Sir Differel Van Helsing rode down a lonely stretch of road in the dark, looking for a place to sleep. It ran through the Cotswolds, somewhere in the western portion of County Oxfordshire. She did not fancy sleeping out in the open, but unless she could find a public house or a cottage willing to rent a room, she feared she might have to.
She had been riding for almost 15 hours as she searched for other bikers, excepting rest stops and meal breaks, ever since she left the manor a little after five that morning, but with no luck. She began to wonder if that would change. Britain was not the United States; the motorcycle culture had never become firmly established, and forty years had passed since the biker heyday of the sixties. Still, she didn't want to give up, not after one day. She could re-evaluate and re-plan her strategy in the morning, after she had rested and could think clearly.
At least she had no complaints concerning her vehicle. Some six months before she had found a 1971 Triumph Bonneville T120 motorcycle in a second-hand shop and had purchased it on a whim. She spent the winter and much of the spring fixing, refurbishing, and cleaning it during her free time, and sometimes during work hours on slow days. Though she took advice and received training from the estate mechanics, she did all the work herself, and by the middle of May she had it purring like the proverbial kitten.
However, her decision to take time off and tour the back roads had come to her almost as soon as she first laid eyes on it. Despite the fact that she had gotten over Victor's death, she had spent a good deal of the time since questioning her commitment to being director of the Caerleon Order. With him gone there seemed little point to it. On top of that, she would turn thirty in a year, and it left her wondering whether she had done anything worthwhile with her life. Not that she would just up and quit; technically, as the master of Vlad Drakulya, she couldn't. But she could step down to a purely advisory position, or switch to being the Pendragon, the Order's chief monster hunter after Vlad and a legacy of her mother's family. Either would give her more time for personal pursuits. From all of her interests and hobbies, she figured at least one could provide the means for doing something meaningful and profound.
She pulled into the tiny village before she even realized it. She paused in the central square and looked around. All the buildings appeared dark and closed up for the night. Some even looked liked they had been abandoned, a few for some time. She started off at a slower speed. She would consider it ironic if the only place she could find shelter for the night was a ghost town.
On the outskirts, however, she found a pub that appeared occupied; at least, she could see light leaking through the closed shutters. The clapboard sign hanging beside the door showed the picture of an Elizabethan woman holding her head under her arm. She paused in the road, debating whether to check it out. It didn't look particularly inviting, but she didn't want to spend another couple of hours looking for another village. Ultimately, she had nowhere else to go, so she decided to take a chance.
She maneuvered her bike to a horse hitching rail, shut it off, and dismounted. She removed her helmet and placed it on the seat, then opened her jacket and pulled a soft leather patrol cap out of a back pocket and slipped it on, first pulling her hair back so it would fall away from her face. The only problem she encountered on the road was that her long, stringy, flat, and lifeless gray hair whipped around in the wind like a banner and often flew up into her face.
As she approached the door, a patch of darkness detached from one of the many shadows surrounding the building and coalesced into her Vampire servant. She figured she should have expected it. Though her decision to become a temporary renegade biker had been no secret, she had wanted to slip away quietly, with no muss or fuss, but her senior staff had had other ideas. They ambushed her in the garage with parting gifts, and as much as she wanted to tell them to bugger off, she accepted them with good grace.
Though she had cash, and planned to acquire more as needed by hustling pool, Aelfraed presented her with credit and identification cards using her Isolde Churchill alias for emergency purposes. Though she had a Sykes-Fairbairn fighting dagger and could summon Caliburn at will, Holt gave her a Beretta 93R machine pistol and six 30-round clips. Mrs. Widget gave her a neck-wrap for chilly evenings, while Maggie King, who under the codename of Miss Primary served as her best double, gave her a cell phone with several preprogrammed numbers, including her own, just in case. Sharona Turing gave her an electronic roadmap that could pick up the tracking device in the bike and display her exact position to within a hundred feet. Dr. Carmichael gave her the names of friends from medical school who would be willing to give her medical treatment on the sly if she needed it. And Madam Trumbo gave her four meat pasties to snack on while on the road.
She had thanked them for their gifts, and she still had them, though most were buried at the bottom of her bike bags, out of sight of curious eyes. Vlad had not been with them, but she figured he would show up some time before midnight.
"And pray tell, why are you here, Thrall?"
"It is a slow night in this green and pleasant land, so I thought I would check up on you. Your staff is concerned as well."
She took a moment to light a cigarillo. "Hmph. One would think I was a child being allowed to cross the street unescorted for the first time."
"We are all naturally concerned for you." But he grinned at her in an insolent manner.
"Shut it, you bloodsucking wanker." Then she sighed. "Oh, very well, you can hang around, but only as long as you stay out of sight. Understand?"
"Yes, My Master. I shall be as discreet as death." He turned to darkness and merged with her own shadow.
She went inside, and looked around. It resembled a typical pub, with a bar along one side that gave access to the back kitchen and storerooms, a collection of tables and a few booths, and a set of stairs leading up to the next story. A dart board and a few other pub games lay scattered about, including bar pool. A baker's dozen of people sat at the tables, all locals by the look of them.
She walked up to the bar, feeling all eyes on her. The landlord favored her with a menacing stare, but she hoped it was only because she was a stranger.
"My apologies for the lateness of the hour, but I am looking for a room. Would you have one available?"
He looked her up and down, and she couldn't blame his reluctance. To better blend in as a biker, assuming she found any, she wore a vest-style T-shirt and jeans, with a leather jacket and gloves. The only thing that wouldn't have quite fitted in, besides her large, round glasses, were the combat boots under her pants.
After a few moments, however, he said, "No, I have nothing available."
That took her aback, though she didn't show it. Just about every pub she had ever visiting had rooms on the upper floors, and she doubted traffic on that lane was heavy enough for them to be full up, but she decided not to argue the point.
"Then is there anyone in the village who could rent me a room for the night?"
"No." He didn't even think about it.
She smirked. She was pretty sure he was lying, but there was nothing she could do about it.
{I could frighten him into cooperating, My Master.}
No! They have the right to decide who they let stay, she thought.
{As you wish, Sir Differel.}
"Very well, Landlord, I'll move on, but I am rather hungry. I would like something to eat before I go."
"Don't you get it?"
She directed her attention to the patrons, and saw one stand up.
"We don't want your kind here. Get out, now, before we throw you out."
Her irritation flared. "I was speaking to the landlord, sir."
"He's right," that worthy said. "You're not welcome, so you might as well take off now."
That was the last straw, and she felt her gorge rise. "On the contrary, gentlemen, I am at least entitled to something to eat and drink, and I won't leave until I have been served."
"I'm not obligated to serve you," the landlord sai
d, and a third of the patrons stood up. They headed for the bar, and she turned to face them.
Vlad detached himself from her shadow, flowed to a spot on the floor beside her, and expanded upward into a column that towered over her. He coalesced into his normal form and stepped out of the dark cloud, which flowed into his back.
"Who wishes to die first?" He displayed a wicked, grinning leer as his eyes glowed red.
The men approaching her stopped dead, then fled backwards, trying to put as much distance between the Vampire and themselves as they could, while more who sat close by jumped up and hurried away towards the walls, overturning chairs and spilling drinks and mugs of ale. Others remained at their seats, petrified. Everyone wore an expression of abject terror. Although she didn't want to frighten them to death, one small part of her gloated over their having the tables turned on them.
"Just a minute, please," the landlord said. "I don't want any trouble. If I give you a pie and a pint, will you and your...companion leave peaceably?"
She turned to look at him. "Yes, of course, I have no desire to create a disturbance."
He disappeared into the kitchen, but emerged a minute later with her pie. He drew a pint of brown ale and placed both on the counter. She picked them up and went to a corner booth. She slid in on one side while Vlad sat opposite her.
It turned out to be a steak and kidney pie, and it