I

Addison Caffey – though he honestly preferred Caff – braced his leg on the nearby fence railing. On the fence's other side, the town graveyard sprawled up a gently rising hill, atop which stood a massive, ancient mesquite tree. It was a clear, windy night. The cold wind blowing in from the desert set the tree's leafless branches swaying, sent ripples in the shin-high, ink-black gravegrass, and cut right through Caff's faded blue work shirt. He finished rolling the cigarette and struck a match from the sole of his boot. A gust of wind threatened to put out the tiny, sputtering flame. He shielded it with the cup of his palm, lit the cigarette, and pulled smoke into his lungs. Graveyard was quiet tonight. It was quiet every night, yet here he was. Walking the perimeter fence, checking the headstones, seeing the mausoleum still shut tight. Every damn night.

Just in case.

He pushed the smoke out his nose and resumed his patrol. Damn, but it was a cold one tonight. Most who didn't live in one had trouble believing just how cold a desert could get come sundown. He understood. During the day it was hard to believe that anything other than the sun and the endless, endless heat could exist. Night had the same effect, especially for someone who had forgotten their damned coat! Well...not forgotten, exactly, but had overestimated their – his, who was he fooling, here – tolerance of biting desert wind. He'd rolled down his sleeves and buttoned his collar long ago, and that helped a little. Coffee would help more, but he had neglected to bring a pot along. He scrubbed his hands together and grumbled wordlessly around his cigarette.

Only thing to be done was finish. Only thing left was to check the mausoleum. It stood alone among the sea of headstones; marble and climbing ivy, a wrought-iron gate flanked by carved pillars, a flat-stone path in the gravegrass. Every night he'd pass it by, every night the gate'd be closed, and every night he'd nod his head and say still sleepin' well, old man? It had become a ritual, a way to close off his graveyard walk. As the single-story building hove into view, blending pale and chilly out of the gloom, he was ready to do just that.

Then he saw the open gate. The gate, which had for the past three months of these nightly walks been closed, was now open. Caff blinked, words dying in his throat. He stared at the wall of darkness just inside the mausoleum door. A harsh gust of wind blew the swinging iron door against the marble wall with a clang! The sound sent a jolt down his spine, prompting him to action. He spat out his cigarette, dug out the ember with the heel of his boot, and vaulted the fence. Hand on the worn ash grip of his sixgun, he stepped closer.

He could hear the rustle and sway of the mesquite's dry, naked branches at the hilltop. It sounded like something scratching, gently rasping, on a stone wall. The open mausoleum loomed, interior shrouded in impenetrable darkness. The silver light of the moon and stars was bright tonight, dusting a soft glow across everything he saw. Everything, that is, but the inside of that mausoleum. He knew he had to look inside, he knew.

It was just that every fiber of his being screamed at him not to. It – no, he – was afraid. His grip on his sixgun tightened to white-knuckle as he stared at that yawning darkness. It wasn't fear of the unknown that kept him from going in. He knew what he'd find. A raised marble coffin, sealed. Beyond that, another wrought-iron gate, leading down into a crypt that lay directly beneath the roots of the mesquite tree. He knew this, and yet his feet stayed planted where they were. He refused to take one step further. He clenched his jaw. Some Sheriff I am turning out to be, scared of the damned dark!

Mustering his courage, he stepped to the threshold. He put his free hand on the gate as another gust of wind threatened to slam it against the wall again. The wind held on, whistling through the gaps in the finely shaped iron, rising into a keen as the cold leeched from the metal into his skin, his bones, and deeper still. He took a breath, bracing himself, and stepped over the threshold. The wind died. He stood now in complete darkness. Fear had him quite still. Would his eyes adjust, he wondered, or would he stand startled-deer still until he found his courage once more?

Wait, ain't there a oil lamp in here somewhere? He patted blindly in the dark until his hand found the wall, then started to slide it across the smooth, cold, carved stone. If I recall, it should be about...here! His fingertips slid across glass, dusty and filmed over. Relief trilled through him, soothing his racing heart. Drifting his hand down, he found the wick and pan to be in good shape. All they needed was a spark. He fumbled in his breast pocket for another match, striking it against the wall. The flare of orange light was blinding to his eyes, and he blinked away the spots as the stick burned down towards his fingertips. Quickly, he provided the lamp its spark and the wick flared to life.

An orange glow spread, flickering, to the corners of the room, turning the darkness to shadows and giving it shape. They clung where they hid. He found he could breathe steadily again as the light grew brighter. That lasted until he turned around. The raised, marble coffin that stood proud in the room's center, that was supposed to be closed, was open. It was supposed to be closed, and it was open!

“This,” he said quietly, voice echoing hollow, “is not ideal.”

It was so, so far from ideal. Caff left the mausoleum quickly, jogging back to the fence and vaulting it once more. Mayor'd have to be told. He was not looking forward to informing him that, after more than half a century asleep, Elijah was once more among them.

- - -

After the cold, the wind, and the darkness of the graveyard, his office seemed a patch of heaven by comparison. A one-story construct of clapboard and shingles, the Calavera Jail had three desks and four(usually empty) cells in a large, single room. A coal-fed stove, pipe up through a neatly sealed hole in the ceiling, kept smoke from filling the room. Embers smoldered gently in its belly, orange glow casting through the grate. Strategic lamps hung on the walls illuminated the place with a welcoming yellow light. Once Caff was inside and at his desk – the one closest to the stove – warmth began to seep into him. His coat hung on the back of his chair, where he had stupidly left it.

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Perhaps it was the light, the warmth, or the distance, but he began to feel as if he had made a mighty fool of himself. Jumping at shadows and carrying on...he shook his head at himself. A mighty fool indeed. The crypt door had been closed and he'd been armed, so where had the danger been, exactly? In the dark? If he'd been five, that might have been acceptable. He dug another cigarette from an inner pocket of his jacket and lit it, drawing the smoke into his lungs, then pushing it out. He shook his head again. “Foolishness.” he mumbled around the cherry bouncing between his lips, “Absolute foolishness.”

Elijah, though, that had nothing foolish about it. More than a little curiosity, though. The old man usually made a habit presenting himself to the Mayor and Sheriff when he woke up, or so Caff's predecessor had it. To not do so now was, well...curious.

Unless the old man was on his way here to do that and I missed him because I was messing around being scared of my own shadow. That could be it. It could be. But it didn't feel like it was. He scratched his chin. What if – what if he saw this place empty and went to the Mayor?

Checking his watch told him it was past midnight. Mayor was likely asleep. Could this wait? The man was an early riser, and sunrise wasn't too far off. Caff could get some sleep, head over first thing and ask around. He could do that. He wanted to, leaning back in his chair. He wanted to. His mind went back to the mausoleum. To the open coffin. To the growing sense, that the warmth and light and distance could do nothing about, that something was wrong. He stood, shrugging into his coat. Maybe it could wait. Back out into the cold night he went, O'Neil's Hotel and Bar ablaze with light and noise down the street. Maybe it could wait. The Mayor's house was one of the only buildings in town that had more than one story. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets as he walked. Maybe it could wait.

But Caff could not.

The Mayor's house had a waist high wooden fence surrounding it. The two-story building was one of the first built in Calavera; it's high, peaking roof, brick chimney, and iron weathervane marking its quality just as much as it's painted walls and many windows. He pushed through the arched gate and walked up the stairs to the front stoop. The door was sheltered from the elements by a small, peaked roof held up by pillars of painted wood. A gas lamp hung from the ceiling, lighting the brass knocker at eye level in the door. He drove the knocker into the door, the impact making a sharp crack! After waiting a moment, he did it again; crack!

This cycle repeated once more before a light came on inside. Through a nearby window Caff saw someone moving slowly through the dark hall, disappearing from view just on the other side of the door. There came a click as the door's lock was undone. It cracked open, a suspicious and sleepy eye peeking through the gap. That eye widened when it saw him and the door opened further to reveal the robed, slippered, and armed figure of one of the house's maids. Her voice rough with sleep, she asked, “Sheriff?”

Caff dipped his head in greeting. “Miss,” he said, then cleared his throat. “I realize it's late, but could you fetch the Mayor? I need to speak with him.”

“You got any idea what time it is, Sheriff Caffey?” She demanded, setting the double-barrel down, leaning the stock against the door frame, then crossing her arms. He fought the urge to light another cigarette. It was going to be like this, then? Fine. He crossed his arms as well.

“I surely do.”

The maid raised her brows. “It's real late, Sheriff. Maybe you ought come back in the morning.”

“I,” he ground out between clenched teeth, “am aware how late it is. This cannot wait. Wake the damn man up!”

She recoiled in the face of his anger and growled words. “I...” she paused, “all right. You best wait in the sitting room.”

Caff grunted and stepped inside. He followed her direction to a luxuriously appointed sitting room. Polished floors and expensive carpets were paired with cushioned furniture, bookshelves, and art. Near to the fireplace were two chairs, set at angles. Each of them had small, ornate tables positioned next to them. On one, a pile of books. On the other, an ashtray. A cigar lay extinguished in it. He went to the mantle and leaned his arm on it, dropping his head into the crook of his elbow. He breathed in, deeply, held it for a moment, then let it out slow. His anger, his frustration started to cool. Shouldn't have snapped at her. Ain't right. Sure, he was tired. Cold. Even now, inside and away from the graveyard, he still felt its cold. It was fading, even now, but slow.

He closed his eyes, letting the hearth's embers seep their warmth into him. Owe that girl an apology. A rueful twist of his lips. Tonight got the better of him, but she didn't deserve having it taken out on her. What felt like moments later, his eyes snapped open at the sound of footsteps. He turned away from the mantle as the sitting room door opened, and the Mayor of Calavera came through. Ezekiel Liberty looked sleepy and a little annoyed. “Caff,” the man grunted. “I'm told this can't wait.”

Caff nodded. “I'm afraid not, sir. I was out by the graveyard, doing patrol. Elijah's door was open. He weren't in.”

Ezekiel groaned, scrubbing his face. “Course he wasn't. You have a look around?”

No, I just got real scared of the dark and ran off. “Yeah. No sign of him. Thought he might've come here...” Caff trailed off.

“Nope,” Ezekiel shook his head. He went to the chair with the ashtray beside it and dropped into it with a sigh. “he did not.”

Caff's gut sank. “Damn,” he swore quietly. At the Mayor's questioning look, he said, “Didn't come to me, either. Ain't like him, or so I'm told.”

Ezekiel nodded. “You heard right. Far back as I know; when he wakes up, he comes and presents himself to either the Mayor or the Sheriff. Man that old, he's not likely to change that now.”

“Unless...” Caff felt obliged to mention. “I just missed him, he's back there at my office now, and I woke you up for nothing.”

“Possible,” Ezekiel allowed, then asked, “You believe that?”

Caff thought back to the mausoleum. To the cold, the dark, the biting wind, and the clinging shadows. He thought of the open coffin. He thought about how he, a grown man and elected Sheriff, was in that moment frightened of the dark. He thought about the shadows again, how hard they clung to the inside before getting chased off by the light. “No,” he eventually decided, “I don't. I wish I did, sir, it'd make things easier, but...” he shrugged. “something about this don't sit right.”

“How do you mean?”

Caff shook his head, saying, “I don't know. It just – it don't feel right.”

Ezekiel nodded. “Helpful.”

Caff grunted. “I know. What are we going to do, sir?”

“Well...” The Mayor of Calavera laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “we got a man who's been asleep for half a century, awake and doing something he never has before. I think we should find him, figure out what's going on, and soon.” He looked up from the hearth at Caff.

He nodded, “Longer we wait, harder it'll be. Already hours behind him, I reckon.”

“Best get to it, then.”

Caff knew a dismissal when he heard one, pushing off the mantle. “Sir,” he nodded to the mayor, then left the sitting room. On the way out, he almost walked into the maid. If there was ever a time to apologize. He dipped his head to her, saying, “Miss.”

“Sheriff.” she said quietly. He hesitated, wanting to say more but not knowing what, before nodding again and heading out the front door. First thing he was greeted by was a gust of cold wind. After the warmth of the Mayor's hearth, it bit deep. He turned up the collar of his coat, jammed his hands in his pockets, and set out.

He had a vampire to find.