It was around two o'clock in the morning, early October, with the moon at full over the valley of Los Angeles. I was wearing my power suit of sunrise blue, with dark blue shirt, crucifix and garlic sash, and black boots. I had shaved my armpits and legs, gargled with minty holy water. I was everything the well-dressed private investigator ought to be, calling on the Brides of Dracula.
       I'd had dealings with vampires before, of course. This was 1939. This was Los Angeles, the city of treachery and deceit. And film studios. Vampires loved film, and film loved vampires. It was the only way they could see themselves. And I needed the cash. I always needed the cash, never for me -- ransoming my lover's soul took all I had. And kept on taking.
       The main foyer of the Iron Place was a modern Malibu-style three stories high. There were French doors at the back of the hall, beyond them, a sweep of midnight lawn, touched with moonlit shadows. Outside, the sea roared. A staircase rose to a wrought iron gallery lined with modern art. There weren't any mirrors, and I hadn't expected any. The house smelled like money and decaying flowers. In the day, the sun would stream. Tonight, moonlight wandered.
       A large oil portrait of my potential employer hung above a cherubic fireplace. The portrait was a romantic piece of boudoir fluff, over-full of the lounging Vivi Iron center, her two sister-wives left and right, two steps behind. Her bosom flowed, and her eyes beckoned.
       I was staring at the come-hither eyes when someone tapped on my back, and there Vivi Irons was in real life, overflowing and beckoning and floating a foot off the parquet. She hadn't floated in her films, at least not where the camera could see.
       She looked ageless, smaller than I'd expected, wiry. She wore a blue gauze dress. Her hair was longer than the current fashion, cascading like red silk to frame her breasts, displayed in a tight corset. She smiled, and her fangs glistened at me, but her nose wrinkled, and she floated back a step to avoid the reek of garlic. A thick wave of amber rose from her skin. My nose twitched.
       She took my outstretched hand and licked it. Twice.
       "Tasty, aren't you?" she said.
       "I didn't mean to be." I took my hand back. I did not wipe it on my skirt. That would be rude. The old scar on my neck twinged. "I hear you're looking for a P.I. I'm the best."
       Her lips opened, and her eyes got larger. I think it was a pout.
       "Severe, too," she said. "That must be why you come so highly recommended. But you don't have the job. Yet."
       I shrugged. "What can I do for you...". I paused.
       Her eyes crossed. Perhaps she was puzzled. "Vivianne Irons. That's my stage name. But you knew that. Everyone knows that."
       "I recognized you," I said. "But it never hurts to be sure. I'm Philomena Driftwood. But you knew that."
       It was her turn to shrug, except her shrug was an air-bob motion. Up and down.
       I waited.
       She bobbed.
       "Fine," she said. "We'll talk in the foyer like peasants."
       That suited me. I came from a long line of peasants.
       "We want a divorce."
       Now, I wished we'd gone someplace where I could sit down. I knew what her married name was.
       "From your husband," I said, walking over to lean against the staircase pilaster. It was made of plaster. There were lots of carved roses and thorns.
       "Count Dracula," I said. We both waited. I wanted to walk away. Love kept me there. The money would pay off Vaughn's card debt. And return his soul. I liked him better with one. A therapist needed a soul, and Vaughn loved his job. I loved Vaughn.
       A dry wind rustled through the room in a spiral, stirring up the smell of old blood and all the dying things, like old smoke or stale incense. We stayed very quiet for a moment until the night air from an open window blew the stench away.
       "So, he's paying attention," I said.
       "He always does. That's the problem. No one can serve him the papers. He knows they're coming."
        "Have you considered Reno?"
       She shivered and bobbed. "All that sun. We couldn't stand it there. Especially Marie. She's sensitive, you know. And Lily would hate to leave her daffodils."
       Trust vampires to make things difficult.
       "I'll take the job," I told her and her mouth parted in a smile of fangs. "Just don't talk about it, in case he's...".
       We waited for another waft of decay before we breathed out. Well, I did. Vivi didn't breathe, although her chest did heave.

       I left Vivi and her reclusive sister-wives in their mansion. I wanted to talk to Vaughn, but Vaughn without a soul was a nasty thing.
       Vaughn, with a soul, would've said, "Phil. Vampires? Really?"
       And then I would've said, "Vaughn, I'd do anything for you."
       And he would've draped his arm around my shoulders and said, "Be careful, Phil. Remember the last time." And then, he would've kissed the scar on the side of my neck. The last time had been rape, the only death sentence for vampires, and yes, I'd killed her. Funny thing was, she could've just asked. I would've said yes.
       Instead, he said, "You're being an idiot, Phil. Stay away from Dracula. I don't need a soul."
       I disagreed.
       Vaughn hadn't been any help. He wasn't seeing clients, so he was just sitting on our couch. He hadn't done the dishes. He hadn't fed our cat, Morteus.
       I fed the cat. I didn't do the dishes. I didn't pick up his underwear off the floor.
       "I don't think I need a soul," he said.
       "Yes, you do," I said while packing a bag. I tossed in all my stakes.
       "I don't think I need you either," he said.
       "Yes, you do." I added more garlic, three vials of holy water, a black catsuit, a milkmaid outfit and spritzed it all with rose perfume.
       Vaughn sneezed. I wanted to kiss the sneeze away.
       "I might go out," he said. "See Buddy. Play a few games." He scratched his privates. "Grab me a drink," he said.
       "That's nice, darling. You should absolutely go see Buddy," I said, going into the kitchen. I fixed him a bourbon and ginger, with a dash of valium and left him safe and asleep twenty minutes later. He really did not need to see Buddy.

       The Bronson Gate to Paramount Studios was a gilded arch under the rising full moon. Beyond the iron gate, the streets bustled. Costume racks with stuck wheels screeched and rattled along. Actors acted -- even the walk-ins strutted with importance. Chorus girls clustered in clumps. Quartz lamps glowed shadows into sharp relief. On my side, the world was dark. On the other side of the arch, the magic of film beckoned, along with Dracula.
       A security guard stood sentry. He was middle-aged. The lines of a disappointed actor creased his face. I knew him, so I took a moment with my back turned to open another button and shift some things.
       "Hi, Charlie," I said, giving him my brightest smile. I hoped I didn't have lipstick on my teeth.
       He didn't seem to notice if I did, but then his attention was focused lower.
       I shimmied and flipped my hair. "Just dropping something off on set," I said. It would be too much to wink and not worth the bother. Charlie's eyes never strayed up.
       "Gotta sign you in, Phil. Who are you here for?"
       That, of course, was the problem. One of many. I'd planned for all of them.
       "Here for the Dead to the Night shoot, Studio 12."
       He dragged his eyes away from my chest to check a clipboard. "That's a closed set," he said. "No visitors."
       I sighed. An exaggerated heave. I hoped the padding didn't slip. "Ah, c'mon, Charlie. It's just me." I leaned forward.
       His head tilted for a better look.
       A moment passed. I continued heavy breathing. I needed him to say the name.
       He shook his head. "Sorry, Phil. Dracula's orders."
       There. He'd said what I needed.
       The wind picked up. A dust devil blew across the lot. It smelled like rotting rats, sweet and heavy, and tasted like gritty blood. The vampire was listening.
       I held my breath and fished out a tenner. My neck prickled, but I had to make a good effort.
       Charlie shuddered. "No way, Phil. I'd lose my job."
       I added another. I kept my breath held. I didn't want Dracula tasting me on the night. Charlie refused.
       I gave up with an exaggerated flounce. I left Charlie at the gate with a dust devil swirling around his feet.
       Good, I had Dracula's attention.

       By the time I'd changed clothes and driven to the Melrose Gate, clouds were looming over the Bronson gate. Dark clouds. Flickers of lightning. But here at Melrose, the world was moonlight. And full of extras, mostly milkmaids, with a sprinkling of tap dancers.
       Dracula knew I was coming. The thought shivered through my spine and lingered in the rough scar on my neck. There were rumors about Dracula. About his house of horrors, the mansion where he feasted on the innocent and willing until they were no longer innocent or willing.
       The mansion was the obvious choice to serve him, of course. He'd be counting on that. I counted on him counting.
       And he was famous. That gave him the illusion of control. The ability to close a set, to keep the riffraff away.
       Riffraff always seeped through the cracks. The milkmaid costume let me seep. The divorce papers in my corset itched. My scar itched. I didn't scratch anything.
       The security guard at the Melrose Gate let me in without checking. It was the milkmaid costume. There weren't any dust devils, and no bats squeaked in the night. The bats and the devils were still with Charlie.

       I followed the milkmaids to the set, deep in the heart of Paramount. They wiggled and chatted. To fit in, I wiggled. I did not chat. I tried not to think about Vaughn or souls or the divorce papers digging into my cleavage. Dracula couldn't hear thoughts. It was just in case.
       The set was inside. A recreation of an apple orchard at night, with a moon rising. The trees were real. Everything else was fake, the grass, the cleavages, the Styrofoam rock altar, even the apples. The full moon was a sodium light suspended from the rafters. They could've shot outside, using the real moon.
       That wasn't the Hollywood way.
       Dracula looked like his film image and not like it. He had the wide mouth, the aristocratic nose, the deep eyes, the dark hair parted to the side. He was wearing a white tuxedo. He had a script in his hands and a cigarette in his mouth, unlit.
       He looked older than he did in film; his lips seemed to have forgotten how to smile. They would smile when the lights came on, when the director called, "Action." But in his concentration, his lips were thin and tight. PAs surrounded him. Guards surrounded them. Sodium film lights turned the night into sharp edges.
       "Places," an assistant director said through a bullhorn. The milkmaids chattered louder. The guards backed away from Dracula.
       "How swoony."
       Another shivered in delight.
       Idiots. The scar on my neck itched. The papers scratched my stomach. The corset made it hard to breathe.
       The PAs herded us to the bower where Dracula awaited. Like cattle.
       "Quiet on the set."
       The lights got brighter, honing the shadows into knives. Dracula put down his script. I stayed with the shuffling maids.
       "Sound rolling!"
       There wasn't any sound except for harsh breathing. A woman rushed forward and patted Dracula's face with powder. There should've been the sound of frogs. Or crickets. Or something besides the thrum of blood pounding through me. I had to do this. For Vaughn.
       "Camera up to speed."
       Dracula stretched, flung his cape over a shoulder. The cape was lined in red velvet. The cameras would turn it black.
       I didn't need to hold my breath.
       "Slate."
       Dracula fended off the woman with the puff.
       I took another deep breath.
       "Clean slate."
       The chalkboard clapper snapped shut.
       Dracula straightened. Stepped fully into the fake moon. And became the star of the night. The lips smiled, parted, and revealed ivory fangs.
       The milkmaids stared. They didn't shuffle or cluster. They didn't chitter or chatter. Neither did I.
       "Action."
       Dracula beckoned. "Come, child. Embrace the night." A milkmaid stepped forward, prodded by an assistant.
       "Yes, Master," she said and bared her neck.
       The papers dug into my stomach. The cluster moved forward, forming a rag-tag line. One after another, their cue came. They walked into the grove. Dracula seduced. They swooned. The moon lit their necks. The cameras followed every movement. Spiders crawled over the scar on my neck.
       Was he really drinking on the job?
       The PA beckoned. "You're up next," he pantomimed with waving hands.
       "Did I sign up to give blood?" I hissed back.
       He glared, put his finger to his lips, then nodded, unwilling to risk the shot with sound.
       Damnit.
       Dracula beckoned.
       The PA shoved me.
       I stumbled and tripped. The fake grass skinned my knees. The papers shifted, rising from the corset.
       I took his hand. It was white and slender and firm. I told myself not to look into his eyes. The scar on my neck pulsed. He pulled me to my feet, and he smelled like dark vanilla.
       "Come, child," he said. "Let me help you. Join my tribe."
       The director looked puzzled but spun his hands in a gesture for the cameras to keep rolling.
       I looked into his eyes.
       His eyes were an ocean. The ocean was full of gray despair. I wanted to drain the sadness.
       Dracula is an old soul, lost soul, forsaken soul, doomed soul. But in his eyes, I saw a bitter loneliness; I swam in the depths of his regrets, and the images of his wives in better times swam with me.
       The camera kept whirring. The silence turned into anxiety. The director waved and gestured.
       We didn't pay him any attention, Dracula and I, lost together in the loneliness of love and an endless sea. When he drew me to him, I swooned like a stupid milkmaid.
       He tilted my head to bare my neck.
       "You have to say yes," he whispered into my neck, where the words would be hidden from the cameras. "Consent is all."
       My scar thirsted for his touch.
       "This was rape," he said, his tongue flickering against my neck, caressing the puckers of scars. "I don't do that." Damnit, I swooned harder.
       The papers in my bodice stabbed us both.
       "What the hell," Dracula said.
       "Cut," the director yelled, stamping his feet.
       I dug for the papers, now jammed.
       "Get this broad off set," the Director yelled. "Now."
       The guards set down their coffee and donuts from the catering table. The PAs looked excited and clustered in a meaningful manner.
       "Dracula," I said, my hand emerging from my corset with the papers, a rush of exultation rising. I would serve Dracula. I would ransom Vaughn's soul. "You've been..."
       "No," he screamed, jerking away. "I love them still." A flurry of bats surrounded me, beating at my hair. "I have your smell," they whispered into my ear. "You smell like failure and loss and of something else. Doom. Did you think I didn't know you were coming?"
       I batted them away from my hair, but there were too many. The night was full of wings.
       "You should tend to your own love," the bats hissed.
       They chirped and squeaked and fled into the night, leaving me alone.

       That feeling of loss stayed with me as I got the bum's rush out from a pair of security guys who might have been carved from wood. I emerged from the Melrose gate with dawn peeking up in the east. The skies were pink and urged me to bed.
       My day had just started. I'd tried the easy ways. It was time to get serious, and seriousness meant storming the castle, like the peasant I was, with flames and stakes if necessary.
       I just needed a few things from home. And I wanted to touch Vaughn, even if he was passed out.

       The apartment was empty, except for a note on the coffee table. The note was propped up against a picture of Vaughn and me. We'd been on vacation. There had been sand and sun, tequila and umbrellas. In the picture, I was smiling.
       The writing on the note was cursive, black, and etched into expensive paper by an angry pen.
       "I have his body and his soul now. A trade. The papers for him. Love for love, 10 pm tonight, at the estate."
       Signed, "Dracula." I didn't know how he'd gotten Vaughn's soul from Buddy, the card shark, but Dracula did have his ways.
       The note didn't change a thing. It just added an item to my list. Serve the papers. Rescue Vaughn. And his soul. Get paid by the wives. Happily ever after. What could go wrong?
       I didn't dare finish the thought. I needed to go see the wives again.

       "Really," Vivi said, bobbing. Tonight, she wasn't corseted. Her sister-wives hovered to her left and right. The trio was dressed in white, gauzy gowns. They looked like a set of ghosts. I suspected that was the point. "You think that would work?"
       It'd taken me two hours to get them to come round to my idea.
       "It's good to have options." Vivi bobbed closer. I stepped back. "Just in case. Unless you'd rather try Reno."
       All three shivered.
       "Then sign here," I said.

       Crescent Drive curved north from Sunset Boulevard. The road was lined with the fenced estates of the famous. I drove past Milton Berle's stone gates, then Gloria Swanson's curlicue iron, still climbing. There were no sidewalks and, in the canyon, no sun, even at midday. I had done my research; I had my plans and a packet of papers taped to my back, hidden by my shirt. I would save Vaughn and his soul, free the wives, and get my payment.
       Bran Castle loomed at the top. He'd transported the entire castle, along with a tanker of dirt, and rebuilt it in the hills. It was gothic. It was romantic. The rags said he'd done it for his wives, to make them feel at home. Rumor had it they'd never even spent one day there.
       Indian laurel fig hedges scraped at the car as it whined up the road. Like everything in LA, the laurels and the castle were imports.
       The helpful rags had also let me know that Dracula had a party planned for tonight. A gala. All the important people would be there.
       Vaughn already was.
       The way was steep, and my car shuddered. The noon sun beat down when I reached the last turn-off at the top, and the wind whistled at me. I drove past the castle, just another tourist. These mansions all had front gates.
       And they had back ones for maids and gardeners and deliveries and caterers. I parked in the last space in the servant's lot, grabbed a tray off the caterer's truck, and walked right in, the easiest thing I'd done all week.
       The one thing the rags didn't know. Dracula's daybed location. Some said his coffin was in the dungeons, others that he had a secret room, and a few claimed Dracula didn't sleep at all. Ever.
       Vaughn was probably in the dungeons, so I dropped the tray off, headed in the opposite direction from the stream of activity, and slipped down a set of stairs.
       Then, another set of stairs.
       And another.
       Bran Castle had a lot of stairs. They started out well-lit and smooth-walled; they ended up cramped stone with flickering lights and authentic cobwebs. Rats chittered in the walls. A bit obvious for my taste, a tad expected. I preferred his wives' Malibu house. The papers taped to my back were getting damp.
       "Ya think we'll get to see Jean Harlow? Now that she's a vamp?" The guard's voice rattled through the hall, and I ducked into a dungeon cell.
       "She wouldn't even drink from you," another voice replied. "Me, I'd like to see Greta Garbo."
       The steps came closer, hard soles clacking on stone floors.
       I shrank further into the cobwebbed shadows. A spider climbed over my arm. Then another. A few more spider friends joined the party, opting to dance in my hair. I stayed still.
       "In your dreams, Joe," the guard said, shining a light into the cell. The beam scraped the edges of my feet. "Greta hasn't left her house in months. She eats in."
       A spider twitched hairy legs on my nose, pottering across my cheek.
       "What in blazes," Joe said. "They're all over me."
       "Don't blow your wig," the other guard said. "They're just spiders."
       Joe screamed. His flashlight fell from his grip, bouncing in a circle of light, illuminating me as the beam passed, coming to rest at my feet.
       My face spider climbed up a cheek and danced in the corner of my eye. I nudged the flashlight in the other direction with my foot, away from me. I held my breath.
       The spider danced across my eye. Its feet tickled. They were hairy.
       "This is a trip for biscuits," Joe said, grabbing his flashlight. "Let's get coffee."
       I didn't move for a few minutes after they left. Then, I dispatched spiders. With prejudice.

       The hours passed while I wandered through the maze of Castle Bran's lower levels. I'd found seven secret passages and two hidden rooms. Vaughn wasn't in any of them. I didn't find any coffins either.
       I'd have put Vaughn in the dungeon. I'd have put my coffin in the dungeons, too.
       The good news was that I hadn't been attacked again by spiders or discovered by guards.
       But the sun was starting to sink, and even in the depths of the castle, the noises of a party were picking up.
       If Vaughn wasn't in the dungeons, then he had to be in the levels above where the party was. I didn't have a choice.
       I was going to crash this wingding. Maybe I'd see Jean Harlow. I'd heard Greta wasn't coming.

       I headed back up the stairs. The noise of the crowd wafted its way down, barely audible when I started. The noise was a roar when I reached the top. I leaned against a wall, rubbed my leg muscles and waited for my pulse to come down. The scar on my neck ached from the presence of vampires. All of Hollywood would be here tonight.
       "Quite the swirl," I said to a passing waiter. "Here, let me take that," I said, taking his tray of fresh drinks. He looked relieved.
       "He's on the prowl tonight. You're new. Watch out."
       I thought of fourteen things I could say in return. Instead, I nodded thanks and dove in.
       Glittering couples swirled by me on the ballroom floor, lit by flickering crystal chandeliers, a jewel box of scintillation.
       I searched for Dracula's head, but I couldn't see him. Snippets of conversation battered me as I darted through, shedding drinks. The papers taped to my back itched.
       "He's in a foul mood," one tuxedoed man said to a glittering woman. If her jewels were real, they could fund a small Slavic country.
       "Still dizzy for his dames," she said with a pout. "But they ain't coming back."
       He wasn't in the ballroom. He hadn't been in the dungeons. That left the towers. And more steps.
       I walked through an arch and up a staircase. There were one hundred steps to the first landing, another seventy-five to the second. I lost track by the third gasping landing. The stairs narrowed and twisted. When I reached the top, I had to wait again for my calf to uncramp and my breathing to settle in front of a set of double doors, arched and gothic wood, iron hasped. Sturdy. My scar ached.
       Then I went through the doors. They groaned. Typical.
       In front of me were two seated figures.
       "So glad you could join us," Dracula said, rising from his chair and straightening his jacket. To his right, still in his chair, Vaughn, held there by thick hemp ropes.
       Neither seemed happy to see me.
       I strode forward.
       "No billing and cooing," Dracula said, intercepting. I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes.
       "This seems very cliche," I said. The scar on my neck pounded. My pulse hammered. My chest felt like it was in a vise. I was a construction site. "The throne-like chairs, the chandeliers dripping wax. You forgot the bats."
       He gave me bats with a smile flashing fangs. I let them chitter around, tangling in my hair. I shrugged.
       Fog roiled the room, crawling in from the corners. There was a brief wind, full of decaying roses. A howl of a wolf, far away. Spiders drifted from the ceiling.
       "Trite to the point of potboiler," I said, holding my ground.
       The bats subsided into a cloud of gray, coalesced, and faded. The spiders backed off. The fog stayed.
       "Hi, Vaughn," I said. My lover didn't respond, his head swiveling to give us each an equal amount of glare. "Dracula got your tongue?"
       "I'm no cat," Dracula said. "He's sulking. Says he doesn't want his soul back."
       The soul in question, glowing in a vial, placed in a position of prominence on top of a pillow, on top of a pillar, rested. Such a faint light, a soul.
       "You can't be serious," I said.
       "I'm a flivver with a soul," Vaughn said. "A broken thing. I feel too much. My empathy gets in the way of my honesty. Let's be honest, Phil."
       "Maybe we shouldn't be, Vaughn."
       "You love your job. You love the hunt. I love my job, too, just as much." His voice tugged at my heart.
       "More than me?" Some questions I shouldn't ask.
       "As much as." That was not nothing.
       "But I want to try something. Radical honesty."
       "You're an asshole without a soul."
       "I was an asshole with a soul," he said and laughed. "I'm just an honest asshole now. I hate drinks with umbrellas, for example."
       That stung. "I bought you all those drinks."
       "I drank them because I love you, not umbrellas."
       If he said he loved me, and he didn't have a soul, was that love? I didn't know. Does anyone?
       "We appear to be at an impasse," Dracula said.
       "He's getting his soul back," I said. That was what was going to happen. "What do I have to do to make that happen?"
       "Give up the papers. Quit working for my wives."
       "I could do that," I said. "It won't stop them. Someone's going to serve you, and it may as well be me. Your wives have made up their minds."
       He shook his famous head. "I love them too much. I can't let them go."
       "There's a proverb about setting things free," I said.
       Dracula glared harder, elevating his sneer to smoldering. He towered over me. He smelled good, like cinnamon sunshine. I locked my knees to prevent swooning.
       I bared my neck to Dracula, pulling away the collar of my shirt. "Was this choice?" I asked.
       "Of course not." He pulled away.
       "So, you're a renegade vampire? You'd take away choice." I didn't make it a question.
       "It's different with my wives. I've dedicated my death to making them happy. I became famous to make them happy. I became rich to buy them things. I moved a castle for them." He sounded sad. None of this had made him happy. His glare had faded, and now those famous thin lips slumped.
       "You didn't ask them once if they wanted any of that, did you?" I didn't look at Vaughn. I wasn't going to give him a choice. "You never even asked them if they liked Bran Castle."
       Dracula's shoulders sagged.
       "They don't. They hate the castle. You never asked. They haven't spent one day here because they hate it and they have a choice. You can't take that."
       Dracula considered. The candlelight flickered. "If I can't scare you or seduce you, what the hell can I threaten you with?"
       "Money," I said. "I'm mercenary."
       "Stupid of me to overlook that." His mouth twisted, almost to a grin. "How much money?"
       "Ten thousand would do it," I said. "And him. And his soul."
       "Ten thousand is a fortune."
       "Exactly."
       "Phil, I've been thinking," Vaughn said, interrupting.
       Nothing good ever follows that statement.
       "I'm better off without a soul. I'm a therapist in Los Angeles. A soul is doing me no good."
       "Ignore him," I said, focusing on Dracula. "Let your wives go. Just give me his soul in exchange. You can keep your money."
       "Phil, I'm serious. I don't want my soul back. You say you're about consent, about choice and accepting the results. If you love me at all."
       I would do anything for love. For Vaughn. But not that. He was right, I couldn't take his choice away, even if that meant the loss of us.
       "A therapist without a soul is the most Los Angeles thing I've ever heard of," Dracula said.
       Vaughn tilted his head. We looked at each other for a long moment.
       I saw our Aruba vacation, tasted a memory of coconut-flavored kisses and umbrella tequila drinks in the sun. I begged him to reconsider with my eyes.
       Vaughn looked away with a shrug. "Sorry, Phil." He did look rueful in a hangdog way. "I need to try life without one."
       "We're at a stalemate then," Dracula said, straightening his tuxedo jacket. "He doesn't want his soul."
       I did want the money. I did want Vaughn's soul. I did want his wives' freedom.
       Two out of three wouldn't be bad. I could get at least that. I had a backup plan.
       "Vaughn," I said. "Meet your first client."
       They both stared at me, both smoldering.
       "Couple's therapy," I said. "Or rather, triples' therapy. Marital counseling." Now, they both had wrinkled foreheads of confusion. "A chance to woo your wives back. A chance for me to talk Vaughn back into his soul. A way for Vaughn to test his theory of radical honesty."
       The smell of thinking filled the room, or maybe that was just the smell of wax burning.
       I continued, pressing my point. "Your wives would tell you the truth if you'd only let them. They're as lonely as you; they miss you. But you want the past to be the future. They want the unknown. Maybe they'll all stay. Maybe just one or two. Maybe none. You have eternity to try."
       I did not have eternity with Vaughn. But I would have time to try.
       "I'm not happy," Dracula said with a rumble of thunder.
       "Nor am I," I said, without thunder.
       "I'm fine," Vaughn said. "About my rates..."
       "Shut up," we both said.
       "Show me this agreement," Dracula said, holding out his hands.
       I let him take the whole pile. "You've been served," I said and ducked to avoid the bats.

       We're all working it out.
       The wives meet twice a week with Vaughn. They're still at their Malibu mansion. Dracula's still at Bran Castle. He hired a designer. Vaughn says they're arguing a lot about the new curtains. He's even learned that they hate graveyard roses, and now he brings them daffodils. Dracula is a work in progress.
        I got paid. The wives' check cleared. Vaughn's making good money, too. His new Marital Counseling Center for celebrities is all the rage. His soul sits in a cabinet in his office, holding up some books.
       I'm waiting for Vaughn to change his mind -- I won't force him. He might even be right.
       Hollywood is full of lost souls and moonlit nights.