Life: It's like Downton Abbey meets The Vampire Diaries

This week has been a mess. Not life-altering, not tragic - but the kind of week that just beats you down. The kind of week where work and home mash together in an endless pool of obligations that you barely tread water to avoid drowning in. The kind of week where you notice the basket of unpaid bills (because you're too tired to sit down and pay them) and the unsent photo Christmas cards (unless I'm planning an ironic "Christmas in July" theme, that's $70 down the drain)and you just sigh. The kind of week where you learn your kids need superhero costumes for Field day (why?) and they're supposed to be created by the kids themselves and when your son asks you to Google Wolf Spider Mask, guess what comes up in the search results?

A ball gag.

That kind of week.

And it got me to thinking: wouldn't life be simpler if you could switch out your reality for a TV show? Even just for a week. I don't know that any one show in particular would solve all my problems, but maybe a combo -- Downton Abbey meets The Vampire Diairies. Like, I would much rather be sitting having tea with the Dowager than filling out a spreadsheet. I mean, who wouldnt? Scones, amazing (itchy) clothing and oolong-laced gossip ... yes please!

And I bet I could find the makings of a "Wolf Spider Mask - Spider Vill" super hero costume in the wardrobe dept of VD. Yes, that is the actual costume one of my sons is designing, and his drawing is fabulous ... but I fear the motherly execution is going to be disappointingly less so. My sewing skills are rudimentary and I banned myself from glue guns after an unfortunate incident in the "make your own advent ornament" fair a few years ago. Surely one of those hybrid dopplegangeryly folks would have something I could borrow instead. Or if they didn't, probably they could be "compelled" to go make one. Or hunt one. I'm not picky, I just need a damn costume. (Side note: suddenly realizing why son suggested we look for his water bottle at "the damn house." Another reason to channel TV. Less cursing on PBS. More so on the CW, but I haven't heard the "f" word yet. The same cannot be said of a certain six-year-old).

Also? The food. Instead of eating lunch at my desk, I could dine at a formal table with cocktails and servants. Multiple courses and ruby-colored wine in a crystal glass. Sure, you always hear English food's not so hot, but it can't be worse than corporate cafeteria fare.

Or I could take my meal in front of a raging fire with gloomy vampires as dining companions. Sounds downright cozy. Granted, they never seem to eat much, which is probably why they're all skinny and cute. (Or that could be the whole diet of blood thing they've got going on). Whatever. So they're more of a drink-your-lunch crowd -- that's OK, it's Friday, and as I mentioned, it's been a long week.

A liquid lunch would be just fine.

Confessions of a burned out soccer mom

The older I get, the more I seem to like writing about scary things. Flesh-eating scavengers and vampires, or a soul-stealing spirit. I never liked horror movies, and even now my monsters tend to have senses of humor, albeit dark ones. I was thinking about this in the shower, and something struck me (not the shampoo, thank God, which was one of those gigantic bottles they trick you into buying at Beauty Brands).

Imaginary monsters can be evil, bloodthirsty and cruel. But they can be vanquished, killed, burnt, destroyed in a few hundred pages. And then they're gone. There's something very satisfying about concocting an evil character and then controlling his fate. Control being the operative word - because let's face it, there's not nearly enough of that in this world, is there? I'm an adult and I still don't feel in control of my own life, but at least within the lines of text I can shape how things happen.

Children have very little control. We all might complain about how our kids dictate our lives and how we spend our weekends shuttling from one sports event to the next, but really? That's all us. Children don't map out multiple games and activities and teams and practices, each one ostensibly to teach them about sportsmanship and competition, and promoting healthy bodies and minds. And they often start out that way. But, just like a monster crawling quietly from the pages of a book, they turn into something else entirely.

I love that my kids enjoy sports and (unlike me!) are actually good at them. Is it just me, though, or do you ever stop and wonder why we're the ones prodding them to get up on a Saturday morning after a long week of school (which, FYI, is way the hell harder when when we went) and hustling around as though these events are somehow a reflection of our own parental organization? Which, let's face it, they are. But surely it doesn't always have to be that way. I mean, recreational sports are for fun, right? Ha. If you have a kid over the age of 2, you already know how silly and naive that question is. Because you know what ruins kids' sports? Parents. And I include myself in that group.

Before my own son's game the other day, I sat in the bleachers watching the previous game that was running late. I didn't know any of the parents from this team, and I don't pretend to know anything about their lives or their kids. But I know they had very healthy lungs. They were screaming, cheering, yelling with everything they had. Some of it was encouraging. Some of it was not. And I sat there thinking smugly, not me. I don't yell like that. But I was fooling myself. When my son's game started and he caught a ball in his glove, I jumped up and down, screeching like he'd just won an Oscar. Not to put down his accomplishment, but it was his, after all. Not mine.

Incidentally, he didn't even want to be at the game. He wanted to play in a soccer game, as part of his end of season tournament. But we'd made a commitment for him to be at this other event (notice, "we" made the commitment. Not him, the one actually playing) so I took him to baseball. He complained of leg pains, but knowing there weren't enough extra boys on the team to allow him to sit out without forfeiting the game for the team, what did I do? I bribed him with one of those silly baseball necklaces and a forbidden Dr Pepper to "tough it out" and play. I tried to rationalize it, remembering myself as a ten-year-old being given black coffee to keep me awake past my bedtime to sing at a music festival. Except that didn't happen weekly, and I thought it was exotic and cool. If I'd been told I "had" to do it, it would have lost some of its charm, much like the violin lessons I was told I had to stick with for two years, and passive aggressively refused to learn anything but "Love me Tender" (which, incidentally, sounds horrible on the violin).

But at that moment at the ball park, I pretended that Dr Pepper wasn't really bribery. He'll be fine, I said. Because that's what we do. We get ourselves and our kids into these hamster wheels of activities and then the only thing we can to do is finish them out. But they never end. And come next season, we do it again.

Or it doesn't even have to be next season. The day after I told my son he had to play or the baseball team would forfeit the game, I found myself yelling at his younger brother, "if you don't stop changing clothes we will be late for your brother's soccer tournament and we have the game roster, and if it doesn't get there on time, they'll forfeit the game!" Way to go, Mom. Blame the outcome of a soccer season on a five year old who just wanted to be dressed in a soccer uniform like big brother. Sometimes I think I'm so lucky to have such wonderful children, and then I wonder why I'm so cavalier with their feelings as I scramble through too many things that really, in the end, are not that important.

As parents of babies, we start out with all these lovely intentions - we speak in soft tones, tell them about each and every tiny triumph. But then something happens as they get older, and we get busier and more exhausted by a multitude of obligations we've somehow all agreed we must shoulder. The soft tones turn into shrill yells of "Hurry up!" and "Why can't you get ready?" "What's wrong with you?" Or maybe if we're really tapped out, "I bet ___'s mom doesn't have to yell at him to get his shoes tied!" Once the game starts, the screaming really ramps up. And some parents are purely positive in their shouts, which is great. Others are not so much, and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like to have my parent yelling at me, "that was yours, you lost it!" My son's friend recently said in amazement that the coach "actually" said something good to him after a game. "Usually he just yells at me," the boy said. "I can't seem to do anything right."


I'm not saying every word that comes out of our mouths should be sunshine and rainbows, but I assume the kids already know when they make a mistake. I remember being 8. I didn't need to be told when I screwed up, I knew. Having your mom or dad holler it at you in front of everyone probably doesn't help. And you don't even have to yell. You can send them a message without raising a voice. When you sign them up for multiple teams and practices and activities, when your whole weekend revolves around a chaotic race from one field to the next, you're teaching them a valuable lesson. That making sure you aren't missing out is the most important thing of all. That family time or just free time without somebody telling you what to do & how to do it aren't really necessary. Don't think for yourself about what you really want to do, we essentially tell them, we'll do it for you.

I'll never forget my son's first foray into team sports. He was maybe three and a half, and loved kicking balls. We signed him up for a YMCA small fry team. One little boy lay down in the grass in the middle of the game, refusing to play. I figured that was pretty normal for this age, but after the game when I approached him offering the post-game snack, his mother refused. "Snacks are for boys who play. Maybe next time he'll get out there and then he can have a snack." I was appalled. And again, feeling a little smug. My son, after all, had wanted to be "out there" the entire time. And I was being positive and encouraging, unlike this other mom. But after the game, when I asked my son "Did you have fun?" he just shook his head.

"I didn't do good," he told me. "I didn't score a goal." Just as quickly as the game had ended, so had his little moment of happiness. Who put that idea in his head, I wondered. Not me, I hoped. But I wasn't feeling so smug anymore.

Kids' sports can be good, even great for kids. Playing on a team can teach valuable lessons and build confidence - and sports team can be fun ... if we let them. But we steal that fun when we turn sports into such a highly regulated and pressurized activity that our kids are really just players in a game that we're controlling. We drive them to game after game, yell at them if they are tired or don't want to play, yell with glee or disappointment, depending on their performance ... and then we're somehow surprised at their sullen glances. The rec team turns into the club or select team and the practices get longer, and then homework becomes this annoying obligation that must somehow fit into their after-school activities.

Every activity is an opportunity for them to learn more skills and become better, and isn't that important to teach them? Sure, in theory -- but if your kid plays on multiple teams and has practices or games every school night, where exactly is the opportunity and what is it for? There's a fine line between healthy competition and too much s&** to do -- not just for kids, but for parents. I don't know about you, but as a long day at work turns into a night of juggling kids' schedules, my patience and energy flag. As for the famed family dinner around the table? Please. It's more of an urban myth than a nightly routine.

Sometimes I fantasize about taking the kids and moving to another country. Or Vermont. Someplace where (in my imagination, at least) the boys would just run outside with their soccer balls or their mitts and strike up a game without any adults. No coach telling them what to do, just kids being kids. And then I remember how my boys act on their own, and I estimate it'd be all of ten minutes before a fight broke out and a grownup (possibly me)would stomp outside and try to enforce rules to keep them from smacking each other in the head with a baseball bat. The reality is that no matter where you live, elementary-aged kids can't drive and they can't always walk down the block to just see if the neighbors want to play a pickup game, as much as we'd all like that to be true. Obviously parents or adults are going to be part of sports for children, at least of a certain age. But surely we can balance that a little more sanely?

Wouldn't it be nice to let the kids do the coaching for a change? We could bench the grownups and let the kids pick one of their own to lead the game. I know, I know. Even if our kids went along with it, some other teams' parents might not, and then we'd all stress that our kids would be crushed by the competition. Who would be more upset, though -- us or them?

I don't have the answers. Writing about imaginary monsters and scary things that go bump in the night -- it's so much simpler. Bad things are scary and may try to kill you, so you should avoid them. The world of competitive kids' sports is infinitely more complicated, and it's not always easy to know what's the right decision for your kid. I think you have to pick your battles in life. School is not negotiable -- and for that matter, neither is work. But I don't think I'm completely crazy for not wanting all weekends to be consumed by sports, and so structured and scheduled there's barely enough time for kids to eat lunch, let alone play an imaginary game, or just shoot hoops without anyone telling them how they're doing it wrong.

Am I?

Missing Mardi Gras

It's another blindingly sunny day in Dallas, and while the weather is fine ... I can't help but think of another place I'd rather be. Since I can't join in the Mardi Gras frenzy, I'll pretend and fantasize about where I'd hang in New Orleans right now.

Caveat: I'm not hip. This is not going to be the list of the coolest, latest places to be seen. This is just a list of things I'd do or see, if I could wave a magic wand and fly to the Crescent City on a moment's notice. Sigh.

1. It's 9:30 as I write this, so might as well start with a Mimosa at The Carousel bar at the Hotel Montelone. I'd watch the scene on Royal Street through the windows, remembering this gorgeous diamond ring I spotted in the window of an antique shop. It was one of those "by appointment only" places and I wasn't in the market for jewelry at the time, so I never made it past the window. I'll sip my Mimosa and imagine where that ring might have gone...

2. Next I'll pick up a cafe au lait to go and stroll over to Jackson Square. I'll sit on one of the benches around the monument and read a book, the trees a soft curtain between me and the noise of the street performers. (Truth be told, despite my Mardi Gras reference, I'm not such a fan of crowds. Hence the book). I might consider getting my palm read after I've finished my book, although every time I get sucked in, it's a waste of $30. Ah well. I like to believe in a little of the unbelievable, so I'll probably do it again.

3. If I'm hungry, I'll walk over to Napoleon House for a muffaletta (hot) and a Pimm's cup (cold). It's my favorite spot for that sandwich, and I love the idea of a cocktail with cucumbers. Like salad in a cup, except not a Bloody Mary which always tastes like something I should dip tortilla chips into instead of drinking.

4. Maybe I'll walk down Decatur Street and see if I can peek inside a gallery or shop selling funky artwork I wouldn't find anywhere else. Once I bought a Haitian bottle that was supposedly made by a powerful voodoo priest. Or maybe it's just a wine bottle lavishly decorated with sequins and the Virgin Mary, but I'm pretty convinced there's some magic in there somewhere.

5. Speaking of magic, channeling my inner Tennessee Williams (STELLA!) I'll take a ride on a streetcar. I don't care how touristy that is, it's also magical. How many cities still have that? Ok, technically Dallas does have one on McKinney Avenue, and it still thrills me to ride it as much as it does my kids. But the McKinney Ave trolley doesn't hold a candle to the St Charles streetcar. Stepping aboard makes me feel like I might be just riding down to the Garden District, or I might be embarking on an amazing adventure from which I will never return. Unlike my heroines in The Getaway Girls, I hope not to be pursued by ravenous monsters as I feel every bump in the road. But who knows?

6. I'll need some dinner. Or lunch. Whatever. I'll eat something amazing, no matter the meal. My favorite dinners have been at Palace Cafe (could marry their crawfish cheesecake), Bayona and Praline Connection. Either way, it's pretty tough to get a bad meal in this city. Maybe I'll pay tribute to Ignatius P Reilly with a Lucky Dog. Which I happen to love. It's a foot of tasty mustard-coating nitrates.

7. Regardless of where I eat, or whether I go listen to music at The Spotted Cat, I'll end the evening on the porch of the Columns Hotel. It's a place for ending the night, see, because you can't sit on that porch and then want to go somewhere else. That porch was meant for sitting for hours, sipping cocktails and looking out at the trees and the twinkling of car lights. Or, if you're a character in my book, it's the perfect place to get hit on by flesh-eating scavengers and narrowly avert a gruesome death.

But hopefully, that won't happen to me.

On the 7th Day of Christmas I wrote some New Year's Resolutions

Every year I make up silly resolutions I never keep. Last year. I departed from the usual format by coming up with easier ones, such as drinking more wine and eating pecans. Am really, really getting tired of pecans. This year, I decided in honor of my blog tour to do something different. Instead of resolutions for me to keep, I've written a list of resolutions that the characters in The Getaway Girls might have concocted. If they were real people, who cared about such things. And why wouldn't they, I mean even a flesh-eating scavenger has goals, right?


So without further ado, I present the 2015 New Year's Resolutions as imagined by Carl, Declan, Xavier and Audrey from The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms

Kids, don't try these at home.

Carl:
1. Overthrow vampires and take back New Orleans. Again. Really, how many times do I have to rout out these bloodsuckers? Frankly, it's tiresome. Note: look into ways to rid entire planet of vampires or at least drive them to someplace I've no intention of visiting. Possibly Ohio.

2. Take up golf.
(And by "take up" I mean ravage an attractive female golfer)

3. Lower cholesterol. Only slash throats of extremely fit young ladies, or, if tempted by the plumper ones, consider Lipitor.

4. Also, rise from dead.

Xavier:
1. Do NOT allow scavengers to take back New Orleans. They have terrible manners. Draining a young lady's neck is one thing, ripping it to shreds is simply tacky.

2. Have underground coffin-recliners re-upholstered in a stain-resistant fabric. (Scotch-guard?)

3. Find that dishy Audrey and "persuade" her to destroy scavenger colony in Jamaica. Teensy favor, really.

4. Start taking vitamins. This body won't be around forever, you know. Oh, wait ... yes it will.

Declan
1. Stop making stupid vampire movies. Unless they offer me loads of money.

2. Never forget Audrey & keep the memory of our night together sacred forever ... or, at least until the next supermodel comes along.

3. Find cure for scavenger curse and rid planet of all scavengers and vampires. In between movie shoots.

4. F** vitamins, drink more cocktails.

Audrey
1. Avoid hotel bars. Also, burning buildings.

2. Forget Declan. He's trouble.

3. Consider online dating. (Does eHarmony screen for blood lust?)

4. Book next girls' trip somewhere safer. Possibly Ohio. Or Jamaica.

So now that Halloween is over, clearly it's time for Christmas. I mean, Target sent me The Book, so it must be true. Never mind the life-sized mummy still standing in my garage, scaring the living hell out of me every morning (why does the battery on my phone die after 8 hours, but the sound effects on our Halloween decor apparently cannot be turned off?). It's November and if I don't hop aboard the Polar Express soon, I may get left behind.

This year, unlike the past 2 (maybe 3?) years, I'm definitely doing a Christmas card. I have to, or people will stop sending me theirs. I'll be dropped from lists, shunned - my children will live as outcasts, our only holiday mail will be the envelope soliciting cash from the mailman. So there's that to organize. No small challenge considering we haven't had family photos taken since ... well, we did them that one time. And they were pretty nice, but I don't think I could pull off reusing a photo from three years ago. People do expect kids to age and all.

Then there's all the festive baking I'll be doing. As God is my witness, our house will smell like sugar cookies or mulling cider (or whatever other scent the Yankee Candle Co is shilling this year) every day of the season. Maybe, as I did one holiday season, I'll stash some cookies in a jar, store them in a cupboard to keep the kids from eating them - and then forget about them. You know how they say moving is a great excuse for throwing away old stuff? It's also a great way to find really old food. Interesting fact: Christmas cookies do not grow mold. So if you're planning a "make your own penicillin" party, I suggest you serve something more degradable.

And of course, don't forget the presents. The Toys R Us catalog at our house has already seen its fair share of Sharpie, so the kids are on top of the list situation. And it would be so much fun if the gifts were actually things I understood. A stuffed animal or a car I get. Madden 2015, not so much. All I know is it costs $60 and if the dog eats it, I am going to be so pissed. Of course, then you take them to see Santa and they pull the old switcheroo on you. Or they won't tell what they said to Santa. Well played, St. Nick.

In the midst of all that chaos, you've got the Elf on the Shelf making trouble. Talk about brother against brother, that little snitch is like the Civil War of Christmas toys, making the kiddos squeal on each other like inmates at Joliet. Kid: "Mom, it wasn't me, my brother did it!" Me: "Hey, don't tell me. Take it up with the Elf." All I know is this year, that Elf better start producing some good behavior. Because the threat of his daily reports to Santa is supposed to keep everyone in line, but ours only seems to stir up trouble. Also, he's lazy. For an entire week last year, we found him on a giant poster of 1930s Chicago. Which was cool for a day. But a week? Have some pride, Elf.

But you know who's really gonna love the Elf? The dog. We did not have a dog last Christmas. So already I can imagine how things will be different this year. For instance, last Christmas, our tree remained standing and only some of our ornaments were broken (and at least the kids didn't eat them). Our dog is the kind that consumes everything, just because she can. They say dogs aren't supposed to have certain foods, but I've seen ours chow down on about fifty pencils. And a DVD.

Maybe I better get an extra Elf. And give him a message to take to Santa now, before all the holiday traffic.

Dear Santa,

Please watch out when you come down the chimney. In particular, I'd advise you steer clear of the chewed up wreath and partially digested stockings. If you slip on something wet, don't worry that you tracked in snow. Ten bucks says it's dog drool. I don't care what the Elf said, my kids aren't that bad so please don't give them coal. Oh, and if you haven't heard from the Elf in a few days, I apologize.

Because I'm pretty sure the dog ate him.

Grownup Guide to Halloween

I’ve always been a sucker for Halloween. Give me a pumpkin cream and dollar store cauldron and I’m good. The holiday changes once you’re an adult, though – and if you give into your inner Halloween curmudgeon, you can end up with less sugar and more stress. Since I refuse to hang up my witch’s hat, I’m sharing a few suggestions for staying sane on Samhain for grownup goblins and ghosts:

A Grownup’s Guide to Halloween

1. Ditch the dignity. If you really want to get into the Halloween mood, now is not the time to worry about how ridiculous you look wearing a Dracula cape to the office. One year, someone in my office suggested we “all” dress up in costume for Halloween. Getting into the spirit of things, I came to work wearing a leather motorcycle jacket and teased hair, thinking it would be funny to dress as a biker babe. Well, the joke was on me because nobody else dressed up, we had a company-wide meeting, and worst of all? No one realized that my outfit was a costume.

Did I let that dampen my Halloween gusto? Heck no. Before going out that night, I added more hairspray and traded the jeans for fishnets. Because if you’re going to look like a trashy Motley Crue groupie, own it. Did I later wish for something warmer than fishnets on my quest for a cab? Sure. But, on the plus side, several very friendly strangers offered me rides home. Halloween: bringing people together since we stopped burning them.

2. Remember that a little costume goes a long way. And by little, I’m talking the amount of fabric, not creative effort. Ever been in the section of the Halloween store where they stash the costumes for grown women? Party City: puttin’ the “adult” in adult costumes. There’s basically two choices: regular slutty or scary slutty. Regular slutty is your nurse, your cheerleader, belly dancer, etc. Scary slutty is regular slutty meets Elvira. Wear what you want, but I have to doubt the historical accuracy of a witch costume with thigh high slits and a navel-length neckline. If you want to look like a middle-aged Bratz doll, knock yourself out. Just don’t whine if the ‘tricks’ you’re getting offered aren’t made by Hershey.

3. Suck it up, buttercup: Halloween ain’t like it used to be. Certainly not the way it was when we were old enough to trick-or-treat and our parents sent us out the door with a vague warning to stay away from the creepy guy’s house at the end of the street. No one ever explicitly said the neighbor was a pervert, of course. Because that would be rude.

Things are different now and it’s best you face facts. You will be accompanying your kids the entire time. If they are too old for trick-or-treating, you’ll probably be ferrying them to some other appropriate activity, not leaving them at home with a buddy to make prank calls and smoke your cigarettes. (Inhale, cough, gasp that you’re “totally going to barf,” giggle, repeat).

I know that’s terrible and kids, don’t do drugs … but it was fun. Where were my parents? I have no idea. Parents were never home at night during the 80s. They were always at a dinner party. Maybe they were all at the same dinner party; a suburban Last Supper with cheaper wine and shoulder pads.

4. Drink up. Because the only thing worse than trick-or-treating with a kid who’s been mainlining Kit Kats for three blocks sans water bottle? Trolling the ‘hood sober. Trust me; both you and your child will be happier if you’re packing a chilled thermos of water for him and a solo cup of wine for you. A six-pack of beer is too unwieldy and will prevent you from toting the mask, cape, and other accessories that your kid will abandon at some point during the night. A smarter choice is a cocktail bar tucked into a radio flyer wagon. Or golf cart.

5. End on a good note. You’ve made it through the neighborhood, the kids are in bed, and you’re left sitting there, wondering: is this it? Yes. Yes, it is. And consider yourself lucky that you managed to get yourself and your progeny home in one piece. So do yourself a favor – pick out the Snickers from the kiddos’ stash, freshen your drink and put on a scary movie. Because you might be old now, but there is one thing about Halloween that’s just as true whether you’re 14 or 40.

You still can’t watch The Exorcist without covering your eyes.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The Man in the Pool

In honor of my favorite holiday, tinkering with a chapter of a Getaway Girls sequel. Happy Halloween!
######

The house was quiet that night. The call about Mercy had shaken them all, but eventually the boys had fallen asleep. Now, as the moonlight streamed in through the bedroom curtains, Audrey felt anxious about the missing girl.

But it was more than that. She couldn’t shake the sensation that someone had been in her backyard, had looked through her window. She got out of bed and stared out her window overlooking the small pool. Nothing but a tiny breeze that barely stirred the water.

Without anything else to do, she remained standing, watching. Aqua ripples washed outward from the center of the pool, spreading in smooth flat circles. The circles extended, growing in diameter until they reached the edge. There they broke apart, the rings weakening until all movement had finally disappeared.

Or had it? As Audrey watched, small bubbles began to form on the surface in the pool’s center. That’s funny, she thought. Maybe something had fallen in. She leaned over for a better look. She couldn’t see anything but the bubbles, but they kept popping up. And getting bigger.

Now curious, she left her room and headed for the back patio door. Probably some animal, she told herself. Better scare it away before it drowned. She refused to let herself think anything else until she pushed open the French door and stood on the smooth, dark stonework.

She flipped on the exterior light and the round yellow bulb flashed a steam of light down into the pool. The bubbles continued to build, but now ripples curled forth from the bubbles, and quickly spread out into thick rings of water that expanded quickly, audibly lapping against the tile.

A shovel leaned against the brick siding of the house, and she picked it up carefully. The dirty metal handle was warm and she clutched it tightly, taking another step closer.

The bubbles had now multiplied into a thick, frothy blue and white foam that coated the surface of the pool.

"What the hell," Audrey gasped, her whispering voice lost in the jagged churning of water.

As if in response, the foam suddenly exploded into a tall fountain. Water spurted ten feet into the air, spraying Audrey and the entire patio. She jumped back, drenched, as the fountain twisted and thickened. Beneath the water, a dark form began to rise.

Shaking, she dropped the shovel and turned to grab the handle of the door leading back inside when a heavy wave knocked her to her knees.

And a voice rang out above the splashing. “Remember me, Audrey?”

Audrey froze, sopping wet in a huddle on the ground.

She knew that voice.

She lifted her head and saw a tall, dark-haired man in a striped shirt and jeans standing – standing – on the water in her swimming pool. He reached up with a long, muscular arm to flip a hunk of wet hair from his forehead. His eyes were blue and brilliant, but cold. And he smiled with a mouth full of sharp, white teeth.

Like a shark circling his prey, he moved around the perimeter of the pool, still miraculously hovering atop the water. “You didn’t answer, Audrey. I asked if you remembered me.”

Then in one quick, fluid movement, he stepped onto the slick stone.

Audrey’s teeth were chattering, for despite the sticky night air, the water suddenly felt like ice. “Yes," she stammered. “I remember you.”

She could hardly forget the tall, pretty one – the man who had looked as though he belonged on a yacht, not trying to rip out women’s throats in a decaying house in the Ninth Ward in New Orleans. A man she’d impaled with a nail-studded drawer and set on fire.

A man she’d thought was dead.

“Sucks to be wrong, doesn’t it?” His eyes sparkled as he surveyed her, crouching on the ground. “No, I didn't die. You killed the others. But not me.”

Audrey stood up slowly, her eyes never leaving his. “That’s because you left the rest of them to die.”

The man shrugged. “I’m a scavenger, sweetheart, not a Marine. I do leave men behind.”

He took a step closer and then stopped, extending a hand. “Where are my manners? We’ve never been formally introduced. I’m Rho. Nice to meet at last.”

Audrey grabbed the doorknob, trying to get a firm grasp with her wet fingers. “The feeling isn’t mutual. What are you doing in Dallas?”

Rho studied his fingernails for a moment. “Aw, I’m just a cowboy at heart,” he drawled in a passable Texas accent.

Then he shook his head. “Just kidding. I’m here for revenge.”

“Revenge?” Audrey asked, her eyes flitting around for the shovel.

“Loyalty's not my thing, so I don’t care that you killed my boss. But getting rid of Carl let those whiny vampires back into the Garden District. I could barely stalk a sorority girl without running into the undead. You cost me my hunting ground and my home." He glared at her.

"So I had to relocate. Thought about Seattle ... too cliched. Then I read an article describing how many companies were moving to Texas, bringing carloads of naive newcomers. And I thought hey -- if it's good enough for corporate America, it's good enough for me."

He paused, staring down the length of her body, and as his glance traveled back up to hers, he winked. "Plenty to eat. And your hot, miserable summer seems to make everyone just a little more careless.”

Audrey felt her breath come in shaky little gasps. “You’re staying here?”

Rho smirked. “We'll be neighbors. I just can’t wait to catch up with you. And your boys.”

“Stay away from my kids!”

“Oh, I’m not going to kill them. At least not right away. That would ruin all the fun. But I’ll be around. All summer.”

He took one more step forward and Audrey turned her wrist to engage the doorknob. Just as she heard the click of metal, Rho lunged at her, grabbing her chin with the long, cruel claws that extended from his fingers where nails should have been. He twisted her face until she was inches from his and he sniffed the skin above her cheekbones.

“Just as sweet as you were the last time we met.” He drew one long, yellowing claw down her face and across her lips, drawing a thin red line of blood.

“But I’m not. I’m going to leave you and your family alive long enough to watch me murder as many of your friends and neighbors as I can before I get bored with Texas.”

He lifted the blood-flecked claw to his own mouth and sucked Audrey’s blood from his hand. Then he shoved her back down to her knees. “And then, I’m coming for you.”