Something in the attic crashed.
"What's that?" Cheryl asked.
"Nothing," Voltaire replied. "Nothing but the wind blowing so cold outside. Please, scoot a little closer, I'm so cold even with this roaring fire before us."
Cheryl scooted closer on the plush velvet couch, and caressed Voltaire's icy skin.
Something in the attic crashed again.
"Are you sure that you shouldn't check on that?" Cheryl asked. "Maybe it's an injured raccoon."
"I can guarantee you that it's not a raccoon," Voltaire said. He then added, in a yell so loud that the infinitive fractured: "but it will be injured if it doesn't shut the everloving fuck up!"
The ghost that had been making those noises snaked down an ornate chandelier that hung over the pair.
"I'd like to see you try!" the ghost announced.
"What? Oh, you haven't finished with her yet?"
Voltaire clamped his hands over his ears and shook his head. Sometimes opera singers were more trouble than they were worth. The chandelier rattled, the ghost lost his grip and floated to the floor like a leaf.
As Cheryl paused to take a breath, the ghost introduced himself.
"Sir Charles Legume, at your service, ma'am."
Etiquette barged into her brain and out of her mouth, short-circuiting the next scream. "Cheryl Beryl Hooway, charmed," she said, slightly louder than necessary.
"Oh! Are you the Cheryl Beryl Hooway?"
"Charles, get back up to your attic this instant."
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. You were about to bite the throat of one of the finest singers of the past hundred years! The bruising and swelling alone would be quite unforgiveable, let alone the vampirism!"
Voltaire did a fantastic job blanching for a creature without any blood.
"I'm sorry?" Cheryl asked.
"My boy here brings ladies back here and turns them into vampires to slake his own insatiable thirst for the blood of the living. Rather disgusting, if you ask me."
"You leave patches of ethereal grease on the fucking furniture!"
"How is furniture unlike your mouth?" Charles asked, and then answered: "furniture can be cleaned."
Voltaire clenched and unclenched his fists.
"Well," Cheryl said, rising from her seat on the sofa. "I should be going. Charles, it was lovely to meet you. Voltaire, I hope that you rot in a coffin buried in the deepest grave possible and go crazy from your bloodthirst. I shall certainly be warning the rest of the ladies at the theater."
She bustled out of the house.
Voltaire stood fuming at Charles until he heard the front door slam. He relaxed and held up a small leather purse with the unmistakeable roundness that indicated it contained a great deal of heavy coins.
"Looks like we pulled in a good haul tonight. Let's get out of here before she calls the constable."
The Moral: always stab potential suitors in the heart with a wooden stake once or twice before you agree to go back to their place.