Lourdes: A Vampire In The Old West

8. Satin and Lace

Morning. A man stands outside Sheriff Donovan's door. He checks his watch and raps on the wood. A half asleep sheriff stirs. Taken aback at the realization he's in the real world, the lawman stumbles. His glass, long drained of its liquor but still grasped between his fingertips, falls to the floor. Glass and melted ice transform into silver shards. Donovan looks at his puddle of a chalice, tries to hide the bottle perched atop the corner of his desk, and smells his breath as he makes his way forward. He's spent the entire night here.

"A moment!" Donovan calls out. The not-entirely-awake man, coming to the door, swings his arms at a strip of locks. Turning, unscrewing, and otherwise opening a dozen deadbolts, the sheriff's greeted by the bitter gaze of the morning sun. "Yes?"

A silhouette in the shape of a priest stands there. His ancient eyes strain behind heavy whiskers. Black vestments render elegant a gnarled thing. Old bones push their way past Donovan, the pastor not waiting to be invited in. He holds a hat box. His cane crushes the sheriff's foot.

"Pastor Breybinder, I wasn't expecting..." Donovan starts.

"To see me! Ever!" Breybinder shouts. "That's the problem!"

"What?" Donovan mutters. "It's early. I'm asleep." Donovan goes to find a chair for the old man, but Breybinder marches directly to the sheriff's desk. He seats himself in the sheriff's chair, and the sheriff comes to rest atop the fruits of his quest. He rocks right on a rickety stool. Donovan tries to keep his eyes open. He rocks left.

"How long have you been here?" Breybinder asks.

"Two years," Donovan answers. The sheriff casts his vision about the office. Boxes line the walls. They gather into stacks, which turn into piles, which spill into messes. Half the boxes are Donovan's things, still not unpacked, and the other crates the previous sheriff's personal effects.

"Sheriff, how many deputies have you sent to My Father's kingdom during this time?" Breybinder inquires, his eyes on the yellowed image of Fanning, Tennant, Jonas, Elliott, Day, Shetland, and Amsterdam.

"Seven..." The sheriff speaks, the number sour on his tongue.

"And other than the funerals for your men, how many times have you met with me?" Breybinder wonders.

"There was that first introduction..." Donovan thinks aloud.

"Yes, and after that?" Breybinder grins behind his bristles.

"I see people on their way to your church. I can somewhat see the chapel if I squint my eyes from the porch," Donovan mumbles, not having an answer for the priest.

"Am I supposed to laugh?" Breybinder hisses.

"I'm sorry, Leon. I'm not making jokes. I'm just not up yet. Can you come back after, you know, the rooster wakes?" Donovan yawns. A cock crows.

"We need to speak," Breybinder states.

Donovan scratches his head and crosses his arms. He doesn't get the game the old man's playing and pauses for a moment, pondering if he's still asleep and Breybinder's part of a dream gone awry.

"Isn't that what we're doing now?" Donovan returns with a smile. He rocks right. "If you wanted to exchange a few pleasantries, that's done, and you can now be on your way. I imagine there are plenty of people in this town who need to be introduced to the Lord, and I don't want to keep you from all the little orphans lacking an education in eternal damnation." Breybinder wrinkles his already wrinkled face. His antique eyebrows arch.

"How dare you speak to your elder in that tone!" The priest explodes. Breybinder slams his cane on the floor. The sheriff's stool shakes. "That's the problem with this town! You have no respect! You children have no clue what's truly important! The girls at the Guinevere are so loud my congregation can't pray!"