Abigail Rath Versus Bloodsucking Fiends

most of my thirteen years, I had been honing myself to be the perfect monster hunting machine. To follow in the footsteps of my parents was my first and best goal. I was Abigail Rath, humanity’s first line of defense. My parents didn’t acknowledge that, but this would be a great chance to show them I was a serious monster hunter.
Most people might think that Vince and I were going to get into trouble chasing down some innocent guy who isn’t really a vampire, and this story would only end in tears. However, Vince and I know something most people don’t. We know that vampires exist, because we know a vampire.
“We should find Ned,” I said. “And if he’s a vampire, we should stake him.”
Vince stood up and slung his skate bag over his shoulders. “I don’t think—”
I put the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. “If he’s fiendish undead, he’s gotta be staked!”
“You sound like one of your dad’s movies.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that, Vince Cooper. Your problem is that you don’t take any of this seriously. You’re never going to be a good monster hunter.”
“Who said I wanted to be a monster hunter?”
I pointed at him, wanting him to know I meant business. “Do you have any idea what a great responsibility it is to carry on the age-honored tradition of protecting the world from unseen forces?”
Vince’s eyebrows rose. “You think I could hunt monsters?”
“You’re a natural. Good investigative skills and a solid head on your shoulders.” Good sidekick material for sure.
“Wow. I—it just never felt right for me...to be a monster hunter...it seems like an odd thing to write a book report about. You? You’re going to be a monster hunter?”
What did he suppose? “I consider myself one already!”
“Hunh. I thought it was a passing phase. Okay. How are we going to find Ned?”
“I have a couple of ideas,” I said.
On Sunday nights, Dad and I have father-daughter time in Dad’s man cave. Old movie posters cover the walls, except for the wall right across from the overstuffed couch, which is a screen opposite the projection unit Dad had bolted onto the ceiling. Hot popcorn made my mouth water. Next to the popcorn was an icy cold orange juice. Mom is a great believer in the insidious effects of soda, so I don’t get to drink it.
Dad and I had just finished watching the Anvil Studios production of Wolfman! Wolfman!.  Wolfman! Wolfman! is that rarest of movies, a horror musical.
Dad loaded up a new DVD. “You’re going to love the makeup in this!” said Dad. “The transformation sequences are incredible!”
Dad used to be a B-movie actor who made most of his films twenty years ago. All monster movie fans know Dad. Reginald Rath, Vampire Slayer. Although my dad has acted the gauntlet of bad movie parts—he’s been everything from Quasimodo to a puritanical witch hunter—it’s his constant casting as a vampire killer which has made his reputation. His movies have taught me everything I know about killing monsters.
Wolfman! Wolfman! is rare in another way. It was one of the few Anvil films we watched that didn’t have Dad or Mr. Christopher in it. This next film did. Mr. Christopher was Dracula, of course, and Dad was Van Helsing. The poignant title? Return of the Son of the Bride of Dracula. It was the sixth film in the series, so they didn’t have a lot left to choose from.
I am a big fan of Dad’s films, don’t get me wrong, but we had watched Return last month, so I wasn’t as interested in it as I would usually be. Mr. Christopher, tall and lumbering, cape swirling, blood lining his lips like a demented clown, chased a beautiful blond across a moonlit landscape. She was the fiancée of Dad’s character’s nephew in the film, so as soon as she started sucking villagers dry, Dad would show up with his stakes and his ruffled shirts and his Gothic crosses, and spike the heck out of everybody.
Instead, my mind was on what might happen when Vince and I tracked down Ned. I soon replaced Dad’s movie with one in my head.
Vince and I found Ned in a building downtown in Central City East. Vince and I walked up the crumbling concrete steps, tugged the swollen door open, and walked into a musty lobby. Everything seemed covered by a thin coat of cheap.
I eyed the desk clerk, certain that he was a servant of the damned. “We’re here for your master,” I said.
Direct and straight to the point. That’s the monster hunter way. It also makes for snappy dialogue. In real life, there might be loads of stupid chitchat, but movies are much more direct.
Ned bounded down the stairs by the desk, spoiling for a fight. He was rail thin, wearing army fatigues and a black t-shirt with some band like Nine Inch Nails printed on it. He had a buzz of dyed red hair and his skin was pale like undeath.
“Hey, Ned,” the desk clerk said, “These kids are here to see you.”
Ned exploded into a fangy grin. Just flashed those fangs, right out in the open. He grabbed Vince’s hand and pumped his arm. “Nice to meetcha.”
Vince cricked his neck toward me. “This is a friend of mine.”
Ned extended his hand. I tightened my grip on my backpack. Ned nodded. “So, Vince, can I get you and your friend something to eat. You hungry?”
“No, sir,” said Vince. “We’ve eaten.”
“Yes,” I said. “Have you?”
Ned rubbed his chin. “I don’t think your friend likes me.”
“It’s nothing personal. That’s just her way. She thinks she knows everything about...everything.”
“I do. That’s the advantage of training hard.”
If it’s my head movie, I can say things like that.
I scoped