm not putting up with your nonsense any longer." He put his hand to the floor, but it was slick with blood--his blood from having touched the wound on his skull. He slipped and fell, cracking his head on the floor again. "Nat--?" he asked weakly. "I'm taking her to a hospital." LaCroix gave him a kick as he passed and the one knee Nick had managed to get beneath him slipped out from under him. He crashed to the floor, unable to follow as LaCroix carried Natalie to the elevator. "It will be difficult enough explaining your absence without involving the doctor. Although under the circumstances, your employers will probably be happy that you're taking a long vacation." "I'm not--not leaving . . . ." "Of course you are." Holding Natalie in his arms, LaCroix glared at Nick. "I'm going to do what I should have done some time ago. Pack a bag. Nicholas. When I return this evening, you're going to summer training camp!" Realizing that there was, indeed, a fate worse than death, Nick was more than happy to slip into unconsciousness. * * * "Take off that bandage. You look ridiculous." "More ridiculous than I already look?" Nick ignored the order and turned away, so LaCroix leaned closer and pulled the bandage from his head. It didn't matter, the wound was mostly healed. In fact, he was sort of hoping that someone had asked how he'd gotten it. "You know the rules--all camp attendees must wear the camp uniform." "I look like a deranged cub-scout," complained Nick. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan shorts. His tan T-shirt proudly proclaimed 'Camp Vamp' in loud letters, alongside a picture of a bat that looked not unlike a stoned porcupine with wings. He leaned down and ran his finger along the inside of the ankle socks that were crushed down against the tops of his sneakers. "Do I have to wear the socks?" "If I hear you ask again," warned LaCroix coldly, "you're wearing the hat, as well." Deciding the discretion was the better part of fashion sense, Nick shut up and leaned back against the brick wall of the abandoned building, his rucksack beside him. Vampire summer camp was usually reserved for the most recalcitrant or inept of fledgling vampires and had been developed by masters who didn't have the time or inclination to train their newly acquired adult 'children.' Nick had heard that it had started in the United States (they had a to answer for!) a half century before and that now there were franchises all over the world. There were a number of masters and fledglings huddled in groups in the lot, some of the partings quite tearful, others indicating that Nick was not the only one who felt that his vampire family life was the definition of dysfunctional. He also noticed that several of the young and inexperienced female vampires looked fetching in their shorts and sleeveless T-shirts. Well, maybe a month in seclusion with these young female vampires obviously in need of his experience and guidance wouldn't be bad. He almost regretted having set his contingency plan into motion. There was a sound of an motor in the distance. Nick realized that it was coming closer, gave the motorcycle a glance--then froze. Vachon was riding onto the lot, his hair flying out behind him. There was a curvaceous red-haired female vampire riding side-saddle on the back of the bike, her arms around his waist. Nick waited to approach the bike until it skidded to a stop. The red-head peeled herself off Vachon and waited for him to dismount. "He's alive," said Nick softly to himself. Then he turned to LaCroix and said, "Vachon's still alive!" "His companion seems to think so," noted LaCroix with a wry-smile. "It seems he's gone off blondes." Vachon and the redhead were saying good-bye with a lip-lock. Rather than interrupt, Nick waited. And waited. And waited. Just as he had begun to think they'd created so much suction they'd have to be pried apart with a crowbar, the redhead and Vachon parted. Before Nick could even ask to be introduced, she slung her leg over the bike and it roared to life. Despite throwing up a hand and turning his head, he caught the cloud of dirt the bike kicked up full in the face. "Nick?" Vachon stared at him, then smiled. He poked Nick in the chest, right in the porcupine. "The old lizard nailed you, huh? Too bad. It's not a bad month out in the woods, though." "What happened? We thought you were dead!" "It's a long story." Vachon grinned. "Maybe I'll tell it to you over a campfire some time." It was Nick's turn to grin, finally seeing some light at the end of a very dark and long month-long tunnel. "You're coming to camp?" "Hell, I'm one of the counselors." Adjusting the collar of his leather jacket, Vachon gestured toward Nick's apparel. "We get to wear what we want. Think I'd get caught dead looking like that? And speaking of looking . . . ." A long, black limo pulled up to the curb beside the lot. The rear door opened to show a very shapely leg in a pair of camp shorts that were probably a size smaller and two inches shorter than regulation. Thankfully, Janette's T-shirt fit just as well. "Who is ?" asked Vachon, taking a step in what seemed to him the right direction. "Janette." She closed the car door and easily lifted the extra-long rucksack over her shoulder. Slinking toward them with a sly smile, Janette paused just for a moment to give a brief wave to LaCroix, then walked directly up to Nick. She dropped the rucksack, and placed an arm on his shoulder. "Nicola . . . ." He wasn't certain where her knee came from, but he knew exactly when and where it landed. Doubling over in pain, Nick was only barely aware that Janette was standing over him, giving him her mind, and some anatomically impossible suggestions, in French. He looked up to LaCroix for help, but his master was still leaning against the wall, amused, shaking his head. At that point he suddenly realized that demanding the Janette attend the camp if had to attend the camp was probably an error in strategy. Vachon leaned down to grab his arm and helped him to his feet as Janette stalked off in search of a cigarette. "Let me guess--old girl friend, right? Man, you sure can pick 'em. Too bad the camps are segregated." "Segregated?' asked Nick, an octave higher than normal. "Yeah, they're on the other side of the lake. About a hop, skip, and a fly." Vachon looked up as a bright yellow school bus pulled up to the curb. "Our wheels are here. I've gotta go do camp stuff." He paused and met Nick's gaze squarely. "You know, since I'm a counselor, I'm not gonna be able to cut you any slack or anything, cause we know each other or cause Trace is your partner. Okay?" Nick just nodded, his heart freezing in his chest as he realized that Vachon didn't seem aware that Tracy was no longer with them. Then again, with that red-head hanging around it might not be much of a problem. But he doubted it. He made his way back to his rucksack. Janette was standing by LaCroix, but folded her arms and turned away when she saw Nick approach. "I guess this is it," said Nick. He leaned this way and that to get Janette's attention, but she wasn't giving him the time of day. Or night, come to think of it. "You try to behave, won't you?" asked LaCroix. Nick gave him a cold look and took the rucksack away from him. "Janette?" She pursed her lips, ignoring him, then headed for the line of vampires getting aboard the bus, grabbing her rucksack tie and dragging it after her as she passed it. "I'll drop by to pick you up when you return," said LaCroix. "I might even bring your coroner friend with me, if she's interested." "Don't bother. And stay away from Natalie while I'm gone." "You leave a note telling her where you were going?" asked LaCroix. Nick froze and reviewed his mental 'to do' list for the day--bandage his head wound, have something to drink, pack underwear, sew name-tags on the inside of his shirts and shorts, pack blood stain remover . . . . "I thought not," replied LaCroix. Grabbing Nick's shoulder--as he'd frozen in stunned panic--he steered him toward the line of vampires boarding the bus and being officially checked off a list by Vachon. "You can write her from camp." "She's going to me," moaned Nick, hiding his face in his hands. "That would only be fair--after all, you tried to kill her." Picking up the rucksack Nick had put on the ground again, LaCroix thrust it into his arms as Vachon checked off his name and he headed up the steps of the bus. "Have a nice time, Nicholas. And something." Nick stumbled up the steps of the bus, but all the good seats in the back were taken and Janette had very pointedly stretched her body along the full length of a seat--much to the approval of the male campers, clustered around her like bees around a honeycomb. He was left sitting alone in the front seat behind the driver, a seat which even the counselors weren't dweebie enough to take. He decided that he was in hell. But when they started to sing "One Hundred Bottles of Blood on the Wall," behind him, Nick realized that it could only get worse. * * * * I'm going to do this really really quick so it doesn't hurt me too much (known as 'the band-aid theory of ouch'). I'm gotta sign off for a while. Not a long while, but just a little while. This is my home. I'll be back as soon as I can, but I've gotta step down as Empress of FK-Fic for a bit. So someone just dust off the sign now and again and vacuum the carpet while I'm gone. But the best way to keep the cobwebs off the throne cushions is to make sure there's plenty of fiction in my absence. So keep at it, keep well, keep strong. And keep writing. Regards susang@vitinc.com