I did have the focus of mind to change my clothes into something I didn’t care about getting dusty, wet, and dirty.  It was just the kind of outfit to greet my fashion-conscious sister in, of course, which is what I did at the aggressive knock.

(I am pretty sure the doorbell works, but something about the door leads people to knock.  I am not certain if it’s the material, the layout, or something else, but people knock more on my door than press the little lit button that gives the pleasant chime and notification of their presence at my door.  I leave it as a mystery for another day.)

“You know, Goodwill does fifty-percent-off sales just about every Saturday,” she said.  “Or I think you can raid some Salvation Army bins.”

My little sister is about an inch taller than me, and whereas my dark hair makes me plain, hers, in the same color, somehow makes her look exotic.  She did things to it, I guess.  (I keep mine cut.)  She has a similar colour of eyes, more blue than on the green side, though.  She’s slim and athletic, though, from the cross-country style of nerdity.  (I have been made aware that there are two nerd sports – wrestling and cross-country.  I would like to put shotput in there somewhere, but that may be wishful thinking.)

I noticed that she wore tiny, sparkly heels, and in fact, a tiara.

“No wings?” I asked, looking up at her head.

“I’m the princess, dolt.”  She grabbed me in a hug I was unable to back out of, and then rubbed her knuckles lightly on the top of my head before letting me go.  I bore it without comment.

“Your place looks clean.  Did you fumigate recently?”  She looked around, mostly noting the bookshelves.

“I had a magical construct living with me for a while,” I said, blythely.

“Like a broom from that scene in `Fantasia’?” she asked.

“More like a blow up doll gone feral,” I smirked.

“Only you, big brother, only you.”  She opened up my refrigerator, checked in my medicine cabinet, and then looked at my desktop background before coming back to the table.  “Where are the shovels?”

“Strange places to be looking for them.”

“I’m just spying so I can tell mother what kind of pornographic, drug-addled nonsense you’re into these days.  Still dating Magster the Nagster?”

I grinned.  “No, we’re splits.”

“Hah!” she blurted, disbelievingly.  “Give it a month, you’ll go crawling back to her.  What happened to Happy Hillary or whatever model doll you were `dating’?”  She used her fingers for big air quotes.

“Doloise died saving me from a fiery end in a Dragon’s lower intestine.”

“I can’t even translate that one.  So.  Let’s get going?”

“Remember where Ed’s mom lives?”

“We’re burying that old hag?  About time!” She opened the door again, and I followed her down the steps.

“She’s a very pleasant person who makes excellent chocolate chip cookies.”

“You’re a man.  Chocolate chip cookies are just one of nature’s little ways of making you do tricks.  I hold out for brownies or real apple pie.  Or old-money.”

There was a man in a white suit waiting, leaning up against the car.  “Who’s that?” I asked.

“Jeeves.”

“Really?  I’ve always wanted a Jeeves.  Do they come in different colors?”

“His name is Roberto, and he owns the car, but I own him, so it’s fair game.  Get in back and give me the address, because we’ve got a satellite navigation system thing-a-ma-bob.”

I let myself in, while my sister spoke to her paramour du jour.   It had leather seats, with a warming unit, and an excellent sound system, although I’m too much of a white guy for Latin love ballads to look natural.  I don’t think it’s a racist thing, just a cultural expectation (which could totally be racist, I guess) thing.  I just wish I got the benefit of all the power and money implied of being “the man” sometimes, instead of all the guilt.  (Yeah, that’s a whole ton of assumed privilege just in that sentence.  I’m at least partially aware, not pure neanderthal, right?)

“Nice car,” I said into the silence that was broken up occasionally by the -cubi inspiring dulcet tones of the navigator.

“Yes, yes she is,” Roberto, aka Jeeves replied.  My sister had her hand on his arm, in a very dominant sort of fashion.  “I like to drive her fast, especially at night.”

I was hoping, in counter to one nausea-induced flurry of worry, that he was really talking about the car and not about my sister.  “Sorry for waking the two of you up,” I tried.

“We had not yet gone to bed,” Roberto said.

“Ah.”  I gave up my quirky conversational gambits and stayed quiet as the white lines of the highway dashed by in the headlights.

“So what’s the scoop with Ed?” my sister asked, turning to look at me.

“Which part?  The ‘I just found out he’s gay,’ part or the, ‘We’re rescuing him from a interlude with a vampire’ part?”

“You really do think you’re funny,” she said, flatly, looking back out the windshield.  “Anyway, I guessed the first part.”

“I have known a vampire,” Roberto said.

“Shh, Jeeves.  You will only encourage him,” she put a finger up to his lips.  He kissed it.

I did not throw up.

“No, really.  I have known a vampire.  She was very sexy.  She liked to bite my neck and call me names.”

I looked around for an air sickness bag, but seeing how far I had to reach to get to the front seat, gave up on it, and just steeled myself in the manly fashion.

My sister murmured something up front that made both of them chuckle in a knowing fashion.

My phone went off then, saving me momentarily.  “It’s E,” I said.

“E?  He goes by E?” Roberto asked.

“It’s a thing.  It’s like his gangsta name,” my sister explained.

“Hawk.  If you want to do it right, pin her wrists.  She’ll recover faster from that than her abdomen.  That’s why they did Christ that way.”

“I don’t think he was a vampire,” I said slowly.

“Evidence is against you.  I’ll be there in forty with the kit.”