Slay: Stories of the Vampire Noire
Author: Slay (epub)
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press
Rights: Copyright 2020 . All rights reserved.

Slay

Stories of the Vampire Noire

Edited by Nicole Givens Kurtz

Copyright Notice

The story contained therein are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-7352195-4-7 Paperback

ISBN: 978-1-7352195-5-4 Hardcover

Copyright© 2020 Steven Van Patten

Copyright© 2020 Milton Davis

Copyright© 2020 Sheree Renee Thomas

Copyright© 2020 Alicia McCalla

Copyright© 2020 Michele Tracy Berger

Copyright© 2020 Craig L. Gidney

Copyright© 2020 Jessica Cage

Copyright© 2020 Jeff Carroll

Copyright© 2020 Lynette S. Hoag

Copyright© 2020 Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

Copyright© 2020 Kai Leakes

Copyright© 2020 Valjeanne Jeffers

Copyright© 2020 Alledria Hurt

Copyright© 2020 Dicey Grenor

Copyright© 2020 L. Marie Wood

Copyright© 2020 LH Moore

Copyright© 2020 Delizhia D. Jenkins

Copyright© 2020 Colin Cloud Dance

Copyright© 2020 Steve Van Samson

Copyright© 2020 Balogun Ojetade

Copyright© 2020 KR.S. McEntire

Copyright© 2020 Samantha Bryant

Copyright© 2020 Vonnie Winslow Crist

Copyright© 2020 Miranda J. Riley

Copyright© 2020 Sumiko Saulson

Copyright© 2020 Penelope Flynn

Copyright© 2020 V.G. Harrison

Copyright© 2020 John Linwood Grant

Cover Art and Title concept by Taria Reed

All Obituary Illustrations by Ben Mirabelli

Editor: Nicole Givens Kurtz

Proofreader: A.C. Thompson

Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. Due to copyright laws you cannot trade, sell or give any e-books away.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Indiegogo Folks Who had our Back!

United States & Britain

Desiccant

Craig Laurance Gidney

Love Hangover

Sheree Renée Thomas

The Retiree

Steven Van Patten

The Dance

L. Marie Wood

A Clink of Crystal Glasses Heard

LH Moore

Mrs. Allison Alexandra Cox-Charleswoth Obituary

Diary of a Mad Black Vampire

Dicey Grenor

The Return of the OV

Jeff Carroll

The Last Vampire Huntress

Alicia McCalla

Gritty Corners

Jessica Cage

Shadow of Violence

Balogun Ojetade

‘Til Death

Lynette S. Hoag

Encounters

K. R. S. McEntire

Alexandria Fisher Winters Obituary

Unfleamed

Penelope Flynn

Beautiful Monsters

Valjeanne Jeffers

Frostbite

Delizhia D. Jenkins

Di Conjuring Nectar of di Blood

Kai Leakes

Snake Hill Blues

John Linwood Grant

Monday Gray Obituary

Africa

Ujima

Alledria Hurt

Attack on University of Lagos, Law faculty

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

His Destroyer

Samantha Bryant

Quadrille

Colin Cloud Dance

Asi’s Horror and Delight

Sumiko Saulson

In Egypt's Shadows

Vonnie Winslow Crist

Rampage

Miranda J. Riley

Harlon Harrington Obituary

No God But Hunger

Steve Van Samson

The Future

Bloodline

Milton J. Davis

Message in a Vessel

V.G. Harrison

Uzoamaka Anyiwo Obituary

Blood Saviors

Michele Tracy Berger

About the Editor

These Authors SLAY

Horror Anthologies from Mocha Memoirs Press

For L.A. Banks

Acknowledgments

An anthology is a massive undertaking akin to a conductor with an orchestra. Scores of artists with their individual skillset, talent, and voice must fit together and produce something harmonious, beautiful, and haunting. They collectively create a piece of art that lingers long after the song ends, the book closes, or the curtains close.

The result is a solitary piece of art crafted by many hands. This is true for SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire.

First, I’d like to give acknowledgement and my forever thanks to the legendary L.A. Banks. Without her Vampire Huntress series, SLAY, wouldn’t exist. That isn’t to say someone wouldn’t have developed an idea for an anthology of vampire stories from the African diaspora. The majority of the authors and myself were influenced by Banks’ Huntress work and her ability to turn something so pale as the European vampire trope and a slayer who hunts them into one that brimmed with life, in urban settings and reflected so much of what it meant to be an African American in a metropolis. I felt seen.

That’s the purpose of this anthology, to showcase Black vampires, slayers, and hunters’ stories to readers. We came to SLAY the popular, European trope.

Secondly, I wouldn’t have an anthology without the authors whose work is showcased within this volume. Their enthusiasm, commitment, and hard work helped shaped this work. Each story stunned me, a few made me cry, and several linger with me still. The authors are a talented group. I am excited to share their works with you.

Next, I want to thank my assistant, Maya Preisler, who listened to many late-night work sessions. She did them with one hand and never with a complaint. To Lucy Blue and Alexandra Christian who offered to help proofread this massive collection of stories, I am forever in your debt.

And finally, to my husband, Weston Smith, who supported me through over a year of vampires and slayers.

But most of all, thank you. Thank you for selecting this anthology to read, share, review, and give to others.

~Nicole Givens Kurtz,

Editor

Indiegogo Folks Who had our Back!

THANK YOU!

United States & Britain

Desiccant

Craig Laurance Gidney

The Bellona Heights Apartments were rundown. The pavement of the open semi-courtyard had cracks, concrete wounds that oozed out moss and straggling weeds. An old fountain, spattered with bird droppings, was filled with stagnant rainwater and trash. The first level beige brick had graffiti, scrawls of obscene words and nonsense shapes scrawled across it. The balconies that faced the courtyard were over-stuffed with plants, bicycles and rusting lawn furniture. The cornices were crumbling. Hiphop and Reggaeton blasted from open windows.

Tituba shuddered in revulsion. But she had no choice, did she?

You get what you pay for, she thought, and a one bedroom in Bellona Heights was what she could afford. At least she'd found a place to live on such short notice. Her sister's new boyfriend, Vaughn, had threatened to change the locks one too many times. Tituba loved her sister Leah, but her choice in men was terrible. At least Juan, the last one, didn't misgender her. Yes, this place was below her standards, but, she reasoned, the lease was only for one year. And surely, she could find a more suitable place by then?

Inside the building, Tituba saw worn linoleum and the chipped paint on the walls. She picked up her keys at the office from a sullen clerk who couldn't pull her eyes away from a game on her phone, and rode the old gear-grinding elevator up to the fourteenth floor. Phantom odors drifted down the hallway: weed, old fried fish and of course, boiled cabbage. Boiled cabbage was the smell of despair and deferred dreams.

1412 was semi-furnished, with a futon/couch frame and dresser-drawers. It was on the other side of the building, so there was no balcony. The window faced the alley, which was full of dumpsters.

At least it was clean, for the most part. The only visible flaw was the discoloration right outside the air-conditioning vent. Carmine smears dribbled from the grate. Tituba touched it before she thought better of it. She felt a powdery dust on her fingertips, surprised to find that it was not dried paint or even worse, blood.

Fabiana was late, as she always was. Tituba had been sitting at the cafe for a good fifteen minutes. She entered the space with a dramatic flair, her face wrapped in a bright orange scarf, and wearing bejeweled sunglasses. Her hands were encased in some silvery gloves. Heads turned, whispers came up from the other tables. She always wanted to be noticed. While Tituba had her moments, for the most part she wanted to be left alone.

Fabiana air-kissed her and then ordered an Americano and a low-fat blueberry muffin. She ignored both of the items.

"How's the new place? And when's the housewarming?" Fabiana asked her as she removed her sunglasses, revealing violet-colored contact lenses.

"The place is ratchet, so there will not be a housewarming party. Leah and that scrub Vaughn practically tossed me out into the street."

"I thought Leah had your back," Fabiana said.

"She usually does," Tituba said, "when she's not dick-a-matized. Vaughn pitched a fit when one of his boys asked him for my number. He threw around the words, 'she-male,' and tranny and accused me of flirting. Leah didn't stop him. She became a whole other person. Meek and useless."

"Girl, if he had called me those names, I'd have sliced him up. I still carry my knife, in case anyone is fixing to get smart with me!"

"Trust me, it got ugly. He was all, 'What type of crazy name is Tituba?' Frankly, I was angrier at my sister than I was at him. I felt betrayed."

"I'm so sorry for you," Fabiana said. "Do you want me to do something to teach this dude a lesson? I know some people."

"No," she replied. "I guess this is part of my journey. I thought I'd lucked out and wouldn't have to go through people around me rejecting who I was."

"I don't blame you," Fabiana replied. She finally ate a bite of her muffin. A tiny bird bite. "You sleeping alright?" she asked.

"No… Why do you ask?"

"Them bags under your eyes, child. You know what will fix them? Hemorrhoid cream. It tightens the skin."

"I am not about to put ass cream under my eyes!" Tituba said. Both of them laughed loudly, causing the other café patrons to glance in their direction.

Fabiana said playfully, "Keep it classy, bitch!"

Tituba swatted at her hand. "Oh, hush. Seriously, though. Falling asleep isn't the problem. Hell, staying asleep isn't, either. I sleep, but I wake up tired, as if I had a tough work out at the gym, or gone a few rounds with a boxer. And when I wake up, there's always some weird reddish dust on me. And it's not just me. My neighbors all look…drained. One day, I saw a kid at the bus stop and his collar had stains of that red dust."

"Huh," said Fabiana. "Have you heard about Sick Building Syndrome? It's a place where all of the occupants get headaches and permanent sniffles. And fatigue. I think the Post did a series about it — one of the buildings owned by the EPA had it, and they had to close it."

"The effing Environmental Protection Agency had a 'sick building?'"

"You have to get out of there," Fabiana said, "Or, you need to get all Norma Rae on the building supervisor!"

Dust! Miles and miles, dune after dune of rust-red, as far as her eye could see. A red that was the color of old blood, slowly changing from crimson to brown.

She stood knee-deep in the middle of a valley, surrounded by mounds of the stuff. The sky above was hidden, obscured by a veil of red powder. She was sinking under, unable to get purchase on the feathery ground. The clothes she wore were reduced to blood-stained rags. It looked like she was shedding a membranous skin, like a snake. Her skin had abrasions, a network of thin cuts that were crusted over and flaking.

She must move on, before being swallowed whole by the wavering ground. If she didn't move, she would drown and die, forever preserved beneath, a beautiful mummy no-one would ever see. She must move, or else she would die.

She lifted one foot clear of the squelching redness. And the wind began to blow. Dust rose up into the air, into a corrosive mist that erased her body. Soon, she could not see anything. All was lost in the simoom.

Tituba woke up coughing. Her body shuddered with the fit. She could feel something rattling in her chest, as if her body were a percussion instrument filled with dry rice or sand. After the fit was over, she got up and switched the light on. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, so she stumbled to the sink and drank two full glasses of water before she felt relatively normal.

She put the glass in the sink, checked the time. It was three-thirty AM, early enough for a second shift of sleep. But she was too wired to get back into her bed. And, it seemed that she wasn't the only person up at this hour. The floor above her creaked with footsteps. Bellona’s paper-thin walls revealed activity on either side of her apartment, coughing on the left, the plaintive voice of a distressed child on the right.

Tituba knew that falling back to sleep would be difficult, so she pulled her phone from her charging port. Her headphones were on the ottoman next to her futon. That's when she first noticed the red dust. It was all over her mattress and futon, a fine sifting of rust-colored powder. She touched it. It didn't feel of anything. It was not coarse or smooth. It was feathery and insubstantial, even though she expected it to have a gritty feel like sand or salt. Then, it moved. An infinitesimal slither through her fingers, a blur of micro-movement. Reflexively, Tituba shook the stuff off her fingers and headphones.

It wouldn't come off. There was a slight disturbance, but then the powder-dust settled back. It clung to the curve of the headphones, the whorl of her fingertips. Tituba rubbed at the dust, hoping to dislodge it with friction. That did not work. Her fingertips were stained.

She muttered a curse word or two under her breath. She ran water over the stubborn stain at the kitchen sink.

A piece of dried skin, embossed with a fingerprint, fell off her hand, leaving behind tender new skin. She watched as the opaque red crinkled skin settled in the sink.

The powder-dust plumped up with the water. Fat with sudden moisture, the flakes began to rise upward, as if buoyed by an unfelt breeze. Red drops of old blood hung in the air, hovered. Then, they burst open.

Tituba screamed.

The office door was locked, as it had been for the past two weeks. Tituba had stopped by the superintendent's office before and after work, on the weekend, but the door had always been locked. The emails she sent were unanswered, and the phone calls went straight to voice mail.

She didn't know if she'd even seen him during the time she'd been in Bellona Heights. Her neighbors confirmed that he was elusive and unreachable at the best of times. Everyone she'd spoken to had given her a 'why bother' attitude. When she told the residents in the mailroom or lobby about the mysterious, weird dust she'd seen, they just shrugged, as if defeated.

One time in the laundry room, she asked Phylis, an older woman who lived on the same floor, if she knew anything.

Phylis had been folding a child's clothes when Tituba entered the shabby basement with a week's worth of dirty clothing. Phylis had grudgingly given her a greeting when Tituba broached the subject.

"Yeah, I've seen it," Phylis had said, dripping with attitude. "Folks made a stink about it, back in the day. Nothing happened."

"But it must be unhealthy. So many people here have respiratory problems."

"And?" Phylis said, as she went to unload a dryer that had just buzzed. "Ain't nobody who owns this glorified flophouse care about our health. This ain't Northwest."

Tituba purposefully ignored the bitterness dripping from Phylis's voice. "Maybe not. But the dust isn't natural. I hear it rattling in the vent, like tiny ants. Like it's alive…."

Phylis stopped folding the laundry and threw it into the basket. "You're a fine one to talk about 'unnatural' things," she announced as she headed to the door.

Tituba said, "Excuse me?"

But Phylis was already out of the room.

Now, she stood in front of the office door for the umpteenth time. She jiggled the lock, even though she knew there was no point. Maybe Phylis was right, and she should leave well enough alone. But she couldn't. Tituba's entire existence had been full of struggle, starting from birth, and it didn't look like it was going to get easy any time soon. The dancing dust was just one more obstacle to overcome.

Tituba went to the mailroom instead. She found the tiny room was full of packages and guessed that some of them were nebulizers and humidifiers. All week long, residents had unboxed the machines in the room, leaving a pile of broken-down cardboard boxes. She had toyed with getting one herself, to combat the dryness in the building.

Fabiana was right. Bellona Heights was a sick building. Ever since she'd moved in, she had been plagued with low-key headaches that threatened to grow into full-on migraines. Her stomach was unsettled, and food tasted weird. Walking down a city block easily winded her. And she began to notice discolorations on her skin: darkness beneath her eyes, and white spots on her arms. Most of all, she was always thirsty. She would drink bottle after glass of water or juice, but she could never be satisfied. She didn't pee often, for the amount she drank. Where did it all go?

She passed by the superintendent's door, in futile hope.

"Warren not in again?" said someone behind her. It was Ty, who also lived on her floor. He was around her age and height, with a muscular lithe physique. His skin was dark and velvet-smooth, his bald head glowing with head wax. At least, that had been his appearance. Now, crows’ feet and forehead wrinkles marred the smooth expanse, and the lustrous blue-blackness of his skin was dried out to a leathery brown.

"Apparently not." Tituba looked away from Ty, hoping that he didn't notice her shocked reaction.

He jiggled the doorknob, as if to verify. Then, he glanced at Tituba, and gave her a conspiratorial wink.

"Desperate times," he said, and he pushed against the door with his shoulder. The door quivered with the pressure and after a few more aggressive pushes, it popped open.

Ty and Tituba were immediately hit with a wave of stale air that had a slight cindery taste. They simultaneously began coughing in response. There was also another smell beneath that one — a smell of turned meat and the coppery tang of old blood. A haze of carmine simmered in the room, thick enough that they both had to wave it away. The shades were drawn, so it was dim in the room.

"Oh, my god," Tituba said, after her eyes adjusted to the gloom.

There was a body slumped over a desk. She knew that it was a corpse. The angle of the head looked too uncomfortable to maintain, and the visible eye was open. She switched on the overhead light and immediately wished that she hadn't. The older gentleman was in a grey mechanic's suit, and his mouth was opened in a grimace. Dust pooled around the open mouth, on to the desk. It was embedded on his skin, in his hair, and she could see flecks of it in the whites of his eye.

Ty walked around the desk, reached out to touch the body.

"Leave it alone," Tituba said.

Ty lowered his hands, and reached for his cellphone instead, presumably to call for an ambulance.

Tituba saw the wrinkled flesh, fold upon fold of thin skin, some of it so dry that the pigment had leeched out. It didn't look like skin. It was papery, cracked like old parchment. And in the folds of skin, remnants of the red dust gathered. His mouth was open and a crumbled pink tongue lolled out past black and cracked lips.

"He looks like a mummy," Ty said after he finished speaking to the emergency operator. "I wonder how long he's been here."

Tituba heard him, but she was distracted by the thin trail of red dripping down from the HVAC vent.

Whatever lived there had drained the superintendent, had turned him into a husk. His skin had the same color and texture as a tamarind. She could only imagine the poor man's innards, the pulp toughened into sponge and coral.

"He's been sucked dry," Tituba said. "We're gonna end up like him."

With tweezers, Tituba scraped the red residue into an old nail polish bottle she had cleaned out. Something was in the vents, something that left behind this weird substance.

She brought the bottle with her to dinner at a restaurant.

The first thing Fabiana said when she saw Tituba was, "Girl, you look ashy and worn out!"

"I know," she replied, waving the comment away. "Listen to me. You were right. Bellona Heights is a sick building. Some kind of virus or something lives in the vents and gives everyone who lives there breathing problems!

"Last week, one of the other residents and I found the superintendent dead in his office. His body was dry. Bone dry. Desert dry. All of the moisture had been sucked right out of him."

Tituba pulled up a picture on her phone and handed it to Fabiana.

Fabiana shrieked. "Put that thing away!"

Tituba complied.

Fabiana said, "I don't think I've ever seen anything so terrible. Poor dude. He looks like one of those apple head dolls."

"I asked the EMTs if they were gonna do an autopsy to determine the cause of death. They ignored me."

Fabiana sucked her teeth in sympathetic dismay. "They always do. And we end up dead because they won't listen!"

Tituba dug around in her handbag until she found and pulled out the nail polish bottle.

"Look at it, Fab. Look closely."

"Look at an empty bottle of Carolina Beet lacquer?" Fabiana cautiously picked the bottle up and peered into it.

"Stop kidding around, girl. Tell me what you see."

Fabiana stared at it for a long moment, still looked as the server refilled their wine glasses with Rosé.

Finally, she said, "That dust moves."

"I'm glad you saw that too! I thought I was going crazy!"

Fabiana still held the bottle close to her eye. "I don't think it's dust, Tituba. I saw one fragment of whatever-it-is, apart from the others, move on its own. I see wings. Tiny, infinitesimal scarlet wings. The wings of a moth, not a butterfly. The straggler eventually joined the rest of the swarm, I suppose. And it looked like a swirling dust."

"You think it's insects?"

Fabiana shrugged in response. "I don't know. All I do know is, you have to get the hell out of there!"

Tituba was unlocking the door to her apartment when she heard the scream. It came from down the hall. She found herself running there and knocking on the door until Phylis, the grandmother who lived there with her daughter Krystle and grandson Kendrick, opened it.

"What's wrong, Miss Phylis?" she asked.

Miss Phylis was wild-eyed and apoplectic, apparently unable to speak. She gestured weakly to an opened doorway off the L-shape of the apartment. More screams came from there, mostly Krystle saying, "Lord, lord, lord!" Tituba left Miss Phylis behind to look in the doorway.

She tried to make sense of the bizarre scene. This was obviously a child's room, full of Thomas the Tank Engine paraphernalia, the google-eyed train's face on toys and curtains and posters, with its frozen smile stretched across the face. The walls were splattered with moving constellations that came from a projector lamp. Tituba saw little Kendrick being cradled by his mother, in what looked like a grotesque parody of the Pietá, his limp body draped over her lap. His eyes were closed and fluttering, as if he were fighting to keep them open, some nightmare thing wouldn't let him wake up. Things moved on his unconscious body. Scarlet specks, a tide of them spilling over his pajamas, arms, and face. The tiny little blister-colored things vibrated as they moved. And they moved with purpose, heading for his nostrils and slightly opened mouth. She imagined the minuscule things coating his nasal passages, flurrying in the chambers of his sinuses, ricocheting and embedding themselves in spongy alveoli as they drank up the mists of the boy's body, drying out mucus membranes, turning plasma into dust. She heard Kendrick begin to wheeze, heard the raspy rattling in his chest.

Those creatures have done the same thing to me, every night, she thought. She recalled her dreams about Martian-red deserts and dust storms.

She switched on the overhead light. The stars became invisible. The moth-things slowed down, and lazily detached themselves from the child's body. They drifted upward, red motes of dust, heading toward the ceiling, heading toward the grates of the vent. More of them dribbled from Kendrick's nose and mouth. It looked like a twinkling river of blood. Tituba dug around her purse until she found a bottle of spray lotion. She spritzed the red-speckled air with the thick mist, saturating it. A clump of the things fell from the air, a worm-like wriggling ball of red paste with the consistency of snot. The coagulated mess fell on the floor with a wet splat. Tituba, Krystle and Miss Phylis watched with disgust at the wet wings flexing in globules of oily lotion.

Tituba said, "Quick! We have to get the rest of the stuff out of Kendrick! Wake him up and make him drink water. Maybe that will flush them out."

Krystle carried Kendrick into the kitchen, where he blinkingly woke up in the harsher light. They got the confused child to slurp down a couple of glasses of water. Then he began coughing, body-wracking spasmodic coughs. His mother patted his back, calling Kendrick her little angel, her sweetheart, her precious boy.

Then, he vomited.

Out of his mouth came a stream of red paste. They saw the fragments of wings and waterlogged pieces of something drip onto the floor. The swarm of dust-insects was decimated. But more lived in this forgotten, neglected building full of brown and black bodies. Were these tiny, moth-like vampires conscious of what they did as they fed upon sleeping bodies, draining the moisture of breath, crawling down throats? Perhaps they weren't malevolent, these winged specks of decay.

Bellona Heights. More like Hellona Depths.

Back in her apartment, Tituba blocked the vent with a piece of plywood. It was a temporary measure. She thought of black mold, or Legionnaires bacteria brought to life with some dark magic. She thought about contacting the press or an exterminator. But people ignored the superintendent’s death, and the complaints bought by the other residents. It was unlikely that anyone would listen to a black trans woman.

She would have to fix this on her own. Survival was in her DNA. Survival, and its importance, was why she chose her name. Titus, her birth name, had been meek and a victim of the church, his family, and society. Titus would have succumbed to the dust-moths and been one more epidemiological statistic to be ignored.

Tituba, however, would fight. She would survive, like the historical woman she'd named herself after.

As she lay down at 4am, exhausted from saving Kendrick's life, she heard the scarlet moths skittering around in the blocked vents, banging against the plywood barrier.

"I dare you," she said.

And she began coughing. Violence was in her lungs, her chest, her throat, her head. She coughed so hard that black spots appeared before her. Some of those things must’ve found their way into me. The malevolent red moths were attacking her, with clear intention. It could not have been a coincidence. They had heard her issued challenge, and now they responded.

If -- when -- Tituba survived this assault, she would destroy miniature dust-demons. She would kill them tonight.

Love Hangover

Sheree Renée Thomas

That night disco records weren’t the only things that burned. I lost someone irreplaceable, a creature that lived off blood and music, the lifeforce of a people, but a creature that was also my friend.

Delilah brings it, and I mean she brings it one hundred percent! Delilah Divine! Sang, girl, sang!

Delilah teased death the way she teased her fans. Her voice, an odd constellation of sound.

She had tasted death and knew she would always live, in one form or the next, like the singer resurrected in the record’s groove. Every night was a different club, one after the other. Sixteen on a hi-hat, four on the floor, two and four on the backbeat, that was the sound that announced her arrival and all of Disco. Like Delilah Divine’s voice, the music was sweet water finding its own way home. It was going to get through, just a matter of time. The challenge was finding a way to listen and not get drenched. With Delilah you drowned.

The first night I met Delilah, she danced on a speaker box. Bianca Jagger rode by on a white horse, her black locks shining ebony waves, but all eyes returned to Delilah. To say she was a vision is to insult the very nature of sight. Beauty is internal and eternal, and Lilah’s beauty came through in her songs. Motown, funk, soft Philly soul and salsa. It wasn’t what she said. Not the lyrics nor the music with its lush orchestral arrangements, her soaring vocals with reverb. It was the story that was beneath her words and music, the message she carried within.

The message was about freedom. That’s what the sound was and the movement. We danced to be free. Candi Staton sang from her heart and that’s why we loved her songs, too. I had no idea how true her lyrics would be.

Self-preservation is what’s going on today. Delilah started off singing jazz, top 40 hits. When deejays arrived in clubs carrying crates between sets, she and the other vocalists sang for their own survival. And sing she did. I loved the way I moved when her music was on, the way we dove and split from our old selves into something sensual and new. The way the dance floor took us in, wet and holy in its mouth. We were all glitter and steam, blurred blazing bodies spinning in the music’s light. If I turned away from the hypnotic rhythm and the beats, from Delilah’s seductive song and dance, I could have saved myself and a lot of dead people a whole lot of trouble. Heartache was Delilah’s last name. Nothing else was fitting.

Young hearts just run free. Delilah only had time for the young and none of us, not a single soul could run away or leave her embrace. She was like Diana’s song. If there’s a cure for this, I don’t want it, I don’t want it. I thought about Delilah all the time and she gave me and all her fans the sweetest hangover. When Delilah got into your bloodstream, she controlled lives, heartbeats. I practically lived in the clubs to just to see her.

The club’s appeal was that the ultimate rocker lifestyle was available to anyone who could manage to get in. When I first met Delilah, it seemed like she was always in the club, as if she emerged from beneath the parquet floors fully formed. Dressed in slinky, silk dresses that wrapped her curves in silver-tinged moonlight, Delilah was a vision. You could not turn away from her and believe me, many tried, only to find themselves in her thrall.

Music was her spell. Deejays played with minds. Stories told with songs seeped into your soul. Walk through a door in the forest. No confidence at all, but in music spirits take shape. I became who I wanted to be, what I needed. Dancing with Delilah Divine was like that.

Five a.m. when the club was closed, most others would stumble their way home or fall into the faded booths of a diner. Delilah wouldn’t want rest or breakfast. She wanted to be near water. Delilah would sit next to the ferns and bulrushes. She said unlike the clubs, the green life formed a wall of kindness. She would bend her ear to the waves that lapped up against the shore, whispering to voices I could not hear. I tried to reach her with a joke, some laughter, or a bit of gossip, anything that might hold her attention, pull her from the faces, the arms I could not see. But she was lost in the waters, in search of depths where she could drown her weight of years. What she sought to drown was not a name but her history. Sometimes she spoke as if she lived beyond her twenty odd years.

Lilah lived for the rust of songs, for the scars and cutting parts of choruses, the hooks that dug in your soul and made you cry from recognition of depths. She wanted to laugh with the joy of it, and dance and dance until she could reach the gray vaults of sea. She said her sisters waited for her on the other side, but she could not swim her way back to them. Said she was already drowned. Each night at the club I watched her struggle to breathe. They played her songs before I knew they were hers. String sections and synthesizers, syncopated baselines and horns, and that voice, that incredible voice. She danced as if the music was a stranger. As if the songs were notes that came out of another’s throat.

“Where did you learn to sing like that?” I asked. She looked at me with dead fisheyes that should have run me away, but I was already hers before the first time we even touched or danced.

“From the throats of a thousand, thousand men and women. But the children,” she said, closing her eyes as if the memory pained her, “their voices are too sweet. I cannot bear the taste of their songs.”

I thought she was high. I’d seen her with blow and biscuits, poppers and whippets—whatever made the music and lights, the dance and the tempo last longer.

“What do songs taste like, Lilah?”

“Like ambergris and champagne.”

She spun around, eyes staring straight up. “They’ve come back.” She pointed. The disco ball was the largest in the studio. It reflected the jewel tone beams of the strobe lights. “We used to party with these in the 20s, back in Berlin.”

“Berlin? Lilah, you are only twenty, if that. How would you know how flappers partied then?”

She stopped spinning with a shrug. “Saw it in a movie?” she asked. “Mirror balls. Die Sinfonie der Großstadt, Die Sinfonie der Großstadt!” she shouted, then repeated her spinning top dance. Her nipples brushed the sheer fabric of her teal, jewel-toned dress. I forced my eyes from staring. Instead I watched her sleeves flutter and float, gossamer moth wings. Lilah favored dresses that made her look as if at any moment she could fly away. She was always so restless, like a hummingbird, a kind of lightning flowed through her, even without the drugs. She was never fully present. Her eyes, her mind, the random stories—her memories, she claimed—would burst from her at any moment. And the voices no one heard but her. I thought she was schizophrenic and mentioned it to a doctor friend, a shrink who frequented the clubs. “No,” he said, after chatting with her, drink in hand. “Frankie, that one’s very clear.”

Lilah was like standing on a hill with the weeds and the wildflowers. The wind blowing through me. If I wasn’t so determined to pretend that I didn’t imagine her breasts in my mouth, the soft curve of her belly beneath the silk skin, I would have seen the tell-tale signs of the monster she really was, the creature she hid.

The garage on 84 King Street became our paradise. The club was like church. More than gospel piano riffs threaded through twenty-two-minute extended versions of songs. There we had chosen family. Delilah was mine. I didn’t know who I was until I came here. Then I found out I was everybody. Everybody was me. No judgments, everyone enjoying themselves. Love, peace, unity, unforgettable happiness, and then there was blood.

Though I wanted her more than my own disappointing life at the time, Delilah never wanted me. She said there wasn’t enough music in my blood to sustain her, not enough firelight and smoke.

“You’ve made up your mind to die young, Frankie,” she said one night, after we left the dance floor, having spent hours studying the power of sweat. She would dance with other bodies, take one or two back into the VIP rooms, but she always found her way back to me. When she returned she was uncomfortably clear, her edges more precise. Before she disappeared with her various lovers, she was like a channel on the television or radio dial that you can sort of see and hear but doesn’t quite come through. You would try to turn it left or right, experiment with various degrees of movement, but there was always a kind of distortion, a slow rupturing of meaning, of sound—and feeling.

Lilah was mercilessly blunt.

“It’s your choice, of course,” Delilah said, no judgment or pity, just straight no chaser with Delilah the Divine, “but if you do, you’ll never find your song then, Frankie. They’ve run out of music on the other side,” she said. “And I ought to know.” The sadness that shadowed her eyes deepened as she spoke. “Sorry, but you’ve got to live a while longer,” she said, throwing her head back. “Until then, there’s nothing there to take from you.”

She didn’t want my heart, so I offered my body. She laughed.

“No love, I like you fine, Frankie. There’s just not enough song in that stream of yours to make it worth the while,” she said slowly, as if explaining to a very small child. “As they say, you couldn’t carry a tune.” She stroked my collarbone. Her touch felt like red streaks of fire. I wanted to kiss her and never, ever stop but her eyes were a warning. I thought her obsession with musicians was weird but nothing my musical inability couldn’t overcome. "Ironically," she told me later, "it was your lack of talent, my friend, that saved your life that night and every night since. So, don't feel so bad about rejection. It's a blessing in disguise."

Mother said I looked sad in childhood pictures because I was an old soul.

I looked sad because I knew what lay ahead.

The first time I saw Delilah’s true form was an accident. It was the only time I was grateful I’d stayed conscious during those dry bone English lectures in college. It was Ovid and Hyginis who said the original sirens were friends of Persephone, the poor soul snatched up by Hades, forced to spend a season in the underworld. Ovid assumed they were good friends, loyal women turned into halflings. Transformed, they wore the head of a woman and the body of birds. The wings were gifts to help set their abducted friend free.

But Hyginis had a darker vision. He said the transformation was a punishment. That the grieving mother, Demeter, cursed the jealous girls for not protecting their friend, her daughter during the abduction. She blamed them for the rupturing of her family and cursed the women to spend their lives as half human, half serpent or fish. From some craggy island in the middle of the Mediterranean, halfway between Africa and Europe, the legend of the sirens was born.

But I was following the wrong legend. Delilah was something else, something more ancient.

Delilah wanted a drink. When I returned to our spot under the balcony, she was gone. I went searching. I know it’s not attractive to be possessive of what was never yours and never would be, but that night I did not feel like being evolved. I wanted to find her, so she could drink the bourbon before the ice melted, the drink I stood in line to get. I wanted to find her so she could bless me with a smile, approval, any kind of sign that I would be in her company again.

When I stumbled into the storage room, a wet, panting sound drifted above the music’s dull thud.

“Delilah?”

I walked in and a sharp iron scent assaulted me. I strained to see. The walls bled red. Claw marks covered the wall. His or hers, I could not tell. The strange metallic scent I smelled was that of someone dying. There is honesty in murder.

“It doesn’t have to hurt,” she said. The bearded man was slumped beneath her, his eyelashes twitched until they stopped. Lilah’s lips were stained as if she’d been eating strawberries. “Doesn’t even need to be blood.” She stared at me. “I just like the taste.” Horror must have flickered in my eyes. She offered a wry smile, a lifeless explanation. “My sisters would not approve.”

Fear gripped me. I concentrated to slow my breathing, to make my vocal cords work.

“Is that why you don’t see them anymore? Why they went away?” I managed.

“Creative differences,” she said. Her voice steely. “You could say we broke up. Like the Supremes. I’m the star now.”

I had the feeling that she always was. Even as she drained whatever melodies and harmonies she could from the man’s throat, the deejay played her song. She finished wiping her mouth then joined the chorus, adding impossible runs that no record label had ever recorded.

“You can’t give them everything,” she said, smiling. “Got to save some for you.” A berry-sized crimson stain rested above the mole on her chest. She sniffed. As far as anyone knew, could have been a nosebleed. She rose and adjusted the glimmering halter top. Her golden harem pants shimmered around her hips.

“Don’t look so mournful, Frankie,” Delilah said. “Yes, Simeon was talented, but he was on his way out.” She held up his limp arm. Track marks and cuts like jagged railroads all along the stiffening flesh. She reached for me and I recoiled. I couldn’t forget the young man’s face. She took the drink instead. Blood and lipstick stained the high ball glass.

I watched her, frozen. Unsure if I should run or stay.

It was not the blood that killed them. It was the heartbeat, the life force in it. Delilah took their first music, the heart drum, that unique rhythm we are all born with, and then, she took the last. All of it. She told me later that she had stopped stalking churches and choirs. “Too much practice,” she said. “Never ending rehearsals. Hollow hallelujahs.” She stalked amateur nights, but they brought too much attention, so she settled on nightclubs instead.

Satiated, Delilah’s face switches textures and tone. First she is a diamond, now her face is the shape of the moon.

“I need water.” She doesn’t wait to see if I will follow her.

Looking at the budding singer’s lifeless body, I knew then why nightclubs were her favorite haunting grounds. Anonymous hook-ups and no real-world connections. She could feed and still have time to dance until her feet went numb. And of course, vanity. The deejays played her record on constant rotation with the most popular beats, Donna and Diana. They called her the Never Can Say Goodbye Girl because Delilah could dance all night. She shut the club down with her rhythm and song. Killed it every time.

Hers was a visceral music. The kind of hard-won grace that came from speaking across elements, living across time. She opened the door. When a cone of light revealed the second body slumped in the corner, I knew I needed to get away. After spending most of the night with her, I was running out of time. But she leapt on me. The glass crashed to the floor. My arm felt as if she had wrenched it off. Her breath was overly sweet, the opposite of rot.

“Just because I can’t feed from you doesn’t mean I won’t kill you,” she said.

I could feel her hunger across the stale cigarette air. Her angled bones pierced the darkness, paralyzed me where I stood.

She was on my throat before I could cry out. Her hands burned me. She released her palm, leaving me rubbing the slightly blistered flesh. “We will get along fine, Frankie, as long as you do what I say. I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s keep this cool.” She nodded her head toward the door.

“What about them?” I stammered.

“A bad trip. Won’t be the first.”

It wasn’t the last.

We walked past men grinding in the strobe and black lights. Their hips were all shadow and sound. The whole scene was raw and delicate. Pressed bone to bone, each breathless body swelled into a wave of desire. Red lips, eyes pretending to be flowers. That night on the dance floor, she held me like I had never been held, as if my every movement was necessary. She made me forget the dead eyes hidden in the darkness. We danced on until I was delirious. Her laughter rang through me. Finally, Delilah hurried out of the club, just a few steps from sunlight. I avoided my reflection in the mirrored hall. Guilt betrayed by my own ravenous glare.

After that night the mood was different. It wasn’t about dancing but feeling the energy of the place so it could stay with me forever. The sound that could not be replicated, the lights. Being with Delilah, as dangerous as it was, became its own intoxicating drug for me. She made me feel powerful, glamorous, seen, needed in a way I had never been before or since.

But some friendships eat you alive. Some love is stolen by water, carries you away except for the bloodied hands that held you.

Avenues emptied hours ago, the sidewalks wrapped in secrets, we skulked along in silence until we reached the great steps that led to the water. We were in Battery Park, the southernmost tip of the island. Delilah said the Atlantic was a grey bowl of sound and need. That there were layers of want and memory. She said if she wanted she could strike its rim like a singing bowl, call her sisters and they would return to her. Said she could still hear them singing, not through blood but in water. The sound of grief made her wish they never came here.

“Where did you come from?” I asked. The air was cold against my face. Her eyes look tear-stained, scabs falling from a wound.

“A place I am not sure I can return to.”

“Why don’t you want to be with your sisters?” I asked again. She usually dodged this question. Her answer surprised me.

“I’d rather die than meet their judgment,” she said. “They take the joy out of this cursed life, what joy there is.”

“Can you die?” Delilah did not answer. She took so much from life. I wondered if death was something she even feared. The white bolero on her shoulders trembled like moth wings. She ripped the garment off and leapt into the ocean.

“Lilah!”

She disappeared under the water. Moonlight stripes raked the ocean’s surface. I held myself, shook, my jaw locked from shock. Her absence triggered a strange withdrawal in me, a separate grief that broke free. Who was I without the shroud I wore, the bodies I carried? Delilah was the shadow who walked with me, the valley I feared and could not escape. I called her name a few more times then turned to go. I had no destination in mind. Wherever I was going I had already been.

Behind me a keening sound erupted, water churned. Something burst from the ocean’s floor.

If it wasn’t for the expression in their eyes, defiance, oblivion, I would not have recognized the creature that rose from the waters. Stories tell of ships and men dashed against the rocks, but what I saw that night was the nature of stone itself. Hard, iridescent metallic scales covered what used to be toned brown skin. Gone were the delicate bones under soft flesh. Water droplets dripped from long golden feathers. Neither an angel nor a demon, they were another creature for which I had no words. The wind howled as they rose. Wings, scales, the twin-tailed serpent, not fully dragon, not fully fish.

I knew it was Delilah from the way the creature hovered over me. I wanted to scream but no sounds emerged, just the choked silence that comes when fear takes over your body, even your breathing. When she surfaced from the waters I wanted to look away, but she was like a sun forever rising. She reflected her own light. There was a wholeness in her irregularities. The oddness was better than beauty, how she chose traits from species found on land and sea. Her bird-like mouth was shaped as if she wanted to say something but there was nothing to be said. I knew Delilah was a monster. I saw her monstrous appetite for reaping talents she never sowed. But when she took another shape, so did my fear.

I watched her circle the air, the night filled with music culled from the centuries, from the lives of other humans I could never know. She sang as if she had ten throats instead of one. I covered my ears. The weight of what was stolen crushed me, the songs these long dead voices never sang, the strings never plucked, the drums of gods forgotten across time.

Delilah wanted a witness, an accomplice, but her eyes told me that she wanted something else, too. She had revealed her face to me but not her real motives. She came from deep ocean or dark cosmos. There was no way to be sure and she would not tell. It wasn’t until later when I realized what Delilah wanted was a stooge.

Radiant plumage full and thick, she extended powerful wings. She still wore the guise of a woman’s body, but her arms and breasts were tattooed with golden symbols I could not read. She held each of the two-serpent’s tails up in her hands as if they were long braids and hovered over me. Her eyes flashed, daring me to follow, then with an impossible note, Delilah screeched and disappeared behind the clouds.

Terrified, I was afraid to move. I waited, my whole heart in my throat and wondered how she lost—if she had ever known—the meaning of kindness. She took so much. Generous isn’t a word anyone would use to describe Delilah Divine. But she had a seductive charm, charisma. Being with her was like being all the things you knew you would never be.

How did I ever believe that she cared for me? But believe I did. My thoughts churned, chaotic as the first waters. Frozen in fear, I waited for her to emerge from the clouds. Waves upon waves crashed against the walled park, the sound ominous. I shivered. No sign of her disturbed the parting clouds, the moonlit sky. I exhaled, hoping it was safe to go. When my mind gave my body permission to move, I ran.

Dancing shoes aren’t made for marathons, but I didn’t care about that. I pounded the pavement as if my whole world depended on it. Remembering the look in her eyes, I knew it did. I tore past the huge gray granite pilons that dotted the plaza. I never spent much time in that part of the city, and I knew if I survived that night, I wouldn’t want to return again. The park was deserted. The wisps of trees made strange shapes across the night, but when I ran headlong into the shadow of giant wings, I nearly had a stroke. Unlike Delilah, this bronze eagle remained still, perched on its huge black granite pedestal. I wiped my eyes and continued running out of the lonely park until I finally reached State Street. Gasping for air, my lungs burned in my chest. I stumbled past an overturned trash bin, looking for the subway when I heard a familiar voice up ahead.

“Don’t move. Sing for me.”

Naked, her body glistened, still wet from the ocean or her transformation. I could not tell which, but the fear on the suited man’s eyes was unmistakable. Delilah held him by his throat with one hand. Her hair dripped down her back. A briefcase was tossed on the street. Another man, his companion, held onto his arm, weeping.

“We don’t have any money!”

“Did I ask for money? I said sing.” Delilah’s voice was low, menacing. The skin on her back rippled, remnants of the golden fish scales shimmered in the night. I tried to will my breathing to stillness. It was the first time I did not want her attention.

“But I can’t sing. I don’t know any songs,” the suited man said, coughing. He struggled to speak over Delilah’s iron grip.

“Then you better think of something quick,” she said.

The poor man began to hum out of tune. “What a fool believes…”

“Please don’t,” the weeping man cried.

“…no wise man has the power…”

Delilah’s fingers tightened around his neck, press at his windpipe.

“No!” the other cries and sobs. “… to reason away what seems to be …” The sobbing one’s voice was frightened but sure. His notes more solid and confident than his lover’s.

Delilah pushed the suited weeping man away and held the sobbing one’s throat. “Tolerable but …” He faltered, stops, tries again louder this time, the notes crack under Delilah’s crushing vice grip.

She takes his neck and squeezes it until his voice is a sieve. All the pain he feels, and his lover’s, seeps into the air. There was no music worthy enough for Delilah to take, but she took this man’s life anyway. I want to close my eyes and unsee the way his body crumples to the ground, a lifeless doll. Unhear his lover’s scream. I want to walk through the shadows and streetlights to a night that is all mine. A night without Delilah.

She takes the dying man’s jacket from his body, even as he lay in his lover’s arms. The sobbing man keeps rocking him back and forth. “Why? Why would you do this?” She strokes tears from his cheek. He cringes. She loosens his tie. Unloops the dark, silk fabric from around his neck. Takes it. Ties it around her throat.

“Because I can.”

When she rises to walk away, she turns and looks straight at me. Hidden in shadow, behind thick undergrowth and bushes, my heart stops.

“Time to go, Frankie.”

The sound of my name on her tongue made me recoil. I stumbled out of the darkness and left what remained of my courage in the night’s mouth.

Night after night I returned. From 54, the Garage, GG’s Barnum Room to the moving sets of Xenon and my pre-Delilah favorite, Infinity, where it all came to a fiery end. How could I have known? When she returned from feeding, her mouth slick, eyes glazed, almost giddy, she never questioned what I did to take my mind off the murders. As long as I helped cover her tracks, made the straight lines look crooked, the zigs zag, I thought she didn’t really care about what I did. So, I danced with many partners and took more drugs than I ever had. She wasn’t the only one wearing a tiny canister on a ring of gold around their neck. I needed a little more each time I cleaned up after her “bad trips.” I had no idea how much music was stolen from our world, how many futures. I did not have the stomach to count them. I wondered how long Delilah had plundered the world, stealing the songs that might heal whole nations. And for what? She sang beautifully but why should her voice be the only one? Wasn’t the world room enough for multitudes?

With each new rising star snuffed out by her insatiable appetite, her voice became even more astonishing. She had depths that came from having lived and devoured many lives. I found myself seeking solace elsewhere. New partners to erase the horror I witnessed. Each night we danced as if time was our servant. Like Lilah’s beauty, I knew it was a lie. Tomorrow morning could never save us.

I had just tucked a number in my back pocket when I heard her unmistakable voice behind me.

“So, this is who you’ve been hiding.”

Thierry, my dance partner looked confused. Just another lonely soul looking for absolution. I knew Delilah did not love me, yet she had begun to watch me as if she did.

“Let’s go,” she said.

“But I’m just getting started.” I didn’t want to be alone with her. Not now. Not anymore if I was honest. She frowned. I returned the hat I’d borrowed from my new friend and watched them escape to the dance floor. There was always another dance partner waiting. Everyone looked happy except for Delilah and me, locked in a dangerous dance.

She watched Thierry disappear in a cloud of smoke.

“This place is dead. I need some air, water.”

I hailed a cab and we rode in silence all the way down to the river. Traffic was light, still early yet. The sky over the Hudson looked foreign on the other side of the dark window. Sirens swept by but Delilah didn’t even blink. We’d all become numb to them. As she leaned against my shoulder I tried to disappear into the corner of the cab. The cool glass felt good against my skin.

Clearly I had listened too closely to her music and yet not close enough. The night she found me lost in another body’s symphony, her interest shifted. She knew I had once loved her, as inexplicable and unrequited as it was, but the monotony of murder had dulled that ache.

Was it now Lilah’s turn to wait for the words that end affairs, break hearts? She knew better than most that speeches begun with words of love ended in heartbreak. How many times over the years had she pretended? Like any killer, Delilah needed to feel good before she tore your heart out. But a monster like Lilah didn’t need a ruse to be let off the hook. She was the hook.

Anger sliced through the cab’s cigarette smoke-filled air.

“I’m just here for the music!” I cried, fear and shame rolling down my cheeks.

“The music I gave you,” she sneered. We stepped out of the cab and walked along the boardwalk, beyond an abandoned pier that had collapsed in the river. The Hudson rolled silently past us. On this side of town, the piers were our only beaches. There was no other major place to get sun. Now the normally crowded boardwalk looked deserted. The few lights from the Jersey side twinkled faintly, muted like distant stars. Lilah kicked off her heels and sat on the weathered planks, holding her knees. I couldn’t tell her how I hated the curve of my own back, how I could barely hold my head up now that I had felt the weight of bodies, devoid of life, the ones I carried and tossed in the dumpsters, in the waters that she sat, meditating by. One day the truth of my own crimes would wash back on shore to haunt me.

I thought I could dance with a demon, that the only thing that would burn would be the hot music branded into skin. Now my skin bore the mark of the damned. Old and new pains stained my face. I didn’t have any more music inside me than when I first met her.

A fetid scent of decay and mildew blew across the waters. My foot slipped on moss-covered, rotten timbers.

Delilah rose without looking. I knew what this night meant. Goodbye.

I resolved that whatever rage she contained, whatever music I hid within, she would not steal my soul’s last song.

Human muscle gave way to ancient inhuman bone. Skin stretched and twisted, turned into scaly flesh and shimmering feathers. Eyes steely, I waited for the rip of flesh, the acrid scent of my own blood. But without a sound Delilah leapt into the darkness. She flung herself into the wind and was gone.

Heart pounding, the veins in my neck strained from tension. After that first deadly night with Delilah I’d started grinding my teeth. I trudged toward the street. I almost made it when I heard a ghost-like whipping sound, its source felt more than seen. I looked up. A fedora hat floated down in a spiral and landed on the cracked sidewalk before me. My new friend’s hat, Thierry’s.

I doubled over, sickness filling me. When I opened my eyes again, Delilah was bending down to pick up the hat that was still spinning like a top.

“I feel like dancing,” she said and placed the fedora atop her head. The brim dangled at a rakish angle, covering her eyes.

I grabbed her elbow, forced her to face me. “Where did you get it?” I yelled.

“Want to come and see?”

The thought of seeing Thierry tossed away in some alley as if their life never mattered… I wanted to scream, wanted the sound to be more than hurt rising to the surface. I wanted Delilah to feel some of the pain she only expressed in song. Defeated, I shook my head ‘no.’

“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Aquarians make the worst companions. Come.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

She smiled showing all her teeth. “Infinity.”

The 600 block of Broadway in Soho was home to a few warehouses where artists could live and work without needing a trust fund. 653 Broadway had an old, vaulted reputation. Originally Pfaff’s Beer Cellar, Walt Whitman and others descended a set of stairs to drink pints. Later it became an envelope factory and then a nightclub. Like Whitman’s unfinished poem, the weekly parties at Infinity were more intimate and never seemed to end. With its black walls and ceilings covered in neon lights, banquet tables of fresh pears and ice-cold water, the atmosphere in the block-long nightclub was for true-blue partiers, those who came strictly to dance and release.

But Delilah wasn’t there to dance or to see the bright eyes of beautiful young men as Whitman had penned. She came to teach me a lesson, something about possession, about what it means when you can’t—or won’t—break free. Engaged in our own battle of wills, neither of us had any idea that hundreds of miles away a mob would gather in a baseball field, intent on breaking every Black record they owned. A bonfire had been set up, a disco demolition, by a twenty-four-year-old disgruntled rock deejay. He was angry that the music we loved, pioneered by mostly Black and Latino gay artists, had taken over the air waves. His airwaves. The music provided a powerful platform for those who were often invisible.

We, the misfits, the invisible would-be superstars, and all those in-between were drawn to its irreverent rhythms and pulsing beats, the hypnotic cymbals and sounds. Disco even changed the way we moved. The dancefloor was no longer restricted to just couples, straight or otherwise. Stemmed by a series of epiphanies and communities, the experience became en masse, a group high where love was the key. It was all about love in the beginning, being in love, spreading love, the very act of creation, breathing new life into something that did not exist.

That last night offered its own epiphany. It was already crowded beyond belief when we walked through the club’s infamous black double doors. The last shift was in full swing. Both the front and back bars were packed. Vincent, the bartender flowed back and forth behind the long oak bars as if he was rolling on skates. Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” blared from the sound system, and I had no idea it was Valentine’s Day until I saw all the pink neon and red-clothed dancers crowding the floor.

Delilah took my hand and I flinched. She offered one cutting glance as she led me past the giant white columns that guarded the dance floor, ancient sentinels from a forgotten era. Even Debbie Harry’s icy vocals couldn’t pierce through the deepening sadness I felt. The revelers danced on, oblivious to the threat that threw her head back, lipstick on her teeth as she swayed among them. Non-stop energy pulsed through the music and the lights. The neon illuminated the heart-shaped confetti that suddenly rained down from the ceiling.

“Come on, dance! Frankie, you used to be fun.” She pulled me close but the thought of her kiss, the same mouth that drained my friend and so many nameless others, repulsed me. What I once thought was inner beauty, her incredible energy was just endless hunger, a gaping hole of want. She had all the makings of a god but none of the love, no mercy. Whatever light drew her to our world was snuffed out long ago.

She stroked my face. Her touch felt like hot razors against my skin. We navigated the mass of bodies that danced around us as if they feared no tomorrows. Under the confetti shower, her body poured into mine. Squeezing ever tighter, her fingers made it known she could snap my neck and spine at a moment’s whim. Time passed under the flickering lights. Nothing was the same as it was before. Infinity was the place where I came to know myself, the club where I once felt most free. Lilah took that. She made me a stranger to myself, a witness and accomplice to terrible deeds. What I knew now was loss. Whatever music I once had was drained out of me.

“You … make … me feel …. miii ... ighty real!” Delilah sang as she spun around. As soon as Sylvester’s falsetto pumped through the speakers a roar went up. The crowd came alive, lit beneath the swirling constellations.

“When we get home darlin’ and it’s nice and—"

Delilah froze. Sweating bodies swayed around us. Spinning colors, beautiful fabrics, shimmering lights. Something was different about her. An emotion I hadn’t seen before. Fear.

“Frankie,” she said, her voice low. She turned me slowly so that my back now faced the back bar and her back faced the front doors. “Do you see that one there?”

“Who?” I asked, confused. Who was Delilah hiding from? Infinity was a New York City block long. The club was packed, a throng of fashionable bodies dancing each other under the tables. You could get lost just going to the restroom. Too bad if you were new and got separated from your friends. Might drift in the void for a while. I peered over Lilah’s shoulder, unsure who I was looking for and then I saw her.

A woman so serene, she exuded radiance. She walked with a kind of assured calm and peacefulness amidst the pheromones, chaos, and noise. A being so ethereal she could not be from this world at all, a being so magnetic that it could only be one of Delilah’s infamous sisters.

Dressed as if she had just arrived from the equator itself, she danced her way through the crowd.

“Yes, I see them,” I said, matter-of-factly, trying to mask the satisfaction in my voice. Delilah had once said that the only thing she feared was her sisters’ judgment. I didn’t know who Delilah had once been, but I did wonder what this long, lost sister would think of her now.

“Where is she going?” Delilah asked, her voice a whisper. Her nails dug into me. Could she actually be afraid? I had seen Delilah emote before, a persuasive performance to lure her ill-fated lovers, but I never thought fear was within her range. The novelty of the moment got the best of me.

“I think she’s heading this way,” I said. “Third column.”

Delilah’s eyes widened. Sweat beaded on her forehead. “No.” She pulled away. “Follow me!”

She pushed through the crowd without looking back, weaving in and out of the jubilant dancers. I watched the mysterious woman stop at the DJ’s booth. Heads bent, she and DJ Animus, the latest phenom passing through, were deep in conversation as the music swelled. Surrounded by vinyl-filled crates, they held each other with the warmth and intimacy of old friends. She kissed him, her wrap dress hugging her curves. Clearly seduction ran in the family, but there was a genuineness about this other sister. She held her friend with a sense of caring that showed in her slightest movements. There was no malice there.

Adrenaline with the ever-present sadness filled me as I turned to shadow Lilah through the nightclub. A few of her fans greeted her, but she waved them off.

She ran all the way to the back, stilettos stomping past the couples hidden in darkness. Concealment was key in places of nocturnal revelry. The ends of cigarettes burned in the shadows, unblinking red eyes. When she reached the off-limits area, a bouncer moved to stop her. She fingered the canister on the gold chain around her neck. With one hand on her high-slitted dress, she smiled at him. I knew that smile.

“Oh,” he said, recognizing her. “Miss Divine, go ‘head.” She didn’t have to whisper a code name like the patrons from the past. He frowned at me but waved me through. She didn’t wait for me as she strode down the dark narrow hall. We descended a rickety flight of stairs, down a ramp. Here, the four-on-the-floor, constant quarter note bass beat was muted. I had never been in the club’s labyrinth. I half-expected a minotaur to emerge from the shadows, but the only real monster there was Delilah.

We walked past several old dusty oak barrels. The hoops were rusted, the lettering on the heads faded. She sidestepped the barrels outside a wide, heavy door and ducked into a vault-like room.

“What is this?” I asked. She shrugged, tossing Thierry’s fedora and taking a seat on a velvet couch. “Back room deals need back rooms, no? This used to be a speakeasy.” She adjusted the strap on her dress. I moved to sit with her. “No,” she said. “I need you to go back up. Come back when she’s gone.” For the first time her voice was shaky. None of the dazzling diva confidence that fueled her flight. She looked pensive. The room’s primeval green walls cast murky dark shadows over bronze skin. She looked almost ill. “Light?” She held a skinny joint up.

I pulled a lighter out and lit it, eager to leave. Fragrant smoke floated in the air, a halo around her face. She closed her eyes, not offering me a hit. She sighed and tossed the roach on the floor. I watched as she opened her canister. Whatever family reunion lay ahead, Delilah wasn’t ready.

“And Frankie?” she said.

“Yes?”

“Bring some ice.”

I left her fingering her necklace, the canister empty now as I wondered what awaited me outside. No sooner than I reached the top stair than the stench hit me.

A scream rose from black clouds as I stepped out. “Fire!” The guard that waved us into the labyrinth was gone. Panic-stricken dancers reached for each other, knocking over the swivel-back chairs and stools.

“What happened?” I screamed at a passing couple. They shook their heads. I couldn’t see the flames at first, but I could feel the heat. On a good night the club was smoldering. This was hellish.

As the giant neon lights that spun around the columns began to flicker, the overhead lights dimmed. Instinctively I ran back through the hall, down the stairs. When I made it to the vault, the image of Thierry’s fedora hat haunted me. Delilah had taken a life she didn’t need. She did so to punish me.

I had been a loyal, faithful friend, never revealing her dark secrets, even when loyalty and faith were the last things Delilah deserved. Going back down into the maze beneath the club could cost me my life. Did I still believe being with Delilah was worth it?

I stood outside the heavy door, silent, thoughts lost in the corners of the past. Labyrinths were designed to generate chaos and confusion. Like magic, this labyrinth manifested clarity.

“Frankie?” Delilah’s voice on the other side of the door was a tentative question. I held a barrel by its spigot and awkwardly rolled and wobbled it over, propping it under the door’s handle. “Hello?” I kicked the other oak barrel on its side and rolled it to the door. The handle shook slightly but did not move.

“Whose there? Open this door!” she cried. She pounded but the door held.

I backed away. My feet felt heavy as iron, as if I was bolted to the ground.

“Hello? Is anyone there? I’m stuck. The door is stuck. Let me out!” she screamed.

Panic set in but also resignation, and now the screams reached a fever pitch.

I could run or I could unroll the stone sealing the tomb, but I knew this was no messiah coming back.

I ran, bumping into one of the other barrels that lined the hall. “Damn,” I cried out, my knee throbbing.

“Frankie?” she screamed, incredulous.

Two partiers emerged from the narrow hallway, startling me.

“We’ve got to get out,” I said, breathless. “There’s a fire.”

“What?” Confusion flashed across their faces, then panic. We fled as fast as we could, up the ramp and the rickety stairs. When we re-entered the main floor, the room was plunged in total chaos. Black clouds of smoke filled the air. I tripped over a high heel shoe, coughing up half a lung. Even in the panic, the tears and fear, my ears strained. I could hear Delilah over the din. That voice, that incredible voice, the throat that sounded like ten. The sound was a keening, weeping. I paused in the darkness, shame and guilt knotted in my chest.

I was the monster now.

Then I heard it, not weeping but laughter. Her voice, that remarkable otherworldly voice rising above the echoes of terror and dismay. Faced with being burned alive, Delilah Divine laughed.

A chemical, plastic scent began to fill the air. Smokey fingers reached for me. I bolted, banging into a cocktail table, tumbling over an upturned chair. Whatever grace I once had was gone, too. Vinny from the bar waved me on.

“What are you waiting for, get out! Drag anyone else you see. Infinity’s going to blow!” He pulled up a man who had fallen down, his ankle twisted. They hobbled away.

As I ran, slipping over the slick, drink-stained floorboards, the piles of pink confetti, I couldn’t tell if the pounding I heard was the pounding of my heart or the pounding of the music’s beat. No one stopped the music. The deejay booth was empty. Crates of vinyl sprawled across the dance floor. If Delilah’s sister had come looking for her, she was gone now.

I reached a bottle neck near the fourth column. Neon pulsed and flickered above our heads. An explosion from the left then a screech somewhere behind us sent us scrambling.

“¡Ay bendito!” someone cried. “What is that?” People shouted, pointed.

Just like Orfeu, I knew I shouldn’t look back, but I had already stared into the abyss. Only a narrow strip of sky separated us, so I turned to see.

Golden scales, impossible wings. One, no, two serpent’s tails bursting through the flames. A song so loud and wretched, it sounded as if the whole sky’s throat opened to sing.

For some, cautionary truths, though known, must be lived. Others can see the signs before the symbols emerge and still they fall head in. I was the latter. I saw but didn’t want to see. I wanted the dream. When we look in the sky to watch the stars, we are seeing them as they once were. But bright suns give the most light when they are leaving you.

Transfixed we watched as the creature circled the high, vaulted ceilings of Infinity. Brilliant flames, great flickering tongues of fire and heat, rushed through the nightclub engulfing the black walls. The crowd moved, eyes wide, coughing, wailing, mouths flung open, but it was as if all the sound was turned off. It felt like I was running against a great, hot wind.

“This way!” The guard from earlier guided people out of a side door that led to an alley. Relieved, we bumrushed the door, one person getting jammed before the screaming crowd pushed us all through.

“El fiesta se fue al garete!” a woman in a glittering emerald gown yelled. “The party went to hell!”

Standing outside shivering in zero-degree weather as firetrucks descended, I had to agree.

The night Infinity burned was the night Disco nearly died in me. But even though the nightclub burned, the fire couldn’t burn my memories. I had gone to the discos in search of strangers, anonymous partiers who on the dance floor became my friends. Instead of love and solidarity, I left with unclean hands, a stained shirt, and enough disparate memories to haunt me for years.

I could hear the last notes of Delilah’s song, a scream as if every star in the night was afire. The notes scatter like broken teeth across the smoke-filled air. What was tender in the notes, the soft, the thrumming, came from a thousand other heartbroken souls like me. That night I stood in the crowd with those who were still in shock. We watched as the firemen worked to control the six-alarm fire, grieved for the loss of our shared home. I blink back tears, covered in ashes, but when the day rises and the sky clears, there is only the burned-out building, its gaping windows, and the outline of the sun. I walk away but only make it a few steps when something falls from the sky and drops in front of me. A melted canister. I pick it up. Misshapen, it’s still hot to the touch. Like her love, a smoldering wild thing.

The Retiree

Steven Van Patten

The stop and go traffic they suffered through over the past hour managed to provide one awkward silence after the next. Mona couldn’t take it anymore. “Daddy? Are you okay? You haven’t said anything since we left the house.”

“Not sure what I’m supposed to say.” Gideon Hastings stared out the passenger-side window as his daughter drove them through the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey. “Thanks for the lift, I guess? After all, you could have just put me in a car service.”

“It’s really for the best. Simon and I are both working. And the kids…“

“Are too busy staring at their phones, watching TV and listening to shitty music,” he said. “I blame you for that, by the way.”

“What are you blaming me for?”

“Let’s see,” he said. “How about I blame you for the fact that your kids are idiots and you don’t care as long as they aren’t disturbing you and that asshole you married? I can blame you all for being self-entitled, narcissistic little shits.”

The sedan in front of Mona’s SUV stopped short. She hit the brakes hard, causing both her and her father to lurch forward in their seats, seatbelts biting into their chests.

“And you’re a terrible driver to boot!”

“Maybe if someone hadn’t been working all the time and taught me how to be a better driver, or for that matter made it clearer what sort of lofty heights I was supposed to attain as a mother and human being, I’d be more tolerable. In any event, I am clearly not who you expected me to be.”

“Oh, now you’re getting all sensitive. I’m the one being discarded.”

“You’re not being discarded! But you don’t get along with the rest of the family! It’s not fair to the kids! It’s not fair to Simon and it’s not fair to you.”

“What’s not fair is that you married someone who is markedly stupider than you are! Jesus! When are women going to learn? Sure, you’re going to go through a ‘bad boy’ phase. Yes, you’re inherently going to want to bone some dumb, penitentiary-bound lummox. Women are attracted to strength on a genetic level and big dummies like Simon project strength. I get it. But we are past the caveman days. Women and their children need more than a brute in this complex world. You have an M.B.A., which I busted my ass to pay for. You should have at least married a college grad who actually covers his ass with his pants. You should have had children with a smarter man!”

“That might be the most chauvinistic thing I’ve ever heard! And for your information, Simon is smart! He’s not book smart like you, but he’s smart.”

“He didn’t know Albany was the capital of New York State. We live in New York State.”

“He’s a rapper.”

“So, he shouldn’t know what the capital of his home state is? I call bullshit. And he’s not a rapper. Rappers go on tour, making real money putting on shows and selling downloads from iTunes. Simon is one of those annoying asses in the middle of Times Square harassing busy people trying to get to their jobs, all so they can sell them a CD full of profanity about selling drugs and banging strippers. I listened to some of that nonsense. I hope that’s not you he’s talking about in that one track and I hope you aren’t lettin’ them slow ass kids listen to that mess.”

“I give up, Daddy! Do you even hear yourself talking about your own grandchildren like this?!”

“Yes, I do hear myself. You are kicking me out of my own house because I hurt their feelings. However, since I’m speaking the truth, I’m unbothered. Those children need special schooling, especially with that jackass husband of yours in the house.”

Mona felt the sting of tears. On some level, she knew her father was saying these things because he loved her. But a child being criticized by a parent can’t always see the love behind it.

“Why so quiet?” Gideon said. “Not even going to hit me with a ‘whatever, daddy’ or a ‘shut up, daddy’?”

Choking on her resentment, Mona sped up and let the car do the talking.

According to both the brochure and the website, the Shady Meadows Assisted Living Facility provided everything from a ballroom to a tennis court to an outdoor amphitheater. The designers made sure the entire campus was wheelchair accessible. At first sight, it reminded Gideon of a physical therapy center he spent time in during the 1980s after sustaining a grievous leg injury in a fight. He grimaced as his mind flooded with painful memories.

Two orderlies met Mona’s car as it pulled up to the front of the registration building. Gideon sized up the two burly men as they helped Mona take his suitcases out of the trunk and bring them inside. Even at sixty-seven, he felt reasonably sure he could subdue them both, if he had to.

As they walked through a large oak door and entered the main corridor, a redheaded Caucasian lady in her late twenties greeted them from the front desk in a slight southern drawl. Her blank enthusiasm caused the words cult member to flash in Gideon’s mind.

“Hello beautiful people! I’m Cathy Reynolds and I’ll be handling your check-in. Welcome to Shady Meadows!”

After he shook the exuberant young lady’s hand, Gideon sat down with her and Mona to fill out the last bit of paperwork. Except for Cathy assuring Mona that her father would be fine, no one spoke.

Once they signed the last of the entry documents Gideon and Mona quietly followed Cathy as she led them to Gideon’s new room. The path they walked cut through a courtyard filled with benches and tables. Several elderly residents from all walks of life, shapes, shades, and sizes sat engaged in a variety of activities. Many attempted to say hello to the ‘new guy’. Gideon responded to each greeting with a surprised glare, as if he didn’t understand why he was being spoken to.

“I think some of these women are checking you out, Dad,” Mona whispered.

Gideon muttered something Mona couldn’t completely make out, but she was positive she’d heard the word ‘stupid’ in there somewhere.

Once inside the room, Mona and Cathy watched as Gideon walked around studying the space, noting each piece of pre-furnishing.

“The bed’s a queen,” Cathy said, “but if you need a king or have some other issues…”

“It’s fine,” Gideon said.

“You haven’t even sat on it,” Mona noted.

“The desk is preloaded with stationery and you’ll find a list of extensions for the shift nurse, housekeeping and so on. Your current package allows for the 32” flat screen with just basic cable, but if you want to upgrade…” Cathy said.

“I won’t need the upgrade,” Gideon said. “I think the carpet is a bad idea, though. Allergies.”

“Well, the carpet is standard, but we can always explore options tomorrow.” Cathy’s nervous chuckle said he was going to have to live with the carpet. “Will you be okay for the evening?”

“Actually, I’m forgetting myself. Don’t mind me.” Gideon turned to her. “The room is fine. Really.”

“Okay great,” Cathy said. “Well, I’m going to leave you two. You can stay as long as you like and get your father settled. It was nice meeting you both.”

They shook hands and exchanged polite smiles.

“You too, Cathy. Thanks for everything,” Mona said.

Gideon gave Cathy a smile and a wave as she exited. Mona closed the door behind her. “You could have been a little friendlier about that.”

“I suppose,” he said. “All right, I guess you better get going.”

“Um, Daddy. I was going to help you unpack.”

“Nah, I’m good. And you have a long drive home. Take care of yourself.”

She protested, but in seconds he took hold of her elbow and led her to the door. Once he got her on the other side of the door, his posture hardened, as if he were bracing himself for something difficult.

“I love you,” he said as he closed the door without waiting for her reply.

Gideon sat down at the desk and found the stationery. It took a half hour and a few start-overs before he found the words he really wanted to say to his only daughter. Truth was, he’d always found it easier to say what was in his heart on paper rather than in person, but in this case, it needed to be done.

Once he’d finished, he pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and placed a call. “I’m all set,” he told the man on the other end. “You can have the trunk after you deliver the check and a letter I wrote my daughter.”

“I can’t release the check if this little theory of yours doesn’t work,” the person said.

“It’ll work,” he said. “You just keep up your end. Look for the letter in the mail.”

There was an awkward silence. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

“It is. Take care of yourself.”

“It’s been an honor, sir.”

“Right back at ya!”

Gideon put his cellphone face down on the desk and stood up. He chuckled as he moved his luggage from the middle of the room to one of his new closets. Then he sat down on the bed, took a deep breath, and spent the next few minutes staring at the window.

No sense in unpacking, since I’m not going to be here that long. I’ll just hide the stuff in case someone stops by and wonders why I’m not settling in.

Shortly after 9 p.m., a knock at the door confirmed his suspicions that someone would stop by.

He half expected to see Cathy the Cult Leader when he yanked the door open, only to be greeted by a short, white lady in a light blue sweater and khakis.

I’ve died and gone to The Gap instead of Heaven.

“Gideon!” the lady cried as if she was greeting someone she’d known for years. “How the hell are you?”

“Fine,” he answered with a tone that didn’t hide his suspicion. “And who might you be?”

“I’m Lancaster Goldberg,” she replied. “I’m sort of the welcome wagon around here.”

“Lancaster?” Gideon repeated. “Your father was a--”

“Burt Lancaster fan! Exactly!” She laughed. “I think he believed that naming me ‘Lancaster’ would give me all sorts of dignity and maybe make it less likely for me to be promiscuous. Who would want to screw a girl named after Burt Lancaster, right? Well, trust me, I turned sixteen and the joke was on him, I tell ya!”

“Yikes!” Gideon gave an uncomfortable laugh of his own. “So what can I do for you, Lancaster?”

“Well, it’s really more about what I can do for you,” Lancaster said. “After all, man can’t live on food and Bingo alone.”

“Neither can woman, I’d imagine.”

“True! Oh, you’re just all sorts of sharp and swarthy and debonair, aren’t cha?” Lancaster showed him a grin full of dental implants. “Anyway, just wanted you to know that if you should need anything that this place can’t or won’t provide, you might consider asking me.”

I really don’t need this right now, but I guess I have to play along. Can’t let little Lancaster here know I’m on a suicide mission.

“Something like what?”

“Well, let’s say your sciatic nerve should kick in because these mattresses are just so terrible. I have something for that. Or, let’s say you’re in the rec room one day and one of our little lady residents catches your eye. But when the time comes to show her how much you really like her, you fall a little short. I have stuff for that too.”

“I see where you’re going with this.” Gideon nodded. “You run the cell block. Lancaster the Gangster.”

“Oh, c’mon! It’s not like I’m running a protection racket.” Lancaster dismissed the accusation with a shrug. “I just smuggle pills and run the sports gambling. And I saw you when you showed up, marching through the lobby with your bags and an air of ‘been there, done that’. Since you come across as the well-travelled sort, I didn’t think I would have to wait my customary week to approach you. I usually get to know the newbies before I hit them with the sales pitch, just in case they are some kind of goodie-goodie that would rat me out to the staff.”

“Well no one’s ever accused me of that. I’d never rat you out. In fact, I respect your hustle. But I also don’t need any pills right now.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be seeing you, new guy!” She turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, you don’t have a problem with white ladies, do you?”

“Just ones who vote a certain way,” he answered.

“Of course! I’m Jewish on my father’s side, so I get that. But I’m talking about dating. And again, I’ll pay you the courtesy of being blunt. You’re one very well preserved, hot piece of chocolate. If you were in the market for a sugar mama, there are a few of our wealthier residents who might enjoy a ride on the Dark Cocoa Express, if you know what I’m saying. All you have to do is say the word. Naturally, I’d ask for a small finder’s fee.”

“Good to know!” Gideon didn’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered that the cellblock queen deemed him worthy to pimp out. What he did know was that it was time for her to go. “I’m going to sleep on it, if that’s okay?”

“Of course, potential clients will ask if I sampled the goods…”

He needed to think fast. “You know, the truth is I only recently became a widower. Might be a while before I’m feeling amorous.”

“All good, Sweetback!” Lancaster answered as Gideon opened the door and let her out. “You and I are going to stay in touch though.”

“Sure thing, Lancaster. Good night!”

He closed the door and chuckled as he walked back to the desk.

There was a time I would have prayed for a random roll in the hay like that. But I can’t tonight. I can’t screw this up.

When no further visitors appeared by 10 p.m., Gideon started to think he’d gotten it wrong. That he had antagonized and alienated his family and gotten kicked out of his own house on the basis of a bad hunch. Granted, he didn’t regret anything he had said on the drive to Shady Meadows or anything he’d said to his daughter, her less than scholarly kids, and her pipedream grasping husband over the past year. They needed every bit of it and the fact that they reacted to his criticism so viscerally only served to make him more confident in his beliefs.

But there was a hidden reason why he’d let himself be put out of the house he paid for by someone he’d put through college only to watch her marry and start a family with the neighborhood buffoon. His continued presence in the house would have put them all in danger. Selfish, smartphone and reality show loving little shits or not, he couldn’t in good conscience put them in harm’s way.

Lancaster had been right to suspect that his mattress would be less than comfortable. While Gideon probably wasn’t going to fall asleep, he certainly would have liked to meditate without a nearly uncoiled metal spring jabbing into his vertebrae. In a last-ditch effort to accomplish that, he jumped out of bed and turned off all the lights.

He lay in the bed as his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness. Then he noticed the window and the silhouette that had fallen over it. He threw the sheet off of his body, climbed out of the bed and walked across the room as the blinds rustled.

“Well, let’s see who’s here, shall we?”

He pulled the drawstring.

“Good evening, “the creature on the other side of the window said.

“So they sent a full on gargoyle-class demon.” Gideon noticed the creature’s leathery black skin and impressive wingspan. “Kind of taking a chance, aren’t you? It’s only eleven o’clock. Someone might see you.”

“There’s no one around for miles. All of your fellow residents are observing their curfew. They’re asleep.”

Careful not to look at his eyes, Gideon averted his gaze to the floating, chainmail armor wearing monster. “You’re an older one. Aren’t you?”

“I inherited this protective coat from an older demon. An incubus you killed back in 1976.”

Gideon noticed a Russian accent but decided not to reference it.

“Those were wild years,” Gideon said. “I made a lot of money killing monsters in the seventies. So, forgive me, but I have to ask. I killed this master incubus and you waited this long to come see me?”

“I was afraid of you. You were quite fearsome to us, always there with your daggers and your crossbows. You hunted and killed us while we slept and even as we preyed on the unsuspecting. You were one of the few who knew how to hunt us at night. A great assassin, you were. It was, very clever of you to buy a house on hallowed ground. Kept us from getting to you sooner.”

“Yeah, there was a time I had it all figured out, I guess.” A wave of sadness hit Gideon. He had killed his first vampire when he was 26 years old and graduated to werewolves and demons two years after that. “Now, I’m just an old man alone in a room waiting for death.”

“You’re not going put up fight?”

Gideon shrugged. “What would be the point? I’m already dying. Pancreatic cancer. My family doesn’t know. They helped me pack so there was no sneaking any weapons into my stuff. And here is the thing; I saved countless lives and killed hundreds of demonic creatures. Granted, I did it all for money, but if there is an afterlife, as my encounters with your kind would confirm, my situation should be good. Plus, my family doesn’t want me around anymore, hence me being here in the first place.”

They both fell quiet for a minute. The monster stared at Gideon, who stared at the creature’s talon-like feet floating in the mist.

“It’s not enough to accept your death. You have to invite me in, hallowed ground or not.” The monster sounded a tad contrite.

Gideon sighed. “Come on in. Please.”

As the creature slid the window open, Gideon turned away and walked to the bed. By the time he sat down, the monster stood over him.

“Does a man get a last request?” Gideon asked.

“Of course, you do,” the gargoyle demon presented a gnarled, toothsome smile.

“No one in my family gets hurt. You kill me and we both get what we want.”

“I was considering killing your daughter,” the creature said. “Especially since we both know there is no other way you could have put her through that expensive college without your blood money. No pun intended. But fine, I will honor your request.”

Gideon smiled. “How do you want to do th—

Before he could finish the sentence, the gargoyle pushed him forward. He landed on his back across the bed.

He already knew that demons of this particular type—ones that did not drain life essence through sexual intercourse—preferred to devour victims by their extremities first. With that in mind, he had braced himself to be bitten in the hand or somewhere on his arm. The gargoyle grabbed his foot and sank its teeth into his left foot.

Several thousand nerves came alive as Gideon watched two of his toes disappear in the creature’s mouth. The pain was so intense it didn’t come all at once. There was an initial push and then it came in waves that swelled as blood gushed from his foot into the gargoyle’s mouth. Gideon’s mind flashed in and out like a bad circuit, as images from his youthful days as a monster killer taunted him. The tightening in his chest signaled the beginnings of cardiac arrest. He held his hands over his mouth as he let out an agonized scream. He didn’t want the night nurse to hear him and come running to the room before his trap was fully sprung.

The gargoyle had barely swallowed the second mouthful of flesh and bone before he coughed. His body shook as if he’d been struck.

The gargoyle dropped Gideon’s leg and fell to its knees. It coughed again, a ghastly noise that reverberated in its chest. Then the creature recoiled until its back was against the wall opposite Gideon. With all the pain and parts of his mouth starting to liquefy to bloody puss, the gargoyle could only say, “What…did…” before his jaw fell to the floor and dissolved into a black oily stain on the floor.

“What did I do?” Gideon struggled to speak as he pushed up his torso with his elbows so as to see the gargoyle’s death. “Well, let’s go over the list. First of all, after being diagnosed and knowing I was not long for this world, I came to terms with my death. Not that you would know, but trust me, that’s not as easy as you might think.”

The gargoyle’s abdomen opened as if swiped by an invisible machete, spilling a black oily substance and grey intestines over the spot where its jaw had previously fallen.

“You’re dying because I have been drinking Holy Water for the last two years. No soda, no alcohol, no orange juice, no coffee. Just to play it safe I also didn’t have sex, or steal anything, which at my age wasn’t that hard. I even kept my thoughts as pure as humanly possible. As far as you’re concerned, I turned my blood into poison.”

Gideon watched as the gargoyle gave out a final screech before dissolving into a puddle of viscous, obsidian-like muck. Satisfied with what he’d seen, he plopped back to the bed as the combination of massive blood loss and a seized heart sent him hurtling toward oblivion.

The night nurse who was on duty heard the screams and would have been there sooner had she been able to remember where she put the room keys. She entered Gideon’s room just as things ended. She almost slipped in the gunk on the floor as she spotted Gideon with part of his foot torn away. In a few days, her inability to explain what happened would cost her the job and her sanity.

Always one to keep her ear to the rail, Lancaster received word of Gideon’s passing just as the morgue hearse pulled up to Shady Meadows. She was sobbing by the time Gideon’s body was being wheeled toward the back exit.

“Didn’t you just meet him last night?” a friend who had tagged along asked after Lancaster burst into tears.

“I don’t know!” Lancaster cried. Later, she would take three Xanaxe and not leave her room for the rest of the day.

A few minutes after Gideon had been pronounced dead, Mona got the call. Already wracked with guilt over sending her father to Shady Meadows, Mona cried like a wounded bear for most of the night.

Simon, secretly relieved by the news, tried to console her as best he could.

A week after the funeral, Mona was leaving the brownstone just as a mysterious man dressed in a black trench coat walked up the steps toward her. Each one seemed equally surprised by the timing of the encounter. It took a moment before either of them could find their voice.

“I’m sorry. Can I help you?” she asked.

“Forgive me if I startled you,” the man said. “You are Mona Hastings?”

“Yes,” she answered.

The man drew closer and handed her a plain, white envelope, wished her a good day and walked away. After watching the man disappear into the hazy afternoon, she ripped the envelope open and found a check for one hundred thousand dollars and a note:

Mona-

The gentleman who delivered this envelope represents someone who I was able to do one last service for before I died. In an odd way, your sending me to Shady Meadows helped with that. Use the money wisely, take care of my house and whatever you do, don’t sell it.

Just to warn you, the man will return. When he does, you need to let him take that black trunk I was keeping in the attic. The contents would be of no use to you. Just some old relics of a life I had hoped to leave behind.

I know we had our problems and many of them stem from me not being present during so much of your childhood. But please believe me, I loved and cared for you with every part of my being. If there is such thing as an afterlife, that love and care will continue and will always be there for you to draw strength from. So please do not despair and forget all of our past difficulties. Remember me as fondly as you possibly can and if at all possible, try my advice whenever you think it might apply. I know the expression of my thoughts was often ham-handed, but I always meant well. Hopefully, you will come to understand that someday.

My dearest daughter, I wish you a beautiful life.

Dad

P.S. I’m still standing by what I said. Simon’s rap music is atrocious. Make him stop. Make him get a real job.

The Dance

L. Marie Wood

I stood in the doorway, watching her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her body, the way she moved. Her hair danced in the middle of her back as she swayed. Her hips rolled rhythmically to the beat of the music. Her gyrations were slow and hypnotic, at one with the bass. Her breasts rose and fell, almost still. I could look at her forever. She turned and saw me watching. Her lips parted in a sensual smile that confused me more than any of the feelings stirring within me had. Did she like me looking at her? Did she, with her engaging eyes and coy smile, want me to blanket her body with my eyes? To stare at her as I had been? My own lips parted with the thought, glistening with the moistness that was flooding my mouth. My eyes trained on her until there was nothing else. Some part of me, some distant civility was embarrassed by my behavior, my staring, my disregard for the manners I had been taught as a child. That same part of me turned its back as warmth crept its way up from my stomach to my chest and then to my lips, lips that longed to feel hers against them. My God! I shook my head against my feelings, against her, but she stared back at me still, her gaze unwavering. Could she know what I was thinking?

Did she?

I didn’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t know much of anything except the sensual curve of her hips as they pressed against her dress. I didn’t care to know anything else. With a smile that induced my tongue to flick out of my mouth and lick my pulsing lips, she broke her gaze with me and spun to the music. Her hair took flight and whirled about, seeming to float on the very air that whipped it. Her eyes were closed as she twirled, her mouth open in satisfaction. It seemed to me that the music had grown louder, sharper, the bass thumping into my soul now instead titillating my ears. I felt it. I felt her. As though she moved in my arms, grinding against me, pressing her bosom to mine, I felt her. A film of perspiration leapt onto my brow as I imagined touching her skin. I knew it wasn’t real, even as I traced the round of her breast beneath my sweaty palm, almost feeling the warmth from her body on my fingertips. The nagging question was why. Why was I thinking this way? Why did she, this woman I did not know, rouse such feelings in me?

The woman stopped to face me once more, her hair settling on her shoulders. Wisps of light brown strands webbed her face, covering her eyes like a veil. She peered at me from between them, a knowing look standing in them. She knew me, knew the thoughts that were ruling me at that instant, my turmoil.

And she liked it.

She flipped her hair away from her face gently. Her copper skin looked like smooth cream in the dim light. I wanted to reach out and touch her hair, run my fingers through it. I wanted to run my hands down her spine, feel her moving against my skin as I had in the beautiful illusion that played in my head moments before.

The increasingly familiar tingling sensation in my stomach burned as she resumed the dance. She had pulled a man from the wall, beckoning him with her eyes alone. He joined her, swaying to the music with her, pressing himself closer, deeper. My face and hands were hot, and my breath was quick. I watched as they moved seamless to an old reggae song, the music pouring over them like warm water. As the beat slowed down to a pulse, she pressed her body closer still, rolling her hips from side to side, backwards and forwards. I began to sweat more.

He held her by the small of her back as she bent backwards to touch the floor with her outstretched hand. Her breasts perked toward the sky and I could almost see the supple flesh. She looked at me as she shifted with her partner, turning around to rub her buttocks against his genitals. I nervously met her stare. Her beautiful oval eyes engulfed me, took me on a journey to a place I had never thought I’d go. And I didn’t want to come back.

She began to touch herself as she danced, pulling her hair away from her face and rubbing the moist skin on her neck. Her hands found their way to her breasts and she provocatively traced the shape of them. I watched her playing. I wanted to play too. Her partner’s arm tightened around her waist as the line of his jaw imprinted itself on his brown skin. She smiled at me conveying her pleasure as her partner enjoyed himself behind her. She turned towards him then, resuming the dance, and breaking eye contact with me. But still I watched.

I sighed heavily watching them tease each other on the dance floor. She didn’t resume eye contact with me after that, preferring to dance with her partner for the rest of the song. My throat was unbelievably parched, and my breathing was erratic. She had gotten to me. I shivered unconsciously, feeling the air on my damp skin as I hadn’t before. I was coming out of her spell at last. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

I walked over to the bar and ordered a drink. With my back to the club and my eyes on the glass in front of me, I tried to forget the woman’s face, her body, her eyes. I tried to forget the feelings that arose within me when I watched her move. I discounted them as the hallucinations of a drunk and an indication of when it was time to be cut off. I suppressed the fact that I had only had one drink, a mild one at that. I ignored it because I wasn’t ready to face the truth. The woman had awakened feelings in me that I didn’t know I had, didn’t know I was capable of having. It was frightening. It was incredible, unbelievable; it was all of those things. But the emotion that bothered me most, the one that I couldn’t seem to understand was how much I wanted it to be so. I wanted to look at her, to watch her body move. I wanted to touch her, to feel her, to taste her. My confusion was paralyzing.

As I swirled the swizzle stick in my glass, I tried to push her out of my mind. The clank of the ice cubes hitting the sides became distant as she took over, commanding my thoughts. Her body moved seductively in my mind, swaying to and fro, calling to me. I had to see her one more time.

When I turned back to the dance floor they were gone. Another reggae song, this one with an even slower beat than the first, began and people filled the dance floor, capitalizing on the opportunity to feel their partner’s bodies against their own. I scanned the room looking for her, wanting, needing to see her again. I saw the man she had been dancing with standing in the hallway talking to someone. I couldn’t see the person he was with. Slumping, I resigned myself to the fact he was talking to her and that he was getting her phone number. But why did that bother me?

“Anything good mixed with that soda?”

I turned to see her standing next to me. At 5’7”, I was more than two inches taller than her. Her head tilted a little to look at me. I liked that for some reason. Her hair was stuck to her damp forehead and she was slightly winded. She was breathtaking.

“Just plain old soda,” I said, unsure of the timbre of my voice.

“Oh,” she said as she watched the flush of blood rise in my face. She pretended not to see it, but I knew she had. A provocative smile curled the corners of her lips. I could almost taste the sweetness of it.

“Can I buy you something with a little more kick?” she asked, her body swaying to the hypnotic beat.

I smiled.

“No. This is all I can handle right now. But thank you.”

She smiled again. I envisioned my mouth on hers, kissing her passionately. The thought both frightened and intrigued me.

“Do you like reggae music?” she asked, catching me off guard. She dabbed her head with a paper towel looking at me all the while, waiting for me to respond.

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Because I saw you looking at me while I danced.”

I blushed. Was I that obvious? That part of me, the part that had admonished me before, laughed bitterly at my surprise.

“I like the way you move.” I couldn’t believe I said it.

“Thank you.” Her words carried the faintest of accents on them. The sound was bewitching.

She looked at me knowing that I admired more than her dance steps. A man came over to order a beer from the bartender. To move out of his way, she stepped closer to me. I could feel the heat coming from her body as she pressed closer still, closer than I thought possible. I stood rigid, not knowing what to do.

“Would you like to dance with me?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper.

I looked at her, amazed. Is she coming on to me?

“To reggae music? I think people would look at us a little strangely, don’t you think?”

“Why? I’ll teach you a few steps.”

She was dangerously close.

“I don’t know—.”

“Well, if you don’t want to—.”

She started to walk away. I felt panic rising within me.

“I didn’t say that. I just don’t know about dancing… here.” What was I doing? My mind reeled as the sound of my last sentence echoed in my head. It went against everything I thought I knew about myself. Everything I thought I was. But the truth of my feelings was undeniable. Had I said it aloud? Had I tossed out the past ten years of my life for naught with the utterance of that one simple question? Was I coming on to her?

She smiled at me and picked up a napkin. She took a pen from the bartender and wrote down her number.

“Give me a call when you want to dance with me.”

She put the napkin in my hand and walked out to the dance floor, never casting me a backwards glance. The sway of her hips tantalized me as she walked away. I felt my stomach drop as though I had been on a roller coaster at the top of a hill and ridden down to the bottom. She was merging into the crowd, moving her body to the reggae beat that filled the room.

The bass was heavy; the throbbing seeped into my soul, thump, thump, thumping as did my loins. She rolled her hips, ticking top, right, back, left to the constant beat. The sensation was exquisite. She turned to look at me and parted her lips in a smile. Her rosy mouth, seductively wet, was drawing me close. I found myself wanting to kiss her again, to lick the moisture from her lips and drink it like the sweet nectar it was. I breathed deeply and my hand fluttered up to my chest. I had never felt that way before.

My legs moved of their own volition, following her as she moved deeper and deeper into the crowd. The bass, the slow grind of the music, entranced me and I felt my hips swaying, rolling, gyrating to each beat. She faced me as I approached her, her eyes gliding up and down my body, watching me move. I felt self-conscious under her stare, but I kept moving towards her anyway. I slid between couples on the dance floor, still standing apart from each other, one tempting the other with a twist of the hips, a shake in the shoulders. ‘You can look but you can’t touch’, their eyes said; two strangers circling each other in a mating ritual. I saw them but didn’t. They made up the clutter that was my peripheral vision. My eyes were honed in on her. And hers on me.

As the reggae beat moved me, covering ground I didn’t feel beneath my feet, I navigated the dance floor to find myself standing right in front of her. Her lips were parted still, and I could see her white teeth below her upper lip. Her face and chest were dotted with perspiration; the ends of her hair were wet with it. The glistening line of her cleavage shined in the light of the strobe, the tops of her round breasts peeking through, pushed up by the underwire of her bra. I followed the scoop neck of her dress from the sides of her breasts and over the tops, fancying I could make out the nipple, slightly erect, beneath the material of her dress. My own nipples hardened at the thought. I took a deep breath to clear my mind.

We stood inches apart, our breath mingling, blowing wisps of hair from each other’s faces. She tilted her head the slightest bit upward, toward mine. Her hair fell from her shoulders and cascaded down her back. I wanted to put my hand in it, to smooth it against her skin, to feel its silkiness between my fingers. Instead I stood still, unable to move, staring into her spellbinding eyes.

She said nothing as she moved closer to me. I backed away on contact, suddenly aware of my surroundings. ‘People are staring at us’, my mind screamed. My face flashed hot as I thought of them watching. What must we look like? Two women undressing each other with their eyes in the middle of the dance floor. I imagined them pointing and snickering at our public display of affection, certainly deemed gratuitous by the straight couples in the room. I would think as much if the shoe were on the other foot, I admitted to myself. Homosexuality still made me feel uneasy. Especially women. Even a casual touch, a knowing glance from one partner to another was enough to make me leave the room, remove myself from their presence. Was it that I felt threatened by the intensity of the relationship? No. I’d had my share of boyfriends and didn’t long for companionship. Did I feel some sort of kinship with them? Did some longing awaken within me when I saw the affection in a lover’s eyes for her girlfriend? No. No?

She moved closer to me, until our bodies touched through our clothes. Her hands rested on my hips as hers rolled to the beat, the slow grind growing salacious. She caressed the line of my hips, her hands patterning from waist to thigh, from outer to inner, as she danced.

I soon forgot my concerns and fell into her control, moving my body against hers, and feeling pleasure in the contact. Her breasts rubbed against me, just underneath my own, her nipples as aroused as mine as they pressed against me. She smiled as she touched me, enjoying my reaction as the façade I had lived under all my life melted away under the touch of her hand. I danced with her, pressing my pelvis into her form. She touched her hands to mine and guided them over her body. She moved them over her hips, the tops of her thighs, up and down her ribcage, each time teasing me with a fleeting touch of her bosom. I was throbbing with desire, my heartbeat rising in my throat. She brought my hands around to her buttocks and pressed them there, spreading my fingers so that both of my index fingers danced along the edge of her cheeks before the round. I felt her move beneath my hands as she danced. I pressed myself closer still to her warmth, longing to taste her skin.

After a while of this, my revelation and satisfaction, she had me raise my face from the divine nook formed by her shoulder and neck where I had taken residence and regard her. She looked at me then with eyes that were the most endearing brown I had ever seen. The smile that played on her lips was amative, so seductive I almost couldn’t look. But I wanted to. More than anything, I wanted to kiss her lips, to give her what she seemed to be asking for, begging for. The realization floored me, but I set it aside. This woman had turned me on.

The music, the smell of her sweat, the heat of her breath captivated me. I no longer felt the prying eyes staring at me, no longer heard the chattering voices around me. It was just she and I standing there, on the brink of coition, moving to the rhythm of the music. It was intoxicating.

Her hands had found their way to my breasts and were kneading my nipples gently. I closed my eyes, surrendering myself to the feeling as she circled my areolas, her hands masterful at manipulating my flesh. A moan escaped my lips as she caressed them so intensely I thought I could feel her fingers against my skin instead of through my shirt. My head tilted back in ecstasy.

I felt her hands on my neck pulling me toward her gently, and at the same time, I could feel her pushing herself closer to me. Her lips grazed my neck and sent shivers down my spine. My sex pulsed against my underwear as her tongue licked the hollow of my neck. My mouth opened, slack from excitement. I leaned into her, wanting more. She kissed my neck, sucked it, licked it, devoured it as though consuming a delicacy. I stood allowing her to do as she would, willing to experience anything she wanted me to. The throbbing in my sex became rapid long before she placed her finger upon it, urging it out, making it crave her. I was delirious with want for her.

She spoke in the softest of voices at the base of my neck, her voice so quiet, I didn’t hear her words.

“What did you say?” I breathed airily, inebriated by her touch.

“I asked if you remembered my name. Do you?”

My mind grasped for an image of the napkin upon which she had written her name and number. In the fog of arousal, I couldn’t remember the letters, whether they were cursive or printed, or the color of the ink. All I could see was her. All I could feel was her touch.

“Do you?” she asked again, more insistently this time, her mouth hovering over my neck as she spoke.

I squinted my closed eyelids, bidding my mind to clear itself, if only for a moment. To think for fear that she would take this feeling away from me if I couldn’t answer her. My mind swirled, frenzied. And then it came to me. I saw the napkin she had given me as clear as if I were holding it in my hand then. In flowery, calligraphic handwriting she had written the name Vanessa.

The name tasted sweet on my lips, like a sip of fruity wine. I opened my mouth to say it, to mouth the syllables of the name belonging to the woman whose touch made me a different person when I felt her lips upon my skin again.

“Van—,” I started. Before I could finish, I felt something sharp pierce my neck. My eyes flew open as I gasped. My hands reached out for Vanessa and found her shoulder, taut now as she held me in place. Muted shrieks emanated from me, like the dying cries of an animal in the wild. My neck was hot. My hands grew cold. I could hear my blood rushing in my ears as she sucked noisily, wildly on my life’s blood. My eyes fell upon the people around me, my subconscious beckoning me to look. The men and women who, only minutes before, were dancing to the music, sipping their drinks, and talking, were now staring at us, their faces beastly in their vampiric state. Some of them laughed, saliva dripping generously from their fangs. Others stared proudly, watching the display with nobility. All of them had a frighteningly greedy edge; it was a look in the eye for some, a gaping maw for others. All of them were hungry. All of them wanted to feed.

Vanessa drank her fill of me and pushed me away when she was done. Her rich laughter filled the air, the sound reverberating in my head. I looked at her, at the blood—my blood—that coated the front of her dress as well as the exposed skin above the scooped neck. Even then, her bloody fangs protruding over her bottom lip, her yellow cat’s eyes glowing in the dim light, she was gorgeous.

As if in slow motion, I raised my hand to my neck. My fingers touched the puncture wounds tentatively; I cringed from the touch. My vision clouded over as I stood among the undead, before the woman who would be the one to take my mortal life. My legs weakened and I sank to the floor, hitting it with a dull thud. I sat looking up at her, at Vanessa. Tears blurred my vision of her as I faltered, what was left of my blood flowing out of my wound and down my shirt. I saw her walk toward me as I laid my head on the dance floor. She knelt before me and brushed my sweaty hair out of my face, smoothing it with her delicate fingers. Her eyes held a profound sadness as she watched me die. The warmth of her hand burned my face as she touched me, growing hotter and hotter against my chilled skin. She entered my open mouth with a probing finger, aggravating it, inducing me to swallow. Once done, she removed her hand and closed my mouth gently, caressing my chin as a lover would. Again, Vanessa spoke, her voice tender and sweet,

“Do you love me, Gillian?”

With my last breath, I moaned. I died with the face of Vanessa in my eyes and the smell of my blood wafting from her lips.

I blinked my drying eyes and swallowed with my parched mouth. Pushing my torso up with my arms, using muscles that felt invigorated and strong in a way they had never felt before, I raised myself from the floor and stood. Vanessa stood with me, her face concupiscent and alight. I looked at the faces of my family then and saw respect and rivalry toiling within them, just beneath their fragile skin, as I stood in front of their one true love. With hubristic poise unknown to me before my mortal death, I smiled and said,

“Yes, I do.”

A Clink of Crystal Glasses Heard

LH Moore

Neeka was not quite sure how to feel about it.

Blood for blood, they kept telling her over and over again, and that was the extent of the knowledge that she had. There is something about how adults whisper things among themselves in hushed exchanges and furtive, darting glances and how they changed a conversation when one of them walked in. How they are such keepers of knowledge even as Neeka and her friends were becoming women just like them, despite protests that being like their mothers was something they definitely didn't want to happen. Why would she want to? She could be someone entirely different, better even. Isn't that the way of things? The way things are supposed to be?

Neeka still couldn't begin to fathom everything they might know though. There was so much excitement about who she and her friends were becoming, but it was the mystery of it that was so intriguing. The things that have not been, the things that are yet to come. She once tried to ask her mother about it and was told "You'll see when it happens to you." What kind of answer is that?

She had known her friends Zina and Laila her entire life. Their moms had been best friends for all of their lives and would get together and drink wine and laugh and talk as the girls hid out in each other's rooms and basements. This time they sat in Neeka's room and tried to piece together what little they knew as their mothers' raucous laughter floated up to them from downstairs.

"My mom always seems really different then, you know? Just not herself," Zina said, pushing back long purple-threaded braids as she stretched out on a thick, white faux fur rug. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose before spitting out a sunflower seed and pouring some more out into her hand.

"This might sound really weird, but mine just seems really...hungry and sometimes she leaves out at night. I think she goes somewhere like a drive-thru or something since she's not hungry when she comes back." Laila pouted and then sighed. "I wish she'd at least bring me back a burger."

They all turned and looked at her.

"Actually, that sounds like mine," Neeka said.

"Mine too," Zina nodded, spitting out another seed.

"That's kinda weird though, huh?" Neeka said, reaching for the bowl of salt and vinegar potato chips. "I mean, is being super-hungry a thing then? I've never read anything online anywhere about that being a thing."

"Not that I know of, but then again, we only know as much as we know or they'll tell us, huh?"

"It kind of sucks that we don't know more actually."

Laila started messing with her hair, pulling it up into a bun with an elastic. "I wonder what they are talking about."

"Let's go listen in then," Neeka said and they slipped out of the room, crouched down and huddled at the top of the stairs. Neeka put a finger to her lips and the other girls nodded. That's when she heard her mother's voice.

"The girls are almost twelve. We need to go ahead and plan everything. The last thing that we need is for it to kick in and they are unprepared. If you're like me, this means your girls are pretty much in the dark about this too."

"Well, that is by design. Isn't it, ladies?" the smooth, patrician accent of Laila's mom chimed in. Neeka had always found her a bit superficial and filled with airs that she chalked up to the upper-class world she was a part of. "I mean, after all, if they knew what they were in for..."

"I just don't want to frighten them. That's all. I mean, look at us. We adjusted pretty well, like our mothers before us, and before them." Zina's mother said.

"We'll have to give them some guidance, of course," Neeka's mother said. "We can't have them just going out in the world without knowing what to do."

The girls looked at one another. "I didn't realize that it was so serious like that," Neeka whispered. "After all, it's just our periods, not the end of the world. Right?" Laila shrugged as Zina grimaced. The voices downstairs got quiet for a moment and the girls snuck back to the room.

"Girls, come on down! We're leaving now!" the mothers called up.

"See you next month!" they said as everyone hugged and kissed one another. Neeka stood in the doorway with her mother, who had her arm around her as they waved.

"Next month will be special," her mother looked down and said to her with a smile. "You'll see."

There was something about the way music made Neeka feel. Like reading, she often felt transported. Untouchable even. Neeka's mother called upstairs to her and Neeka sat up, looking at the white Christmas lights she had strung along her dresser mirror. She had a collection of little cat figurines on it, something that started with one her grandma gave her as a little girl. She sighed as she responded to her mother's call, took out her earbuds and came down.

"We are going out," her mother said, grabbing her purse and keys. "Now."

Her mother didn't say much during the car ride and looked over at her from time to time. The moon was full and bright that night, illuminating the night sky despite all the streetlights. Neeka watched it and tried to keep it in her sight as the car made its way through the city streets.

"Where are we going?"

"To go be with the girls tonight."

Neeka's face scrunched up. "This is different. I didn't know we were all getting together tonight."

"Well, the last of you had your birthday, so we thought we'd get together."

Neeka didn’t know what to think. They had both gone to Laila's birthday party. It was lavish and over the top like everything Laila's mother does, and they had a great time together. Laila's family went all out for her. Neeka couldn't understand all of the fuss over a twelfth birthday. Sixteen, sure? It just seemed like a bit much. Her mother and sister took her out to eat and she was happy with that. This still seemed unusual though. She thought about how intently the mothers were watching them last month when they were there. She and the other girls had joked about it, dismissing their moms as “Weird like normal.” No. Something else was going on. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

They were soon driving through what Neeka thought of as the rich part of town and pulled up in front of a gate. Laila's mansion. She looked over at her mother, who was looking straight ahead as the gates opened and they drove in.

She saw Zina's mother's car there too and started to really wonder what was going on. Laila's mother opened the front door, but she wasn't smiling like normal. She could see the other girls there looking just as bewildered as she felt and walked over to them.

"What is going on?" Laila whispered.

"Girl, we are at your house, remember? You tell us!" Zina said looking back at the mothers, who were starting to walk towards the kitchen.

"Do not go to your room this time. Go and sit in the dining room, please," Laila's mother called out to them. Neeka was disappointed because she loved Laila's room. It was large and filled with what she thought was the best of everything decorations- and electronics-wise. She even had makeup! Although Laila had her moments, compared to her mother Neeka thought Laila was really sweet and just wanted to be liked.

The girls looked at one another again and went into the living room and sat down on one side of the mahogany table, with Neeka in the middle. For as many times as she had been to Laila's house, she never got over how sumptuous it was, like something out of a magazine. Her own house was nothing to sneeze at and was nice enough, but this house was something entirely different. From the furniture to the artwork, it was an interior decorator's dream. The mothers came in one by one, each sitting across from their daughter. "We have something to tell you," Neeka's mother said. "And it is very, very important that you listen, as your lives will never be the same."

"Well, way to be dramatic Mom," Neeka said with a laugh, the other two girls joining in. They became quiet again pretty quickly when they realized their mothers were stone-faced in front of them.

"This is not a joke," Zina's mother said, using what they called her "professor's" voice. Many a university student had been given a lot to think about with it. Her long hennaed locs fell in front of her face. "Not at all."

Laila's mother then got up and came back with what looked like a vintage silver tray with carved crystal glasses on it. She set it down in the middle of the table and took one of the glasses herself, the other mothers following suit. "Go on," Neeka's mother said, pushing the tray closer to them.

"Oh wow," Zina said. "What's this about? Are you really letting us join your wine group?"

Once again, the mothers said nothing, their faces a mask. Each girl took a sip. They all looked up almost in unison and then at each other, confused.

Laila looked down at hers. "I...I don't think this is wine. Mom?"

"You're right, honey. It is not."

"I feel kind of funny. Mama, what is going on?" Zina said.

Neeka felt warm inside, like her very veins were on fire. It was as if she was burning inside. She could swear that she could hear the heartbeats of everyone in the room. No, she was certain that she could hear every heartbeat at that table. Loudly. She looked across from her and her mother was watching. "Can you hear it too?" Neeka asked Laila and Zina.

"I think I can hear...everything," Laila said. "Everything. Something is wrong. Why can I hear everything?"

"This isn't right," Zina said. "Ohh, this is not right."

"Yes, it is. Zina take off your glasses. You won't need them anymore," Zina's mother said as she reached out her hand for them. She did as she was told and had a shocked look.

"I have always worn glasses. Since I was little. What is this?" Zina reached her hand towards her mouth and opened it, touching fangs that had suddenly appeared. Laila saw her and screamed, her hands flying up to touch her own.

"What...what is happening to us?!" Neeka said, doing the same after seeing Zina's reaction. She started to panic.

"On a full moon of your twelfth year, we have to initiate you. It is as we have done. As our mothers and their mothers and their mothers did before them. We must share that generational knowledge with you. Tonight is that initiation."

"Blood for blood," all three mothers calmly said in unison, holding up and then taking long sips from their own glasses. "May the next generation be wiser than the one before and before."

"What is this? Some kind of cult? Or a sick joke, because this is sick! I do not want to be a part of this so you can count me out," Zina said as Laila started to cry.

"This is not. It is who you are. It is in your very DNA. You would not be able to help it and that can be dangerous," Neeka's mother explained.

"For who? Because this is seriously starting to feel a little child protective services right now, I'm just saying," Neeka said.

"You are a part of a long line of vampires. It only triggers for about a week once a month starting with the full moon. We're not like the Weres. You are not going to undergo a physical transformation beyond your fangs, and even those can be controlled. Heightened senses, heightened strength, and also...a need for blood." All three girls' lips curled up and they looked down at their glasses.

"So, wait a minute," Laila said. "When you three were getting together for wine every month, that wasn't wine. It was..."

"Blood, yes, darling" her mother said in that languid voice of hers, taking another sip and draining her glass.

"Blood, nooo..." Neeka said in response. Laila leaned over from her chair and promptly threw up, the dark red vomit splattering against the expensive plush carpet. Zina looked ill.

"So, what now? Are we expected to go out and bite necks now? I am not biting people," Zina said, crossing her arms.

The mothers looked at one another.

"Oh God, no. That's what familiars are for. We have a network of healthy donor familiars. As long as you have a glass a day, you'll be fine."

"If not?" Zina demanded.

"Then your body can't function, pure and simple."

Laila started crying harder. "I'm a freeeak..."

"No, honey, just a vampire," Laila's mother said, reaching across and patting her hand.

Neeka's mother looked at each one of them. "These girls are now your Cohort. You will always be there for one another. They are your confidantes. The ones you should always be able to trust, even with your lives. Your own daughters, if you have them, will be like this as well as it passes without a doubt through one's maternal line."

"But really though. Can we control this? Cuz, I don't want to be biting people," Zina said. "Wait, can we turn other folks? Like in the movies?"

"No, this is genetic. You have to be born like this," Neeka's mother responded. "Trust me, there's a reason I became a scientist, and this is one thing I definitely know."

"OK then," Zina continued. "Soo...are we immortal?"

All three mothers started laughing. "No, while you will live longer than most, you are not immortal. You can be killed, and you can die. I swear you girls have been watching and reading myths."

"Well, it's not every day that myths become real, you know? Wait, did you say ‘Weres’ earlier?!" Neeka said, still struggling with the burning sensation inside that was now feeling like flowing ice water everywhere in her body. She just felt ill. The mothers shrugged.

Laila reached over and squeezed Neeka’s hand. "I don't want to be a vampire!" Laila said, wailing. She seemed inconsolable. Neeka sat there quietly for a few moments before standing up. "I want to go home now. This just can't be happening. I want to go home."

The mothers sighed one by one. "Your grandmothers warned us that this might happen."

"Wait, Grandma is one?" Neeka asked.

"Yes, and your sister too."

Neeka sat back down and like the other two girls, was quiet. She hugged Laila, who wouldn't stop crying. Zina put her head in her arms on the table. Neeka just couldn't process everything that she was told tonight and what her future would be. A vampire? Just who in the world finds out of the blue that they are a vampire? Oh wait...

Her.

The ride back home was quiet and as awkward as it could be after finding out something like that. Laila was still wailing as they walked out of the door. Neeka kept looking over at her mother and finally asked "Have you ever fed on someone?" Her mother looked over at her.

"Well?"

Her mother turned back to the road. "Yes."

"Why? I thought you said you didn't do that?"

"Sometimes you are in situations where you don't have access to familiars or blood reserves." Neeka noticed her mother's grip on the steering wheel got a lot tighter. "And when you are really hungry, well..."

Neeka was horrified.

"I’m sorry I asked now. I'd rather not think about it, if you don't mind." She started to wring her hands. Her mother’s face softened.

"Baby, you have to, and we will. I know that it is a lot to ask, but this will be as normal to you as breathing. You are not always going to be comfortable. There will be moments that you hate it, but it is part of who you are as a woman. You will come to see it, as we all have, as something that makes you truly special as one.” She reached over and squeezed Neeka’s arm gently. “You are part of a very long line with a history that I will continue to share with you and want you to be proud of. I just want you to feel empowered and unafraid as you go forward in the world now. Know that I love you. We all do."

They pulled up in front of the house. Her older sister Cynthia was home from college. She was standing in the doorway waiting, waving to them excitedly.

As they walked in, she took Neeka's hand before hugging them both. She looked at their mom and then smiled at Neeka before hugging her tightly.

"Welcome to the Sisterhood."

Diary of a Mad Black Vampire

Dicey Grenor

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 1

Dear Diary,

Tonight, I killed a dog, though I’m not sure why. I don’t like the taste of dog blood much, having tried it on more than one occasion before. A few times during a few different eras with several different breeds, just to make sure, and nope. I never acquired the taste. But when you’ve lived long as I have, done the things I’ve done, traveled the places I’ve traveled, met the people I’ve met... you just get bored. And, well… the furry creature was there barking in its yard, interrupting as I stared through the picture window at the beautiful albino girl playing the piano melody.

I hadn’t intended to kill her pet. I could have hidden in the nearby woods when they let the dog out to do its business in the grass. Instead, on a whim, I moved fast as lightning, bit a chunk out of its neck, and drank its blood before the poor animal knew what had happened. With the cover of darkness and no one around to see my misdeed, the family would think a wild animal had devoured it. Well, not so much devoured. To be honest, I only drank enough to remember how much I didn’t like the canine taste and let the rest spill all over the ground and my black velvet cloak. I guess I killed it just because I could.

It could have been worse. If I had spared the dog and waited a few moments more, it may have been the piano girl’s life I had taken in my fit of boredom when she came out looking for the dog. I’m guessing the girl’s parents and friends would have taken her death harder. Though I’ve never cared about my victims’ feelings or the upset of their families, it is somewhat necessary for my own survival to keep a low profile. Surviving happens to be the only thing I’ve cared about for quite some time, and a dead dog doesn’t typically draw as much attention as a dead girl.

I’ve only just arrived in this city, so who knows… Perhaps her music won’t be so melodious nor her skin so beautiful to me tomorrow, and I will kill her anyway just for sport. I’m willing to bet her blood would taste infinitely better than her doggie’s. For now, I will rest in the shadows of her shed and reemerge at nightfall.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 2

Dear Diary,

When I awakened tonight, the girl was in her yard poking her dog’s carcass with a long stick. I was surprised by this, as I was sure she would have buried it during the day and been mourning its loss by now. I thought perhaps I needed to get closer to appreciate her tears. How wrong I was.

When I moved swiftly from the shed to behind a tree only a few feet away from her, I saw her stone, toneless face and dry eyes. Not only did she not show sadness over her dog’s death, she seemed incapable of feeling it. Or feeling anything, for that matter. After witnessing a dozen human reactions to the carnage I’ve left behind in the past, I knew this wasn’t shock or anything normal.

The girl barely budged when the wind from my movement rustled her clothing, though it was not because my presence had gone unnoticed. She had called out to me, asking me to show myself. I thought for a moment about showing my fangs and sending her soul to her creator but decided to step forward out of curiosity. Perhaps she was soulless like me.

To my surprise, and for the first time in a long while, I stood before someone in all my dark, deathly glory, and that someone did not shrink away in fear. She had only asked me two things— “Did you kill my dog?” and “Are you going to kill me?” I answered her first question affirmatively and told her I was undecided about her second.

By a strange turn of events, she thanked me for my honesty and told me to bury her dog since I had killed it. I thought about telling her I took orders from no one, but then she mentioned the rapid pace in which I moved, and how something that would take her hours to do would only take me thirty seconds. That seemed fair. Still, I hesitated and promised I would bury it only if she told me her name.

Tetra. The emotionless piano girl with melanin-free skin and eyes as red as mine was named Tetra. She dared a curtsy as she said it, although my instincts told me it was meant as sarcasm in lieu of respect. I couldn’t help but smile. Something I hadn’t done in many decades.

Since I’m a creature of my word, I found a shovel in her shed, buried her dog, and decided not to kill the girl tonight either. She intrigues me. She makes me smile. Plays melodious music. Challenges me, already, when signs indicate I am a danger to her. She also asked me to meet her at the same time, same place tomorrow tonight. She said we’d go horseback riding, if I promised not to kill her horses, and she would play the piano for me, if I promised to watch her through the picture window again. She had enjoyed the eeriness of being watched, a sign that she enjoys a little danger.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve ridden a horse. I have fond memories of doing so and look forward to doing it again. Especially with Tetra.

I am now giddy with excitement as I lie to rest in her shed for the second day. I’m usually void of excitement, and for my own safety, I usually only spend one day in the same location. Tetra may be what I’ve been looking for all along without knowing I’ve been looking.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 3

Dear Diary,

Tonight was amazing.

Yes, I realize the word “amazing” is overused in these modern times and my vocabulary is usually more imaginative than this, but I have no better description for how I’m feeling nor a better way to summarize the events that transpired when Tetra and I rendezvoused tonight.

First, she played one of my favorite classical piano pieces as the sun set and she knew I’d be approaching her window and watching. Next, we rode horses like two escaped convicts sentenced to life in maximum security prison. We could not be contained or tamed as wind blew through our hair. Hers, coarse as mine but as colorless as her skin and much shorter. Mine, bound in rows of tight knots, unraveling one at a time as I bounced on the beast and screamed with joy to the Heavens.

After riding, we stretched out on a blanket under the stars and talked about whatever came to our minds— old lovers, favorite foods, our disdain for humankind, our lack of real plans for the future. Tetra seemed interested in knowing about my species and unafraid of the consequences of having such knowledge, so I opened up about my vampirism. I told her what it was like surviving off the blood of the living, avoiding the sun, and having superhuman strength and speed. She told me what it was like looking different from everyone else, including her parents, and how she too, avoided the sun and most people because they mistreated her.

It turns out that even though we are different species, we have loads more in common than we have different. She writes in a daily diary, same as me. She’s twenty years old, the same age I was at the time of my turning. We were both institutionalized as teens for a short stint over mental health conditions that resulted in psychotic breaks. We’re both much better now, vowing never to be confined like that again.

We also have chronic boredom in common… until we met each other, and quite honestly, I see that as destiny. I spent the night learning so much about Tetra, and she about me, that I didn’t feel my usual boredom at all.

Tetra may be the ying to my yang. The sunrise to my sunset. The ivory to my ebony.

We discussed my worldly travels also. Tetra’s wide-eyed schoolgirl interest in it all ignited a spark in me, making me want to whisk her away from this dull life and let her see the world. Experience it the way it should be experienced, with means and without fear. It would be exciting for me to travel again, if I took her with me and saw things for the first time through her eyes. Since she hadn’t gone much further than the home she’d grown up in, on account of having elderly parents, I almost owed it to her. As if I had come into her life for this purpose. At this moment. Hers, mine… our destiny.

So, I shared the travel stories I could remember— from Africa, to Asia, to Europe, to Australia, to North America, to here in Canada— with the caveat that I was much older than her parents, and my best experiences had come and gone long ago in years and memory, and that nothing beats seeing it all firsthand.

Lastly, after all that talking and sharing, we went to her neighbor’s house to prank them. It was a terrible thing to do, and I would have otherwise thought it beyond my breadth of sophistication to do such a thing. I must say, their screams as I ran through their house opening all the closet and cabinet doors, flickering all the lights and turning on all the faucets was worth lowering myself to that level of basic thrill. Tetra’s laughter as she waited outside was as melodious to my ears as her piano music.

There was barely enough time to spare before the sun rose and I had to flee and return to Tetra’s shed for cover. I’d do it all over again to hear Tetra’s maniacal laughter as she went indoors for the day.

I suppose her penchant for sadism is another commonality I had not thought of until just now. Which makes me wonder if she could be my companion. Perhaps, we could prank and terrorize Antarctica together. After that, I could take her to my homeland, the region now known as Nigeria, for a short visit. We just couldn’t stay long given its warm, sunny climate.

I’ll think further on it when I awake in the evening.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 9

Dear Diary,

Apologies for my neglect. I have been having the best time since my death many moons ago. I’m remembering the thrill of what it was like when I first turned, re-experiencing the thrill of the unknown. Waking up ready to see what each new night has in store for me. It’s reminiscent of when I was young, carefree, excited, and powerful, with the whole world in front of me. A reminder that I may not be young anymore, but I’m still powerful. Thanks to Tetra, I’m also carefree and excited again.

Last night, we hitch-hiked motorcycle rides into town to get away from her rural environment and the smell of barn hay and horse manure. Leather and tattoos combined with engine smoke and industrial smog was just the sort of combination to get Tetra thinking of mischief. I wrongly presumed Tetra would engage in sexual behavior with one or more of the MC’s members, but she had other nefarious intent. She convinced me to steal two of the motorcycles with her and beat them within an inch of their lives when they followed to recover their own property.

I wish I could say I felt sorry for them, but no. I’m having a hearty laugh even as I write this, and I at least let them live.

I would write more, but I’ve got to hurry out into the night to meet her. She’s going to invite me into her house tonight, so that I can be in there when her guests arrive during the day. We’re going to crash her cousin’s wedding tomorrow. Isn’t that exciting?

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 16

Dear Diary,

Apologies again. It’s been a busy, fun-filled week. I don’t even know where to begin. Let’s see…

Tetra and I have done some club hopping in the city, dancing and talking all night. We’ve gone to amusement parks, riding on the scariest roller coasters we could find. We’ve passed through several haunted houses and, one night, we went to a creepy circus and freed all the animals after it closed. We’ve been rock climbing, where I even saved a couple from falling and meeting their demise, if you can believe that. We’ve also been strolling through cemeteries, pranking as many teens as possible with the near truth that I was part of the walking dead, except I’m no ghost.

Though a few of our unsuspecting victims may have had premature heart attacks, Tetra and I truly meant no harm. We were just enjoying each other’s company and having fun. And when all else failed and we were out of ideas, we stayed in Tetra’s room and played dress-up in her parents’ clothes.

For the first time since I’d turned, it felt weird playing a kid’s game of dress-up and not being able to see my reflection in the mirror. Whatever I looked like in her father’s clothes earned much laughter from Tetra, so I could only imagine but desperately wanted to see for myself. So, Tetra drew me a picture. I stared at her portrait of myself for quite some time, admiring her artistic skill and appreciating my full features.

As I took off the borrowed clothes and began to put my cloak back on, Tetra’s hand, a stark contrast from my deep dark skin tone, glided down my breast and abdomen and thigh. She said two words that will stay with me forever, “You’re beautiful.”

As you know, I have not cried in so long, I had no idea what the moisture forming in my eye was, but Tetra did, and she wiped it away for me without making it awkward. In fact, she changed the subject and asked what it was like to take a life. A much more sobering conversation, indeed.

She wanted to know how I went about doing it, and in my vulnerable state, I explained it to her. The easiest way was to gain my target’s trust before an attack and use the element of surprise to do it suddenly.

I took no pride in killing, however. I just did it because it was in my nature, and I learned how to do it well from the aristocrats my family used to work for before I was turned. They taught me how to be more cultured with heinous acts, and that was about the only thing I missed about them. Those barbaric brutes.

These memories are upsetting to me, Dear Diary, when I only want to dwell on the newfound happiness I have with Tetra. So, on that note, I will end this entry and rest for the day.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 20

Dear Diary,

I haven’t killed Tetra yet. I haven’t moved on to another, fancier location yet either, unless you count the inside of her house, where I’ve gotten comfortable on the second bed in her large bedroom. Most importantly, I haven’t gotten bored yet. So, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to ask her to be my companion.

Crazy, I know. It’s risky. But she likes living on the edge, and she’s already used to minimal sunlight. I wouldn’t force vampirism on her. In fact, I wouldn’t require her to turn and would only leave that as an option for when or if she becomes ready. I would keep her as my human companion until she wanted to join me in eternity, and I would only take blood from her if she permitted. She’s already proven she can keep my secret.

I would be terribly heartbroken if she said no, but I think she’s feeling what I am. She’s already asking for more details about how I feed, how long I can go without feeding, and if I actually live forever. I explained as thoroughly as possible what she could expect if she decided to take this path sometime in the future. Vampires are not only vulnerable to sunlight, but also fire after being staked. Garlic doesn’t bother me. Churches and religious symbols mean nothing to me. Only blood is essential to my existence, and only in small quantities since I’ve been around so long. My system has become more efficient at sustaining me on less. I let her know that she would be consumed with bloodlust as a new vampire and would no longer be able to stay under her parents’ roof… unless she wanted to drain them.

She took it all in like a pupil of pathology studying for an exam, and then she asked me simply why I haven’t bitten her yet. Ha! I had no other reason than because I liked her as more than food. Because someday, I’m hoping she would see me as more than just a vampire. I see myself as her equal, not a predator to her prey.

The longest I’ve stayed with any other being, living or undead, has been twenty nights. If Tetra and I can make it the full month of March, I’ll know it’s meant to be. I’m just going to throw caution to the wind at that point and ask.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 23

Dear Diary,

Goddammit, Tetra almost got me killed today. She wanted to see what would happen if I were exposed to indirect sunlight, and I awakened to her opening her curtains as wide as she could pull them. I had to smother myself with her blankets to keep from bursting into flames, and if that weren’t enough— her father, responding to my screams, broke through her bedroom door armed with a loaded shotgun to blast away whomever had gotten inside to do Tetra harm. Even though the sunlight from her window would have caused more permanent damage to me than shells from his gun, I would not have enjoyed the lengthy healing process from being shot, not one bit.

While I hid under her blankets, she lied and told him she’d had a bad dream that made her scream then fell on the floor, laughing when he left. There seems to be no limit to her recklessness, and when it puts me in danger, that’s where I draw the line.

I do not think I will speak to her for the rest of the day. Or rest of the week. The last human that made me this angry didn’t have enough pieces left for her family to bury when I was done with my retribution.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 24

Dear Diary,

To make up for what she did yesterday, Tetra tried to offer her aging parents as blood sacrifices for my next feeding. This did not make me happy at all. I refuse to kill the people who have cared for her just for her fleeting amusement. Perhaps, this makes me hypocritical since I’m the one who killed her innocent dog, but I’m the vampire. I get to say whose blood gets to stay on my conscience, and I say it will never be her parents.

As sickening as her actions have been lately, I’ll give her this— there’s never a dull moment with her. That’s still worth a few close calls and questionable choices in my book.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 25

Dear Diary,

Tonight, Tetra let me bite and feed from her neck, and it was the most delicious meal I have ever had. Better than my first taste of blood after I turned. Better than that traitorous president I drained and left in enemy territory years ago. Tetra’s blood was simply divine, and I hope she’ll offer it to me again. Often.

So, that’s it. All is forgiven. I’m going to make like Aladdin and offer to show her the world.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 26

Dear Diary,

Tetra promised me a big surprise tomorrow. I can hardly wait.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 27

Dear Diary,

Today, Tetra let me lick clean any remnants of her monthly menstruation from between her legs before she got into her bubble bath. This was not my first time doing such a thing that humans call unsanitary and disgusting. It was my first time with someone who willingly offered without me first making the suggestion through hypnosis. It was also the first time my menstrual blood donor showed unbridled pleasure as I fed and reveled in me watching her climax.

This demonstrates Tetra is anticipating my needs and wants and not leaving me lacking on any level. It also shows she is learning to manipulate me with her blood and not just her personality, because she asked me to take her flying thereafter, something I had refused to do many times before.

Since I can’t actually fly, my way of giving her a flight experience requires putting her life in extreme danger, something I wasn’t willing to attempt… until she looked at me with those piercing red eyes after I’d become high on her blood. Against my better judgment, I did it at nightfall anyway by going with her to a high building in the city, climbing the floors by elevator, and letting her freefall from the top of it. I ran down the side of the building, rushing with superhuman speed to the bottom to catch her before she hit the ground. Lucky for us both, my timing was more precise than my sense of caution. She survived without a scratch, and she rewarded me with kiss. A kiss I’m still thinking about all these hours later.

It is painfully obvious Tetra has me wrapped around her pinky finger, and she knows it. Even though I’m the vampire and she’s a mortal girl, I now fear it is she who holds all the power between us, and that I am just a pawn in her game. A game I’ve become addicted to playing. A game I’m beginning to love.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 28

Dear Diary,

I watched Tetra like a lovesick puppy as she picked her kinky white curls today. I have decided that this is meant to be, and I am resigned to my destiny and all that it will bring.

Forever in Death,

A.

ASHANTI’S DIARY

March 29

Dear Diary,

Tomorrow’s the big day. I’m so excited. I have finally found my match. After a century and many continents and countries, I’ve found a girl so exciting, so full of life, so full of wonder. She will make this after-death so amazing. I just know it. We’ve had so much fun already, and I’ve not gotten bored even once. She accepts my shortcomings, my need for blood, my aversion to sunlight… and she trusts that I won’t drain her. I accept all of her and will care for her and protect her, and make sure she has everything she needs.

Finally, after all this time, I have found the one. I’m going to ask her to be my companion forever. To travel with me, and prank people with me, and talk about mundane things with me. To complete me.

I’ve picked out my favorite dress and favorite shoes from her closet, and I’ll spray on her favorite perfume and put my hair up in a matching wrap. I’ll walk her to the tree in front of her shed where we first met and make my proposal there. Everything’s going to be perfect. Like destiny. The moment I’ve been waiting for my whole existence.

Forever in Death,

A.

TETRA’S DIARY

March 30

Dear Diary,

I killed a vampire today. Not because she killed my dog, and not because I didn’t like her, ’cause I did. It’s just that... I was getting tired of her. The whole vampire thing just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. She wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought she would be. Hell, she wouldn’t even kill people. What a waste of supernatural power.

When you have the thoughts I have, do the things I’ve done, and live in the same place year after year, you just get bored. And well, I did it because I could.

She had gotten dressed up in my clothes for some reason that didn’t make sense, since we were just hanging around my shed, but right when it seemed she was about to ramble about something serious again, I rammed the wooden end of my yard rake through her chest. She took two wobbly steps back as she gaped at me with shock, fear, and pain, I assume, and that’s when I doused her with gasoline and set her on fire. I didn’t feel anything as I watched her burn and smelled her flesh, except that I wish I had marshmallows to roast over the flames and music to blast in my ears.

Her screams were loud, as one would imagine, but no worries. No one heard a thing. My parents take their hearing aids out at night, and the nearest neighbor is miles away. Ashanti’s screams even lasted a few moments after she was a complete pile of ashes, which was weird and cool at the same time. When the echo of her screams finally faded, I gathered her ashes in a jar and stuck it on my shelf to display for sentimentality’s sake.

Ashanti and our fun times together will forever live on in my memories, but it’s time to move on to new adventures tomorrow. If I’m lucky, I just might meet a werewolf.

Love Eternally,

T.

The Return of the OV

Jeff Carroll

New York City, October, 1920

The moon cast an ominous purplish, green light as it reflected off the Manhattan river. It was a perfect autumn night, not too cool and quiet. Two well-dressed lovers shared a stroll. Had they returned from an important gala? The man wore a green plaid suit with a thick silk shirt and a newsboy style cap, and his companion wore an off white cloche hat, fur collar coat and a drop-waist dress which fell below the coat and past her knees with a loose but, straight fit.

The woman smiled as they walked. The young white couple didn’t have a care in the world as they strolled along the tree lined pathway. As they approached a bench, there were sounds of crushed leaves.

“What was that Timothy?” The white woman looked over her shoulder as she allowed her mate to guide her to the bench.

“I don’t know Agetha.” Timothy sat down next to Agatha. He squeezed next to her partly because of his love and desire for her and also out of fear of the wildlife around them. “We are not supposed to be out here by ourselves. I can’t even see Holly Mansion. I doubt anyone can hear us scream all the way out here. I can just imagine all of the wild animals out here: deer, squirrels or bats.”

“Okay, relax your nerves, Timothy. This is Lover’s Lane. It was probably just another couple. I just don’t want anyone seeing us. My mother is saving me for Ebenezer Hartwall. You know the graduate from Princeton. He is rumored to run for the Senate. She doesn’t know I am yours. I can’t wait for us to be able to tell people. So, we don’t have to sneak around.”

Crunch!

Timothy jumped up and looked around. There was movement in the trees behind them. He gripped Agatha’s shoulder.

“I think I see a deer,” he whispered “What if it is a raccoon? Those things are nasty.”

Crunch!

This time from a different direction. Timothy whirled around. In the shadowy dark, branches moved and creaked in the breeze.

“This is a forest in a city. But, it’s still a forest. So, of course there are animals in it silly.” Agatha pulled Timothy back down and started to kiss him.

Crunch!

This time, it was closer, and Timothy moved his eyes to the sound, trying not to let Agatha know he was getting scared. As she moved his hand over her breast, he saw a figure move in front of the trees. Timothy peered, trying to get a clearer look. It resembled the silhouette of a man. Timothy jumped and pulled his hand out of Agatha’s blouse.

“Oh my.” Timothy fell back on to the ground, falling from the bench. “There’s a man.” He scrambled to get back to the safety of the bench. “I saw a man. Someone is out here.”

Agatha turned to see what had startled him. Amidst the purple and green shadings, she searched, but saw nothing.

“What has got your feathers so ruffled? I thought you embraced science and don’t believe in ghosts?” Agatha found Timothy crouching in fear.

“I am a man of science and I do not fear the supernatural. I fear the killers. They are real. Other men. Men who have gone mad. Now, let’s go back inside.” He got to his feet and brushed off his clothes.

Agatha stood up. “Come on I will prove to you that your fears are without merit.” Agatha led him through into the trees. “I see nothing.”

Timothy searched in front of them and behind them, jumping as he turned. As he walked along with Agatha his senses peeked. He heard everything. He knew what he saw was a mad man. A lost lunatic. A killer. Someone stalking them.

As they reached the trees, birds rested took off into the night’s sky. Timothy shook from the birds’ scattering. The further he walked with Agatha his muscles relaxed. He started to believe it was an animal.

Then, he saw behind them, out of Agatha’s sight, a dark figure walking toward them.

“Agatha,” he cried out. “It’s a crazy colored man. He’s right behind us. Please look.” He took her hand and turned her to face the approaching menace.

The dark figure was hard to make out in the night, but it continued to approach them. Agatha pulled Timothy along. Her eyes focused forward.

“One illusion at a time. Let’s see what you saw over here first, and then we can look for the other man.”

Timothy pulled her arm, but instead of going with him she stopped walking altogether.

Timothy fell down when she yanked her hand from him. “Agatha please. You must come.” Timothy crawled backwards on his hands. “Oh God. He is right behind you.”

Agatha crossed her arms as she slowly turned around. “Who is behind me?”

As she turned around, she was greeted by a tall Black man with a wide grin and bright white teeth. The Black man raised his hand revealing his long fingernails and strong claw like hands.

“Don’t scream.” The Black man thrust his claw hand under Agatha’s chin stabbing through her jaw. He gripped her entire head as he raised her from the ground. He lifted her close to his face. “I want to suck your blood.”

Agatha shivered as she felt the pain of the long claws in her neck. The terror cut through her spine in the man’s grip.

Frozen in place, Timothy gasped when he watched the Black man open his jaw and bit down into Agatha’s neck.

When he lifted his head, mouth stained red with blood, he growled to Timothy. “Run.”

Timothy scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could. The image of his lover’s bleeding neck fresh in his mind, he had no idea where he fled. The dense trees disoriented him, and soon he was out of range of the mansion.

Ahead, Timothy saw a clearing within his reach. Once he got there, the Black man appeared, cutting off his path. Timothy tried to stop his run and tripped over his nervous feet.

“Oh, please Mr. Negro sir. Whatever is your rage, killing will not quench your bloodlust.” Timothy begged.

The Black man leaned over and put his knee on Timothy’s neck and spoke in a deep voice. “Oh, your blood is all that I crave, and you’ve sweetened it ever so nicely with your fear.”

Unable to vocalize a second plea, Timothy released a silent scream as the Black man sunk his large teeth into him, sucking his blood.

The Temple room was packed as the chairman called the assembly to order. Lord Edgefield sat by himself while the other people were in a semicircle across from him. The room had wood walls and columns with high ceilings. The large overlapping V symbol of the Vamp Phi Vamp society was in the center of the floor. The windows were high above and did not allow the light to shine down on the floor.

There were a hundred vampires gathered for the meeting. Some were seated in the circle while others stood beside their chairs. They talked among themselves, only quieting when the chairman spoke.

“I hereby call this special tribunal to order.” The chairman sat behind a long desk. One vampire stood on his right and another on his left.

“Yea!” The congregation took their seats.

The female vampire sitting on the right of the chairman rose. “Honorable Chairman and fellow members I have called this assembly to take immediate action about our member Lord Edgefield.”

There were gasps as she mentioned Lord Edgefield’s name. The chairman pounded his speaking staff on the floor to regain the vampires’ attention.

“Yes, we are aware of the murders Lord Edgefield committed the other night. We are ready to hear your charges,” the chairmen said.

The woman looked around the room. “Well, I would first like to explain the reason for the charges before making the charge.” She looked down at the chairman and received a nod of approval. “Last night Lord Edgefield killed two of New York’s high-profile children. Now, the story of their murder is on the front pages of all the newspapers. This is the type of reckless behavior that put us all in danger. That is why I ask for the repossession of his immortality.”

A rumble went around the room at the mention of repossessing a vampire’s immortality. The chairman banged his staff again.

“Order, order. That is a very severe charge. In the 100 years of this society we have never repossessed a member’s immortality. Lord Edgefield is a one of our oldest members. He was brought in by our founder himself, Benjamin Banneker. That said, we do hear and will consider the charges. Who among us wishes to speak in defense of Lord Edgefield?”

The vampire sitting on the other side of the Chairman rose to his feet. “Peace, fellow members. I would like to offer another view on the activities of last night. Lord Edgefield admitted to killing the two young people and drinking their blood and has possibly exposed us. That is true, but, while his behavior was reckless as our fellow member has said, it is not our behavior to strip each other of our lives. Must I remind you that Lord Edgefield is from a different time. He was rescued on the battlefield of the American Revolution. He watched both of his parents being killed. He has been a part of fulfilling the mission of Vamp Phi Vamp. Many of you are new and were not alive during slavery. Slavery was a hard time for us.”

“Please, I object!” the female vampire said as her fangs grew out of her mouth. “We don’t need a history lesson. We know who he is.”

The chairman banged his staff again. “Order please. You are making a very powerful charge and this process must not be run without order.” The younger vampire sat back down and nodded to the chairman.

“That is all. I know we have made sure that you new members know this. I just wanted to remind you of who he is and what we are discussing.” The older member sat back down.

“Thank you for your presentation, but, before we rule on this, I would like to hear from Lord Edgefield.” The chairman looked over in Lord Edgefield’s direction.

Lord Edgefield was dressed in a long brown coat and wore a dignified top hat. He always wore a full suit. He let out a deep breath he had been holding.

“Greetings brothers and sisters. I would like to appeal to you rather than explain and apologize for my actions last night. While they weren’t premeditated, I do not wish to take them back. We are vampires. Yes.” He walked over to the chairman’s table. “For over a hundred years we have protected our people the way our beloved founder wished. We have guarded the likes of Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass. Doing this allowed us to feed our blood lust. Now, we are asked to control what makes us who we are. I cannot submit to that and I caution you all for trying to do the same. Such proposals are the ideas of a foolish youth and nothing more than an attempt to evampulate us.”

Lord Edgefield’s comments caused another rumble of talk as the female vampire accusing him jumped up on the table. She was breathing hard and her fangs and claws were out.

“I will show you the foolish ideas of youth and who is evampulated.”

Lord Edgefield threw off his coat and transitioned into his full vampire form. He extended his arms as webbed wings grew out of his back, his eyes turned red and two long pointed teeth grew out of both his top and bottom jaws. He snarled at her as the two faced each other in the center of the circle.

“Wait a minute!” another old vampire shouted from behind the group. He leaped over the crowd of vampires and landed in between the two ready to fight. “I have an idea that would perhaps help us avoid killing one of our own.”

The energy in the room calmed for a moment giving one of the oldest vampires in the group the floor. The chairmen raised his staff and parted the two.

“What idea do you have to bring to us?” The chairman asked as he retracted his fangs and reverted to his human form.

“As Lord Edgefield admitted, he behaved recklessly and put us all in danger of exposure. We know that would mean an all-out war with other supernaturals. That, I agree, is something that we do not need at this time. Especially, when we are so close to ending the racial torment in this country. This is what Benjamin wanted when he learned this ancient Kemetic science. In Egypt, he learned more than just how to make vampires from the scrolls of Imhotep. He also learned how to preserve life. I know of a place where we could place Lord Edgefield until the time comes when we are finished with our period of compromise. It is under a meat packing plant and he could feed off the blood of the slaughter animals. Then bring him back into a world where he can live free. Lord Edgefield is a vampire from another time. He is like me, a warrior vampire. There may even be a time when we need him.”

“That is an excellent idea,” the chairman rose and held his staff in the air. “All in favor of placing Lord Edgefield into a stasis coffin. Say aye?”

Boom!

The ground shook.

Boom!

The ground shook again.

Over and over the cycle repeated causing Lord Edgefield to open his eyes. It was pitch black and even with his enhanced vampiric eyesight, he couldn’t see anything. The rumbling seemed to stop after what felt like years as he laid in his wooden coffin prison.

He was able to drift back into his hibernation state. Time passed. However, even in his dreams he wondered what he was missing in the world. Feeding off little droplets of pig and cow blood had become more than boring. He had no way of determining how long he had been in stasis, but it was more than enough time to reflect.

He was reckless. His behavior did put the Vamp Phi Vamp society at risk of being exposed. The problem, he understood, was in his creation. In the creation of vampires as a whole. He was a weapon. Nothing more than that. His extended life was for a purpose and not for recreation. Vamp Phi Vamp was the balance. It gave them focus. When they released him and they accomplished the end goal of balancing the world, he planned to conform. He couldn’t see himself terrorizing people who weren’t oppressing others. Plus, he had gotten used to the pig blood. Whatever they were doing it sure put fear in the animals and nothing tastes better than fear-laced blood.

Edgefield was awoken by more rumbling. Shortly after it stopped, the animal blood stopped flowing. Edgefield thought maybe he was being released. He prepared his apology in his head. However, what felt like days passed and nothing happen. He grew hungry without the pig or cow blood. He began to get restless.

Were they trying to kill him? Had they changed their minds?

Edgefield pushed up and banged on the inside of his coffin. Maybe, they could hear him. Maybe, he could make another plea. Maybe if he agreed with them, they would forgive him. He pushed and banged harder. This time some dirt trickled down. He pushed up and the lid of the coffin moved. He started to get excited. A few more pushes and more dirt fell down. Now, he saw light and fresh air. He peeked his head out and took a deep breath.

“Hello.”

He listened but no answer. Maybe they left to get everybody for a welcome tribunal. He had waited too long and there was no need for a celebration. He rolled over on his stomach and pushed up with his back. It was harder than he expected. He pushed so hard that he transitioned into his stronger vampiric state. The lid of the wooden coffin broke through and Edgefield was free of his prison.

As he stood up, he looked around. He was in some sort of smooth rock-walled room. It had large round containers like a wine distillery. The light came from a long bulb that he couldn’t recognize. He was in the future.

He dusted off his clothes and coat. He put on his top hat. Both had stayed pretty fresh after having been in a dirt coffin for God knows how long. He wandered out of the room and made his way to the street.

When he stepped outside, it was night. Cars moved up and down the street. People were dressed in a variety of clothes. The buildings reached to the sky and they were covered in bright lights. He walked around in sheer amazement.

The sound of a horn made him jump. As the car pulled around him, the driver yelled out of the window. “Get outta the way Fredrick Douglass.”

Edgefield then realized he was in the middle of the street. He quickly got himself to the curb. On the sidewalk, he had to dodge people. They were all in a rush. The smell of their blood reminded him of how hungry he was.

Where were the members of the Vamp Phi Vamp society? Why had they not greeted him. He scanned the people to see if any of them were vampires. He found one young person who he could smell was a vampire coming out of a store. This was Edgefield’s chance to show he was the warrior Lord he had been before. And also, that he had learned his lesson.

Edgefield saw a woman walking by herself down a less populated street. He looked up and the vampire kid had noticed he was a vampire as well. Edgefield quickly snuck up behind the woman and as she turned, he opened his coat and said, “I have come to suck your blood.”

The woman didn’t scream as Edgefield had wanted. Instead she reached into her purse and pulled out a gun and shot Edgefield.

“Stand your ground muthafucca!,” she screamed as she fired.

Edgefield fell to the ground as he watched the woman who shot him get in a car and speed away.

“Wow, I haven’t seen anyone try to drink blood from a living person in my afterlife. You must be old.” The young man reached down an offered Edgefield his hand.

“My name is Lord Edgefield and I have just returned from an imprisonment coffin I was put in in 1920.”

“Wow, 100 years ago. It is 2020 now. You must be like the last old vampire.”

The Last Vampire Huntress

Alicia McCalla

My lungs burned, filling with air. I couldn’t slow down. If what I suspected was true, Calvin was going to do something terrible--something prophetic.

A prophecy I dreaded fulfilling.

Tonight, I found the bloodied butcher-knifed note, stuck in the door of my apartment:

Kendra, my beautiful Black Queen, I’ll destroy and kill everything or everyone you chose over me. –Calvin, your King.

I had to try my best to protect my vampire hunters. I was their leader.

I made it to Guild Headquarters next to Atlanta’s West End Production Park. We’d renovated the front area into a Kombucha Brewery. The back was where we held our secret meetings and strategized. I slowed down and was about to enter the warehouse.

Sirens wailed as one of my newbie hunters, Leslie, turned the corner and bolted down the side alley.

I screamed, “Run! Hide!”

I needed her to stay alive in order to avoid the Vampire Huntress prophecy. She turned back with fear in her blue eyes and nodded. Her blond ponytail bounced up and down as she high-tailed it out of there. She knew where to go to be safe. I reached towards the Brewery’s door, but it’d been shattered. My stomach squeezed as I remembered when Calvin and I placed the logo on the door: “The Guild’s Brewery: A Garlic ‘bucha that only a Vampire Hunter Could Love!”

It was Calvin’s idea. I loved the irony.

We’d built a life and a communal family together.

Sam, the Guild’s Sergeant at Arms, stepped out from behind the dumpster, grinning. "Kendra."

He was brown-skinned and stock strong like a linebacker but short. He smiled, fangs dropping down. "So glad you could finally make it."

Shit!

Had Calvin turned the rest of the Guild into vampires?

Double shit!

Hopefully more members than Leslie escaped, or the consequences would be catastrophic.

I was their leader but following me had consequences, especially if they all died. I didn't want to slay Sam, he’d been one of my fiercest supporters and confidant, but I didn't have time for this. Obviously, he couldn't go free.

Sam lunged.

I pulled out my gun, supernaturally fast like my mother taught me before she died too soon.

One shot-one kill.

"I'm sorry," I said and pulled the trigger. The shot, a holy water bullet, went through his brain. His head exploded, and his undead body dropped to the pavement like a sack of potatoes. Sam wouldn't be rising from the undead anymore. The guilt ripped through my soul.

With my heart pinched in sadness, I replaced my weapon in the side holster and headed for the busted door, entering Guild headquarters. Broken wood and glass crunched underneath my combat boots. I moved towards the alarm system and punched in the code to cancel. I didn’t want any unsuspecting police officers entering the supernatural world and getting killed. I wouldn’t be much of a protector if that happened.

I glanced around. My once safe space was eerily quiet. Everything was disheveled. The hand-crafted wood tables and chairs, Kombucha display cases, menu chalk board were all destroyed—on purpose, I could tell. My heart drummed in my ears.

No matter what, I’d determined that I would not fulfill the mandated prophecy like my mother and grandmother had done. In my eyes, it wasn’t a divine privilege but a recurrence curse that had been passed down to the women in our royal West African blood line for centuries. I refused to follow the path laid out by the great mother Goddess. I’d rebuild it all, again, first. I wanted my children’s children to know me. I didn’t want to become the vulture symbolizing the vampire huntress displayed on my family’s totem. I wanted to live prophecy free.

Calvin’s mocking laughter sounded further within the back of the warehouse in the Guild’s assembly hall.

Boom!

My body blew backward and slammed into the wall. My ears rang from the explosion and my chest tightened as the air was knocked out of me. Smoke filled the air. I rubbed my eyes, refocusing. I coughed scanning the room.

His unnatural obsession with me set all of this in motion.

After my mother died seven years ago, Calvin became my closest friend, confidant, and first lover. He was my rock and shoulder to cry on. We did everything together—even built the guild together. As time marched forward, my abilities became stronger and I stepped into my role as a leader. Calvin became more and more angry because I was stronger than he was. He wanted to be better at hunting vampires than me and to be the leader instead of following my lead.

Our last mission together, he was pissed I’d saved him from death. “You shouldn’t be the one protecting me.” His muscle-bound body taut with anger, he said, “I’m the man. I should be protecting you!”

“You’re not making any sense.” I pleaded with him.

“No woman will EVER be over me!” He stormed into the assembly hall and refused to take the oath like the other guild members and that’s when things changed.

Jealousy turned into an addictive obsession but by then he knew all of my secrets. He knew everything about the Guild. He even knew what would happen to the ten Guild members who’d pledged their loyalty to me.

If they all died, the prophecy would grant me the strength of their souls and powers. As long as they lived, I could have a real family—a normal life but if they all died…I couldn’t think about it. All I needed to do was get rid of Calvin and things would return to normal. I’d have the family my heart desired all around me. I headed toward the hall but stopped.

My stomach knotted as I moved through what was once our safe space. My Guild members, my second family’s, broken bodies tossed around like abused dolls—dismembered arms, torsos, and legs were scattered along the hallway. I counted eight bodies with the parts then remembered Sam, which made nine.

I took a deep breath.

Don’t worry. Leslie got away. She knows how to hide.

My instinct was to survey and see what, if anything I could do, but I had to find and finish Calvin before he got to Leslie.

That explosion meant he'd found my family’s totem, an emblem of our lineage and heritage. Daughters of the Goddess, Oshun, standing as an intercessory between the heavens and the destruction of the human race. The emblem carried the symbol of the ever-vigilant female vulture protecting the weak from the undead—the last vampire huntress.

I stumbled across a body. From the low light, I made out the face.

Gerard.

He'd been one of my lieutenants.

His body twitched. Was he undead now?

I had to chop his head off, just in case. Had they all been turned prior to the explosion? I took no pleasure in doing it. I reached behind me to find my sword holder and whipped out then raised one of my twin machete swords.

I sliced Gerard's head from his body. His pale white face and gray eyes stared at me. It was cruel but better safe than sorry. He would’ve done the same to me.

I forged ahead.

Calvin had done too much damage.

His desire to have me all to himself—to control everything about me was what forced the other guild members to excommunicate him. They threatened then drove him away.

He vowed to get even.

I sensed Calvin watched and waited for me as I entered the assembly hall.

“Here she comes!” he screamed as he stood next to a gaping hole in the wall.

The explosion had blown apart my office and provided the secondary opening. Making exaggerated movements, he mockingly plopped down in the leader's chair, my chair.

I sighed, “I should’ve killed you that night…two months ago.” My voice cracked—all these deaths are my fault.

“But you didn’t.” He looked smug and shrugged, “You missed me, love me and you know, I love you.”

He was right. I missed him.

“You know what will happen if you kill all the vampire hunters, the decision that I’d have to make.” I studied him. I had to finish him, if I wanted a life free from the prophecy.

I hoped I could…

“I know,” he said with his chest puffed up. “And I’ve been thinking. You don’t have to accept the call. You can become a normal woman and be all mine.”

He held my family's sacred totem, squeezing it—trying to destroy it.

Calvin continued, “Now that I’m a vampire. I’m strong. I can protect you.”

I slowly walked down the center aisle. I must finish him now. Could I kill him?

“I know you’ll choose me—over the vampire hunters and your family legacy. You need me like I need you.” He crookedly smiled.

Then he stood. Moving unnaturally fast, he reached down behind the desk and pulled up a whimpering body. He stood at the head of the room next to the white board where I assigned tasks to the Guild.

“Leslie!” Terror raced through my body.

Before I could think, I took off towards him. But I was too late. He snapped her neck and tossed her broken bloodied body aside.

Everything stopped. She didn’t move. She was dead.

My heart sank.

Leslie hadn't gotten away. All my Guild members were dead, and it really was my fault.

The hair raised on my neck and arms.

The totem called to me. Join your foremothers.

“No.” I said out loud.

Calvin laughed.

"It's you and me, now," he said, very happy with himself.

I knew that I was the only one who could hear the ritual of the ancestors. My stomach twisted as the magic compelled me.

Choose, Daughter of Oshun!

Spirit drums played. My heart thumped to the beat. The Adinkra tattoos on my arms flared to life.

The first, Gye Nyame, symbolizing God is supreme. Next Aya or the Fern, endurance and resourcefulness. Finally, the Sankofa Bird, signifying remembering the past. Each symbol hummed and streamed along my arms in gold, as ancient West African magic radiated throughout my soul.

Calvin licked his fangs and continued, "We can be together forever!"

My mother's ghostly voice and all the women in my bloodline resounded in unison, "When all the mighty hunters have fallen, one woman with the resourcefulness of the vulture, of royal blood will pledge her heart, soul and twin blades to defend the innocent from the undead."

I made a steadfast slow march up the aisle. My stomach in knots at what I was about to do. He’d been so handsome with his honey-colored skin, buff body, and infectious smile. The first and only man I’d ever slept with. In another time and place, I could be marching towards him with true happiness in his eyes instead of the manic madness, they now possessed.

Calvin tried to smash the totem, but he couldn't. “Turn your back on your family's legacy.”

I spoke the words my mother taught me. "Because of the bones of the fallen…”

He scooted back as I marched forward with fear in his eyes. “Shut up!”

I continued, “I pledge my heart…”

Calvin gripped my family totem frantically trying to smash it. "Choose me over your foolish Goddess prophecy!”

I stared at him and finished my pledge, “… soul, and twin blades to protect the innocent from the undead."

His hands heated with the light of the totem.

“Dammit!” He screamed. “Kendra, Don’t do it!” The totem burned him, but he did his best to hold onto it.

I bowed my head and lifted my heart as the totem flew from his hand towards me, sinking deep into my flesh and attached to my heart. My body lifted from the ground and Oshun’s golden magic wove around me. Warmth spreading throughout my body. I’d been hesitant but now I was resolute in my decision. It was the only choice I could’ve made.

"I become the vulture and the Last Vampire Huntress!" When I said those prophetic words, a tear streamed down my face. Now, I was cursed and blessed like all the women in my blood line with a shortened lifespan but the power of ten vampire hunters.

Calvin's eyes widened. “No.”

My body floated back to the ground.

Calvin lunged from the front of the room. “You will always be mine!"

I stilled then pulled my gun.

One shot-one kill. I pulled the trigger.

Calvin ducked, and the bullet hit the wall.

"It won't be that easy." He laughed, leaping with vampiric speed. He was almost on top of me.

I unsheathed my two blades, one for each hand. I went down on my knee, turned then twisted, slicing his leg from underneath him.

With his eyes wide in surprise, Calvin tumbled.

"No," he said. “I’m a vampire and I’m stronger than you.”

Then he whispered. “You love me…”

I almost hesitated until I saw Leslie's body twitching. She was rising as an undead creature. If he died, then anyone he sired would not rise. Leslie could rest in peace.

Calvin looked back to Leslie and then gave me a bloodied, fanged grin.

“You can't do this. You won’t.” He cowered like he did two months ago when I was on patrol and stopped him from draining the blood of an unsuspecting victim…when I believed he’d been a victim, too, and felt sorry for him.

“You love me? Right?” Calvin studied my face, searching for the answer he wanted.

That night I wanted to hunt down the vampire that turned him so he could be free. So, we could be together but instead I took him home to my bed too soon. I fed him my blood for nourishment. I begged him to tell me who his master was, but he refused. His obsession with me grew worse. Each day his behavior devolved. I finally put him out last night. I just couldn’t bring myself to end him.

“Yes. I’ll always love you,” I replied.

I raised the other blade and sliced through Calvin's neck like it was butter. His head rolled toward me. His light-brown eyes stared in disbelief.

“You were and always will be my first and only love.” I stared back into those once beautiful eyes. “I’m the last vampire huntress, now, and I’ve taken the oath to stand between the heavens and the undead.”

The magic receded and I slid the rest of the way down to the floor. I'd lost everyone that I’d ever loved but there was more for me to deal with...

Since I'd slept with Calvin, I hadn't had a cycle. I thought it was stress. On a whim, I'd taken a pregnancy test.

“I’m going to be a mom, now.” The tears rolled freely down my cheeks.

Calvin was the father. Honestly, it never occurred to me that a vampire could get me pregnant, but here I was two months with child.

If I could’ve found the vampire who sired him and chopped off his head…

If Calvin had not killed all the vampire hunters…

If I hadn’t taken the oath…

“No more ifs,” I said.

I rubbed my belly. I had to think about my baby girl, raise her like my mom raised me and love her fiercely for as much time as I had left to live.

I am the Last Vampire Huntress and I stand as intercessory between the heavens and the undead.

Gritty Corners

Jessica Cage

Gritty corners. Dirty Streets. Sounds of pain and suffering. Sharp fissures, ripped through my shoulder as it fed from me, and when it was done, my body was discarded. Tossed behind the club’s dumpster in the alley. This was the hot new place to be. It was where you could find all the cool kids and apparently blood thirsty monsters.

That’s that memory I was left with as every moment of the world’s agony echoed inside my head. The pain in my shoulder had stopped, but the throbbing remained. I could still feel that thing, whatever it was, clutching me in its hold.

My name is Kyla and that was how my life as a vampire started, a discarded, unfinished meal of a reckless vampire. A vampire, I’d spent the better part of five years trying to hunt down. It should have been easy; they say you’re supposed to be connected to the one who turned you. Unfortunately, the one who turned me knew that I was out for revenge.

I was in the prime of my life. My natural hair care line had just made me my first million dollars. It was the reason for my friends insisting that I go out that night. Instead of dancing the night away, dripping in melanin and magic, my life as it were, came to a blood-soaked ending.

“Are you ready?” Milton, my vampire mentor, stood behind me. To look at him you’d never know he was hundreds of years older than me. His black suit fit him like a glove and his short hair was perfect, as usual.

Milton found me hours after the attack. Dizzy, in pain, and trying to get a cab, I would’ve killed the driver if it wasn’t for him.

“I’ve been ready for years.” I adjusted the collar of my leather jacket. “You know this.”

“It’s going to hurt, you know, if you kill him. You’ll feel his death. You two are connected.” Milton gave me the same warning he had a thousand times before.

“I’ll feel it and I’ll revel in it.” I turned to him. “It’s taken me nearly five years to find this man. Look at him.” I pointed to the condo’s open window. It was across from our position. My attacker lay with the limp bodies of four half-naked women. “He is still just as reckless. How many women’s lives do you think he has ended? How is it that he acts this way and goes unchecked?”

“He is well connected. By now,you know how this works. You’ve seen countless others just like him.” Milton leaned on the edge of the roof as he watched our target. “He probably has a cleanup crew on standby right now.”

“Well, let’s give them some work to do!” My fangs flashed as I grinned and lifted the mic to my lips. “Everyone in place?”

“Diamond, I’m ready for action.”

“Myra, eyes on the target.”

“Sass, over here perched in perfection!”

“Good luck ladies.” Milton nodded as he turned to leave. In his position, he couldn’t risk getting his hands dirty, but the rest of us had no such qualms. Milton was high in the vampire society, and his dealings with our little group if ever found out would ruin his status. I would never ask him to do that.

“Let’s do this!” I growled, took ten steps back, and ran like hell. The last foot fall pushed me into the air and my dark skin was bathed in the moonlight as I cut through the air with grace and of course a bit of flare. Okay, I had to admit, this part of being a vampire was cool.

I landed on the roof of the target’s building and made a mad dash for the service door. I had to be quick, my jump was timed to avoid the roof’s camera. Alec, the asshole, who was now covered in the blood of his most recent victim, had more enemies than could be counted and was always on the alert.

I managed to get inside without the camera picking up my movement. And as I shifted my weight to descend the ten flights of steps that would get me to Alec’s location, I made one miscalculation. The soft closing of the door behind me alerted the vampire guards below. That would give me approximately fifteen seconds to prepare for battle.

I pulled the blades from the sheaths at my side and stepped back into the dark corner. I hadn’t planned on giving up my position so quickly, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the opportunity to kick some ass. It might be good to burn off some of my rage before I made it to my target.

Three deep breaths and then I was silent. No moment, stone like the building around us as they raced up the steps.

“What the hell was that?” The tallest called from below as the shorter guard checked the door. He stood not 2 feet from me.

“I don’t know. I swore I heard the door open.”

“Man, I told you to lay off that laced blood. Let’s get back to our post. If Alec notices us missing, he’ll be ready to move again.” The tall one headed back down the steps.

This was my moment.

“You think he’d just stop pissing people off,” the short one said as he turned to head back down the steps.

I reached out and in one quick motion snapped shorty’s neck. I caught his weight before he could hit the ground and pulled him into the corner. It took some finesse, but I had him propped up in the corner. I released the breath and tapped my mic three times. This was the cue; the ladies would know I’d made it inside. We never spoke when in movement. Vampire ears were too sensitive, and it would give up our cover.

Quickly, I descended the steps, big and tall would notice his missing buddy soon so I needed to quiet him before he could sound off the alarms. Light like a feather, I raced down the steps. The specialized padding in my shoes, Myra’s invention, muffled the noise of my footfall giving me an added advantage. The irritated guard noticed my presence about one second before the knife removed his head and five seconds before he would have been able to tell the others.

Four taps on the mic this time. It was time for them to move into action. I waited for their response before moving.

I had to navigate through five flights of steps to get down to Alec’s level. There was a guard on every level and the closer I got to him, the tougher the opponent. It wasn’t until the fourth guard that I had trouble. An error in judgment cast a shadow that exposed my position. I was able to take the guy out, but not before he alerted the others.

By the time I made it to the fifth level, little Miss Sunshine was ready and waiting. The bubbly blonde was no more than five feet tall and wore yellow from head to toe. She had eyes the wide eyes of a lunatic and the crazed grin to match.

“Cover blown; I’m moving in.” Diamond spoke over the mic.

“Shit!” I dodged a blow from the tiny powerhouse. “Whatever you do, don’t let him get away!”

“You’re going to die this time.” Sunshine threatened and pointed to her jaw with a wink. The last time we faced each other she got the upper hand, leaving a scar beneath my left eyes as a memento. Vampires healed quickly, but it wasn’t always without flaw.

Okay, so I couldn’t tell you what her real name was. I’d faced her a few times before. She was small but strong, but after a few encounters with her, I knew that speed wasn’t her strongest suit. As long as I didn’t let her get her hands on me, I could beat her.

She reached out for me the same as always, but this time I was ready. I dodged her intended chokehold and kicked off the opposite wall using it to bring as much force as I could into the punch. She fell back, but I knew I had to keep the assault going. Hit after hit left my hands and her face bloodied. After the last blow, a roundhouse kick to the side of her face, her head smacked against the cement step and her eyes rolled back.

I opened the door to Alec’s floor and walked right into two guards. The fight was swift, I used one for leverage while my boot kicked in the jaw of the other. I could hear his bone breaking beneath the force. I moved fast before his partner could sink his fangs into my arm. Two broken necks later and I was ready to move ahead.

The blow to my jaw was completely unexpected.

I hit the wall hard enough to leave the impression of my shoulder in it. My senses cleared just in time to dodge the size 11 boot that was aimed at my head. This guy was massive, but lucky for me, he wasn’t a fighter.

I could tell by how unsure he was on his feet. Yeah, he’d been recruited on size alone.

“Where we at?” Sass requested a report over the mic.

“Still working on it.” I dodged another blow. “I have the jolly green giant over here.”

“Two steps to your left,” Myra instructed, and I did as she said.

Not a second later a bullet cut through the giant’s skull and he fell to the ground.

For safe measure, I finished the job, removing the head from the body. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d witness someone take a bullet to the brain and come back swinging.

“Thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

There it was! The doorway to the now unprotected Alec. This was what I’d been waiting for. I approached the door listening for any evidence of an assault from within. No guns cocking, no scraping of a knife being drawn from its holder.

When I touched the doorknob, I felt it in my gut. Something wasn’t right. The door opened and as suspected, all that remained inside was the lifeless pile of bodies and a bloodstained carpet.

“He’s on the move!” I called out.

“I got eyes on him, nearly out the building.” Myra reported. “You want me to take him?”

“No, he’s mine.” I wiped the blood from my lip as I looked at my exit route. It was risky, but the most time effective.

Three deep breaths to calm the nerves and then I ran full speed ahead. As my feet carried me forward, I removed the gun from my holster and started firing. The thick glass finally shattered two seconds before I reached it and with the force of my body it exploded.

Gravity was a real bitch when dropping from the tenth floor, but as luck would have it my superhero move landed me right on the hood of his car.

Alec saw me and without thinking, he ran for it.

He made it about five feet when the electric net dropped from the poised Ms. Sass.

“Got his ass!” She cackled over the mic.

I waited for his guards to defend him, but money could only buy so much loyalty. As the storm clouds rolled in, they took off running.

“What the hell do you want from me?” Alec struggled beneath the net which had locked into the ground beneath him using mechanical claws. He was strong, but the continuous rounds of electrical voltage that rolled through the net made it nearly impossible for him to control his own actions. His body jerked and twitched on the ground. It was almost comical to watch.

“You know damn well what I want.” I knelt beside him. “It’s the reason you’ve been dodging me all these years Alec.”

“You’re one crazy bitch, you know that?”

“You took something from me, something that was precious to me.” I pulled the knife from the sheath again. “I think it’s only fair that I now return the favor.”

“What? What did I take from you?”

“My life.” Now I could have dragged this moment out longer, I could have given him a long speech about how what he did had changed me. But to be honest, I’d gone over that speech time and time again in my head and nothing ever sounded quite as good as the finality of his dying breath.

“You don’t know what you’re doing. You end my life and you’re only opening up a world of trouble for yourself.”

I kept my sob story to myself. A tap on the small button on the side of the handle turned my cute dagger into a massive sword. On swift motion and Alec was no more.

I’d have to hear Sass complain about the damage to the net, but it would be worth it. I lifted the mic to my mouth and in the words of my net throwing partner, announced. “Got his ass!”

I expected the cheers of my partners to ring in my ear. The usual celebration consisted of a few slurs here and there. Instead, there was silent. I turned just in time to see Sass; her body slammed against the pavement.

“Guys?” I taped the mic hoping for at least one confirmation of life. There was nothing.

Their silence was punctuated by the soft squeal of the brakes from the black SUV that pulled up in front of me. I knew what it meant. I’d messed up and Milton wouldn’t be running in to save me.

The door swung open, I turned to run, but they were on me before I could take a single step. Sass’s decapitated body lying on the ground was my last view as the hood covered my head.

I was thrown into the back seat of the vehicle and as I struggled, I heard the voice that made my stomach turn. The one that took me back to that moment.

Gritty corners. Dirty Streets. Sounds of pain and suffering. And something I’d forgotten, the smell of burning cedar.

“Well, Kyla. You’ve fought so long to find me. Now, what are you going to do?”

I wish I could say that I had some amazingly witty comeback about how I was going to kick his ass, but words were lost to me. Instead, I focused on that smell and the memory it brought to me. Along with the taste of pennies in my mouth. My own blood lingered on my lips even though the cut that it spilled from had healed.

The vehicle moved and I counted the number of men inside. Each had a distinctive breathing pattern, one in particular, the one who spoke, was calmer than the rest. Two in front, and four in back with, the mystery guest included. When we stopped my body was forced from the car, not without a fight and I was tossed over the shoulder of a man who had to be the size of a bear. I was left alone in a room with a crackling fire and the smell of burning cedar.

“Kyla.” The deep voice spoke again.

“Who are you?” Though the rest of my senses worked, my eyes were still blinded by the dark hood.

“You know who I am. You’ve spent all this time trying to find me.” He chuckled amused by a joke he hadn’t shared. “Pity about our little buddy back there. However, it would be a gross omission if I didn’t say that I’m happy to have that financial leech disposed of.”

“Look, I don’t know who you are.” I struggled against the bindings at my wrist. “Let me go.”

“Yes, you do. Just think about it real hard.” His footsteps carried him closer to the seat his minions had chained me to. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, but you’re still just a beautiful as you were that night. A little more covered, but I supposed killing vampires require a bit more protective clothing than a night on the town with your girls.”

“If you have something to say, get it over with.”

“You’re right, enough of the cat and mouse.” The hood lifted from my head to reveal the man knelt in front of me. “Do you remember me now?”

I would have said no, until he smiled. That damn smile. I remembered it like it was yesterday. The club my friends begged me to go to, he was there, and he flashed me those pearly whites.

“You were there.” I scanned his face before finding his eyes.

“I was.” The man had the deepest shade of brown skin paired with forest green eyes and short black hair that complemented the sharp line of his jaw.

“You-,” the words caught in my throat.

“Yes, say it. I, what?”

My mind spun as the revelation settled in. “You did this to me.”

“I did. Although it wasn’t my intention to leave you there. Alec was simply supposed to transport you when I was done. Instead of doing what he was told, he acted like a child and made a mess of things.”

“What?” I shook my head. “This makes no sense; I was bonded with Alec.”

“Yes, I still haven’t figured that out. A conundrum, no doubt. But you feel it now, don’t you? Alec is gone and now I am here bonded to you.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I understand. Believe what you will.” He looked at the chains that held me. “If you promise not to attempt to kill me, I will unchain you.”

“Why would you trust me to keep that promise?” I sneered.

“Because we are bonded now. I am your true maker. Not Alec. I plan to earn your trust. Trust cannot be earned easily when a relationship begins in chains.” He stood to walk around me and within moments the chains fell to the floor.

“Why did you wait all this time to tell me this?” With my freed hands, I easily snapped the chains that held my ankles.

“You were not the easiest to find. Which is odd for a new vampire. Usually they are reckless, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. You, however, you vanished.”

“You knew I was after Alec.”

“Yes. I did.” He walked over to the small bar in the corner and pulled two glasses from the cabinet.

“You could have tried to stop me and explain things.”

“Like I said. Alec was another pest I was happy to have exterminated. I’ll have to properly thank you for that.”

“Keep your apologies.” I stood from the chair, rubbing my wrists. “What do you expect to happen now? You think I’ll just join your little crew and act as if you didn’t ruin my life?”

“I have no expectations of you Kyla.” He turned and handed me a glass of blood spiked whiskey. “My name is Xavier, by the way.”

I grabbed the glass and stared him in the eye until he downed his own. Instead of knocking back his peace offering I sat it on the table beside me.

“So, no to starting a healthy friendship.” He nodded at the rejected drink.

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re free to go whenever you please.” I followed his eyes to the door behind me.

This made no sense. Why would he snatch me off the streets only to set me free? It had to be a trap. I refused to be set up. If anyone was going to be caught off guard, it would be him. As I passed the chair I was previously strapped to, instincts kicked in.

In a flash I lifted the chair and smashed it against the floor, breaking off one of the legs. This would work well enough. I turned and lunged for the monster with the green eyes. As quick as I was, he was quicker. Before I could make it two steps he flashed and was behind me.

His arms wrapped around me, pinning my hands to my chest as he held my wrists in place. I struggled against him, but he was older and far more powerful that I had anticipated.

“I’ll give only so many passes for attempts on my life.” His hand whipped me around to face me. “I want you by my side Kyla. I am willing to wait for you to make that choice on your own. But trust me when I say, I am not Alec.”

His hold loosened and I pulled away from him. When he made no attempt to attack, I headed for the door.

“This isn’t over, Kyla.” That deep voice called from behind me.

“You damn right it isn’t.”

I thought I would feel lost after Alec was gone. As if I no longer had a purpose in life. I was wrong. Xavier was my new purpose. Ending his life had just become my top priority.

Shadow of Violence

Balogun Ojetade

Ojiji Thomas sat on her midnight blue Dodge Tomahawk motorcycle, looking out at the Atlanta skyline from the Jackson Street Bridge. Her tapered, teenie-weenie afro accented her broad, attractive nose and full lips. She wore navy blue tactical cargo pants, a navy blue Henley shirt, black leather motorcycle boots and an indigo café racer jacket.

Her dark skin blended with the night and matched her name: Ojiji—“Shadow.”

Ojiji leaned forward on her motorcycle. The bike’s four close-coupled wheels screeched as it took off.

The night air was cool. Following the intuition that had guided her right all 788923800 seconds of her life, she turned onto Old Wheat Street off Jackson Street and discovered a light on in Peters Funeral Home.

“At this time of night?” she said, pulling into the funeral home’s lot. “Strange.”

Three cars were parked in the lot next to a white hearse. The engines of the cars were running, but there was no one to be seen.

She parked her bike across from the cars and dismounted.

She crept up to the funeral home’s front door and turned the knob.

“Locked.”

She reached into one of her jacket’s pockets and withdrew two metal picks. In less than a minute she had unlocked the door’s three locks.

She darted through the cracked door then locked it behind her.

She breathed in deeply then took in the scene before her: a red carpet on the floor, over ten years old by the smell of it. A crystal chandelier turned on less than an hour ago based on the heat Ojiji felt radiating from the chandelier onto the tips of her fingers as she waved them slowly in the air. In the corner of the room was a mahogany table with brochures on it, and against the wall Ojiji faced was a white couch and chair with a matching floral pattern.

She sniffed the air.

“Four… no five intruders,” Ojiji whispered. “Sloppy, or overconfident, enough to leave a light on.”

At least they would be easy to find and kill.

She sniffed the air again, curious. There was no smell of blood or dead bodies.

“No smell of dead bodies in a funeral home?”

Ojiji continued searching the facility until she opened the door to the basement, where the bodies were embalmed, and she smelled blood. Human blood and lots of it.

She looked down into the darkness. She sniffed again.

Vampires.

She crossed her arms across her chest, reaching into both sides of her jacket. A moment later she withdrew her fists. In each was a large blackened steel karambit—a curved knife resembling the wickedly sharp talons of a harpy eagle.

Her night vision perfect in the dark, Ojiji descended the stairs and peered into the basement.

A figure emerged. The man stumbled around drunkenly. He wore a brown corduroy Trilby, a brown wool suit, white dress shirt and brown and black silk tie. His brown wing-tip shoes were highly polished. He cleared his throat and looked up at Ojiji for a couple of seconds.

“You here for a drink?” he asked, smiling and showing large canine teeth.

“Fresh blood in a funeral home? That’s a new one.” Ojiji said.

“Fresher than a pillow with a mint on it. It’s gon’ cost you plenty, though, ‘cause you’re new ‘round here.”

“Fair enough,” Ojiji said. “I’ve got money to burn.”

“Well come on down, then. Just remember, you pay before you get to bleed one of the herd.”

Ojiji descended the stairs, slipping her karambits back into her jacket. When she stepped off the final stair onto the basement floor, the vampire shook her hand.

“You come from New York?” he asked. “We get a lot of the Night Kin from Harlem and Manhattan down here.”

“Chicago, actually,” Ojiji replied. “Just riding through on my way to Miami.”

“Yeah, that Haitian blood is spicy, with a hint of sweet. Gotta watch out for them Houngans and Mambos, though. They can summon those Night Kin eatin’ Rugaru. Terrible shit.”

Ojiji followed the vampire down a makeshift pathway formed by lit tea candles on the floor.

“Do you have a preference?” the vampire asked. “White, Tejano, real Mexican, East Asian, Indian, Southeast Asian, Black? We got all kinds here.”

“All kinds?”

“Hell yeah, if you got the skrilla,” the vampire said. “We can even give you that Diesel if you can afford it.”

“Diesel?”

“We got some young white girls doped up on Meth and Molly,” the vampire answered. “Their blood gives you a rush like a mug.”

“I’m just here for a good old-fashioned feeding,” Ojiji said. “Something to hold me over until I get to Miami.”

They came to a door where the sound of music and laughter wafted out.

“Before you go inside, you need to be, well, looked over. You just stay put.”

The vampire opened the door wide and walked in.

Ojiji took a peek. Dozens of vampires lay on rows of inflatable beds, draining the blood from the necks of their victims. Vampires clad in white polo shirts and trousers carried away the dead bodies on stretchers.

The smoke was heavy in the large room as nearly two dozen other vampires, both men and women, talked and drank from platinum goblets as they awaited their turn on one of the beds.

In the corner, four musicians on a lead guitar, bass, drums and a synthesizer played a cover of One Nation Under A Groove.

Ojiji stepped further into the room.

“Here she is,” said a voice.

Ojiji turned toward the source of the voice. The vampire who had first greeted her stood nearby and with him a hulking man with red hair brushed back into a man-bun and a thick beard.

“I told you, Stokes,” the vampire said. “She’s foine.”

Ojiji stepped up and smiled.

“Nice party. Good for us…Night Kin to have such a place to feed.”

Stokes stared at Ojiji stone-faced. He sniffed the air.

“You have no scent,” Stokes said. “I don’t hear your heartbeat. What business do you have here? You’re not human, but you’re not one of us, either.”

“True,” Ojiji said. “I’m not one of you. I’m just a simple traveler making my way to…”

“Enough lies,” Stokes spat. “What are you? Demon? Devil? Boo Hag?”

“So much for Southern Hospitality, huh?” Ojiji said.

“She is not Night Kin. She’s like nothing I’ve seen in all my years. Kill her!”

Ojiji reached into her waistband with lightning speed and drew her 1911 Sig Sauer pistol. She rapidly fired two rounds.

Both vampires fell.

Stokes staggered to his feet, clutching his chest. Blood poured down his white shirt.

“Silver in your guns! Damn you! You’re a hunter!” he barked.

“I’m a Kokou, to be exact.” Ojiji said. “The end of you and this feeding ground.”

Ojiji holstered her pistol then drew her karambits from her jacket and leapt toward Stokes. She punched downward at Stokes’ face, the sharp point of the karambit protruding in front of the bottom of her vertical fist.

The giant vampire spun with frightening speed, evading the blow, then kicked Ojiji in the ribs.

She sailed across the room, crashing into a table of assorted drugs. Brown and white powder and pills of different shapes and sizes flew into the air.

Stokes reached down, grabbed the vampire who had greeted Ojiji by the collar, and pulled him to his feet.

The vampire clutched his side. Blood poured from the wound.

“You fool!” Stokes shouted. “Only vampires are allowed in this cave. You may have doomed us all!”

“I… I didn’t know,” the vampire stammered. “I’m sorry… I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s not your job to think, Willy,” Stokes said. “Just to follow my orders. Now, go kill that bitch!”

Willy sprinted toward Ojiji.

Tightening her grip on her karambits, Ojiji jumped, and the two collided in the air.

They fell to the ground with a mighty crash.

A moment later, only Ojiji rose to her feet.

Willy rolled over onto his back. A karambit protruded from his chest.

Ojiji extended her hand toward Willy.

The karambit in his chest moved upward toward Ojiji. Willy’s body jerked upward with the weapon.

The karambit in Willy’s chest moved again, this time sliding from the vampire’s chest. It flew into Ojiji’s hand. Ojiji closed her fist around it.

Willy’s body dried up almost instantly then crumbled into a man-shaped pile of dust

Stokes’ face twisted into a mask of rage.

“Kill her!” he shouted.

A dozen of the vampires hopped to their feet and began to encircle Ojiji.

Stokes walked to the small mob that surrounded Ojiji. “The one who brings me this woman’s head gets 10 free feedings!” he shouted.

The vampires exchanged glances then attacked.

Ojiji whirled about, her karambits held out to the side at the height of her shoulders.

She stopped spinning. Several vampires fell.

The wounded vampires stayed down, grasping at the smoldering, bleeding wounds caused by the karambits.

Ojiji charged the dozen vampires still standing and attacked furiously, each punch driving her karambits deep into the flesh of the Night Kin. Vampires fell, turning into gray dust.

A thunderous din rent the musty air.

Ojiji flew forward, her back arched. She fell onto a pile of vampire ash in the shape of a well-endowed woman.

Stokes stood behind her, a smoking sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

Ojiji staggered to her feet.

A second blast shredded her pretty face into ribbons. She fell onto her back, unmoving.

Stokes smiled. “Stokes ain’t going out like some Level 1 or Level 2, bitch.”

The hulking vampire pulled out a cigar and lit it. He took a long drag then blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The cloud of cigar smoke widened, thickened, until the entire basement was suffocated by grayness.

After a while, the smoke dissipated, slithering through vents in the walls and ceiling and through cracks in the bricks. All signs of the dead vampires were gone. So was Ojiji.

Stokes smiled slyly. “Guess we’re all done here.

“But we just started having fun.”

Stokes whirled on his heels toward the source of the voice.

Ojiji stood before him, her face now only badly bruised. Her pistol was aimed at Stokes’ face.

She fired. The bullet tore through the cigar, turning it into confetti, then struck Stokes in the mouth.

Stokes staggered backward, dropping the shotgun.

Stokes collapsed onto his haunches, blood gurgling out of his mouth. He looked up at Ojiji, who now stood over him, her pistol held in one hand aimed at his forehead.

“What the hell…?” Stokes croaked. Red tears ran down his cheeks.

“Kokou feed, too. But not on blood… on violence. The more violence around me, the more violence against me, the bigger the meal.”

“I never… I never heard of your kind.”

“Because I’m the last of us. And you’re the last of this feeding ground.”

She fired the pistol. A bullet punched a hole in Stokes’ forehead.

Blood splattered the wall behind him.

Ojiji holstered her pistol then drew a karambit from her jacket, which was now as healed as she was.

She squatted and thrust the karambit into Stokes’ chest.

His body turned to ash and rained down onto the floor.

Ojiji stood then walked up the stairs and out of the funeral home.

She hopped onto her motorcycle then sped off into the night.

Ojiji rode up a long driveway toward a modern mansion that loomed in the distance. Her face was completely healed, and her clothes were whole again.

She rode past the mansion and turned onto a side road. She continued until she reached a long brick garage with four sliding doors. A door lifted, and she cruised inside.

She hopped off the motorcycle, and the door lowered behind her. She looked around, admiring the cream-colored Rolls Royce Phantom and the candy apple red Mercedes Sprinter parked nearby.

She walked to a door in front of her then placed her palm on a panel beside it. A line of red light scanned up and down her palm. A soft click followed, then the door opened a crack.

Ojiji walked through the door into a short hallway with a granite floor and powder blue walls and ceiling. She looked to her right—the kitchen was dark except for a single light over the stainless-steel oven. She then walked to her left until she reached a winding staircase. She ascended the stairs and walked down a hallway with a polished hardwood floor past seven closed mahogany doors until she reached the room at the end of the hallway.

She opened the door. The room was dark, but she could clearly see a tall muscular man lying in a king-sized bed, covered in a thick white quilt. His eyes were closed, and he breathed deeply, slowly.

She crept toward the bed, her clothing shifting, changing. By the time she reached the bed, she wore nothing except a pink camisole with lace side panels and matching shorts. She climbed into bed and kissed the man softly on the lips.

The man blinked rapidly and opened his eyes. When he saw Ojiji sitting beside him he smiled. He scooted toward the headboard until he was sitting up.

“Hey,” Ojiji said.

“Hey, baby,” the man said. “How was the shoot?”

“It was cool. Busy.”

“Did you tell Idris me and the kids said ‘Hi’?”

“Yeah. He actually wants to meet y’all. Maybe we’ll do dinner at Old Lady Gang once we wrap.”

“Okay,” the man said. “The kids’ll love that.”

“You, too,” Ojiji said smiling. “You know you’re a total fan-boy, Jamal.”

Jamal chuckled. “I am. I am.”

He pulled Ojiji to him and kissed her passionately. Then he looked into her eyes.

“But don’t get too happy doing those love scenes with him, or I’ll go from fan-boy to jealous husband real quick.”

Ojiji smiled. “Keep kissing me like that and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

They kissed again and held each other tightly. Jamal missed the nictitating membranes in Ojiji’s eyes as they blinked vertically before she closed her eyes and enjoyed the kiss.

‘Til Death

Lynette S. Hoag

The Call

Amondi Jekesai woke with a start. Light from the ever-burning candles in the sconce above her bed danced on the walls of the rectory she called home. Bella, her pitbull and Bram, her pomeranian, slept peacefully curled into each other at the foot of her bed. She could hear the grandfather clock’s methodical ticktock. The pendulum’s steady swing, the cadence of time. It was 10 p.m. Rain pelted the small high windows intermittently illuminated by lightning. Distant thunder clapped. Time to get up.

Tonight, I have a client.

In his voice mail message, the client sounded shook and handsome. “Hi, my name is Talen Teasdale. I live in the Village of Hillrose. My wife, Marisol, is a vampire, I think. But you might know better. Please call me. Please. 212-900-0441.”

Amondi was listed in the phone book and with 311 simply as “Vampire Assassin.” She got prank calls, mostly. But from time to time, a desperate, sincere soul would seek her services. Someone like Talen.

Amondi rose, without disturbing the honey-colored ‘hellhounds’ at her feet and made her way to the bathroom, showered methodically, shampooing her natural hair, soaping and rinsing her dark mocha skin. She toweled off then moisturized her skin and hair, pulling a wide-tooth comb through the thick curls. She lined her eyes and tinted her lips. Just a touch of makeup to look professional. She affixed a small gold cross in each ear and hung the coordinating necklace around her neck. She pulled on a black catsuit with hidden pockets, hammer loops on each leg and black tactical military belt. To complete the outfit, a bright pink raincoat, matching rain hat and black running shoes.

A dusty wooden box stood by the front door. Her personal vampire killing kit. The VKK. She placed it on the bed and went through its contents for good measure. Each item had its own space and was in its place. One large axe and three smaller ones, extra sharp, a pink Glock (safety on), extra bullets, a policeman’s flashlight, extra batteries, three vials of holy water, extra consecrated and a Bible.

Thunder clapped and lighting flashed as she put her hand on the door. Bella and Bram, hearing the soft touch on the doorknob sprang off the bed, tails wagging and ran toward her. Bella knocked the VKK from Amondi’s grip and sent it flying, contents scattering. That’s a bad omen, she thought as knelt to gather the contents. She tried to shake off the feeling of disquiet that came over her. Bad omen.

“Bella,” Amondi scolded. “Devil take it. Look what you’ve done.” Thank the stars the pink Glock had the safety on. Bella licked at her face and Amondi gently brushed her away until every piece of the VKK was back in its place and the box locked tight. “I can’t stay mad at you,” Amondi said when done. She scratched Bella behind her ears. “This little mishap must be a sign. Go get your leash, you too Bram. You’re coming with.”

The VKK in one hand, leashed dogs in the other, Amondi opened the rectory door and stepped out into the storm.

The Client

A tall, white man in a trench stood outside her office as she approached hauling the VKK and trailing two eager dogs. Shit. He’s early.

“Ms. Jekesai? Please let me help you.” He reached for the VKK. Bella gave a low warning growl and Bram yipped. “Maybe not.” He put his hands back in his pockets.

“Talen Teasdale?” Amondi guessed. “Nice to meet you.” She unlocked the security gate then the door to her office, while wrangling the case and dogs. Once inside she flipped on the lights, stood the VKK by the door and let the dogs loose. “Come into my office where it’s dry and let’s talk.”

Office was a loose term describing what was little more than a safe place to meet potential clients. It was located on the west side of the city, in a blighted and primarily African American part of town. The rent was dirt cheap and the landlord had a “don’t ask” policy with the tenants and the tenants a “don’t tell” policy with the landlord and each other. No one bothered to investigate what kind of business she ran, or why she only met clients at night dressed in a hot pink raincoat and black cat suit. The office was outfitted with a desk scattered with old files and gum wrappers, two chairs, an old couch, a bright overhead light and coat rack. It smelled of stale smoke and alcohol.

Amondi hung her raincoat and hat on a rack by the door. She turned to Talen and took his trench and umbrella.

Free from their coats, each took a quick measure of the other under the single overhead light. Talen was at least six feet tall, dark haired, green eyed. His dimples showed at the slightest upturn of his lush lips. He wore dark jeans that hugged runner’s thighs, a lavender button down and grey vest that enhanced his slim waist. His hand was soft against Amondi’s when she shook it. He smelled of expensive cologne. She guessed he was somewhere between 30 and 35 years old.

Amondi caught him staring at the gold cross necklace resting above the curve of her breast. He stared at the two round scars slightly higher than her collarbone. Her hand went to her throat and she touched the scars, while Talen continued to stare.

“I’m a survivor.” She motioned to a chair in front of her desk and Talen took a seat. Amondi sat in front of him on the edge of the desk and crossed her ankles.

“You were bitten by a vampire and survived?”

“Yes, just days after my eighteenth birthday.”

“What happened?”

“I chased down the evil blood sucker and killed him. That’s what happened.” Amondi laughed and somehow found a pack of gum on her disaster area desk. “Want a piece of Juicy Fruit?”

“No thanks. I’m trying to cut down.”

“Suit yourself. Did you complete the task we discussed on our phone call?”

“Yes.” Talen reached into his pocket and took out a neatly folded square and handed it to Amondi. “I meticulously tracked her movements and wrote down everything she does every second for three nights. It never varied.”

Amondi took the neat square and turned it over in her hands before she opened it. “Do you know when she was bitten or who did it?”

“I only know Marisol went to visit some friends and family in Pennsylvania a few weeks back. I noticed she had a strange cough when she called me but didn’t think anything of it. When Marisol got home, she had no appetite. Her skin was clammy to the touch. Her eyes sunken. She slept all day for days. I thought it was the flu. But when I found her floating above the bed, still as death, our bedroom black and cold as a tomb, I . . .” His voice caught in his throat and tears sprang to his eyes. “I found you.” He looked at Amondi, imploring. “I adore her. She’s my first love. You’re a vampire assassin, but do you have to kill her? Isn’t there another way?”

Amondi studied the floor. A wave of compassion came over her as she watched Talen’s emotional struggle. Though she did not believe in love for herself, true love enhanced the world. True love was greater than any harbinger of evil. Including vampires. She didn’t want to tell this handsome stranger a lie. She hated lying. But she didn’t want to lead him on either. I'll just sugarcoat the truth; a little. “That all depends on what we learn when we find her.”

“So, you’ll help me?” Talen rose from the chair, breathless and relieved.

“My pleasure, so to speak.” Amondi extended her hand to seal the deal. Now, about my fee . . .”

The Chase

Amondi closed the desk drawer containing Talen’s payment with her hip, locked it and placed the key in one of the hidden pockets on her catsuit.

“Aren’t you afraid someone will break in here and steal that money?” Talen asked.

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take and a small one, considering my profession.”

“I guess.” Talen shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you want to come with me?” Amondi asked as she put on her pink raincoat and hat. The dogs immediately ran to her with their leashes wagging their tails in time. “Not you two hellhounds,” she laughed. “Talen.”

“I planned on showing you where she was, then leaving.” Talen looked at his shoes. “In retrospect, that seems cowardly. I married her ‘til death, and if it comes to that, I should be there.”

Seated in Amondi’s old blue Mustang in the driving rain, two dogs panting in the back seat, Talen immediately regretted his decision. Wet dog and stale cigarette smoke? I could be in my new Range Rover right now. Amondi sat behind the steering wheel examining Talen’s detailed list of Marisol’s movements with a flashlight. She bit her lower lip as she concentrated.

“She sleeps in the garage in a makeshift casket every night. Her focus will be on getting to the casket before sunrise. It’s the best place for an ambush,” she said after what felt like an eternity to Talen.

“Ambush? You’re going to kill her without trying to save her?” Talen wailed.

Amondi gave a long sigh, turned the key in the ignition, put the car in drive and pulled onto the street. Sugarcoat the truth. “I mean she won’t be expecting us. That’s all. Anyway, can you have a conversation with her? Does she talk?” Amondi asked, hoping to shift Talen’s focus away from the brutal looming death of his first love.

“I haven’t tried since I saw her floating above the bed. But she spoke some before that.”

“What was the conversation like?”

“She responded to a few simple questions, then she asked to kiss me. But more like ‘kiss of death’ me.”

“Hmm. . . I see. Well, maybe the love you share will overcome her loyalty to the head vampire and we can find out who bit her.”

“Promise to try,” Talen begged. “Promise to try before you stake her or burn her or whatever awful thing you plan to do to kill her.”

Amondi didn’t know which she hated more: lying or breaking a promise. The feeling of compassion for Talen’s situation returned. Destroying true love was like killing the last dodo bird, on purpose, in its cage.

“I promise,” she said after a long hesitation.

But in her heart, she knew circumstance would dictate the outcome. She reached down and pressed play on the cd player to calm her nerves. Seal’s clear baritone filled the car. “Kiss from a Rose” played over the sound of the tires on the pavement. Tires rolling their way to the Village of Hillrose and a young vampire wife’s uncertain fate.

An hour or so later Amondi pulled onto the long driveway of Talen and Marisol’s massive white Tudor house. The driveway split the enormous lawn into two perfect halves. She stopped the car and turned off the engine in front of the house. Wow Talen. Niiice.

“There’s a second entrance to the garage at the back. If we park here, she won’t see the car. Oh, can I help you carry that huge box? The one the hellhounds wouldn’t let me touch when I met you?”

“Don’t mind them. The pit and the pom have bigger fish to fry once the hunt is on. They love all humans, after they get to know them, that is. Anyway, I usually get geared up from my car. It’s safer. I don’t like to enter the lair of the vampire uninvited.”

“It’s my house too,” Talen mumbled under his breath.

Amondi exited the car and opened the trunk where the VKK awaited. Thankfully, the rain had subsided. She took off the pink hat and raincoat and draped them on the spoiler of the car. Talen stood anxiously beside her as she opened the VKK. The light from the trunk illuminated the contents. Methodically, Amondi hung the axees from the hammer loops on her catsuit, secured the extra bullets and holy water in the tactical belt. Finally, she took the safety off the pink Glock and slid the gun into the belt.

“I pray that every god in heaven and every devil in hell forgive me. But you’re so hot right now. I can’t believe you’re here to kill my wife.” His voice went up a full octave.

“You mean try to talk to your wife, don’t you?” Amondi said.

“Yes,” Talen said nervously. “If that’s possible.”

“I need you to take these.” She shoved a Bible, small axe and vial of holy water into his hands. “Throw the holy water in her eyes and hold up the bible. If they don’t keep her at bay, use the axe.”

“Where will you be?” Talen asked.

“Right beside you.”

Amondi went to the passenger side of the car and unleashed the honey hellhounds. They bounded out of the car and ran to the front door of the house. Just then bright lights flooded the area. They lit up the windows of the front room, illuminated Talen and Amondi and most of the front yard.

“Shit! She’s in the house!” Talen screamed. “She’s not supposed to be here.”

Amondi turned in time to see a shadowy figure in the window, lit by the security lights, moving toward the door. She froze, remembering the moments before she confronted the head vampire that bit her. Panic threatened to overtake her. She took a deep breath and blew out the air through pursed lips. “I can do this.” She whistled for the pit and the pom. Bella and Bram ran to her side. “Talen, are there motion lights on the outside of the garage too?”

“They’re broken. I haven’t gotten around to . . . “

“Don’t apologize. Run to the garage!”

The Confrontation

Talen took off in the direction of the garage, Amondi and the honey hellhounds on his heels. “There’s a huge hedgerow across from the garage,” he shouted back breathlessly. Let’s hide there.”

Panting behind the hedgerow at last, dogs by her side and Talen white as a sheet of paper, Amondi asked, “Did we run a mile?”

“Something like that. You get used to the distance.”

Amondi turned to look at the garage and assess the situation. The three-car garage was bigger than the rectory where she lived. “Marisol will be here any minute. We don’t want to hide here with our backsides unprotected. We should get into the garage fast.”

“Okay,” Talen said as he fumbled for the keys. “There’s a side door.”

Yip! Yip! Yip! Bram started turning in circles and barking.

“Shush Bram,” Amondi scolded. “She’s close, Talen. Hurry.”

They ran to the side door while Talen nervously tried to unlock it. Amondi scanned the yard with her flashlight. Suddenly, she caught a glimpse of a pink raincoat floating in their direction.

“Taaaaleeen. Taaaaleeen.” Mirasol called in a singsong. “Where are you? Don’t you want to live forever? Come here and kiss me. I love you.”

Talen froze.

“Talen. Unlock the door.” Amondi said in a harsh whisper.

“I’m trying. Can’t you see that?”

“Taaaaleeen. Taaaaleeen. Cheeeeater. Cheeeeater. Who is she? Don’t you know you’re mine? Mine, forever and ever, ‘til death do us part?” The vampire wife continued her taunting. Her voice was high and eerie. It stabbed at the eardrums like a saber.

Bella gave a low, long, deep growl. “Forget the door Talen! Turn around!!!” Amondi shouted.

Her flashlight illuminated a figure standing ten feet in front of them holding a pink raincoat out at arm’s length. “Taaaaleeen. Taaaaleeen. Cheeeeater. Cheeeeater.” Marisol taunted as she slowly ripped the pink coat in half. “Who is she?”

Amondi stood, feet shoulder width apart, pink Glock aimed squarely between Marisol’s eyes. Amondi took a deep breath and blew out the air through pursed lips. Talen slowly raised the bible and held it out in front of him. Marisol hissed and raised her clawed hands for the pounce. Her long blonde hair was matted. Her skin was gray and pockmarked. Her breath stank and her pale blue nightgown was ripped and stained with blood.

“Talk Talen or I’m ending it right now.” Amondi said.

“Mari,” Talen started. Marisol flew at him. “Shit!” Shaking, Talen threw the holy water in her eyes. She gave an unholy screech as three shots rang out. Talen saw three black holes appear between her eyes and she collapsed to the ground. Talen slumped against the garage door. “End this nightmare. Please.”

Amondi put her foot on Marisol’s chest and brought the great axe down on her neck, severing the head.

The Conclusion

Talen Teasdale woke with a start. Light from the ever-burning candles in the sconce danced on the walls of the rectory. Bella and Bram slept peacefully curled into each other by the front door. He could hear the methodical ticktock of a grandfather clock. The steady swing of its pendulum, the cadence of the march of time. 10 a.m. sun shone through the small high windows.

“Good morning sleepy head. You had a rough night.”

“Amondi?”

“Yes.” The alluring voice sounded miles away, shrouded in a cloud.

Talen lifted himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. Amondi stood in front of him. She smiled.

“What now?” he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and stretching.

“I’ve got dogs to walk if you want to come with me.”

“That sounds terrific.”

Encounters

K. R. S. McEntire

Part One: Lyric

My husband had been dead for twenty years when I saw him at the airport.

I choked on my chai latte when I noticed him strutting along, a suitcase in one arm and a twentysomething woman, who looked like a model, on the other.

I placed my cup between my knees and gripped the handles of my seat, as if I were accelerating into oblivion rather than waiting to board a plane. I’d know that strut anywhere. That slow, relaxed gait. His aloof brand of confidence was an inconvenience to the travelers trying to push past him in the crowded terminal.

As he approached, I bent down and pulled a true crime novel from my suitcase. My thick, black curls concealed my face as I unzipped my carry on. I sat up and held the novel high, its hardback hiding most of my profile. Pretending to read, I peered over the book and watched my husband and his woman merge into a line of people preparing to board first class on my flight. My flight! Heart pounding and with book in hand, I picked up my latte and moved to another seat to get a closer look.

The logical part of my brain knew this couldn’t be what it looked like. He couldn’t be who he looked like. Not only was this man, to put it simply, not dead, he looked twenty years younger than me. Even if my husband faked his death during his trip to Nigeria, twenty years had passed since then and this man didn’t look a day over twenty-five. He did look just as handsome as I remembered, in that black tailored peacoat. His coily hair was cut in a tapered fade, and his skin looked smooth.

As I watched him approach the boarding gate, I took a deep breath to settle my nerves. My wedding was in two days, so it was the absolute worst time for me to run into my dead husband. Maybe I was seeing things because I miss him or imagining things as I wished they were. Or maybe my husband had a doppelganger, some unknown distant relative that happened to be boarding my flight.

Right before he entered the jet bridge, he turned toward me. I tried to hide behind my book, but it was too late. Our eyes met. For a brief moment, he froze in his tracks, causing his model to bump into his shoulder and the strangers behind him to glare. Then, in less than a heartbeat, he turned his back to me and rushed onto the plane with his head down and his shoulders slumped, all prior confidence gone.

One look into his eyes was all it took. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I knew it was Derek.

My anxiety grew once I boarded the plane. I needed to get to first class and figure out what on earth was going on, but I was stuck between a window and a redhead, who looked as if he were having a panic attack. His hand tapped against his thighs, and his breaths were quick and wheezy. I watched him from the corner of my eye as I fiddled with my book. He noticed my side eye and smiled sheepishly at me.

“I hate flying,” he said.

At the head of the cabin, a flight attendant briefed us on safety instructions as the plane took off. Once the plane reached cruising altitude and the attendants finished passing out snacks and answering questions, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Just as I was about to stand and make a beeline for first class, the man beside me spoke.

“I want to warn you,” the redhead said. “I’m really afraid of heights. Can we keep our window screen closed at all times? Please?”

I nodded, closed the window and stood up to sneak away when we hit a bit of turbulence. A moment later, the redhead had unbuckled his belt and was crouching on the ground in front of his seat. One hand rested on his belly, and the other gripped my ankle.

“Oh God. Oh God. I think I’m going to be sick!” he cried.

I had absolutely no time for this. Two flight attendants made their way toward us, glaring at me as if I had just assaulted this man, as if I were the one causing this commotion.

“Excuse me.” I slipped my leg out of the man’s grip and rushed past the flight attendants, bound for first class. The man continued to wail on the floor. As I rushed down the aisle, one of the flight attendants stopped to check on him. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that the other continued to follow me. I increased my pace.

“Ma'am!” the flight attendant called after me, following me behind the first-class curtain. I ignored her and walked through the aisles until I saw Derek’s face looking at me as if he were the one who had just seen a ghost.

I marched over to him, unsure of what I would say once I had the chance to speak with him. The flight attendant was still on my heels.

“Ma'am, I’m going to have to ask you to go back to your seat,” the flight attendant said.

I kept my eyes on Derek.

“You are not supposed to be back here.” The flight attendant put her hands on her hips.

“It’s okay,” Derek said. His familiar voice made my heart stop all over again.

I had videos and audio recordings of his voice that I'd held on to over the years, but it was nothing compared to the real thing. How could this be possible?

“I know her.” He looked at the flight attendant with pleading eyes. “Please give us a moment.”

His friend raised an eyebrow as she leaned over and whispered. Though I could not make out her words, her Nigerian accent was unmistakable. Suddenly, my fear and confusion dissolved into rage. Did he go to Nigeria and meet a new lover? Did he fake his death rather than telling me the truth? He missed every milestone in his daughter’s life. In my life. He missed his only child being born!

“That’s right.” I glared at the flight attendant until she stepped back. “I need to talk to him.”

He looked over at the woman, apologetically.

“Excuse me,” he said to the Nigerian woman, trading seats with her to be closer to where I stood.

She turned toward her window to give us some semblance of privacy.

“Lyric, we should really talk in private,” he whispered to me.

“Do you know where I’m going?” I asked. “I’m going to pick up our daughter!”

His eyes widened and mouth parted in awe. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“I have a daughter?” he asked, a warm smile slipping across his face.

“Yes, you have a daughter who’s extremely ill and believes her father’s dead.” My voice was so loud that all the first-class passengers gave me dirty looks. The flight attendant moved closer.

Derek frowned. “What's wrong with her?”

“You would know if you were in her life.” I shot at him. Her type one diabetes had already caused two near-death experiences, and she was only twenty years old. I had no need to explain this to a man who chose not to be in her life.

He was silent for a moment, pondering. Finally, he spoke.

“Does she need urgent medical care? Is that why you are going to see her?”

“No, she’s doing okay right now,” I said. “We are meeting up for… other reasons.”

“Why are you going to Chicago?”

“I’m not,” I said. “I just have a layover in Chicago. I’m going to New York, where she lives.”

He motioned to the woman at his side.

“I’m taking her to Chicago,” he said. “When you leave the plane for your layover, can we talk then?”

The flight attendant moved in. Apparently, I had overstayed my first-class welcome. When her eyes met mine, I knew I didn’t have much time.

“That’s fine,” I said. Before the attendant had a chance to reprimand me, I stormed past her toward my seat in a haze of confusion and rage.

By the time I landed at the O’Hare airport, my anger had subsided. It was replaced with a sense of melancholy and regret, though I knew I’d done nothing wrong. I pictured the life I'd thought I would have so many years ago, the two of us raising our child together.

It had been twenty years since Derek’s “death.” Our child was an adult, and I was getting remarried in New York in two days. Even if he lied to me about his death, one chance encounter shouldn’t shake me or change my plans. But I was already shaken. My hands quivered at my side as I walked off the plane and looked around, not wanting to hope too much lest my heart get crushed all over again. I didn’t know if he would be waiting for me, or if he’d already run off with his new friend.

As I looked around the crowded terminal for tall black men in peacoats, I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard his all-too-familiar voice.

“Angel,” he said.

It had always been his favorite pet name for me. My stomach twisted at the sound of it. I spun around to face him.

“Derek…”

“We don’t have much time,” he whispered. He grabbed my hand and pulled me away. His hands felt cool against my sweaty palms. He guided me past the rushed travelers toward a room reserved for first class guests. Rather than entering the room, we stood in an empty hallway nearby. It may have been the quietest spot in the entire airport.

“I want you to know I never lied to you,” he whispered. “About dying. I did die. . . or at least I would have—”

“I got all of those calls about you being sick, losing consciousness in the hospital,” I interrupted. My voice rose.

He put his hand on mine and gave it a soft squeeze to calm me. The coldness of his touch sent chills through my body.

“Before I could book a flight to Nigeria, I got a call saying you were dead!” I went on. “I tried my hardest to get your body back here. I booked a flight to Nigeria myself, but I had no idea where you were or where to find your body. The hospital stopped returning my calls. Why go through all of those lies? If you met someone new, wouldn’t it have been easier to just leave me? I never even got a chance to tell you I was expecting Evelyn.”

“Evelyn?”

“That's your daughter’s name,” I said.

Tears burned before overflowing. He reached to wipe them away, but I pulled back.

“She’s been having a lot of issues with her health.” I looked into eyes I've seen a thousand times before, but they now held an unfamiliar distance. I turned away. "But you’d know that if you were here.”

“I stayed away to keep you safe.” Derek's voice was firm. As ridiculous as it sounded, I could tell he believed it. “I know this won’t make sense, but it was my only option.”

“Why?” The tears flowed now. My ragged breaths sounded like the redhead’s breathing on the plane. “I really need to understand why abandoning your family was the only option you could think of.”

He sat down on the floor cross-legged and slumped against the wall. It made him look small and vulnerable, like a child.

“I’m not supposed to tell,” he said, his head in his palm.

“Tell what?”

“But what are the odds of us being on the same flight?” He looked up at me with desperation in his eyes. “It’s almost like it’s fate. Like I’m supposed to tell you. But I want you to know that it’s dangerous for you to know.”

“Why would you ever think leaving your family would keep us safe?” I shook my head.

“Because I’m dead,” he said.

I frowned, my confusion and rage coming back. Was he toying with me?

“Undead,” he said, clarifying. “After the doctor said there was nothing else they could do for me, they gave me the option of going to a private doctor for an experimental treatment. Everything was off the books. They didn’t even charge me anything. They had… other motives for changing me. I thought it would be better for me to live like this… than be gone forever. At that facility, the private one, I consumed the blood of the undead.”

Why was I wasting my time with this liar?

“Goodbye, Derek.” I started to leave.

He jumped up and grabbed my arm. With a smooth gesture, he took my hand and placed it on his chest. I tried to pull my arm away.

“Don’t touch me!” I said, but his grip was tight. I punched at him with my free hand.

“Can you feel it?” he asked me.

I blinked. “Feel what?”

“My heartbeat,” he said.

I rolled my eyes at him. Was he trying to be romantic? His face was stoic. He gazed at me with pleading eyes.

I sighed, then I laid my palm flat on the left side of his chest, pressing hard to feel through the fabric. When I couldn’t feel a heartbeat, I pressed harder. Nothing. Next, I tried to find the pulse on his wrist and his neck. Still nothing. Stunned, I didn’t know what to do or say.

He cried. “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me. I didn’t believe it at first myself. But here I am. Dead. And alive.”

As improbable as it was, I sensed the sincerity in his voice.

“So, is that why you look young enough to be my son?” I asked.

He nodded.

“What are you then?” I whispered. “Some type of zombie?”

“Vampire,” he said. “But it’s nothing like the movies. The girl I’m with is not my partner, if that’s what you are thinking. She’s more like a daughter to me. I turned her when she got sick.”

I shut my eyes and shook my head, trying to make sense of his senseless words.

“Why are you here?” I asked. “Do you live in the States again?”

“I live in Nigeria. I’m taking her to see her family one last time. She was visiting family in Nigeria like I was when she fell ill. When one becomes a vampire, we have to leave our former lives behind. Over time, people start to notice when a person stops aging. I promise, not a day has gone by when I didn’t think of you,” he said.

“But why were you in Indianapolis?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “She lives in Chicago.”

His lips formed a tight line, and he looked away as he spoke.

“I made a detour to see you. I wanted to make sure you were alive and well, but I didn’t want you to see me.”

“You were spying on me?”

“Only briefly. I just wanted to see that you were well, so I stopped by our old home. When I found another family living there, I stopped by your work and watched you walking in. I didn’t expect you to see me, obviously. I didn’t know you would be at the airport.”

So even after all these years, he’d been concerned about me. I took his hand and met his gaze.

“I believe you,” I said. “But this is crazy.”

His expression softened at my touch, and I felt the breath from his sigh of relief on my neck. He pulled me into his familiar arms.

“I could turn you,” he whispered in my ear. “We could be together again.”

My breath caught in my chest at the thought of being with him again. I chuckled nervously and tried to ignore the hope that invaded my heart. “What would you need to do? Bite my neck or something?”

“It's not as sexy as the movies make it out to be,” he said. “Actually, it’s the human who needs to taste the vampire’s blood to turn, not the other way around. All of those movies paint us as predators, but most of the time we are the prey. I have killed mortals before, but usually in self-defense. My blood is in high demand from those who want a taste of eternal life.”

“I see.” I didn’t even want to ask why he had used the term usually.

He brushed my hair away from my face. His fingers felt electric. “But if you'd like, we can try and make it sexy,” he whispered.

I blushed and stepped away from him.

“I . . . don’t think I can commit to eternal life right now,” I said.

“Why not?” he said. “Come with me when I go back to Nigeria. Where could you possibly be going that's more important than this?”

“Like I said, I’m picking up our daughter.”

“I would love to meet her.”

“And then we will be on the way to . . .” I swallowed. “My wedding.”

From the look on his face I knew that if he had a beating heart, it would have stopped.

“Wedding?” he whispered, placing his hand on the wall to steady himself.

“Wedding,” I said. “Your life may have paused after your trip to Nigeria, but mine didn’t. You are asking me to give up not only my mortality, but my future, at the drop of a dime. I can’t do that. I made a commitment to you twenty years ago and you left me. Now, I’ve made a commitment to someone else.”

He closed his eyes, as if trying to calm his mind.

“I had to leave.”

I said nothing.

“You can still marry him.” His face contorted at the thought, but he shrugged. “He’s got, what, another good fifty years in him if he’s lucky? If there is one thing that I have enough of, it’s time. I’d wait for you forever. You could have an infinite future.”

I laughed. “You are 25! You will always be 25 and I’ll be older each year. You really want to come back for an old hag?”

“You are eternal. Age means nothing,” he said. “I could turn you now and you will stop aging, and you could leave him when—"

“I’m not leaving him.”

Derek frowned.

From the corner of my eye I saw the Nigerian girl walking toward us. She looked from Derek, to me, and gave me a shy smile.

“Your flight is about to take off,” she warned. “Didn’t want you to miss it.”

She smiled up at Derek, clearly eager to be done with me. I frowned at her. Derek may see her as a daughter, but was she feeling something more?

“I have to go,” I said, not wanting to prolong this. I needed to see my daughter and get ready for my wedding. I wrapped him in a hug, knowing it would be our last. His hands found their usual resting place on my neck, bringing back the buried memory of him placing them there when we kissed.

“Goodbye Derek.” My heart was heavy.

He pulled away, but Derek's eyes never left mine as he dug his hand into his coat pocket. He took a small object out and placed it into my palm.

“After I saw you on the plane, I prepared this for you.”

Whatever it was felt smooth and cool. He cupped my hand over it and held my palm closed.

“I’ll see you around, Angel,” he said. Then he turned to his friend. “Come on.”

As they walked away, I looked down into my palm to see what he had placed in my hand. It was a tiny glass vial of red blood.

Part Two: Derek

7420 Clark Tree Road was a private beachfront property an hour’s drive away from Orlando, Florida. I was surprised that Lyric would leave Indiana, where all of her friends were, and buy a home here. It was too remote, and she had always been a people person. Maybe as she got older, she and her husband wanted a quiet place to settle down.

I pulled my car into the driveway and took note of the vehicle at my side, a cherry red Prius. Was her husband out? Was he even was still alive?

I got out of the car and walked to the door. Taking a deep breath, I knocked, then listened to the quiet shuffle of feet on the other side of the walls. I could hear her every move as she approached, one of the quirks of being a vampire.

The door opened, and for a moment I thought it was her. She favored Lyric, had the same big hair and wide, beautiful, black eyes. But this woman was thinner and looked to be in her twenties. Even if Lyric had consumed the blood the same day that I gave it to her, it wouldn’t have caused her to age backward.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You wouldn’t happen to know a woman named Lyric?”

Her eyes lit up with recognition, but she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Who’s asking?”

“I… I’m an old friend,” I said.

The girl was silent for a moment, eyeing me suspiciously. Finally, she answered. “She’s dead.”

I felt like the air had been pulled from my undead lungs.

“No!” I couldn’t stop myself from slamming my fist on the wall of the house. Why didn’t she drink the blood?

The woman took a step back, reaching for the door in case she needed to slam it in my face and call the police.

I composed myself. “And her husband? Does he live here?”

She shook her head. “Mom never remarried. Broke it off the day before the wedding.”

Mom?

I studied the girl closer, recognizing some of my own features on her face. She had the same chestnut skin and hazel eyes as me. Could it be? It couldn’t. She was too young. By now, my daughter would be in her forties. Unless . . .

“Do you know why you stopped aging?” I asked.

She gasped and tried to close the door, so I spoke quickly.

“I don’t age either, Evelyn.” I said.

She paused, peaking back out of the door at me. “How did you know my name?”

“Your mother told me.”

Her hands trembled. “She thought I would die. I don’t age because mom prayed that I would get better. She didn’t want me to be sick anymore. She said I had a guardian angel that made me this way.”

Though my heart still ached from the news of my wife’s death, I couldn’t help but smile. My angel used my blood to save my daughter's life. Most of the time, being undead made me feel like a monster, and I shuddered at the things the vampires who turned me had required me to do as payment for the gift of eternal life. But now I was Evelyn’s savior. I couldn’t have my wife, but I could get to know my daughter.

“Yes,” I said. “But that guardian angel had a little help from your father.”

The girl shook her head. “My father's dead.”

“Yes, he’s dead,” I said. “The same as you are.”

She studied me closer, loosening her deathgrip on the door. “Are you like me?”

I nodded.

She stepped aside, allowing me into her home. I went inside, both nervous and excited to be in my daughter's home. Had she realized who I was yet?

Her eyes grew wide as the truth dawned on her. A single tear rolled down her face as she wrapped me in a warm embrace.

She looked up at me. “Dad?”

Unfleamed

Penelope Flynn

The Praefect, Yannara Stone-Tejan-Forza lay drowsy and dazed in the nearly pitch-black alley prostrate beside the streetwalker's corpse. Her senses were dulled, overwhelmed by the filth, the noise, the unyielding lumps of the cobblestones beneath her and the blissful taste of blood.

Only her sense of sight was unassailed, her ally in the darkness. In this way her hybrid lineage provided a distinct advantage over the mere mortals surrounding her, these Paradoxans. Normally she could literally see them coming a mile away. But that advantage was of no assistance, in England in the cramped and winding streets of Whitechapel.

In a part of town she would never condescend to be driven through in a carriage, she laid like a bloated sow with the danger she had placed herself in beginning to dawn on her. Unlike the Revenants, whose mechanisms for digesting Paradoxan blood were efficient, her hybrid lineage slowed the process, sapping her energy for a much longer period of time before she was fully functioning. She didn't require a blood drain. But on those rare occasions the feral side contributed by the Revenant half would raise its ravenous head and demand to be satisfied.

She chuckled, imagining the scenario when the authorities came upon them. She an aristocrat of seeming African descent laying in the street near the body of a dead, mangled harlot, drained of nearly every ounce of blood would be quite a sight. She almost laughed out loud when she envisioned the headlines, “African Cannibal Kills in Whitechapel” or “Black Beast Defiles London Streets!”

It was funny, but only for a moment.

She moaned, disgusted, as her mental fog began to lift. The woman had obviously lied when she said she hadn't used any intoxicants within the past two days. Yannara's limbs felt heavy when she tried to rise. The after-effect of draining a drunkard, she mused. Attempting to mist would be futile. It was too soon after ingesting tainted blood. She had ignored her Eynnoi, that separate consciousness that members of the Revenant bloodline possessed. It assessed their circumstances and apprised them of impending peril. She had been impulsive with her choice and now she would pay.

She shifted her head to the left. There it was again. The smell, that familiar olfactory sensation. She tried to crane her neck in the direction it came from but lost the trail... just like before. But it was the same, male and standing downwind. When she breathed in expanding her consciousness, focusing and attempting to pinpoint his location, she discovered that he was moving, not away but toward her. He remained in the shadows until his feet were mere inches from her head.

He spoke in a low and rapid cadence. “What great risk you take. This place is not safe.”

“Not safe? Now, why did I not think of that?” She chuckled.

The male peered down at her. Even at that close proximity, he kept his face obscured. He cocked his head then drawled with a bit of a local accent, “It seems we have an incident here.”

“You don't appear to be the law, so what business is it of yours?” Yannara asked hoping to buy time before he realized that she was immobilized and at his mercy.

“You do realize that there is a proper way to handle these things, to procure a willing subject?”

“I possessed the coin of the realm and she was more than willing to do whatever I had in mind to procure it.” Yannara sniped, trying to get her body to cooperate, to move, to do anything.

The male continued, “It seems neither of you bartered for her current condition, nor yours for that matter.”

Her temper flared. She would have relished backhanding him for his insolence except that at the moment he was probably the only means she had for escaping the alley undiscovered.

“In case you are wondering,” she said, “I still possess coin and other resources for an individual willing to assist me.”

She glanced at the streetwalker’s mangled body, whose brown curls and coat were matted with blood and gore... the type of destruction to the body that a member of the bloodline might inflict during a feral episode.

“It seems I waited too long before embarking on this venture.”

“So it seems,” he muttered dropping to one knee peering into her eyes, then onto her exsanguinating fleams, still fixed in position, still tinged with blood. Then without another word he scooped her from the ground and took off, bounding through London’s twisted backstreets. He ran fast, at an inhuman speed, a speed she could have managed but for her inebriation. A dizziness overtook her, and her eyelids grew heavy. The scenery of the dark streets flew by until they became no more than a blur before she lost consciousness.

When Yannara opened her eyes she was covered by a large, warm blanket that billowed over the bed, which was itself nearly half the size of the room containing it. Again, she smelled the male that she had encountered in the alley. He wasn't visible, but he was nearby.

“Hello!” she called out as she curled up to sitting taking note that the bodice of her tailored sky-blue cotton and lace dress was speckled with blood, but her face and hands had been washed. She shuddered. The thought of being primped while she was unconscious unsettled her, but she had no time for squeamishness.

“You, from the alley... where are we?”

Her companion strolled into the room wearing white shirtsleeves, black trousers held up by black suspenders and a welcoming smile. It lit up his entire face. He carried a small tray with two hot cups of tea along with lemon, honey, cream and biscuits.

“You'll excuse me. Prior to this I have never had occasion to entertain such a distinguished guest,” he said as he placed the tray on the bedside table then stepped away.

Yannara nodded and smiled while taking stock of him and her surroundings.

The apartment was not large, but neither was it small. In the area beyond the bedroom she viewed a maintained space lined with shelves, holding rows of books and collectibles. The furnishings were tasteful and suited to the space, just as he was. He was not tall, at least not as tall as her Sebastian, yet he was taller than her with a medium build. His hair was dark but just beginning to gray. He wore spectacles and the term that came to mind when she finally decided upon one, was “bookish.”

“I hope you don't mind,” he continued, “I added honey and cream. That is the way you take your tea, yes?”

“Yes.” She replied scrutinizing him.

“I provided biscuits to aid in digestion. It is known that you resist consuming Paradoxan blood. I presume it must inhibit one or more of your abilities... possibly cutting off your mindspeak. Otherwise you probably would have called your driver to retrieve you. You must have been in a terrible feral state to hunt in Whitechapel,” he prattled on.

She held her posture steady studying the man as he moved closer, then nodded and said, “Yes. Paradoxan blood especially that which has been adulterated with pollutants, does inhibit my abilities.”

She sat up taller in the bed, smoothing the wide, coarse braid that ran down her back and past her hips noting, “You seem to know quite a bit about me.”

Then she signed the salutation known to all of the hybridized bloodline and she smiled displaying her entire pearly array, teeth, fangs and fleams all fully engaged.

The male regarded her with hesitancy and then bowed low.

Yannara shifted uneasily beneath the comforter, filled with the tension of a coiled snake. Her brow wrinkled as she inhaled in his general direction then demanded, “Who are you?!”

He hesitated, “Madame, Stone-Tejan-Forza I am, ahem, we are of the same hybrid lineage.”

Yannara's face twisted into a frown and her words rolled out in an offensive growl. “If this is true, then why is it that you fail to formally address me? In your haberdashery, why do you not display your House colors? And why are you hiding your fleams?”

“There, there is an explanation,” he ventured a weak smile exhibiting neither fleam nor fang.

Yannara bolted from the bed and was on the stranger before he exhaled his next breath. Though standing no taller than five feet four inches, Yannara's skills as a fighter and a killer were unparalleled. Speed and precision were her weapons and she wielded them with mortal accuracy. Her talons had sprung into place the moment she bounded onto the man's chest and sent him sprawling to the hardwood floor. His face reddened as he coughed and squirmed to no avail as her talons tightened around his neck.

“I won't ask again. Who are you? Why have you been following me?”

The male struggled for only a few seconds more before raising his hands in surrender. Yannara loosened her grip and retracted her claws but did not relinquish her perch on his chest.

“I-I am Striga, House Striga,” he said.

Yannara's eyes narrowed to slits so black they appeared hollow saying, “So, House Striga is sending spies to follow me?”

“No, no. I mean I don't know. I have not been acting on behalf of House Striga.”.

“Who then?!” She tightened her grip. “Is it one of the other Houses; the Kiang-Shi, the Impundulu? Who is it and what are they planning? Is Sebastian in danger? Are my children in peril?!”

“Eminent, most honorable Praefect, I have sought you out on my own,” he spluttered.

She shook him in a violent rage and crouched over him menacing, “Who are you to seek me out? You claim to be House Striga. You claim to be of our bloodline, but there is no indication of that. You refer to me as Praefect but show no allegiance. I have had enough of this. Show yourself!” She seethed. “Show yourself right now or pay with your blood.”

“Have mercy! Have mercy!” He shielded his face. “I-I am of the bloodline, but I bear neither fleams nor fangs.”

Yannara released the man as if he had suddenly transformed into hot coals. She stumbled back and away from where he lay cowering on the floor.

“How can that be? You are certainly of the hybrid line. I have caught your scent several times these past few weeks.”

“Yes... yes I am... but--”

Yannara recoiled gagging suppressing an involuntary gasp, “You've been castrated!”

“No. No, honorable Praefect. I have committed no crime nor any obscenity. I am not unclean. I have not been castrated.”

“Well,” was all she could manage to utter as she continued her backward motion, taking small steps away until the large bed impeded her retreat.

“Don't worry,” he said as he stumbled up to his feet. “I am not contagious. It was not a disease. It was a defect from birth. I was born without the means.”

“Oh-of course,” Yannara said through the strained half smile pasted across her face.

“Please,” he said indicating toward the room behind him, “if you would prefer, we can continue our discussion in the parlor.”

He retrieved the tray containing the tea as Yannara made her way into the adjoining living area. As she observed from the bedroom, the room was filled with books and trinkets. The wood paneling ran from floor to ceiling and the hardwood floors were only intermittently interrupted with the well-thought out positioning of small occasional rugs. However no more than five steps into the room, she noted that the room was oddly partitioned, not at all like she first perceived. There was an unusual turn into an alcove that couldn't possibly have been in the original plans.

“Yes. There to the right is the parlor.” He followed close by, and sat the tray on the cocktail table after directing Yannara to sit wherever she chose.

Once Yannara was seated he took a position across from her.

She nodded, her expression guarded. “So, you are--”

“--Yes Eminent, I am... a eunuch.”

Yannara squirmed and cleared her throat. “I was about to say 'unfleamed', but if you prefer eunuch--”

“No one would prefer eunuch!” He snapped, but then softened his tone. “You must understand my dilemma. Being 'unfleamed' as you refer to it, is an insuperable handicap in House Striga.”

“I am aware of their policies. In your condition any path to advancement would be very narrow indeed.”

“Narrow? You mean nonexistent. There is no path with regard to family or child-rearing, not with regard to ascension into the hierarchy. I am even unfit to be considered as a proper mate in a formal commitment circle.”

“Not even as an Anculus?” she asked taking a biscuit.

“Praefect, who would take into their marital circle an individual that is incapable of performing siphon? One who cannot siphon cannot produce seed nor carry a child to term. Who would want an individual who could not even teach a child of the commitment circle proper techniques for the use of their fangs or fleams? Yes. I might be an Anculus, a household manager somewhere, but in my condition, never in House Striga.”

Yannara nodded. “I see.”

“Eminent,” he added. “I have sought you out because House Ekimmou has a history of flexibility of which I was hoping to avail myself.”

“In what manner?” She ate another biscuit grateful that they soothed the digestion of the Paradoxan blood.

“When you were Regional Praefect of the districts by which the Revenants subdivided the Paradox, yours was the most profitable. They value that. Even though your Anculus Sebastian Forza is a thorn in their sides, they support you. You have brought great favor on House Ekimmou. For this reason, you have been transferred to London. Apparently, the Revenant Council was aware that once they announce your appointment as the new Praefect Praepositus that Paris... your home, which is also a House Striga stronghold, will become a very dangerous place for you.”

“Presuming this is true, what is it you want from me?”

“Once you are named Praefect Praepositus, you will be the most powerful individual in our clan. If you were to vouch for me, I would no longer be inhibited in my quest for the things others hold dear and that I am restricted from, now.”

“You are very astute and know quite a bit, brother...?” She asked waiting for his name.

“I am called RM,” he said.

“RM? Yes, but I meant your family name.”

“Praefect,” he replied dropping his head, “I am not permitted to use my family name. I am a mark of shame to them, a blot. I am not even permitted to fly House Striga’s colors.”

“Then how do you negotiate the world of our bloodline with no name?!”

“House Striga only permits my parents to restrict the use of my family name, not the name of our clan. In that I am still permitted to claim membership. This at least is my birthright.”

“May I ask then, how you survive with no familial support?”

“I am sometimes a liaison with the Paradoxan world. I am a solicitor. Due to my birth condition, I am uniquely suited to interact with them in business matters.”

“Of course, that could be beneficial. You certainly have a knack for aggregating information.” She nodded and took another sip of her tea.

The clock chimed and both Yannara and RM glanced toward the mantel.

“I have been away for quite a while. My staff will begin to worry,” she said.

RM stood, straightening his clothes. “If your mindspeak is still disabled and you are unable to link with your driver, I will gladly walk to the corner and call you a cab.”

“No, I am fine.” She waved him back to his seat. “The biscuits have worked wonders. I should be able to link with my staff within the hour. While we wait, I am curious as to what you are proposing in return for my vouchsafe.”

“If you take me into your confidence, I can tell you what House Striga may be planning.”

“Is that a fact?” She asked, impressed. “What is it that you know?”

RM took a deep breath then steadied himself before saying, “Despite their cordiality and protests to the contrary, House Striga will not cede power to House Ekimmou.”

Yannara bit her lip and knitted her brow. “So, it is true, then. I presumed that this was their reason for sending Sebastian to Morocco, to leave me vulnerable. I never thought House Striga had the means... not here in London.”

“House Striga is formidable, Praefect. We have many ties throughout the Paradox. I recall the last time we were challenged, our House's enemies met unfortunate ends. But you in particular have raised their ire, most notably from our Revenants.”

“How so?” She took a sip from her cup.

“Our lives are to be dedicated to the care and maintenance of the Revenants. True there has been some brutality, some injuries. But that is to be expected.” He raised his cup but took no sip. “It is the only reason that they created us.”

“Pardon, but I was created from a deep love between my parents. On either side of my hybridized lineage, patrilineal and matrilineal, there have only been hybrids, for over three millennia, not one Revenant. Certainly, through them, we have gained supernatural abilities which we have utilized for our and their benefit. Our Clan, owes much to the Revenants, but we do not owe them our dignity nor our lives.”

“Most Praefects have said these same words. However, you were the first to act upon them.” He sipped. “No other Praefect has ever had the temerity to deny services to a Revenant. You have denied several.”

“We do not ask for much, only to be treated with respect when we manage their households and business interests. By and large most Revenants act within the proscribed guidelines. Only a handful have been excommunicated.”

“That is a harsh sentence,” he said.

“And maiming and murdering our people is not harsh?”

“It is, but there are some, especially in House Striga, that have taken profound offense, who believe we should act more humbly.”

“And I am supposed to care that these scoundrels are offended? They should all be more concerned that we are not offended. We manage every facet of their lives. They are the ones who should act with more humility.”

He sighed and rubbed his temples, and then whispered to himself. “I don't even know why I bothered with someone who apparently has a death wish, whose days are numbered.”

“Excuse me? What did you just say?” Yannara glared across the table.

“I-I said nothing, Most Eminent.”

“No, you said my days were numbered. What are you not telling me?”

Yannara rose and strolled to where RM sat. He dropped his head, holding the teacup rattling in his trembling hands.

“Look at me,” she said.

“I-I dare not, Eminence.”

“Tell me.” She leaned in, reached under his chin, and tipped his head upward until his gaze met hers.

His eyes grew large and limpid as she commanded just over a whisper, “Tell me.”

Her eyes were hypnotic, welcoming, conveying love and acceptance. No individual as lonely and unloved as he had any chance of resistance.

His voice was hushed as he spoke as one infatuated, “House Striga is sending a prime to London.”

Yannara's breath hitched but she maintained her gaze’s steadiness. “A prime?”

“Yes,” he said, “an ancient. It is rumored that he is one of the originals, an Abyssian.”

“Are you certain?” She smiled. “The preparations, and approvals to send a prime through deep transport are complex. As a Praefect in this region, I certainly would have been informed of it.”

His shoulders bowed and shuddered as he tried to disconnect from her, but she leaned in closer, “Come now. What would you want to keep from me?”

He ceased struggling and relaxed into her eyes and her touch.

“Praefect, for all the centuries I have lived, the Strigan Council has never spoken a word to me, not once. However, four months past I had a visitor, a messenger from the Council. They requested that I commission a solicitor for a real estate transaction here in London. When I told them I was quite capable of handling the transaction, the messenger, in no uncertain terms, stated that I was not to facilitate the transaction. I was only to provide the information to a capable Paradoxan solicitor.”

“And did you?”

“Certainly, a highly recommended gentleman named Harker. At first, I thought the request was being made due to their lack of faith in my capabilities. But just now, it occurred to me, that they requested a Paradoxan because they didn't want the transaction to appear in our records.”

Yannara breathed in, and then blew out a long noisy breath. “Is there anything else?”

“Well, during this period, the messenger asked that I arrange to have several pieces of cargo imported. Fifty-one crates.”

“Do you know what was in them?”

“At first, I did not. Then the dock master in Varna sent word inquiring as to when to send the fifty crates of soil.”

Yannara's eyes narrowed. “And when were these crates sent?”

“Two months ago, the ship set sail.”

Yannara dropped her hand and stepped away as RM shook his head as if waking from a dream.

“Do you have any idea who it is that you have invited to London?”

“I have invited no one. I have only done as I was told.”

She stared at him quietly fuming.

“The fiend who lives solitary with not one of our kind in his service, the animal in the Carpathians who famously gorged himself on the flesh of our brethren, now through your actions is on his way to London.”

“No, oh no, Eminence, I had no knowledge!”

He grabbed Yannara by the hand and pressed her palm to his forehead, “See! Look! I only did what I was told!”

Yannara held her hand to his forehead and connected with his consciousness. She saw no guile or deceit with regard to what he had reported, but there in the convoluted paths was so much loneliness, self-loathing, and degradation that she almost wept.

She pulled her hand away. “I know you have been truthful.” The sound of wheels alerted her. “My carriage is approaching.”

“You… you will leave now?” He asked, almost tearful.

“There is much to be done. I cannot yet do as you have asked, but I will not leave you without compensation.”

Yannara's nails sharpened and elongated curving into razor sharp talons. She nicked a spot on her forearm near her left wrist. As the blood began to flow, RM's face contorted into a grimace. She regarded him with a quirked brow.

“Is there a problem? I was under the impression that you partook.”

“Oh, yes Eminence it is just that it was rumored you have nursed a member of our House, that you have given siphon, given suck...” he grinned, fawning, “from your breast.”

Yannara's face tightened. “The information you provided was useful. But this... a claim on my body that only those most dear to me have earned? You presume far too much.”

“Pardon Eminence! I meant no offense!”

Then he dove upon the wound she created and for a full minute she watched him lapping, drinking, devouring at the font until she pressed against his shoulder signaling him to leave off.

She watched as he slouched back into his chair exhausted and out of breath. The words “presumptuous” and “obsequious” came to mind.

“Oh, Eminence that, it was... divine. I have never had occasion to drink from one of our own,” he murmured in the afterglow.

She watched him for a moment, her face set firm before she asked, “Why did you kill the harlot?

“What?” He shifted to sitting. He watched her with an odd expression.

“The streetwalker,” she asked, “Why did you kill her?”

“I-I didn't mean to.” He threw himself at her feet. “Y-you had just fed and collapsed, and she was there with the punctures still open. I just couldn't help myself! I am forced to live among them, always ravenous, but with no means to feed. Please tell me you understand, my Praefect!”

Yannara replied. “I do understand your needs, your thirst, but what I don't understand is why you mutilated her.”

“Wh-what?”he stammered, his tear-stained face tilted toward her with his gray eyes wide as saucers.

“You drank from her, mutilated her, ate parts of her.”

“N-no Praefect. I drank but drank too much. When I realized she had expired, I copied the method of the murders I saw in the news journals!” He rose to his feet. “It was only to mislead the authorities, to make it appear that their Whitechapel murderer had done it!”

Yannara took his hands and held them in her grasp. “RM, I understand your intentions, but this desecration is unseemly.”

“So, what are you saying; that I am unclean; that there is no place for me, not even in House Ekimmou? I have no life in House Striga. I am incapable of living like this, among the Paradoxans. What am I to do, Praefect?” He dropped to his knees. “Please tell me what I can do.”

Yannara took a deep breath, composing herself., “Right now there is nothing to be done. My carriage is arriving. Once we manage this current situation, you and I will speak again on this issue.”

“Thank you. Thank you Praefect.” He rose and followed her to the front door. “I acted in desperation. It was not something I enjoyed.”

Yannara crossed the threshold and into the night with pursed lips, dismayed that he had chosen that moment to tell such an obvious lie.

As she stepped into her coach and settled into the backseat, Yannara took one last look at her host, watching as he shrank back disappearing into the shadow of his doorway.

“That was reckless, Yannara,” a smooth male voice sounded from the seat beside her.

“I'm sorry, Sebastian, but it was necessary.”

Sebastian Forza, even seated, was a tall man, height suitable to his muscular frame. He brushed back his dark curtain of curls displaying a handsome bronzed face with full lips pressed to a firm line. He heaved an irritated breath. “Was it as you surmised?”

“It was bad.” She slid nearer to him and leaned her head onto his shoulder, for the first time manifesting her weariness.

“Have they discovered I am not in Morocco?” he asked.

“I'm not sure. But they are sending a prime, the one from the Carpathians.”

“That ghoul? To what end?”

“Apparently mine.”

“Is that a fact?” His eyes blazed as his exsanguinating fleams dropped into place. “Then by all means, let him come. I will provide him a proper welcome.”

“This is precisely what House Striga wants, and what we must avoid. I refuse to give them the satisfaction of a war. I have a plan. We must contact our kinsmen in Amsterdam and have them put a bug in the ear of that gnat on our collective asses, Van Helsing.”

“Van Helsing? On more than a few occasions you've referred to him as 'a dithering incompetent'!” Sebastian said.

“We don't require competency... only a distraction.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Bringing a Paradoxan to do our dirty work? Yannara, have we fallen that low?”

“So, I should let House Striga do as they wish?!”

Sebastian threw up his hands. “Fine, but what of their spy? Aren't you concerned he will alert House Striga?”

“He is not a spy and he would be terrified to tell them he had spoken to me at all.”

“I am uneasy about this. He is not within our ambit of control. Let me take care of him right now. The sooner the better.”

“At this juncture it would rouse the suspicions of House Striga.”

“But you do not trust him.”

“I have seen what is in his head. He wants to belong, but with his deeply depraved appetites he would be easy prey for that creature from the Carpathians, that Dracula. If that corrupted prime digs its claws into our highly suggestible kinsman, our Clan could be damaged to the point where we may never again be able to proudly wear the ancestral name of Renfield.”

Beautiful Monsters

Valjeanne Jeffers

In the city of Passion, Sanyu perched atop a branch on the edge of town. The slender vampire had skin the color of chocolate, sable-brown eyes, thick lips and braids that brushed her shoulders. She stared down at the barred windows of the Haberdashery Shoppe. She’d been waiting for an hour, and still there was no sign of them.

The informant was wrong. And daylight is coming.

She heard them. Her preternatural ears picked up the sound of footsteps and, a breath later, a human scent. They came from two different directions and met in front of the Shoppe’s windows. A man who Sanyu recognized as Henry, one of the Sheriff’s police, entered the street on her right. His face was angular, and he had turquoise blue eyes and full lips; his hair fell in soft waves over his forehead. He was dressed in dark trousers and a suitcoat. A red S, outlined in gold, was emblazoned on his breast. The second one, Elise, entered on the left. She was plump and shapely with cropped blond hair and a heart-shaped face. She was dressed in a short skirt, boots, and a belted coat. She stared up at the man with adoring eyes.

Fool. She’s actually fallen in love with him.

Elise reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a scrap of folded paper, and handed it to him. “These are all their names.”

“Thank you, Elise,” Henry said. “Your loyalty will be rewarded.”

Elise inched closer. “I didn’t do it for the money. I did it for you,” she whispered. “I’d do anything for you, Henry―anything.”

Sanyu could hear them as clearly as if she was standing next to them. And she’d heard enough. Her eyes turned gold, the irises split by narrow black bands, and flew down from the branch to land between them. Her movement was only a blur in Elise’s vision.

But Henry saw her.

He was too late. Sanyu shoved the silver dagger into his abdomen and his buzzing screams split the silence. He reverted to his true form: an Adze― covered with hair, his head splitting into two antenna to reveal a hooded skull, a mouth with huge fangs and tiny black eyes— and fell writhing to the ground. Elise screamed and whirled about, fleeing down the narrow street.

With a low growl, Sanyu leapt into the sky and touched down in front of Elise to block her path. She stared into Elise’s green eyes, “Quiet!” she commanded in a velvet contralto. The woman fell silent, staring blankly at the vampire.

Sanyu grabbed the back of Elise’s head and pulled her in a lethal embrace … Clamping her lips onto the woman’s neck, she broke through the soft flesh with her fangs, and drank.

She lifted her mouth and licked her lips. She was still so thirsty. She wanted to drain the woman, but it wouldn’t do for the city inhabitants to find a body drained of blood. It wouldn’t do for them to know they had a vampire living in their midst.

No, that won’t do at all. Sanyu stared into Elise’s eyes once more. “You betrayed your friends― sold your soul to our oppressors. Find a river and drown yourself.” Hopefully, the water would cover the evidence of her crime.

Elise’s lips quivered. But she raced off to do the vampire’s bidding.

Sanyu bent over Henry’s body. She searched his pockets and found the scrap of paper. On it were twenty names of resisters. The vampire wiped her knife clean on his shirt, straightened up and secreted the paper into her bosom. Dawn’s blush was embracing the sky. She didn’t have long.

She gazed down at the Adze for one final moment of satisfaction, Let them try to explain what he is― what he was. That should keep them busy.

Sanyu hurried home.

Her flat was furnished with a black sofa and two matching chairs. A cherrywood bureau pushed against the right wall held clothing and jewelry. Across from this was her cold-box. A framed charcoal sketch of her parents done by her, and two more of her village, graced the bare walls. On the right, two steps led to her bedroom, and a queen-sized bed on a brass frame centered the floor. Sanyu climbed the steps to her bedroom and slid the panel behind her bed open. She secured her dagger on the hooks beside her revolver, stripped down to her underwear, and crawled into bed.

His creatures are everywhere. I killed one tonight, but a dozen more will replace him.

Sheriff John Mackaby ruled Passion, and all of the surrounding cities. His allies kept the rest of North America under their thumbs. And the Adze wore his insignia: the S. These creatures were always beautiful and incredibly strong and fast. The Adze were immune to magic, and their bite could kill vampires. But few knew of their true nature. They sauntered through Passion, disguised in human flesh, wielding the Sheriff’s power, and killing at will to keep folks in line.

Mackaby collected taxes from Passion and his other cities. Business owners, in turn, paid wages that were barely enough to keep folks alive. He ruled through fear, brute force, and by pitting humans against the Others: the magical folk, the fae, the centaurs, and his most hated adversaries … the vampires. Vampires were the only ones who could match the Adze in speed and strength. They were part of the Resistance: a group of humans and Others who’d banded together to overthrow his reign.

If we can survive.

Sanyu dreamed of Africa. Three hundred years ago, she was twenty … standing in the moonlight before the conical homes of her village.

Someone was calling her. His voice was a whisper, his breath caressing her neck.

Danger ... There is danger here!

Suddenly he appeared, a stranger with glowing black skin, his blue eyes hypnotizing her, holding her captive. He extended his hand. She took it ... and her fear was silenced by his cold touch. He pulled her close, drinking from her, then opened a vein in his wrist and pushed it to her lips. Sanyu drank eagerly.

And knew no more.

The next morning her parents found her laying in the doorway, her body nearly drained of blood. They knew, mamma and baba knew, looking at the puncture wounds on her neck that she had been visited by the Mlevi wa dama, the vampyr, the blood drinker who had been preying upon their village. And they knew what she would become. So they hid her sickness from the elders.

Sanyu opened her eyes in the darkness. Mamma and baba had been dead for centuries, but she still missed them, especially in times of turmoil. She reached over and pulled the long velvet cord beside her bed and the curtains slid back to reveal the darkness. Sunlight would cause fatal burns if she was exposed to it for too long without protection. And in the way of the vampire, it was her nature to sleep during the day, and walk the shadows at night.

Sanyu rose, sauntered to her closet, and pulled out a blouse, corset and trousers. She dressed and pulled a short sword from inside her closet and clipped it to her waist. Revolvers and other firearms were illegal in Passion, so said the Sheriff’s law, though knives and other weapons were permitted. As long as they weren’t silver. Silver was the only thing that could kill the Adze.

She walked over to her cold-box and opened the wooden door. Inside were jars of water and milk, wrapped bundles of food, and bottles of what looked like wine. They were actually bottles of pig’s blood, supplied by a sympathetic butcher who knew her secret. To the right of her cold-box, in the top cabinet, higher than any human could reach without a ladder (and there was a ladder nearby in case anyone asked) was another corked bottle of blood, left overnight to warm.

I could never stomach the cold stuff.

Sanyu morphed upward, moving faster than the human eye could follow, and hovered in mid-air. She pulled the bottle from the cabinet and touched down. Uncorking the bottle, she lifted it to her lips and drank deeply, draining the bottle in moments. It was warm. Sumptuous. Exquisite … filling the chasm of hunger left over from the previous morning.

But nothing, nothing, could match the thrill of the hunt … the terror in the victim’s eyes … replaced by willing submission … the first touch of lips on a warm neck, the crust of skin broken through like wet earth with her sharp fangs … and finally the geyser of warm blood, human blood, rushing past her lips, her tongue and down her throat. Nothing could replace it. Any of it. Because she fed on pig’s blood, she was always hungry. But it stopped her from attacking a hapless stranger on the street. Sanyu dropped the empty bottle in the wastebin, walked to the door and took a hooded jacket from the peg beside it. She slipped it on and stepped out into the night.

Sanyu walked down the narrow streets of Passion, past the tall slender buildings. A light snow had begun to fall. She came abreast of a bookstore, Tomes and Tales, and stopped for a moment to gaze longingly at the barred windows. To buy a book, she would have to cover every inch of her skin and try to wake a little earlier in the day.

She reached Cold Foamy Suds, the pub where she worked as a bartender, and pulled up short. Two burly men, one red-haired, one with a black shock of hair, were roughing up Timothy, a young fae with burnt umber skin. One of the men had him by the collar and had lifted him so high his toes were brushing the ground. The other one was tormenting Timothy by pulling the fae’s green hair and pointed ears. Timothy was a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday, and hadn’t reached full magical strength yet, or he could have blasted his tormenters into dust.

A crowd had gathered, some shouting at them to leave Timothy be, others yelling, “Kill the freak!”

Phillip, the owner, ran outside. “Hey now! Leave the kid alone!”

“Mind your own friggin’ business,” the red-haired man growled, “or we’ll give you a taste!”

Timothy turned his light brown eyes to Sanyu, wordlessly begging for help.

Damn-it! Walk away! Just walk away! But if she did, Timothy’s eyes would haunt her for a century.

Sanyu pulled her jacket back to reveal her short sword. “Leave him alone,” she said. The red-haired man looked over at her and barked laughter. “You think you can take us with that pig-sticker?”

She stepped in close and laid her hand on the red-haired man’s wrist. If I can just get him to look into my eyes, this’ll be over. “Please let him go,” she said softly, her voice oozing sensuality. “He’s not evil. He’s just different.”

His backhand slap caught her by surprise. It was lighting fast and vicious―drawing blood. She barely felt it. But Sanyu fell back into a crouch to fool the crowd.

Then the thirst kicked in.

Don’t―! It was too late. The violence, the blood, the rage, triggered her vampire nature. Why are they so stupid―so hateful?

Growling, Sanyu blurred forward, grabbed the red-haired man’s head, her other hand gripping his shoulder and sank her fangs into his neck. The onlookers’ screams were a distant roar.

And drank.

Sanyu soared up to the rooftop holding the doomed victim in her arms, so high that no one could drive a stake into her back as she fed. She threw him down on the roof.

“I’m sorry!” he begged. “Please―!”

Sanyu stared down at him with her golden eyes. “You bastard! You exposed me. I could have stayed here for years, but for you and your damn racism!” She fell on him, clamped her lips to his neck once more and drained him. Sanyu lifted her lips and wiped her mouth on his sleeve. Invigorated. Stronger. Feeling more alive than she had in months.

Might as well finish it. In for the penny. In for the pound.

She leapt down and spotted the red-haired man’s partner running through an alley. Sanyu blurred to him and scooped the screaming man up as if he were a child. She locked her eyes on his. “Stop struggling and be quiet!”

He fell silent and limp in her arms. Carrying him, Sanyu raced back to her flat.

Food shouldn’t be wasted.

Sanyu fed again, draining him with no remorse. Because of him, the city would be coming for her, and worse--the Sheriff’s monsters.

She pulled the reinforced shutters down over her windows and bolted the heavy door. She snatched her sketches off the wall and threw them in a duffle bag, along with her clothes. She slid the panel back behind her mattress back and grabbed her revolver and dagger. Sanyu clipped the dagger and revolver to her belt and left the panel open. It would confuse the Adze and buy her some time. There was a pounding at the door and, moments later, the sound of feet kicking it.

They’re here.

In the living area, in the center of the floor, was a myriad-colored rug. Sanyu pushed it aside and lifted a trap door. She jumped down, hovering in midair, slid the rug over the hole, and pushed the door shut. Moments later, the door burst open and twenty men and women, armed with stakes, pushed their way inside. Julius, a willowy Adze with mahogany skin, and Juliette, an Adze with the same flawless black skin and thick hair braided down her back, strolled in behind them. She was only a half-inch shorter than him and, from their resemblance to one another, it was obvious they were twins. Yet the Adze could change their race―even their gender―at will. Their appearance was only one of their many illusions.

Men and women swarmed over Sanyu’s flat, pawing over the belongings she’d left behind, searching for valuables― and fodder for gossip. But the twins were methodical, almost leisurely, as they sauntered through the flat. In her bedroom, they discovered the body of the red-haired man sprawled on her bed, his dead eyes staring upward. Juliette examined his neck and touched his limbs.

“He’s still warm,” she said in a velvet whisper.

“Which means the vampire is close.” Julius replied. They stepped down into the common room.

One man had opened Sanyu’s cold-box. He unwrapped a sandwich and began chewing. He spied one of Sanyu’s bottles of “wine,” shoved the other edibles out of the way with one hand and grabbed a bottle. He finished the sandwich off in one bite, uncorked the bottle and took a swig.

The man grimaced and spat the liquid out. “It’s blood! Filthy night crawler!” He dashed the bottle to the stone floor, and it shattered.

Julius face twisted in anger. “All of you get out!”

The man turned to Julius, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir!”

“Get OUT!” the last word was a roar. They scattered.

Juliette smirked. “You shouldn’t scare the help, brother.”

“They’re idiots,” he said dryly, “and they were trampling all over the evidence.”

Julius walked over to the cold-box, stepping over the glass, and pulled out another bottle. He uncorked it. His mouth narrowed; he opened his now circular mouth and extended a long slender forked tongue into the bottle.

Julius’ tongue retracted, his mouth becoming human once more. “This is pig’s blood.”

“Which means there’s a butcher, who is also a resister, nearby,” Juliette replied.

“We will deal with him later. Let’s find her.”

Juliette discarded a blouse she was sniffing, her eyes drawn to the twisted rug on the floor. She walked over and pushed it aside with her foot to reveal the trap door. The Adze smiled. “Ah, what do we have here?”

Sanyu raced through the tunnels, heading for the next way station. It was good that she had fed from humans. She would need all her strength for the road ahead.

Julius appeared in front of her, Juliette behind her.

“There is nowhere for you to run, night crawler!” Julius hissed. “The alarm has been sounded!” All semblance of his humanity vanished. His head split, and an oval with tiny purple eyes and a puckered round mouth emerged from his shoulders. On either side of his neck, the halves of his faux human head floated and twisted.

Behind her, Juliette leaned in so close Sanyu could smell her rancid breath. They knew the vampire couldn’t drink from them. Ichor, not blood, flowed through their veins. And it was deadly to her kind.

“Come quietly,” Juliette breathed in her ear, “and we won’t hurt you,”

Lies. All lies.

She would be tortured until she spilled all her truths and later burned alive. Sanyu morphed backwards, catching them off guard. The hand holding a revolver, loaded with silver bullets, blurred from under her jacket. In the next instant, a blackened hole appeared in Julius’ chest. He screamed in a piercing insectile shriek, his cries rising with Juliette’s, and collapsed.

“Brother―! You filthy bloodsucker!” Juliette’s grief and rage made her careless. She charged Sanyu, fangs bared.

Sanyu fired again and Juliette fell forward― pulling both of them to the stone floor. Sanyu pushed the dying Adze aside before Juliette’s deadly ichor spilled on her. It would burn through her clothes and skin.

She heard footfalls. They’re coming!

The vampire leapt to her feet and raced forward―covering the last mile within moments―to the next checkpoint. A hidden trapdoor. She morphed upward, hovering in midair, pushed it open and climbed up into a dark ghost town of stores and apartments. Not even a single streetlight burned. Moments later, a sepia-colored man with a ponytail of black hair appeared to face her. He looked to be twenty or so odd years but could have easily been two hundred.

“Name?” he asked.

“Sanyu.”

“Password?”

“Freedom.”

His full lips spread into a smile. “I’m Juan. We weren’t expecting your report for another month.”

Sanyu shrugged. “My cover was blown.” The town was silent and looked deserted, but she could feel eyes the eyes of the Others watching her. If she’d given the wrong answer, they would’ve torn her apart.

“The Council won’t be happy.”

Suddenly, the trap door, and the soil around it, exploded outward. Twenty-five Adze flew up into the town. Two grasped Sanyu on either side, another two, Juan. The rest raced through the town, searching for more resisters. The Adze on her right, an exquisitely comely man with a shock of black hair bent his fangs to her neck. Sanyu screamed, as crippling agony racked her body, and blacked out.

She awoke strapped to a table in a bare room with glass walls. Steel clamps secured her wrists and ankles. The Adze who’d bitten her stood over her smiling. “Hello Sanyu, I thought I’d killed you. And that would have been a shame.”

“Why didn’t you?” Sanyu said hoarsely. She was still in pain, but it was fading. Her vampire body was healing itself of his venom.

“Because you’re going to give me the names of your fellow traitors.”

Sanyu’s face twisted in anger. “I ain’t telling you shit.”

“In a few hours the sun will rise. I can leave you here to cook,” the Adze said softly. He stroked her cheek with a long-nailed forefinger, and she twisted her face away.

Sanyu glanced upward, then she bit her lip to conceal her terror. A wide swatch of the roof was covered with glass. “If I lose patience, I can chop off parts of you to hurry things along,” he went on. “A finger … a toe ... even your eyes. They won’t grow back under direct sunlight. But you know that already, don’t you? Give me their names and spare yourself a long, painful death.”

Insectile buzzing cries exploded in the next room―followed by a human scream. The Adze hissed and bared his fangs. In a blur he was gone.

In the next moment, a young man with brown sugar skin, freckles and a cloud of kinky hair appeared over her. A belt with two muskets encircled his waist. He grinned, exposing his fangs, and held up a ring of keys.

He unlocked the clamps, lifted her off the table and pulled a revolver from his belt. He pushed it into her hand. “Come Sister! Let us feed!”

Fangs bared, Sanyu rushed eagerly into the fray, her pain forgotten. The thirst was upon her now―an all-consuming hunger that would not be gainsaid, most especially since her body was still healing. She aimed her revolver and shot an Adze in the head. With revolver still in hand, she grabbed a fleeing human conspirator by her long hair and yanked her about. Sanyu dipped her head and tore open the woman’s neck, drinking from the bloody wound.

Ahead, a female centaur was firing her revolver … she took out an Adze, and then caught another one in her sights. A fae raised his hands and turned three charging humans to dust …

In minutes it was over, and the dead and dying covered the floors.

The Others gathered about the Council. Sanyu looked up at Sidonie, a towering vampire whose flawless caramel skin belied her age. She was a thousand years old, one of the oldest of her kind in recorded history.

“You used me as bait,” Sanyu said without anger.

“Yes beloved, we knew if we let them capture you, they would lead us to their cadre.” Sidonie touched Sanyu’s cheek gently with a cold hand. “We hoped they wouldn’t kill you, not until they’d gotten what they wanted.”

Damn, that’s reassuring.

Lance, an ebony-skinned Council member, sidled up alongside them. “You’ll have to be reassigned to another city,” he said in a rich basso profundo. “Passion is free of the Sheriff’s dogs. For now.”

“Could you reassign me near a bookstore that’s open at night?” Sanyu asked.

Lance roared laughter and put an arm about her shoulders. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Frostbite

Delizhia D. Jenkins

The icy rush of terror coursed through my veins the moment he sank his teeth into my skin; I could feel my heartbeat in my palms; I could taste his pleasure with every hard pull he took from me. In those moments, my mind fought against the sheer power of his will. His thoughts bludgeoned into my sacred chamber of well-placed memories, sifting through them like a man on a mission for spare change as he sorted through his dirty laundry. Here, I was raped. It was the mindfuck that nearly stripped me of my sanity, left me broken and bloodied on the cold linoleum floor, underneath a broken light fixture that flickered every other second.

I don’t remember much after that.

There are flashes of me being lifted onto a stretcher and an oxygen mask covering my mouth. A paramedic placed pressure on my open neck wound. I recall being surrounded by the entire medical staff as I struggled to breathe while simultaneously attempting to free myself of the clinging mask on my face. I ripped out the I.V. Alarms went off. The fire that surged through my veins, scorched me from the inside out.

It is the last of my memories from that night.

Three days after my hospital admission, I woke up on a cold, metal slab, locked away in a shelf awaiting burial. The darkness that surrounded me informed me that I was no longer fighting to breathe on a respirator. Gone were the cords that connected my heart to a machine, and the ivy drip that hung above my head, or the sounds of panic as doctors rushed to my bedside.

“Help me!” I cried out. “Somebody, please!”

Of course, my cries fell on deaf ears. My only company was the dead. The silence that surrounded me thickened like fog on the London bridge. Panic held me in its grip and when I realized that my heart could no longer beat to its own rhythm. I pounded the metal ceiling above me. The cramped spacing made it difficult to position myself to unleash impact of my strength. But after several hard kicks, the metal door broke off and I was able to slide out.

Once free, it didn’t take me long to realize how vastly different things would be for me moving forward. As I stood there in the center of the dark room of the morgue, dressed in a soiled hospital gown, memories of the life that I had lived up until that point returned to surface. I could never return home to the family I loved more than anything: my father, my sister, my mother… The thought of stepping across the threshold of our family home, the scent of herbs and spices tainting the air as my mother stood over the stove, preparing whatever it was she’d planned for dinner, and that blue line that pulsed down her jugular. Even as envision her standing in front of me with a warm smile, I can hear the hard thump and the rush of her blood coursing through her like the river to the sea. As I licked my lips, it didn’t take rocket science to figure out what I’d become.

I had been kissed by death, bitten by the frosted soul of a damned who hungered for heat.

I had joined the ranks of the damned.

But even as I mourned the life stolen from me, an awareness of a greater purpose awakened. Death may have become me, but the truth of the matter was, I have never felt more alive. Every sight, sound, smell and tiniest tactical vibrations had been enhanced nearly tenfold. Just two doors over to the left, the hushed whisper of the on- duty nurse who was supposed to be making the rounds on her shift, filtered into my awareness. Her husband’s philandering had finally caught up with him and as her attorney informed her that he was willing to settle outside of court with a million- dollar lump sum, her heart beat to the rhythm of victory. And speaking of heartbeats, just down the hall, the security guard who patrolled the building, whose pores wreaked of the fatty, greasy fast food he regularly gorged himself on, was one cheeseburger away from cardiac failure. I could smell his funeral from miles away.

I’m alive in more ways than one, but it’s the night that called me in a way I’d never experienced. The dark secret that my family tried to hide was what came to the surface through an ugly bite; the cold tendrils of the hidden truth penetrated my soul and forced Destiny to show its hand. The instant his fangs penetrated my skin, the truth of who I am, who he was and what my family had done, slammed into my mind’s eye. In that moment, it was unclear of what was more painful: his bite or the truth.

I detect the familiar presence of someone who was as close to me as my own skin. And now that I’ve awakened…

She was coming for me.

“I would be careful with that daughter of yours.”

I overheard my grandmother whisper to my father one night as we gathered in the living room for the Friday Night line up on ABC. Steve Urkel’s laughter tickled my sister to no end as I crept in, dressed in my favorite purple pajama set. My mother rested peacefully in the room she shared with my father, finally, after a long battle with what we thought was the flu.

I felt my grandmother’s eyes on me as I plopped down next to my younger sister on the worn, ancient green couch that had to be older than time itself. When our eyes met, she smiled quick to mask her concern. I disregard her comment as I focused on Eddie Winslow’s saunter into the scene. The studio audience erupted with catcalls and cheers and in this moment, nothing else mattered. I’d been waiting for this episode for over a week.

“Why do you say that?” My father asked with a heavy sigh.

“Darkness follows her, just as it did her mother,” my grandmother told him.

“We took care of that,” my father argued in a hushed whisper. “As you can see, Ana is doing better. She will be better.”

My grandmother looked at my father, “She will be better.”

I had no clue as to what either of them were talking about. As far as I knew, everything was fine. My mother’s condition improved, my parents loved me, and my sister was well…even at the age of twelve, what I did know was that my grandmother always had her eyes on me. Every little thing I did, wrong or right was heavily scrutinized. There was never really any love between me and Eileen Murphy. She demonstrated preference for my, and she hovered protectively over my mother like a hawk.

It almost felt as if she was protecting my mother from me. My father never treated me any differently. To him, I would always be his blue sky on a cloudy day– which is why he named me, Skai. As far as my sister, despite the two-year age difference, we grew closer with every year that passed to the point of being nearly inseparable.

Since that night and many nights that followed, I recalled sensing the presence of something or someone in the shadows watching me. My mother recovered to her normal, loving self. But there were nights when my father would stay up late, well into the early hours of the morning, near the window, keeping watch.

My grandmother too.

Like night sentinels, after the rest of us retreated to bed, those two kept watch over the house. I stayed up and discovered their nightly duty. Every day my father would be out the door by six in the morning to go to work without missing a beat. And every day my grandmother would cook our breakfast without so much as a yawn while my mother slipped on her office pumps and prepared for her 9-5.

Such was my childhood. I never asked about my mother’s mystery illness. I never asked my father why he spent many nights seated by the window, watching the street while my mother and sister slept. My grandmother managed to maintain her cool composure towards me, which in my book was fine. My mother discontinued her attempts to pacify the situation by ignoring my grandmother’s comments. The foundation of my family tree rested on buried secrets and like all things hidden in the dark, those same secrets would eventually come to life.

“There was another killing near the warehouse last week,” my father revealed to my mother just as I entered the kitchen.

As promised, I arrived for our family’s weekly Taco Night which was supposed to be our way of staying connected through good food, laughs and games. I moved out after high school and enjoyed my independence and solitude. My sister, Kayla, got the keys to her first apartment. Both of us live within minutes of our family home. No sooner had I fiddled with my keys and opened the door to come, my grandmother greeted me from her favorite recliner, her eyes sharper than ever.

“Hi Grams,” I greeted her as I walked by.

“Skai,” she said, my name sounding like acid on her tongue than anything.

“Yes?”

“Do you do as I instructed you to do?” she asked.

“Yes. Every night. I mop my floor with Florida water, and I wipe down my doorway and windows with the boiled herb recipe you gave me. And around my neck I sleep with the Aventurine stone.”

She paused, and the said, “Good.” Her gaze softened. “I know we have had our differences Skai, but there are things that you do not understand. Dark things, Skai.”

She never went into details about those “dark things”, which was how I ended up continuing into the kitchen to overhear my father discussing recent killings.

“Hey ma…dad,” I said, trying my best to sound casual.

Perhaps I should have stayed at my own place this week. Everyone seemed to be on edge and with the long workday that I had, the last thing I needed was more depressing energy.

“Hey baby,” my mom said, rushing over to me with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were here.”

“Yeah, I just had a brief convo with Grams…”

“Oh ok,” my mom replied. “Don’t worry. I’m about to get started with the tacos. I’m cooking both shredded chicken and ground beef, so your father doesn’t have a fit.”

“Whatever woman,” my father chuckled. “I just like real meat, that’s all.” He looked at me and smiled. “How’s my big baby? How was work today?”

“It was fine,” I answered evenly. “Same as always…” Dealing with people whether over the phone or person is was always draining.

The keys jangled at the front door, indicating that Kayla had made her way over. At nineteen, she stood a good three inches taller than my 5’7’’ but a good twenty pounds lighter to my 140. We shared a close resemblance, being that we inherited our mother’s slanted eyes, full lips with high cheek bones. My darker skin tone set me apart from Kayla’s lighter one. The train stops with our hairstyle choices. I opt for the simplicity of water, gel and conditioner, while Kayla dons the bolder, more colorful hairstyles.

My grandmother greeted her with warmth and open arms. I remind myself that the evening will be over soon enough, and it would not be long before I was home alone and under my own roof.

“Hey Grams.” Kayla leaned down to kiss our grandmother on the cheek. “Ready for me to beat you in Spades tonight?”

“Chile please,” Grams huffed. “I ain’t worried about you!”

Laughter followed and soon enough everyone relaxed, teased, and joked throughout the evening. My mother’s tacos left smiles on our faces and our bellies full. When 9:00 hit, it was time – at least for me – to leave. Hugging and kissing my parent’s goodnight reminded me of our nightly routine when I was a child. But as I bypassed my grandmother who this time, did not bother to raise her eyes up at me, I was more relieved than anything to leave.

“Skai!” Kayla called out to me from behind. “Don’t forget, I’m coming over to drop off that shelf.”

“Yeah, I know. I will be off by the time you get there,” I mumbled. “See y’all later!”

“Love you sis!”

“Love you too, Kayla!”

I never for one second thought that all my grandmother’s suspicions and questions would be fully warranted. For twenty-two years, I believed my grandmother forced herself to live long past the cancers that threatened to end her life, the stroke that nearly left her with the ancestors, and the small day to day ailments that attempted to weaken not only her body, but her spirit. All of it, she endured to protect the ones she loved.

From me.

No matter how deep they’re buried, secrets have an interesting way of revealing themselves. I should have asked my grandmother about the “witchy” measures she demanded I take every night. But my refusal to engage with her kept me silent. That night, I was too tired to even think about Florida water, let alone sage burning, and repetitive prayers. Instead of the nightly ritual, I hit the shower before climbing into bed. Sleep found me rather easily. Nestled deep underneath the thickness of my comforter, my body succumbed to the day’s fatigue. I felt myself drift, ascending higher into the realms of unconsciousness before plummeting. I cannot be sure of how long I spiraled through the nothingness. But once time came to a standstill, I found myself isolated in a barren land of darkness.

The icy chill of his breath startled me. Red eyes pierced through the shadows of my bedroom and I froze. I felt a short breeze of movement dart from across the room and suddenly a cold finger traced a gentle trail from the base of my ear down my neck. I shivered from the chill that coursed through my veins from his touch.

“Do not be afraid, young one,” the entity said. His baritone voice ripped through my defenses, calling out to me in a way that no man had. “I’ve watched you for quite some time now.”

“Who are you?” I struggled to see more than just his outline. He stood over me by several inches, supported by a lean build and broad shoulders. From what I could make out, he wore a suit.

“You will find out in due time. You didn’t put the barrier down as your grandmother instructed,” he pointed out. “At last, you and I will meet again. I was robbed once, and I will be damned if I am robbed again.”

With that, my eyes snapped open. I could still feel the iciness of his touch. Is he the reason my grandmother had distanced herself from me and made me partake of senseless rituals?

I didn’t go back to sleep that night and for the nights that would follow, he would meet me, there in my dreams after a long hard battle with myself to not close my eyes. Rather than give me direct answers, he would speak to me in riddles until my alarm would go off at 6:45 in the morning. After each encounter, my soul grew a little colder, a little darker. I began to feel the disconnect between myself and the people around me such as my coworkers and my family. Their stories of detailing their everyday joys like the morning stops for a Starbucks coffee or who said what during last night’s carpool… it all meant absolutely nothing to me. The Florida water was no longer effective, and neither was the aventurine. It seemed that all it took was one slip in not maintaining the ritual for it to be enough for him to cross the barrier.

My grandmother knew. Her eyes held a secret that my father’s lips wouldn’t dare utter, while my mother seemed to operate in a state of oblivion. The sole question that remained was what did I have to do with any of it?

As I laid dying on the stretcher from a combination of blood loss and the curse that came with the vampires’ bite, his memories became my own. The paramedic team’s voices became distorted as I am pulled into a vision of my grandmother in her youth. Cradled to her chest, a tiny infant slept. My mother. Memories from the vampire’s mind flooded my psyche. Pregnant. My grandmother was pregnant the night he stalked her from the bus stop to the newly built townhome she shared with my grandfather. Accompanied by a female of soft dark skin, dark eyes and an even darker thirst, the two vampires appeared at the door, pretending to be lost and in need of assistance.

The secret kept hidden underneath the old home’s wooden floorboards was my grandfather’s stake. My grandmother married into one of the last known vampire hunting families. Instinctively my grandfather knew that these two were not human and barred them entry. The female would not be discouraged and discovered an entry point into their home that had not been prayed over or anointed with oils, blessed water, or frankincense. However, my grandfather, two steps ahead of her shot her in the head with several silver bullets before staking her in the heart, turning the creature to ash.

Heartbroken and full of rage, the vampire swore vengeance on my family. There were many battles between himself and my grandfather before my grandfather died, but not by my killer. Another vampire who had been full and high on human blood. My grandmother told us that my grandfather had died in the Vietnam War. He died in a war alright, but not one that took place in Vietnam.

My grandmother had long proven herself skilled in the arts of magic and of high understanding of the esoteric. As the only child, my mother was protected until she met my father, an accountant who worked for the local bank. My grandmother had taught him what he knew about vampires, thus my father became a hunter, and when my killer came again, this time for my mother, my father was ready.

That’s why they never left my grandmother’s house and into their own residence.

I dove deeper into the vampire’s unconsciousness, spying memories that brought clarity to the many years of being the victim of my grandmother’s suspicion.

“You owe me a mate,” he growled at my grandparents before disappearing into the night. “Whether it be the child who suckles your breast,” he hissed at my grandmother. “Or even her own daughter, but your blood will be mine.”

So, here I am, fulfilling a promise he made long ago. I am the ending of a long-kept secret. Yet my grandmother never protected me as she did my mother or Kayla. None of the vampire’s memories have been able to explain why.

“It was the scratch that I gave you when you were but a babe,” I heard a voice whisper to me as doctors rush the stretcher into the OR. “But I am sure Mrs. Murphy never disclosed that.”

I released a groan as my mind was bombarded with visions from the vampire’s past, including the night he came for my mother. She and my father had gotten into a heated argument. I remember that night well for I was at the dining room table, giggling at the funny faces Kayla made behind our grandmother’s back. I heard them shouting. Tears rained down my mother’s face as my grandmother tried to intervene, but it was clear my mother was fed up.

“This is not the life I signed up for!” she roared as she snatched her black trench coat from the coatrack.

“Marla please,” my grandmother pleaded with her. “It is dark outside, and the neighbors will hear you!”

“Fuck those neighbors!”

My sister and I froze. Never in my twelve years of living had I ever heard my mother belt out such strong language. Rarely did she ever raise her voice and so to witness her in such an enraged form frightened us. What had daddy done to make her so upset?

Next my father stormed out of their bedroom, his expression eerily calm. “Marla, please calm down. I promise you it was nothing- “

“You and I both know that is bullshit!” My mother huffed as she swung the door open.

“Where are you going?” My father asked, trying to stop her. “Please Marla. Don’t do this!”

“I need some air and if you know what the hell is best for you, both you and my mama bet’ not follow me.” Venom dripped from each syllable that spewed from my mother’s lips. My father stood still on the porch and watched her march down the street in the direction of wherever her anger took her.

It was a few days after Christmas, and we had yet to take down the decorations from the big beautiful tree. That night had been particularly cold – colder than the usual fifty-five-degree Los Angeles weather. My sister slid from her seat and into our grandmother’s arms as we all had watched my mother leave us for the “fresh air” that she said she needed.

She returned sometime after my sister and I went to bed. When we woke up the next morning, she wasn’t the same. To be honest, even though she recovered, there were parts of her, that no longer existed.

I believe that a part of my father died with those parts of her too.

She spent days bouncing between feverish temperatures and freezing; she threw up; hallucinated. Rather than take her to the hospital, my grandmother spent every waking moment cleaning her up, feeding her homemade herb concoctions. We were told she battled the flu and not to worry, but as my heartbeat slowed, I realized that my mother had been frostbitten just as I had.

The difference between the two of us was that she survived and well… I did not.

There was no temperature colder than death, and there is definitely no temperature colder than the bite that was delivered. It froze everything within me, stopping my heart and the thirst that burned in my throat craved not just the nutrients that blood provided but the warmth of it too. Many years after that night, I learned that drinking the cold blood of the dead could do more damage than good. My victims needed to be alive and preferably terror stricken, as I would need all the energy I could get.

The last of my human memories were of my family surrounding me at my bedside. Even while unconscious, I could still sense them. My mother’s grief heavier than the rain that poured outside. My father could find no words other than, “I’m sorry.”

My grandmother said nothing. The reason being was that she knew that I was next in line for damnation. But my sister, my poor little sister, there was something different about her. Her grief conflicted with rage – a hatred even.

“I never thought this would happen to her,” Kayla murmured. “And you Grams, you never told her- “

“I gave her specific instructions to follow which she disobeyed,” our grandmother replied evenly.

“But you never told her what was coming or what I am supposed to do,” Kayla argued. “How could you?” She stopped and looked at our parents who were also lost. “How could any of you just not protect her? She was supposed to be like me too!”

“When the vampire scratched her that night he tried to break in,” I heard our father say. “His blood had already tainted hers. There was nothing we could do. We called all of the Elders and we even had several witch doctors come and attempt to extract the poison from your sister, but they were not successful.”

“But you could have told her what happened,” Kayla insisted through thick tears. “You could have told her that we were next in line to hunt. You could have told her what was coming for her, but you didn’t. Why?”

My mother’s sobs echoed throughout the room. “I’m so sorry Skai,” she whimpered into my ear. “I should have told you.”

“Because,” our grandmother began slowly. “We owed a debt to that vampire and he was determined to hunt our family down to extinction. You are the last of the Vampire Hunters, Kayla. With Skai gone, it all comes down to you. Skai did not have a chance to build immunity against their bites like your mother did. That’s the only reason she survived.”

“What debt are you talking about?” Kayla hissed.

“Your grandfather killed the mate of the vampire that stalked us,” our grandmother said. “As part of his revenge, the vampire demanded a mate for a mate. When he realized that he couldn’t take Marla, Skai was marked when he scratched her.”

When the glass from my sister’s hand slipped from her grip and shattered onto the floor, the machine that monitored my heart rate went off in alarm. It was in learning this final tidbit of information that I was willing to let go of the life I was willing to fight for. It was over. My parents failed me. My grandmother failed me. And my poor sister would be left alone to deal with it all.

I couldn’t even mourn what I was supposed to be because no one ever told me.

And that was fucked up.

He waited for me at edge of the window. His dark skin perfect underneath the night’s dim lit sky. He felt like home now that I was awake and aware. His handsomely chiseled face no longer reminded me of the threatening monster that took my throat all but a few hours ago.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “I always knew that you would grow into a beautiful woman. Such lovely skin… soft lips… and now that we are equals, you are even more perfect than before.”

He extended his hand. “Come with me. I will protect you and teach you everything you need to know about what you are. You will never have to live in fear again.”

“Skai.”

I am not surprised to discover my sister behind us, standing in the middle of the room in front of the metal slab that rest in the center. In her arms, she held a loaded shotgun and I’m sure the rest of her body was covered with additional weaponry.

“Kayla” I breathed. I turned around to see the full view of her. Her cheeks, stained with dried tears, her eyes puffy and red from crying. I wished I could hug her and tell her that everything will be ok.

Everything would be ok if she lets me go.

“Don’t go with him,” she pleaded with me, aiming the gun in his direction. “He’s taken so much from us. His kind are a curse! Come with me. We can find a cure. Let me help you.”

“I can’t do that. You know there is no cure.”

“We can find one!” She sobbed, as her finger shakily traced the trigger. “It didn’t have to be this way. Our parents, Grams, they fucked up!”

“That they did,” I said and took a step towards her.

“You’re not a monster to me,” she cried. “You will always be my sister.”

“And you will always be mine,” I whispered. Her blood smelled too good to me and I forced myself to stop walking. “I love you Kayla.”

“I love you too, Skai.” She wept. “Please don’t leave me.”

I took a look at her for the final time. All of this was wrong. So wrong. We were supposed to be each other’s bridesmaids at our weddings. We were supposed to be there for each other’s kids. I was supposed to be there to hold her during her first break up and help her along with life until we grew old.

“You know I have to. It is for the best.”

“But I don’t want you to.”

“I don’t want to either. I heard everything that Grams said. At least, now it all makes sense.”

“You would rather go with the fucker that killed you! He stole your humanity and turned you into what you are than be with me?”

“How can I be with you when I want your blood, Kayla?” My honest question made her freeze. Her gaze bounced between me and my maker and then back to me again. The longer she stayed the thirstier I became. My saliva thickened along my gumline and I shuddered.

As if sensing my hunger, she took a step back. “I will never give up hope Skai and I mean that,” she promised. “Go. Run away as far as you can. But keep in mind that I will come looking for you.” She waved the gun at my maker. “It is only because of my sister that I am allowing you to time to escape.”

My maker nodded and gripped me by my elbow, reminding me that it was time to leave. “I wish I could hold you Kayla.”

“I do too, and I am sorry that I didn’t know that you didn’t know…”

I shrugged. “It is what it is. But I will always be your sister and once, once I can control what I am, I will find you and I will protect you.”

“Go Skai. When I find you, I will have a cure. I promise you that.”

My maker didn’t give me any more time to reply because we were in the air, hovering in a flying leap across the parking lot in a blink of an eye. Just like that, in less than twenty-four eyes, everything around me, changed. My sister is now the family’s only hope against vampires and judging by the fire that was in her eyes, the vengeance that she will unleash will be something of legend.

As for me, as much as it hurt my heart to leave her there in that hospital morgue, I knew in the end it was for her own good. I have no idea if I will ever have the discipline to be around her without harming her.

There are too many unanswered questions. I can only hope that if I do see her again, she will see me as her sister and not another frost bite.

Di Conjuring Nectar of di Blood

Kai Leakes

A surging force ripped through her chambers awakening her with a sharp electric start. It traveled through her body leaving a warm, sweet imprint against her lips. Habit made her flick her tongue over the surface, tasting a lingering, robust, and vibrant burgundy essence. The instant her fingers flexed, her dark nails, once extended in length, returned to the mid-length of a person used to working with their hands.

The tight restraint of silk bundled around her fell to her sides. It was a reminder of her curse and the weight and restraint of the many bodies that had toppled upon her causing her dark rebirth. A spark in her head told her who she was. Her name was Isoke. She sat up and pushed her thick braids back.

In the distance, a click then scratchy whirring of a recorder began. Smooth crooning vocals wove with the rhythm and flow of jazz and ragtime music. Lulled sweetness flowed in the air. A click and loud shift let her know she could rise from her hidden rest-a-way in a compartment wall. She opened her eyes to glance around the room then rose from her slumber.

Her awareness was limited to her sense of sound and smell. Her mind was still locked with the dream memories of her ancient life.

“I can still smell and taste the sea,” Isoke thought to herself. It conflicted with the sweetness in the room. Her heart began an erratic dance in her chest. Her hands shook. Her stomach wretched in pain at the sensory memory, and fear bristled up her spine. Her rising fury at the trauma made her scream.

The putrid scent of soiled bodies, sweat, and vomit haunted her. That memory with the ungodly heat of being chained against multiple bodies still frightened and grounded her. This was always the way with her awakenings. The pull to the sweetness in the air made her smile at the realization that she had been summoned. He was close by, stalking, as was his way.

Only he could wake her prematurely like this.

As she was used too, the warmth of candlelight gave her an embracing welcome. She looked to the candles, but she was startled. This wasn’t the light of dimming flames. No, it was electricity. The first time she had seen such wonder was 1887 in New York City. Only a few wealthy people were privileged to its astonishing use. Now, it seemed her home was equipped with it. Her love must have been at his scientific crafts or was wealthy.

Catching her attention, she heard a familiar deep and sultry drawl with the lilt of her native tongue speak out to her. “Mi Isoke. I wanted to wake you in case I had ta’ leave. There’s rumors that we may enter the big war soon. Therefore, I wanted ta’ do our ritual one last time to be prepared.”

He was her mate. It was his sweetness that woke her. He had unlocked her hideaway wall. He had opened her cubby. He had undone her bindings. Now why was his name hiding from her. She shook her clouded mind. She’d always known him, but this was the way of her awakening. Hissing, she sharply turned when she heard his heavy footsteps around her chamber. Everything was too loud or too soft.

His low timbre became louder as her sense continued to sharpen. “It has been nineteen years since we’ve last seen each otha—”

“F-found,” she interrupted in a slight stutter. It was always difficult to waken. “E…”

She tried to conjure his name, but it wouldn’t come.

“Take your time,” he gently suggested. Her love’s deep chuckle made her shift her attention his way to watch him through glassy filmed eyes. She couldn’t see his face. Just his aura’s mauve glowing silhouette, a condition only their kind could see.

Because she trusted him, she didn’t lash at him with her nails when he appeared by her side. No, instead, her hand caressed the hard shape of his jaw while the pad of her thumb stroked his mahogany skin. A comforting visage for her hazy mind. He smelled of sweetgrass, pipe tobacco, and apples. She studied the face of her lover’s rugged beauty. Regal but rough and abrasive like a warrior with captivating deep brown eyes. His lush lips held back his usual beaconing smile.

His hair was in a low crop with kinky waves. The raised pattern bumps of scarification in a line from the corner of his right eye reminded her of their shared link and creation of what they were. Only she and others of their kind could see his mark. Her matching sigil was against her hip and stomach.

Nana Buluku! She had missed him.

She also was starving.

A warm glass was pressed to her lips as he said, “Here, drink pon di nectar jar. I brang yuh new fruits an’ fresh sangre di maison de bleu fleur-de-lis. Tis mixed how ya like, where ya won’t have to take di long rest.”

Her hunger’s intensity made her hiss and her fangs dropped.

Their last meeting had been in 1805. He had saved her from a group of bounty hunter priests wearing a blue fleur sigil appointed by foreign vampyre, not of her kind who wanted their unique abilities: Day-walking and magic. They had learned only part of the secret to brutally capturing her and lover: binding their bodies with anointed ropes, or they thought, and casting them in a secret grave to never be found. Her long braids spilled over her shoulder as she leaned away from the glass to look at him a bit longer, but her love shook his head.

“Duro, Isoke. Mu, lẹhinna Emi yoo mu. You know our ways, okan mi,” he gently ordered her to drink with the endearment of ‘my love.’ He traced the pad of his thumb under her jaw to tilt up her chin. She still appeared twenty-three and her love, twenty-four.

Golden hypnotizing eyes locked on her. He gave a little nod towards the glass he held for her and repeated, “Drink.”

She followed his command to stop her protest and drink, as was their ritual. She always did this, always wanted to see him feed first, but as was their way with whoever was awakened first, she took a quick sip then drank deep. Her hands shook and the glass slipped to the floor.

“E-e…” she tried his name again, but it wouldn’t come. She looked up at him. His eyes glowed the same deep mauve as his aura.

Her night vision cleared. Her love stood before her in suspenders and black pants, an undone white shirt, and boots. Without thought, she rushed him. It was a beat of their synced heartbeat that made her soar to him. She pressed her lips against his waiting neck, as her hand found his desire. When they fell to the floor, the moment her tongue tasted his flesh, the burst of cinnamon filled her mouth as her incisors dug into his heart vein.

Isoke felt the mighty grip of her lover’s hands on her rear. The touch of his fingers parting her lush thighs followed. But it was his sultry stroke that made her blossom in respond. His rich blood filled her mouth and ran down her throat. Molasses. The long overdue reunion made her awakening divine. She hooked her leg over his narrow waist to feel the weight of his body pressed against her, gifting her with the girth of his shaft.

“You’re Ehioze. Ah, di sweet nectar…” she moaned in his mind while she felt him inch his fangs into her neck and felt him sensually stake his claim of her blood and body.

Several hours later, Ehioze leisurely walked around Isoke drinking in her naked voluptuous curves. “The last time you were awake, I saw from ya logs t’was 1905. Tis’ 1916. You’ll hafta call me Easy ‘round here, ‘specially since you’ll be takin’ over the businesses and reopening ya’ boutique.”

“Easy, an’ not Eloi Noble,” Isoke lulled, enjoying his gaze.

That smile of his, which she always dreamed about, warmed her spirit. Though their people would call them the embodiment of evil when they were together, to each other they were pure love, misunderstood by their shared curse. The throbbing against the side of her neck was a testament to that fact. Her lover had fed from her as if starving for air and she adored it.

“Ma belle, I still go by that name, but you know the ways of our people here. Names, we keep it short. Simple an’ sweet, even in this timeframe,” he explained.

Isoke reflected on that reality, then slipped into the frock dress of the period. Subtle cream with a purple waist belt were her colors and complimented the beauty of her rich black skin. They only used their birth names Isoke and Ehioze with each other. To the world, the names their long-dead owners gave them were used to blend in with the culture.

“Been sleep long enough ta still keep ma’ name: Comfort Noble, named afta mi grandmotha as I always say mon cheri.” She strolled to where there were several balms to heal and soothe the flesh she lost in her transformations. There were also tins and bottles labeled Poro Beauty Cosmetics with hair styling items, and an open book, Annie Malone’s Poro Beauty Culture Guide.

“If it ain’t broke, ain’t no need ta fix it, as they say.” Easy came to stand behind Comfort. He combed his fingers through the ends of her hair then muttered, “Keep ya braids, just tuck it as the ladies do. Don’t worry about all the stuff they put on it till you feel comfortable, okan mi.”

“I like mi hair how it tis,” she said in her lilting accent.

“As do I, though I wouldn’t mind seein’ it short again either,” Easy bowed forward and kissed her shoulder. “I’ll help you some with pinning it.”

Comfort laughed while they styled her hair. To the right of her were paintings and various pieces from Easy’s travels home on display. She reached in a drawer of the dresser he always kept for her and pulled out a box, “As you’re always used to.”

“Here.” She gently placed the box in his larger hand. “I made it before ma’ rest during the Great World’s Fair. I fed very well then, an’ freed a few.”

Eyes shining, she gave a fanged smile, “As ya know tis yah replenished gris-gris—”

“To keep me protected an’ camouflaged,” Easy murmured looking it over.

“Mmhmm. Yuh hunger will be abated and they won’t see yuh change with the gris-gris, yuh know that.” She adjusted the beaded bracelet and necklace with its carved wood and bone amulet.

“Wume. Asanbosam,” she stated, naming his race of vampyre. She pressed the enchanted adornments against his warm flesh and muttered verses in Yoruba to a song of protection. Triggered and vibrating with awakened power, the amulet and necklace melted into Easy’s flesh.

He cried out in pain. His fangs dropped to show twin spears of smooth iron and his already dark skin turned ebon. The snapping of bone started then stopped, stalling a full bat, curved hooved bestial transformation. Pleased with her conjuring magic, Easy flashed his smile and the image of the man he was, stayed true.

“Asiman. Wume,” he responded with a brush of his lips against her own.

Jazz continued to flow as Easy updated Comfort about the time, culture, music, dance, and why he was leaving. He laid out a sword to hide in her clothing, a switchblade, and twin silver guns tucked in her dress and purse.

“Come with me. Let me reintroduce ya’ to our home.” He pulled on his newsboy hat. He then took her hand, kissed her knuckles, and led them upstairs. “We’re near Saint Louis, in East St. Louis with our people to keep ya’ protected.”

Easy showed her all the exits of their small home. He then took her to their businesses: his barbershop and the restaurant/club.

“Might be people who may remember me from Alton,” she said, looking around the bustling town full of working Colored folk, and others.

“Shan’t be no problem, baby. Like ya’ said, you’re ya own grandchild.” Easy joked then tapped his hat in a nod of greeting toward fellow passing Black folk.

Comfort laughed with him. She slipped her arm through Easy’s. “I’ve been connected to both sides of the river fa’ so long that I can feel the life flowing through me— I can feel our ‘Gardes du corps de famille.’”

“Yes, our protection from the enemy at the factory hidden near ‘Elleardsville’ district and the farm near Alton is still here on both sides of the river. Our ile oludasile is still strong and our people’s children are protected,” Easy explained about their founding house. “Our pact made sure of that. If anything happens…”

Across the railway tracks of the town near the factories and steamboat row, loud protests cut off his statement. Comfort noticed large groups of men, many holding signs, others staring at every one of color in anger and disparaging vile.

“If anything happens, I know to escape there while draining their flesh of its nectar,” Comfort finished for him. “Now, as for them?”

“Yes.” Easy’s tone became grave. He followed Comfort’s gaze towards a group of men who watched them in veiled disgust. “Tis’ not easy here either. The rumors of war have us all on edge, an’ many a’folk are fussin’ bout job loss, among other thangs and the harvests not comin’ in.”

“I understand, tis di same fah us always, okan mi ayeraye.” She studied the men’s ruddy faces as they passed. “I fed while I rest by using the spirit lantern. I tried not to touch our people’s lands, but I was starving.”

Easy pulled her close to him and spoke low. “It’s the way of ya’ curse. I tried my best to replenish what was lost fa’ our people wit’ the spells in our ancestors alter book: the dexoxos. Made sure any child who got sick from ya curse was sent your tonics and gris-gris. It’s simply hard times out c’here. I won’t be around to keep it up so you might have to falter ta our back up plan as ya said before. Our people, an’ our protectors will care fa’ ya ‘cause I let ‘em know I woke ya.”

She always could trust Easy’s brilliant strategic mind.

“Hey, Easy! Ya said ya was gearing up fa’ the war but, ooo wee who knew you’d have a nice lady on the side before ya go. Good, grief an’ beef!” Someone yelled towards them interrupting their intimacy.

Easy laughed with a sharp whistle. “I told ya’ll,” he said with a brilliant grin and swift adjustment of his cap, “I got me a fine wife, but ya’ll thought I was lyin’.”

Comfort’s eyes flashed in the sunlight when she heard the man’s inner thoughts. She gripped Easy’s arm and muttered, “An’ a lady friend? Hmm, is she fah us both? Or do I hav’ta drain her?”

Easy slyly wrapped an arm around her waist as was his way to keep her calm. Then cleared his throat.

“Keep talkin’ that heat, Walt! All ya’ drinks bout ta’be horse piss an’ mud wata!” he threw back in jest to his friend.

Easy kept his eyes ahead observing the passing buggies and horses before answering her. “You may do as you wish with my friend, my love. You know that.”

“Hmm…as you did a decade ago when you tore out my gentleman caller’s neck?” she countered.

A keen sensual laugh came from him. “I didn’t feel inclined to share that decade.”

To the human eye, Easy’s amused grin displayed two gold capped incisors among his pristine white teeth. Comfort lay her head against his bicep. As was their way, they’d had many lovers, shared many lovers, and fed on many lovers. There was no jealousy between them. They had lived too long to entertain such emotion. They always needed each other, and came back to each other in love, lust, hunger, and partnership.

“For ya’ awareness, that there’ comedian was Big Conductor Walter,” Easy winked at Comfort. “He knows the rail and waterways an’ acts as our side of the town’s eyes as my right hand.”

Intrigued, Comfort asked, “As in a deputy?”

“Nah, not like that. Not like the ones that used to hunt us. More like our type of lawmen. Buffalo soldiers cus he was one.”

Easy walked them by buildings and shops owned by the colored folk of the town while stopping in front of a glass storefront that was his barbershop. “Welcome to the start of our new life.”

It was a year later. Beautiful brown bodies skillfully danced with hands lifted in the air to the rhythmic magic of the music that was playing in the juke joint. Miss Jubilee Brown crooned about how a man should know how ‘ta rock dem’ hips in a sassy Blues ditty. People stomped their feet, clapped with the tune, and danced to the drums, horns, and strumming piano keys filling the club. Some were here to get their minds off their troubles and others were here to send off loved ones.

Comfort adapted into her new community. After a year, Easy had been drafted in the war and dispatched to France. With the help of a few of their protectors/kin members, she ran Easy’s club, while Walt ran the barbershop. Going about her business, Comfort had closed her dress shop for the day and came through to check on the establishment.

She served homemade drinks, fresh fried catfish with white bread and the fixins’. While occasionally cleaning up where the staff missed, she also read over the books of her ‘Poro’ sponsored beauty salon in St. Louis. More accurately, where her second home was ‘Elleardsville’ - now called ‘The Ville,’ a bustling community founded by elite and working Colored folk. She remembered the days when it was nothing, but green pasture marked by her French masters, European immigrants. Later Colored city developers would build the first Colored institution, Elleardsville Colored School No. 8 in 1873.

“Now Mista Coleman, you gawn and eat that up. Got some of Miss Sweet’s yam cake for you too.” Comfort smiled in warmth at the elder gentleman who rubbed his big brown hands together in joy. He was one of the band players in the club.

“You have sucha sweet tone to ya voice Ms. Comfort. Reminds me of ma’ Mama back south, mmhmm. She came from Africa,” Mr. Coleman said. There was a knowing in his eyes that held hers for a long time. Comfort sniffed then walked away in awareness. Her people always found each other. It was why they had a community. Mr. Coleman was a distant kinsman and that made her feel safer.

A tightness in her chest made her wipe her brow then rubbed her chest above her heart. There was trouble coming and it wasn’t because she was hungry. She could hear a commotion outside, putting her on alert. The doors to the club flew open and a young woman named Kitty rushed inside with a child on her hip in a panic. Comfort threw down the towel she was using on the table.

“Missy Comfort, Conducta’ Walter gots some problems at Easy’s barbershop! Told me ta’ tell ya to keep the club locked down and move the children.” Kitty looked at her in pure terror and hurt. “The Order of the Blue Flower…I thank’ I said that right. They here with they’ shovels and bindin’ ropes. They takin’ our chilren an’ killin’ us! Burning us!”

Comfort’s hands trembled. The ‘Order’ found them using the hatred and anxiety of the war. The palms of her hands lay in care against her flat belly’s warmth. She felt the vibrant spirit of the life growing there within, a blessing that other vampyre could never have. Yet, those of her kind could. Comfort stared at a young woman who would have to witness a terror like nothing of this world.

Only in the early moments of their reawakening and regeneration could her kind gestate a life, instead of using the curse to bite and turn others. For her, it had happened only once before with Easy and that life was lost as soon as it sparked within her body. She and Easy had been surprised then stricken with grief. Now she was again with child.

It had been a year, but her body appeared to only be a month along. Comfort brushed the wooden bone gris-gris beads hidden in the folds of her attire against her belly: concealment to keep the seed in hibernation. This was the blood power her enemies wanted. The ability to walk under the sun, to feed as they desired and to bring forth life if they so choose. The Order of the Maison de bleu fleur-de-lis who were after her and her kind were only tools for the vampyre brood of European myths.

“Kitty get to the back of the band stage. Everyone up in here follow her! Push that big painting there then get to tha’ river—”

A loud whistle sounded right at that moment.

“That’s Conductor Walter, get to him or his boat and go, now, quickly and be careful! You gonna see some thangs’ that you might not understand but trust me, you are protected. Yes?”

Kitty rushed to the back with a group of fearful patrons, “Easy told us all that you’d look afta us. I won’t be scared ‘bout anythang you do Miss Comfort. Just come on behind us please.”

An inner dam of power snapped within Comfort’s mind. Her ivory teeth shifted within her mouth making her pink gums rise then split to reveal jagged, lengthy fangs. She felt her body warm then sear with intense heat as if she were near a furnace. Her senses became vibrant. She could hear the rapid heartbeats of the scared people around her. The sweet scent of their blood and fear aroused the monster that she was.

This community, her people would get over what they saw today. She hoped. Many had elders old enough to remember the old teachings from Africa who told them the stories of creatures like her. Many could see that she was here to protect them and not harm them. She hoped. Some personally knew that she was a guardian here. Comfort didn’t have the time for their fear. The call of the hunt was here.

Comfort arched her back and groaned with the lush pleasure the pain of her change brought her. Her nails grew in their sharp length. Her pulse quickened. Her vision sharpened beyond itself to read the blood pulse and circulatory flow of the humans outside.

In the mirror behind the bar, the image of Comfort’s changing body showed her eyes the color of dark caramel change to a golden amber that glowed with fire. She felt the predator was moving under her flesh. Her reflection revealed that her skin illuminated with light from the source of her hybrid blood-sucking power, her spirit lantern curse.

Pressing her heel into a plank on the floor under the bar. She pulled at intricate wooden trimming revealing a hidden Winchester shotgun. She snapped off her beaded bracelet letting the barbed wire hang as she held a blade against her palm. Comfort remembered the fevered pleas and prayers to the Loa and other deities from her past. They formed into an ululating song and a curse that turned she and Easy into what they were: supernatural vampire hybrids.

Singing, Comfort exited the bar, hearing the doors lock behind her.

Screams of agony, and fear rent the Negro township of East St. Louis. A week prior, agitation between white workers and colored folk caused an incident, where it was rumored a white man shot a deputy but accused a young Colored man from her community. Comfort stood in the result of that lie. Through the thicket of smoke, the sky was on fire. The homes, shops, and schools her people built now burned.

But amongst the pale eyed, animalistic mobs, she saw white hooded sheets, some adorned with the crest of blue flowers on their lapels: The Order of the Maison de bleu fleur-de-lis. Entitlement made them believe that the chants of useless prayers and manufactured scriptures that they had tortured out of her people could harm her. But what they failed to realize was, that their words were tainted and corrupted by the evils of what they had done to her people to bring them to and keep them in this stolen land.

The jarring sounds of their words, hymns, and prayers were like lemon juice in a wound. They stung, but she would still kill them. Horses rushed by her, some pulling bodies, others with carts. Comfort looked on in horror. Her community was being erased and torn asunder.

She shrieked for it all to end when she saw a little girl, crying and holding a boy’s hand. Now, instinct took over. With a feral hiss, she fought her body from shifting. It was a weakness for her, and one only used as a last resort. Otherwise, she’d be vulnerable for the taking.

Clergy fought with several of Easy’s military comrades, men, and women who were shop owners in the town. Shots rang. Comfort ran, pivoting away from hands that tried to snatch at her. They grabbed terrified children. Generations of warrior training allowed for her to swing the butt of her Winchester in a swooping curve to slam it against the enemy’s face. Pleased, she licked the red liquid from her clenched knuckle in swift brashness.

To her right she heard a hunter yell. “Sweet blood of darkness! That which you are is our leaders sovereign right, false sanguine breed! We have the right to the sun. You are the darkness! Return our birthright.”

His hate filled slurs laced in stolen and bastardized enchantments by her people and mangled Latin of their religion was used against her. Her eyes weep blood and she recoiled in pain. Rage filled her heart.

In the tongue of her mother, she spat out, “Yuh not worthy of di curse! Mi people were di sanguine root of time! I be anointed, not you!”

She shifted the pistol in her grasp to snap his neck back and expose his blushed flesh. This was her nature. Her fangs sank into the enemy like a viper, tearing open his windpipe. She baptized the land with him. Everything was sprayed in blood.

Comfort’s body warmed from the sucrose taste of him. He reminded her of candy rum. She licked her lips in bliss at the spiciness then muttered her thanks in the language his blood spoke, Catalonian. In the dark fire of the night, she saw threatening fangs of her enemy as they snapped at her, attempting to tear at her flesh.

In the lieu of the rabid yells of bestial rage pointed at those with her skin tone, she heard a child scream, “Miss Comfort!”

A raging maniac threw a lit bottle of oil where she ran. The sensation of flames against her flesh made her panic but it put purpose in her movement. Her speed kept the flames from damaging her life. She saw people motioning for her to come towards them and she did. They chanted in the old tongue of her Motherland while they ran. Each enchantment gave her strength to absorb the fire into her lantern power.

More hunters appeared out of smoke and the child kept screaming her name. “Miss Comfort, help!”

The wire she held onto, swung in the air. It sliced in an arch at her stalkers causing them to burn then flame into ash. Conjure chants came from her lips. The land rippled with her will, pushing mobs into the sides of box trains near the town’s tracks.

As she rushed towards the child, a fist landed against her head. World spinning, she dropped to the ground, water spilled from her eyes. The angry face of a man, a regular townie, stared down at her. His face was contorted in primal rage. His spittle rained all over her as he called her various hateful words.

When he grabbed her ankle pulling at her skirts, she screamed and released her supernatural strength. One boot into his chest sent him flying. A silver wolf appeared from the smoke. It flew in the air, taking the man down by his throat tearing into flesh.

Comfort was grateful. The saving grace allowed her to get up and retrieve the crying child. As she settled the little one on her hip, she saw the wolf nod at her, then shadow them. His scent hit her, and she knew that was Mr. Coleman.

“Miss Comfort…my mama!” interrupted her thoughts.

“We’ll find her baby girl. We will, and we’ll get to safety.”

In her arms, she held the young child on her hip with her gun in her free hand. Comfort ran with the will of survival. Her shotgun rung in the air. She prayed for the future of her people and her baby within. As the Mississippi River edge greeted her, she stumbled then fell.

The scent of burned flesh made her howl in rage, “Oh, Kitty!”

A boy child lay at her feet in a ball clutching a woman. Both were lifeless, murdered by the crazed mob of ruddy pale face goons. Charred flesh of her mother’s once beautiful brown skinned body lay at her feet. Her mother walked in restrained ire into the stillness of the dark reflective Mississippi River toward a waiting riverboat with a group of shaken people behind her. She and a few others with mouths wide wailed to the ancestors, bared deathly jagged fangs dripping in blood.

Those who stood in anger like her mother with their flesh gone, changed into various animals: wolves, birds that glowed, and more. Others reached the boat to travel up the river towards Alton, Illinois. As they drifted away with the grief of their loss, Comfort howled in her wolf form staring at the burning city. Easy, a continent away at war in France, felt it bond with his rage. The loss of his brothers and sisters in combat, triggered his protective defenses to go into hibernation and hiding. He promised to protect the future from their enemy, including Comfort and their child.

The pain was real. The trauma was debilitating and through it all, a voice cut through the blood memory with a message: a child was missing.

“Crimson?”

Lost in her mother’s blood story of the past, twenty-three-year-old Crimson Noble snapped out of her haze at the muffled sound of her name. It was the 21st century and not the ‘Red Summer’ of 1917. She was at the City Museum on a field trip with her cousin’s supernatural kindergarten class. She blinked then glanced at her worried cousin whose long two-twist braids fell over her shoulder. The tips of her fingernails briefly glowed with teal energy while she rapidly waved her hands in front of Crimson’s face and snapped her fingers.

“Oseye!” Justice used Crimson’s birth name instead of her nickname.

Her cousin was partially deaf and relied on reading lips, hearing aids, and American Sign Language to communicate, even though she could also speak.

“I’m sorry,” Crimson signed and spoke simultaneously.

“What did you see? Are we okay? Your eyes went dark with the sight cousin,” Justice rapidly signed then laid a hand against the back of Crimson’s neck. A light brush of power calmed her and flowed over her scalp. It felt like gentle waves.

She settled in the healing, then looked around at the kids. “Count your class, cousin.”

“Count my wha—?” Justice glanced at her in worry then gave a quick nod.

Her cousin snapped her fingers then clapped her hands, signally for her students to come together. “Time for the count up song, ready?”

All the children clamored together in excitement saying, “Yay!”

While Justice handled her students, Crimson backed away then waited a bit. When cleared, she turned to scan the crowded atrium of the museum.

“Tell me who’s missing,” Crimson asked within her cousin’s mind.

“Kamil Davis.”

At the same time, Crimson stopped at the customer service desk to ask for help.

“How old? Type of supe and attributes, please.”

“My kiddos say he had to go to the bathroom. Check the bathrooms…” Justice’s muted voice paused then continued. “He’s six with light brown skin, and eyes like yours. Wavy fade, and dimples. He’s in a Black Panther shirt with custom Black Panther Nikes. He’s a conjure descendent. He’s six, and he can transport objects to him.”

Crimson was on it. Her anxiety made her hands shake in fear. The blood legacy in her was strong and she was afraid of it, afraid to embrace the curse and turn. Two hundred and sixty-one years ago, her parents were trafficked here. Her parents were forced to tend to a people who stole them from their birthland of Dahomey, Benin. A violation that resulted in the loss of their culture, village, each other, and an event that would change them both into something indescribable during that time.

From that, a pact to protect those made like her parents were developed as a means of survival. It wasn’t perfect, Black folk were still dying in the streets of St. Louis, Missouri, and East St. Louis, Illinois. But now the unfinished business of the past was being revived for power. There was no way she could allow this. Crimson stopped her frantic search and stared in horror.

In the middle of the museum atrium floor in a bundle was Kamil’s jacket and a blue flower, the insignia of The Order of the Maison de bleu fleur-de-lis. Zoning out, her hand mirrored the same actions her mother took generations ago. Crimson unclasped the gris-gris on her wrist and felt a tenderness for the first time in her gums. The Order of the Maison had returned, and her people were never going to be safe.

Snake Hill Blues

John Linwood Grant

New York City, 1927

No one recognized the dead woman, though her face was turned up to the sky, nothing between her blank eyes and a threat of March rain. She was dressed fancy here, cheap there, like a dancing girl who’d been given a present or two. Late twenties by her full cheeks; slightly older by the lines on her neck.

One of the row’s residents, out on the sidewalk for an early morning smoke, thought that she must have tumbled down the basement steps, maybe hit her head.

The traffic cop they dragged over from 123rd and Lenox wasn’t so sure.

“Looks set there,” he said, rubbing one dark cheek with a gloved hand. “Yessuh, looks like she was set there, out o’ the way and tidy.”

This observation spread talk fast as oil on a griddle. People came down from their flats, remarking on her leaden color, on the cuts across her bare arms, and soon there was more gossip than sense.

The officer, better used to halting Studebakers at the lights, sent a boot-black to fetch a beat cop; the boot-black shared the news with anyone else he fancied.

The morgue wagon took the body away at 8.15 am, less than an hour later. The man who had found her watched it drive away, no expression on his face. He was Italian, with a job to go to.

Wondering about dead colored girls didn’t pay the rent.

Mamma Lucy sat in her room at the Ivory Club, hands in her lap, her mojo bag clutched tight, and a half-quart of whiskey on a shelf by the window, inviting her over. For once she thanked it kindly, but let it be. She would have to fess up to her host – it was time to leave the city.

Brick, concrete and glass; too much steel and too many people, all cramped up close. Every mirror and every window showed her someone who needed to be back walking the long roads with dirt under her feet. Back to the crop-shares, to the mean shacks where there was a welcome they couldn’t afford, and the small towns with small troubles...

She’d tried. Borrowed an abandoned pair of boots from by the Harlem River, and crammed her big feet into them; it was worse than scraping horny soles against the sidewalk. She’d been invited to fish fries and funerals, to stylish jazz clubs and to cramped house parties where no one asked what was in the jugs, but even so… it was too fast here.

If they wanted root-work, they wanted it yesterday, and their idea of conjure was gaudy shopfronts; incense by the pound and fancy vinegars by the gallon. Everyone – almost everyone – wanted fame and fortune now, no time to wait for a candle to burn.

So she’d sold the boots for twenty cents, and bought eggs for a journey. There was a slow train heading down Richmond way in two days; she could catch her breath on that and get the city out of her lungs.

Florence Garvey, owner of the Ivory, would be disappointed. Florence was a good soul, but wasn’t immune to Mamma Lucy’s value. The speakeasy had a gen-u-ine conjure-woman staying, and that brought in rubberneckers, blustering skeptics, and a handful of true petitioners besides. They all bought drinks and told their friends about the Ivory.

You heard? Miss Garvey, she done got a conjure-woman. Heared it was the one as saved Moses Clayton’s girl, when she got sick to dyin’.

And much more like that, rumors up from the South. That Aunt Caroline Dye had taught Mamma Lucy – or that, Lord save us, Mamma was Aunt Caroline, back for her people. They wanted to set her on their every problem, like a possum hound with too many masters.

An awkward knock on the door, and Florence put her head into the room. A face with strength, and looks to catch many an eye, but sorrowful this evening.

“They found Ruby,” said the younger woman, hesitant on the threshold.

Ruby Jones, one of the Ivory dancers, pretty and prone to seeing too many men. The girl had been missing two days, her room empty, and Florence had been on edge about it.

Mamma Lucy beckoned her in, bade her sit on the bed next to her.

“Ain’t no good news on them lips, girl.”

“No.” Florence wiped at her eyes with a square of linen. “Pat Corrigan, from the Precinct – he came in just now, said there was a body in the police morgue. He’d seen Ruby dance here a few times; he was… was certain.”

The conjure-woman placed one large hand on the young woman’s knee.

“Better world ahead o’ her.” But she felt it then, the heat between her shoulder blades that always changed her plans. “This Officer Corrigan, he know how she passed?”

Florence shook her head. “Just that she’s dead. I… I dont...”

Mamma Lucy waited, and when she saw that no more was coming, she stood up.

She had liked Ruby well enough, even seen a bit of herself in the girl – outspoken, even forward, just as the conjure-woman had been at that age. And although she’d clucked a time or two at Ruby’s tales, Lucy had once been no stranger to menfolk...

“You settle here a while. Mamma’ll go see.” She grabbed her carpet bag and headed for the street.

A cab and a couple of questions took her where she needed to be. It was only a holding room beneath the Precinct House, really, where the dead lay until they could be assigned to one or another final destination. No one stopped the gangling old Black woman in the faded print dress or asked her where she thought she was going. They chewed on that afterwards, wondering why they’d let her by, but found no answer.

The morgue attendant was a pale stick of a boy, barely able to speak to his visitor; when Mamma Lucy asked for Ruby Jones, he stuttered an objection but pointed to the far slab, where a sheeted body lay.

They’d undressed the girl, but nothing more. Knife and bone-saw were yet to come, if they bothered at all. It was unlikely.

The conjure-woman murmured a psalm as she stroked the cold flesh.

“Ain’t nothin’ here but the clay, Ruby darlin’, so don’t you fret.” She lifted one of the girl’s arms, peering at the bloody marks on the smooth skin. “You been missin’ since Tuesday, so where’s you been?”

The wounds weren’t right.

“What made these, boy?”

The attendant shuffled over, keeping his distance.

“Looks like a blade, ma’am.” He leaned forward. “But... wouldn’t say that was all.”

She warmed to him as he took a damp cloth and wiped Ruby Jones’s forearm clean with a certain respect. There were cuts, livid cuts, but underneath.

“Sort of queer.” He wiped harder, removing crusted blood. “Like she was bit first, maybe by some dog, then a feller tried to –”

“Hide them marks by cutting her. And this feller in a hurry, not doing so fine a job.”

Her roving, milk-and-honey eye fixed on him, and he swallowed.

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at the body. “No offense, ma’am, but for a colored girl, she looks kinda… pale. Bloodless.”

He wasn’t wrong. The exposed skin had a gray tinge to it, more lifeless than even the dead should be.

“How d’they call you, son?”

“Alan. Alan Zwieski.”

She showed him big horse teeth. “Well, Alan Zwieski, why don’t you wait by that there door, jess outside, and if a soul should come, tell them that Mamma Lucy is grievin’ a while. Reckon you can do that?”

A nod.

When the boy had left, the conjure-woman took out her mojo bag and watered it with a little whiskey. Placing it between her feet, she found a blue candle from her carpet bag, dressed it with sweet vinegar, and lit the wick. She set the candle on the edge of the slab.

“They done you wrong, Ruby Jones, and that ain’t no hound bite neither.”

The candle flame flickered; the silver dime at Mamma Lucy’s ankle went dark, then cleared again. No haint in the girl, but plain wickedness had been there sure enough. Been and gone, taking life with it.

She wrote Ruby’s name nine times on a slip of paper, and placed that back into her carpet bag, wrapped in red flannel and soaked in blessing oil.

“Rest now, girl. You done with this world, and amen to that.”

Mamma Lucy pulled a sour face as she snuffed out the candle. The Richmond train might have to wait.

She had herself a blood-walker, somewhere nearby in Harlem.

Jazz blared, then whispered, as Johnny Pane and the Harlem Boys practiced on the Ivory’s main stage; a dancer tapped her way across the polished floor. Roadhouses were more Mamma Lucy’s style. Roadhouses on dirt roads, with many miles between them and earth between her toes. But the Ivory Club speakeasy was fair-square.

Sitting between Harlem proper and the tenements to the south and east, it was a calm oasis, a known black and tan which offered a moment of escape for anyone, of any color, as long as they minded their manners. Most trouble came from outsiders seeking the Harlem ‘experience’, gawking at the locals and drawing attention to themselves by getting drunk, or being stung over a reefer deal.

Florence winced as the girl missed a step, but wasn’t paying the attention she should have.

“What did happen to Ruby, Mamma? Did you find out?”

“Weren’t no accident, sorry to say. Trouble with a man.” Which was as much truth as was wise, for now. “Reckon I’ll see to it, if the Good Lord pleases.”

“The police –”

“Ain’t fit for this one. You needs be trustin’ me, girl. Cain’t send babes to harness an ox.”

“If money would help...”

Maybe Florence thought that a few dollars passed here and there would flush out a killer; maybe she thought that there were people to pay off. This wasn’t that kind of game. Mamma Lucy needed sleep – Florence Garvey needed sleep – and then there was work to be done...

Finding a blood-walker came easy compared to dealing with one, but Mamma Lucy set to it early the next day, while steam was still blowing up into the crisp morning air, and some of Harlem’s parties were only just winding down.

The smart set were good with idle talk and slander, but low on truths. Mamma Lucy didn’t need to be adding to that talk, and besides, she wanted word from those who knew fact from fiction. So, she walked, the soles of her feet learning the sidewalks and the cramped backyards.

No use asking if there were strangers in Harlem – plenty of those – but she wanted to know about Ruby. Had they seen her with a particular man this last week? Had she danced her way into any scene she shouldn’t have?

The boys who worked the numbers games and the reefer-men could have claimed ignorance, but they didn’t want to cross a two-headed woman. A runner thought that Ruby had been out on 130th a few nights ago, with some feller he didn’t recognize, and suggested a further name or two, which led the conjure-woman in turn to Gold-Tooth Benny.

Sure, said the sharp-dressed reefer man, he’d seen Ruby, walking out with a man new enough to be watched, because money flowed around him. Borrowed a hundred dollars from Whitey Crabbe, paid it back twice the following day. Where that came from, no one knew. Craps, maybe, with the Italians, or the sort of poker games you didn’t always walk away from.

“What kinda feller was he?” asked Lucy.

“The kind that doan pay no dollar for a reefer, no sir. If he usin’, he ridin’ on white powder, y’gets me? High-steppin’’ like he came from Sugar Hill.”

“He have friends?”

Gold-tooth shook his head. “Lawd, ain’t nobody here like anythin’ ‘bout him ‘cept them deep pockets. Face all sharp and hungered, like a hound what ain’t been fed. They said he wuz called Mister Ephraim Wilson.”

Mamma Lucy got back to the Ivory around midnight and told all she’d learned to Florence Garvey. The owner of the Ivory bowed her head, then rounded up some of her own boys and told them to go sniffing.

The conjure-woman dressed a charcoal stick and wrote ‘Ephraim Wilson’ three times on an egg. When she cracked the egg, the yolk was black, stinking like it had been laid a year before.

Blood-walker.

Gina Salierno, nineteen years old and the sister of a small-time bootlegger, turned up dead early on Saturday afternoon, by the Third Avenue Bridge. The girl looked gray and drained; half her throat was gone, and no blade would have done that sort of ragged damage. ‘Animal attack’, said the puzzled cops, who confessed at the same time that there was surprisingly little blood. Gina’s many cousins went out hunting a street mongrel that had gone rabid.

They didn’t find one.

When word of this got to the Ivory, via a Salierno boy who’d come in to drink his way through the bar, Mamma Lucy had that itch in her shoulders like it was a fever. This time the blood-walker hadn’t made the least effort to cover up his work.

That didn’t feel good.

“Your sister, Lord bless her soul, been different these last few days?” she asked, standing by the cubicle where the young man was sinking bootleg brandy. He looked up at the grizzled black woman in the faded dress, puzzled. He was drunk, but not too drunk.

“Why you ask, nonna?”

She might as well be blunt.

“She ain’t the first, poor girl.” The conjure-woman recalled a word spoken on a riverboat, years before. It was as good as any for now. “Got us a jettatore in town, and I’m aimin’ to see him out o’ here.”

The mention of the evil eye knocked a couple of brandies out of him.

“Diversa, sì. Different. She is strange, not well, since she walks with a man we do not know.” He looked around at the clientele of the Ivory, maybe half of the patrons Black, and struggled for words. “This uomo nero, he is too fancy for her but, nonna, you say there was no dog?”

“No dog. Jess one real bad feller.”

The Salierno boy crossed himself; the conjure-woman left him to mourn.

As the day wore on, Florence’s boys came back in ones and twos.

Some had nothing, others had been more lucky. A Mister Wilson, seen at the Savoy ballroom with two girls playing nice to him; a man who fitted the description Gold-tooth gave, losing heavy then winning better at craps behind the Lafayette. Ruby Jones had been behind him, champagne in her glass. That would have been the night before Ruby died.

Mamma Lucy had no doubts now. Other girls would soon be found like Ruby Jones and Gina Salierno if she didn’t push her game. For that matter, there might already be other victims, ones that no one had found yet...

Settling a borrowed hat over her stiff gray hair, she slipped out of the Ivory’s discreet back entrance. Ten minutes easy walk found the spot.

To most, this was Mount Morris Park; to Mamma Lucy and those who remembered older ways, it was the Hill of Snakes, Slang Berg as the Dutch had called it. It lay across Fifth Avenue, and marked an intersection of many ways, a grand crossroads in its own right.

The park gates opened for her, because they knew her; the empty paths guided her to the rocky berg itself. Bare-headed now, she set down her carpet-bag and waited, an old black woman alone in the half-dark.

One of many churches somewhere distant called out nine of the clock; mice rustled under damp leaves… and a figure appeared in the shadow of an ancient osage orange. He stood there in his dusty suit before the bulk of Slang Berg. He was taller than trees, shorter than mountains. He was whatever he wanted to be, but it never impressed her.

“Took your time,” she said, with a touch of irritation.

“Time I got.”

“So you says. Now tell me something useful.”

The Dark Man nodded polite, sucking on a corn-cob pipe, straw hat at an angle, but said nothing. Lucy sighed.

“Got me a blood-walker.”

The Dark Man took his pipe from his mouth.

“You talking obayifo? Or one of them firefly fellows, flitting every which way?”

“Ain’t none of them,” said Mamma Lucy. “Would have seed that, plain. Reckon he’s born from this new America. The years go by, and the rules are changin’, Lord help us.”

The figure came out into the moonlight.

“Used to come easy, waiting for the women to listen, carrying jars upon their heads and hoping for secrets and good words. Sorghum beer they brought me, and wild honeycomb.” A crooked cane appeared in his left hand, and he sketched two lines crossing in the grass. “Too many crossroads these days, all tasting of this here gasoline.”

The conjure-woman became aware for a moment of the traffic in the city all around them.

“That ain’t news,” she snapped, “And you said it all afore. Tell me plain, what’s the play with his sort?”

The Dark Man twirled his stick, pacing. As he did so, he lifted his head and drew in the night air. She thought that for a second she saw surprise on his dark, wrinkled face. “He’s no yearling, this one. Stacked up his strength for longer than you’ve been around, I’d say.”

Mamma Lucy bit at her lower lip. “It’s reg’lar known that I walks where you sends me, often enough. Sure you gotten it right this time, settin’ me to figure this one?”

The Dark Man had the trees shiver, and the wind cut cold across the grass; the conjure-woman paid it no heed.

“You blowin’ here and there, like you fit to be teachin’ someone a lesson,” she said. “But you ain’t the one layin’ tricks, nor liftin’ no jinxes. Ain’t your feet get sore, so don’t you go showin’ off to me.”

Slang Berg fell quiet.

“You’re an ornery woman.” His voice was low, even amused.

“Ain’t that the truth. Care to give an ornery woman a helpin’ hand?”

“Got me business in Alabama,” he said. “But you always my favorite, Mamma.”

And so he came closer, whispering secrets, secrets from many places, even from back when his people minded the crossroads under iroko, palm and dogoyaro, and knew him well.

When he’d done, he gleamed her a smile.

“You be taking care, Mamma...”

At which he lifted his straw hat – and was there no more. The osage orange settled, and long-dead snakes curled up hard in their burrows, for power had passed by them.

Ruby had been laid to rest already, paid for by Florence Garvey. A handful of grave dirt would have to be the link to her killer. Better, thought the conjure-woman, if she’d been able to place an egg in the dead girl’s hand, to draw the man out, but she was too old to go digging folk up.

She didn’t much like working goofer dust, but this wasn’t a time to be picky. Here she had what some would call a vampire, though she didn’t believe in such, not as that Stoker feller had it. The conjure-woman had her letters, reading plenty when she fancied – and Dracula had made her chuckle, stomach-deep. Lords and ladies, all so proper, and that Carpathian feller making such a fuss to get to England, like there weren’t enough throats in Italy or Germany. Sure as Moses she wouldn’t have had herself boxed up and shipped, like to be sunk somewhere along the way. Dang fool thing to do.

Blood-walkers, though, they’d been around some, and they were trouble. Sucking out the soul bit by bit, drinking blood, or chewing on the meat – whichever variety they were, it all came down to stealing life that wasn’t yours. Too late for Ruby Jones, but not too late for someone to pay a price.

She took up the grave dirt herself, from close by Ruby’s head, when the handful of mourners left. The minister gave her a glance as he put his book away, but his lips stayed tight shut.

The speakeasy wasn’t suited to real conjure work – minds whirling around her, and people up and down, in and out, all the time – so she settled at the back of Lily’s Chicken Shack round the corner from the Ivory. Lily was God-fearing and righteous, and it only took a psalm or two to convince her that Mamma Lucy did the Lord’s work, in her own way.

“Don’t hold with no Catholics, mind,” said the fat, flour-coated owner as she mixed herbs into her ‘special coating’. “And don’t you go noticin’ jess what I puts in here!”

Reassured, Lily left the conjure-woman alone in the back with the sacks of flour and jars of spices. Plucked chickens hung from the beams, waiting to be jointed for the evening crowds.

Mamma Lucy passed a raw egg over and around her awkward, long-limbed body, put the egg aside to be buried later, and hunkering down by her open carpet bag, she set to work.

Took her a quarter hour to have the candles dressed and set right, lit around her; less time to find and mix what she needed. Her trusty lodestone was the key. She unwrapped it, and fed its polished surface with iron filings, powdered lilac, and dirt from Ruby’s mean plot.

“He be comin’ here, by and by,

He be drawn to this one,

‘Cause St Michael says so;

He be drawn to this one,

‘Cause the Good Lord says so.”

She took a mouthful of whiskey and spat nine times, before snuffing out the big black candle, then the others. Death he’d know, and the rest he’d learn.

“He be coming here, by and by.”

The lodestone went into her dress pocket, her mojo bag hung separate between her breasts, and she was done. The blood-walker would find her now, and she didn’t need to be around other folk for that. She thought of cragged hill and trees – and as she did so a glimmer of a new idea twitched her left eye round in its socket. A better place than some if she could handle certain things right.

Mamma Lucy waited quiet in Mount Morris Park, letting the evening take its time. She waited with her lean behind set firm on the stone steps, halfway up the hill and the old fire-tower looming at her back. Every half hour she dressed the lodestone, and she knew that it was calling..

When at last the blood-walker came, he came fast, shifting between trees with a jerk and a rush. She watched him shift ever closer from one bush or tree to another, closer and closer to where she sat. Moon and a handful of stars showed his face – feral, aching for something, and also puzzled. It was clear he didn’t know why he’d been drawn here.

Then he saw her.

“Mister Ephraim Wilson.” She spoke clear, without looking directly at him. “You done wrong, and you done worse playin’ your game with me around.”

He straightened, presenting everything that might be called a cultured gentleman, if you didn’t know better. A stick-pin with a diamond shine, wide lapels well-pressed, and polished two-tone brogues. His eyes were narrow, dark.

“You have me at a disadvantage, lady.”

“Most folk call me Mamma Lucy.”

He smiled, a wet smile. “And what do the others call you, pray?”

“They ain’t around no more.” She stood up. “You killed a girl called Ruby Jones. More besides, but it’s her we’re talkin’ ‘bout this night.”

The blood-walker twisted his head around as if to spot any trap.

“I feed where I must. The names don’t mean a lot.”

“A dancin’ girl from the Ivory Club. You took her to the backroom of the Lafayette, three nights back.”

At that he nodded. “She was hungry; so was I. Turned out we wanted different things.”

The conjure-woman came down a step.

“I got a question, afore I lay you. How come there’s a blood-walker in Harlem?”

He laughed, a scratch of nails against ribs.

“How come there aren’t more? Mamma, this is as close to blood as you can get, here. You could lap it from the streets, some nights. As for ‘blood-walker’, well my, my, that’s so old school. This is the You-nited States, the nineteen twenties. They call us vampires now, and those sweet girls clench their thighs when we come calling.”

He faked a lunge towards her; she stood steady, her big feet firm on the concrete steps.

That laugh again. “Well, you called me here, though I couldn’t say how. I guess you’re some kind of voodoo lady, wishing she was Marie Laveau. Trying your luck, maybe; setting a few tricks out and hoping I was less than you feared?”

“Ain’t no witch, ain’t never feared no blood-walker.”

He bowed to her. “Brave, but stupid. You got a blade – won’t kill me. You got a gun in that bag – won’t do it. And don’t get me started on crosses and silver. New World, new ways.”

She turned her head, and the moonlight caught her milk-and-honey eye, glinting, restless in her heavy skull. When he saw that, his brow furrowed; his black lips drew back to show off his sharp, perfect teeth. His canines, she noticed, were like any other man’s. Another strike for Mister Stoker.

“Don’t think I like you, old lady.” His tone had changed under her wild eye; he jerked, shifted, and suddenly he was ten feet closer to the bottom of the steps.

“Didn’t reckon you would, boy. Seems that you ain’t never met real hoodoo.” She pointed up to the fire tower, gaunt steel frame against the stars. Lights flickered between the girders, tiny, wavering. “Ain’t no matter what you doin’ to me now. Got me some serious jinxin’ going on up there, an’ when those candles finished, you’re gone like hog dirt off a new boot...”

He moved then, faster than before, faster than a cat meeting a kettle of water. Past her, up the crags; onto the summit. She saw his narrow frame cross the tower, pinching out candles or flinging them wide.

“Should’a had me one of them fancy psy-chology degrees they handin’ out these days,” she murmured, and reached into her carpet bag for the real conjure. A rattlesnake skin, damp with lilac oil and whiskey, brushed with goofer dust and roots.

She showed the skin plain to the four corners of this world, to the seventeen quarters of heaven. And then she took out a dollar bill, donated by a player at the Lafayette. Ephraim Wilson had handled it, the night before he killed Ruby Jones.

“You ain’t the only thing can bite, Mister Wilson,” she said, and pushed the crumpled bill into the open head of the skin.

Snake Hill they rightly named it, when the Dutch found every crack and cranny filled with crawling things. Shrub and grassland below, ripe with small critters on which to feed; warm rock on which to catch the sun, and all the hiding places a snake could wish for. Ten, twenty, a hundred generations of those crawling folk, and enough memory to take down a herd of cattle.

“Maybe you all done wrong once, back when Adam was a fool.” Mamma Lucy’s voice echoed across Mount Morris Park. “But now’s your chance to set things a mite straighter.”

They answered. Rustle and slither; the hiss of history.

Her rattlesnake mojo tight in her hand, she sang an old psalm, and watched as the last candle went out at the top of the hill. As it did so, Ephraim Wilson turned to come down, ready to finish his business with a two-headed woman.

He didn’t get far.

The haints of those serpents were strange things. They offered no blood to strengthen him, nor anything firm to set his nails or teeth into. They struck deeper than skin, deeper than bone, maybe right into the wrong and the wickedness off him. The Dark Man sowed a seedling of an idea; Mamma Lucy made it truth.

On the top of Slang Berg, a blood-walker shrieked and danced, bit on so hard he couldn’t think; bit on so hard he couldn’t run.

Bit on so hard he couldn’t be.

There came a shout or three from outside the park, and a police whistle split the breeze. It didn’t matter now. Whoever came would find an old black woman sipping a flask of whiskey, a carpet bag, and a few snuffed candles in the bushes. There’d be nothing up there by the fire tower but scraps and dust on trampled dirt.

“World weren’t meant for such as Mister Ephraim Wilson,” said Mamma Lucy, when Florence asked where she’d been that night. “Ain’t goin’ to see him again, that’s the truth. I got him moved on.”

“Another city?” asked Florence, puzzled.

“Could be.” The conjure-woman laid out her remaining eggs, wondering if the Ivory had a pan big enough for all of them at once. “Iffen it is, it’s a city ‘full o’ distress an’ torment terrible’, as that Italian feller said.”

“One of the Saliernos?”

“Feller by the name o’ Dante,” said Mamma Lucy, and let her big horse-tooth smile tell the rest.

Africa

Ujima

Alledria Hurt

Family is still everything, even when you’re dead.

Imani scanned down the snowy slope at the line of humans following her up the mountain. Below them, making their way quicker than those fleeing them, were the vampires who only sought to recover what Imani had stolen from them. She made a choice and she would defend it, to the death if necessary.

Days before the mountain, Imani woke in her sacred space, her sleeping place underneath a building and out of the setting sun. It had been mere days since she took the bloody elixir which transformed her from a creature of day into a child of the night. She heard the sound of the waking world with new ears, still fascinated by what she contacted there. Despite her newness, she was an early riser, coming to wakefulness far before her peers who lay in their own sacred spaces around her. Their Master and maker lay upon a slab above the rest of them, his body ringed in by the candles which would offer him protection from arcane attack should someone come upon him while he slept. They were never afforded such protection; such was only for those who had created a coven of their own.

Imani reached beneath the edge of her pallet and drew forth the sacrificial knife which would allow her to drink from the fount near her Master. Hunger gnawed rat-like at her insides, offering her no peace in those early moments. The first touch of the elixir on her tongue would drive it away, force it underground from her thoughts. She skimmed the room waiting for the stirring which might have said another woke as she did.

Her place as the newest of the changed meant she should not be the first to drink from the fount. There were others who had more right than she to slack their thirst, but she had risen before them. Thus, she should be allowed to drink before them. Their Master would not allow them all to drink; therefore, being first held its own power.

The gourd of the fount hung near the Master’s sleeping pallet above the room. To reach it, she would have to move within the circle of the arcane candles. Imani hesitated. To be so bold could land her in a great deal of trouble with her new family. They had taken her from nothing and now she needed to obey them in order to survive. Otherwise, they might well stake her out in the sun to be burned to ash.

Yet the hunger bit.

It did not nibble.

Her vision collapsed into the gourd of the fount and nothing else. Imani slipped up the stairs of the platform, up to the edge of the candles and stopped.

No, she had to wait.

Her fist clenched around the knife with its decoration of thread to give it grip. The colors of her clan, her family, the place she belonged now.

Above her, the tantalizing scent of the gourd drifted down. It perfumed the air with the scent of blood. Imani stared up at it, only vaguely aware of the candles at her feet as she stepped across them and into the Master’s sacred space.

Her eyes lidded as she drew close. Her free hand came up in a lover’s caress. The sweet-smelling gourd slid soapy beneath her fingers. With a flash of blade, she pierced the gourd and the first drops of precious elixir fell to her lips. Yet she hardly got to taste them before she was knocked aside by a powerful blow.

“You,” her Master said after giving her a moment to come to her senses. The pain of being struck cleared her mind of all else. “Young one, what do you think you are doing?”

Imani did not respond. Her Master, an ebony obelisk of a vampire, stood over her but far enough away that he could not strike her again without moving. Imani did not cower, but she did lower her eyes to the level of his feet.

“You are the least among us,” he said. “For now.”

Without taking his eyes off her, he reached up and extracted her blade from the gourd. A single precious drop of elixir fell from the open hilt and Imani swallowed a groan of want.

“Take your blade and go back to bed,” he commanded. He offered her the item in his open palm, the yellow curve of his ancient nails forming the beginnings of a trap.

Imani stepped forward to take her blade back, intensely aware of the warmth of the candles as she drew closer to them now. He held his hand across them now, refusing her entrance into his space.

He could have grabbed her. The Master could have disciplined her with a stronger hand. Instead, he sent her to bed with no supper as though she were little more than an errant child. How many times had she gone without supper in the times before? She laid back down to await the awakening of the others.

“Too many times,” she murmured to herself as she closed her eyes.

The midnight market held every manner of thing a vampire could want: beautiful clothes, bright gems, and pulsing hearts. Imani walked through with her coven sister, Darca. They had come for the market in order to find Darca a new dress. The Master had taken a shine to her and offered to make her one of his wives. The ceremony would take place within days and they needed to be properly prepared. Darca, all aflutter with everything happening, wondered aloud,

“I wonder what it will be like...” she trailed off and Imani, her thoughts elsewhere did not pick up the thread. “Imani!”

“Yes, Darca?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Forgive me, Sister. Ask it again. I promise to hear this time.”

“I asked, what do you think it will be like, my joining with the Master after all this time?”

In truth, Imani had not thought about it. She didn’t need to. Her status would never allow her to attain such things; therefore, why wonder about them. However, the earnest look in her sister’s eyes meant she needed to think of an answer quickly lest she dash some dream in Darca’s mind.

“I’m sure it will be glorious,” Imani said, joy lighting up her eyes. She wanted it to be glorious for her sister; therefore, she trusted it would be. They hooked arms and continued forward into the market.

Exotic pets and bolts of beautiful fabric offered themselves as gems to the eyes. Imani couldn’t help looking around at everything and occasionally being distracted by the sounds of the animals. The two women stopped at various little places to consider the wares of those within but did not find a dress which Darca thought suited her well enough for a joining. Not quite defeated, they came to the end of the market and Imani heard her name above the tumult of the crowd.

Turning to look, Imani saw eyes she swore she would never see again. The crowd standing between them froze in time. Imani half-turned to Darca, who chattered away as though nothing occurred. Imani slipped her arm out and bounded through those who stood around as the world began to move again.

A moment later, she held her sister in her arms.

They exchanged words they had known from the cradle and kissed each other on the cheeks.

“Sister, I love you. What’s happened?”

It was only then Imani’s arms, wrapped around her sister’s neck, registered something hiding her sister’s heartbeat. They only did that to humans who were being sold.

That answered what her sister was doing in the midnight market and Imani’s heart dropped.

“What’s happened?” The repetition didn’t get her any further answer. Darca had caught up to her.

“What are you doing embracing a cow?”

The older vampiress saw no reason for anyone to be embracing food. Imani did not think of her sister as food for herself or anyone else.

“We should buy her,” Imani said, covering herself as best she could. “She’s beautiful. She’ll be a good addition to the house.”

“We are here to find me a dress,” Darca reminded Imani. “Not looking for a cow. Now, let’s go.”

Imani allowed herself to be dragged away but couldn’t help seeing the look of defeat in her sister’s eyes.

In their lives under the sun, Imani and her sister, Iija, had been happy, if poverty stricken. There was never enough, but they had one another which had been enough. Then the Master had come. Imani remembered the first night she had seen him standing at the edge of the clearing near where they lived. His presence had been enough to draw strange looks as he walked through the village at the house fires. He glowed red brown in those fire lights.

“I demand my sacrifice,” he said when he reached the fire of the elders.

That year had not been Imani’s year. She would see him many times before her year would come because he always sought an eligible male or female strong enough to join his cadre.

Every year they appeased him. Every year, a new member of the cadre. Every year. First came the rain, then the heat of summer, then the Master as the nights grew longer.

Imani had been taken less than a full year ago. It would be time for him to go to the village again soon. However, what had happened?

After the shopping trip with Darca, Imani went to the Master and sat at his feet waiting for him to acknowledge her to speak. He would know. He knew everything which went on in their corner of the world.

He looked up from the scroll he studied and into her face.

“You have a question,” he said.

“My village, has something happened to it?” That was the only way Imani could reason something brought her sister to the city in a collar.

He seemed to think a moment as though he would not tell her what he knew. Imani felt it in the air, his reticence. Then he laid the scroll aside and opened his arms to her. Imani went to him and curled up in his arms like a child.

“You are still young,” he began. “So, you have not lived this life as I have, though if the heavens are merciful, you will one day have your own. For now though, you must remember your humanity is no longer and the business of the humans is not yours.”

“This is a long answer to my question.”

“It is,” he admitted. “Your village has been destroyed for choosing to wage war against us.”

“And my family?”

“They are no longer your family. This is your family.” His stern voice might have brought color to her face if she had feed properly, but she had no blood to blush. “Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Darca said she saw you embracing a cow. One of your once family, I’m sure. They are no longer your family and no longer yours to worry over. Let them be.”

Imani removed herself from his arms and fell to her knees before him. As she rose to walk away, she said,

“I understand.”

Sleep allowed her nothing that morning and Imani’s closed eyes saw her sister in the marketplace.

“She’s a cow now,” Imani said as she lay awake on her pallet. Nearby, she felt the others of the cadre. “There’s nothing I can do for her.”

She felt the lie as soon as she said it. Nothing she could do and nothing she would do were two different things. Once upon a time, she promised her sister she would do anything for her. Was she now going to go back on that promise because things had changed?

No.

Imani sat up, some distance from the Master and considered what she would do. She understood they were no longer her affair; however, her sister, blood ties, she couldn’t just walk away from that.

Gathering her shawl, she headed for the cadre door knowing she would have to be careful to be back before full dark.

The midnight market stood empty; stalls unopened for now. They would open soon enough, and she needed to be gone before then. The cadre talisman on her clothing would cause shame on her family if she were caught stealing.

She made her way to the pens at the edge of the market.

“Iija!” She did not make her attempts to find her quiet. There would be human guards, but what could they do against her now, even though she was little more than a fledging showing up in the twilight before the market opened?

Her sister appeared at the edge of the pen and looked at her with wide eyes.

“Imani,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I can’t just leave you here to become someone’s cow.”

“Imani, go back to your life,” her sister said. “Go now before you get caught.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

The gate broke under her hands and suddenly a hundred eyes stared at her, some of them hostile. The first human guard appeared nearby a moment later. He ran at her, and once he reached her, she snapped his spine as easily as one might break off some berries.

“Come on,” she urged her sister who hesitated. Then they were running together, among what seemed like a thousand other footsteps heading for the edge of the enclave. Iija kept pace as best she could, but dealing with a fledgling vampire, she was still too slow, as were most of the humans who had taken the opportunity to make a run for it. Once they were out in the jungle beyond the enclave, Imani slowed and then whipped around to grab her sister in her arms again.

“They told me what happened,” Imani said. “That our village was destroyed for attempting to make war.”

“No,” Iija said. “They slaughtered us because they want us for drink. Every human is to become a cow if they are not chosen to join a cadre.”

Imani looked into her sister’s eyes as she said it and knew she told the truth. Everyone she had ever known turned into a cow, little more than a walking vessel of blood for the ones like her. Imani shook her head.

They were surrounded and she had barely realized it when the first of the men spoke.

“You have freed us,” he said. But where are we to go where we will be safe?”

Imani looked into his wizened face and realized he expected her to know the answer to that question. Of course, she did not, but she pointed to the snowcapped mountain in the near distance.

“We are going there. They will not chase us across the mountain.”

She was wrong.

Their trek to the mountain took them through the night and into the first touches of day.

“I have to stop,” Imani said. “Daylight will kill me.”

Iija put a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “We won’t leave you.”

The humans began to range as best they could to find shelter from the harsh daylight and Imani dug herself down in the soft soil beneath the roots of a tree. They were already in shadow and she would be safe there.

The next night, she rose as the sun was setting and began to gather those nearest to her that they could go on.

Imani felt her belly rumble for her evening meal from the gourd, her sacrificial blade still bright at her side now that she had shaken off the dirt of the day. They trekked through the forest together, the group with Imani in the lead. Though she truly thought they might be safe, Imani couldn’t help wondering what would happen when someone did come upon them.

Then a vampire did.

Near midnight, Imani heard the first snap of a twig which she couldn’t attribute to her followers moving through the jungle. She listened as closely as she could to every movement and tried to come up with how it was possible someone had gotten so far to the left of them without her noticing. Of course, there were those who were much more practiced at stealth than she was, so it made sense, but she didn’t think anyone would be following them up the mountain. The journey was too far from the city; too far for anyone who did not deign to sleep in the dirt of the road.

None of those she slept near would have thought it possible to sleep in the soil of the jungle, yet Imani had done so. She proved to herself it was possible to survive outside of the cadre.

The arrow came out of the dark.

She shouted. “Run!”

They needed to get further up the mountain as soon as possible. Let them go so high the trees would no longer hide those who pursued them. Humans had no chance against the movement and work of even one vampire. That meant Imani would have to defend them. She saw the fear in her sister’s eyes before she dropped back to fight off their pursuer.

That single pursuer did not seem enough in Imani’s mind. All together a group of humans could hope to overwhelm a single vampire.

“Trap,” she murmured to herself before turning and sprinting back to the front of her makeshift tribe. Imani reached the front just in time for the net to appear out of the dark. The black ropes were hidden in the lowlight, but she saw them just the same. Barreling through them, she brushed them off like cobwebs. The rest of her tribe ran through the trap without slowing, doing the best they could to keep to their heels on the uneven terrain.

A small group of vampires, surprised by the loss of their trap, turned toward them. One even started in fright. “Don’t harm the merchandise!”

The cry kept them rooted in place as the group thundered through. Imani knew they wouldn’t let them pass a second time and there would be other traps awaiting them as they moved up the mountain, but she didn’t dare allow them to slow down until sunrise. Once the sun was up and she had retired into the soil, then they could make camp and feed and perhaps even sleep. The humans responsible to the vampires would still be too far behind to do much against them.

Imani woke the next night and Iija awaited her near the camp of the humans.

“We have decided you should go back,” Iija said. Imani raised her eyebrows at the statement and opened her mouth to speak only to be stopped by her sister’s hand. “You have a life there. We do not. Go back. They will punish you, but you won’t die.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Imani said when her sister pulled her hand away. “I have to see you somewhere safe.”

“You are not like me anymore,” Iija said. “You are like them and it makes the others nervous.”

“Let them be nervous.” Imani felt her fangs sharpening against her other teeth. It had been more than two days since she fed, and it went without saying that her stomach growled with the anticipation of a meal as she talked to her sister. Guilty, she closed her eyes. Did she see her sister as nothing more than a cow now that she had changed?

“I want you to be well taken care of,” Iija said. “Please go.”

“When you are on the other side of the mountain and safe.”

Seeing she could not hope to win against Imani’s stubbornness, Iija nodded her head. “When I am safe.”

“There will be other traps.”

“We know.” Iija did not have to indicate the humans who had gathered at the edge of the clearing where Imani had spent the night.

“And you will need me to keep them off.”

“Others do not believe that is true. They say that having you with us only leads them to us.”

“How?”

“Because you are one of them and the blood connects you all.”

Imani did not know if that was true, her vampiric youth betraying her, but she knew she would not leave her sister again after realizing she was in danger.

Thrusting the thoughts of worry away, Imani rose from her grave among the trees and took her sister’s hand. “Let’s go.”

The humans gave her wide berth as she moved to the front of the column and took up the point. Then they began to snake their way through the jungle toward the peak above them.

Their pursuit did not give up so easily. They allowed them to reach the summit of the mountain, quite a distance above the valley where they had been trapped but even further away from the so-called human tribes where they might be safe, before they sprang another trap.

This time, with chilled limbs, the humans had no chance of running away. They walked through the crusts of snow with only the barest of sandals. They needed more, but they did not have it. Imani and Iija were at the point of the column when the vampires came in from either side, closing the straggling column in and shutting it off from itself.

Imani scooped Iija up into her arms and started to run away.

“Don’t leave them,” Iija said.

“I cannot save them, but I will save you,” Imani said.

More vampires appeared. More predators with sharp teeth to take her sister away from her. Imani bared her own fangs and pushed herself to run faster for all that she felt fatigue creeping up on her. Traveling several nights without feeding and pushing her powers to their limits meant she was hardly prepared for what came next.

The tumult of humans and vampires fighting on the snow cap sent some of it tumbling down, followed by the entire snow beneath their feet giving way. Imani tried to stay above it, but she felt herself and Iija become separated. Down they tumbled, rocks and snow crushing humans and vampires alike.

When she came to a stop, Imani opened her eyes and began to dig. Her limbs, chilled by the snow and lack of blood felt leaden, but she fought her way up to the crust of snow just the same. Her sister was not far away, her right arm broke by impact with one of the copses.

Imani went to her and held her dearest sister in her arms.

“Don’t let me become a cow,” she said in a pained whisper.

Imani took the words to heart. Her sacrificial blade, the same blade through which she could pierce the gourd for her daily meal, flashed in the moonlight. Imani’s ears perked up the sound of others nearby. Others who had survived the landslide. Others who would take her sister away and make her a cow. Others who Imani had too much in common with.

Imani brought the blade down on her sister’s throat, piercing it through. Blood gushed out the handle where Imani could sup upon it, but she let it drain out into the ground. Let the rocks know the taste of mortal blood, familial blood. Imani held her sister close as the blood and warmth drained away, leaving behind a silent shell, then she rose from her place. Taking back her knife, she emerged from the copse of trees and raised her hands.

“You took from us,” accused one of the shadows.

“There are none left,” Imani said as drops of blood dripped from her sacrificial blade. “All have perished on the mountain.”

“You took from us and you led them onto the mountain to die. You are a thief and a fool.”

“So I am,” Imani agreed. “So, I am.”

Attack on University of Lagos, Law faculty

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki

I remember the day my school was attacked. It was the 1st of July 2013. I remember that day vividly. That morning I strolled into the Faculty of Law lounge as I usually did, in my impossibly white shirt, spotless as a baby’s sinless heart, dark as coal trousers and brighter than a sunlight smile. Eyes in beautiful faces turned and conversations paused as I came in, a normal response and reaction to my presence. I am, after all, dashingly handsome and incredibly winsome.

But let me proceed with the story of the attack on the faculty and school that morning rather than distract you with my looks, as I have many. As I entered the lounge, opened the Law Students’ Society office door to glance in to see who was about and receive greetings from Segun, Anjola and a  couple of other LSS officials including the faculty president Femi, who, did I mention, happened to hold me in high regard, I found everyone call as usual. I went in, , ignoring both longing looks and passing glances. For yes, occasionally the stubborn will only partially glance at me, reluctant to acknowledge the dazzling charm of my looks. This is only pretense however and secretly in their heart of hearts they admit to themselves my utter desirability.

A quick survey showed me that the lower part of the lounge was half full of students. In a corner, I noticed Chidiebere, a year one student, and brilliant Scrabble player. He is a good friend, but I didn’t bother waving at him. He was engrossed in tutoring a flock of attentive ladies over a Scrabble gameboard and didn’t look like he would appreciate being disturbed.

I walked to the corner of the lounge and climbed the stairs leading to the upper portion. Vanessa, a year four girl, stumbled while coming down the stairs and almost fell. She smiled her thanks to my steadying hand and skipped on.

I smiled inwardly to myself thinking “and so they keep falling for me.” At the upper part of the lounge, year two students, Dammy, Jide, Tobi, and a couple others were lounging. I sat down in one of the chairs after exchanging greetings with my folks.

One of my friends, Osas, inquired in vernacular " how far with your Samsung Galaxy S4 way them thief last week?"

"Oh I couldn't recover it," I responded in my usual refined tones. "So maybe I'll be getting the HTC One to get the experience of using a different product."

Dammy inquires "why not a Blackberry Porsche?"

"That would make a statement" I agree, "but I don't like Blackberry products and asides making the statement, I won't enjoy using it."

I hope the reader isn’t getting bored with the story just yet. All this chitchat about phones and looks is not an attempt to be overly vain but rather show what an ordinary day it started as. It’s meant to set the pace and show you in all starkness how what started as an ordinary day, became a day of horror and foreboding. And the issue of my looks, well not that I’m a vain fellow but you see, my looks do tend to be an unavoidable part of me, even to me. Even when I try to forget them, people do not let me. But let me not bear you too far away from the interesting channel our tale is flowing through.

I and my friends engaged in chit chat along with the other Law students in the lounge for upwards of thirty minutes. I do remember the timing impeccably, being possessed of an eidetic memory. 10.35am exactly it is, when we heard a piercing scream from one of the girls. We stopped in shock and turned to find out the reason for the scream. A pack of food she most likely had bought from the food seller at the lower part of the lounge was open. The contents of the food pack are the reason for the scream. Instead of just tasty jollof rice with fried plantain and she must have ordered, a mass of crawling maggots and creepy insects were awash in the food pack and crawling out. The owner of the food, a popular year two girl named Munachi, who had been the cover girl for popular artiste Wizkid’s cover art, looked up in revulsion, then rushed down to probably confront the food seller. Another piercing scream and we all rushed down to find out what new horror was unfolding. When I, along with Jide, Dammy and Osas, reach the lower part of the lounge, a scene of horror greeted us. Chaos in the house of order.

All the people who bought food appeared to be in bad shape, or at least those carless enough to have eaten the food without looking too closely at its contents. Several people were on the floor, vomiting. Some retched out organs on the floor which was fast turning bloody. Others were slumped. The unaffected people screamed uncontrollably, a good sign that they were, well, unaffected.

Somebody rushed to the door and turned the handle, in vain. The door was locked.

“It’s locked from the outside’’ Jide said.

His announcement was met with silence as the frightening implications sunk in. An icy shudder ran through me. We noticed that the rest of the lounge was also silent. All the retching, dying people had completed their death throes it seemed and laid still. We surveyed the carnage in the room and one girl, Kehinde, in year two, inquired in a small scared voice

“Are they dead?’’

I was about to respond in a sarcastic tone that they were only catching up on lost sleep, when one of the bodies jerked. I swallowed my response. Slowly at first, then continuously, all the other bodies jerked, too, violently. Screaming and crying began anew.

I looked at the faces of the people not crying. Even their faces reflected fear. The same fear I knew must have been reflected in my handsome features. Almost, in this instant, did I forget my good looks for everyone had forgotten it, it seemed. Almost, but not quite, for I noticed that as they whimpered, they moved closer to me.  The jerking bodies stop jerking all at the same time. Then a head looked up. Fingers began to move and bodies jerked up in choppy robotic motions like we see in bad Nollywood vampire movies.

I briefly looked at the food stand for the seller and wondered, a small part of me that she must be in some way responsible for the sale of the food converting people to the undead, and the locked door too must be her doing. There was scant time for detective work; however, as all around us the undead rose up from the corpses of dead law students.

One of the boys, Dammy, reached for the door to the LSS office but it didn’t budge. Around us, our former law students rose up as ghoulish creatures, with bloodshot eyes and glistening fangs as they shuffled toward us. I bent to pick up an object from the floor. It was long and ornate, curved, and beautiful. I didn’t stop to wonder what a finely forged katana was doing on the floor of the law lounge.  There had been strange, inexplicable occurrences and undead creatures around. It only stood to reason there would be Samurai swords too.

Now all that was needed was a hero of the light to wield the blade and vanquish all shadowy forces that had appeared in the faculty. I was definitely hero material, 20 yards. I had the looks and now the sword too and apparently the skill as we found out when the creatures rushed in for a taste of living flesh.

In one smooth motion, I drew the steel sword from its sheath and lopped the head off one of the creatures that had shuffled ahead of its mates. I tried not to think about the fact that it was formerly one of my mates, and likely admirer. That was one thing you don’t think if you want to survive an apocalypse.

I commanded all the remaining Law students to get behind me as the creatures rushed into a slaughter. I was a whirlwind with my spinning sword. I didn’t disappoint the fates that had sent a sword to aid us and displayed brilliant swordsmanship and skills I never knew I had, (another reason for the reader to watch samurai and ninja movies.) You never know when an apocalypse will happen and a hero will be called.

After cutting up the last undead Law student, (regrettable that, but necessary for survival) I sheathed my sword in a flourish. I was just about to say that we should find a way out of the lounge when the LSS office door burst open and something grabbed one of the girls. It was the Munachi girl in year two.

The creature holding her was different from the rest of the creatures. This one had the fresh, almost normal face of someone still alive, that of the food seller in the lounge who we reasoned must be responsible for this whole fiasco. The food seller creature had long leathery wings and glistening fangs in its human mouth, all of which contributed to make a truly hideous face. I pulled out my sword and noticed the blade was glowing. A blue nimbus of light surrounded the blade, likely a reaction to the evil food seller creature.

At the sight of my glowing sword, she flinched back in fear.

“Putsss down your weaponsss. Puts it down or thisss one diessss,” it rasped through its hideous fangs.

Yeah, right. Put down my weapon and be lunch.

On the same vein, I couldn’t very well let the Munachi girl, my classmate, be eaten by the vampire queen. I glanced back at my remaining companions with raised eyebrows.  Dammy shook his head and mouthed a silent no. I knew what I had to do. I tossed my sword to the floor.

The food seller creature’s eyes were on the sword, watching it as it fell to the ground. That was instinct. It kept its eyes on the feared weapon and I knew this.

I didn’t watch the sword. I moved. I launched the sword’s scabbard straight at it while it was distracted by the falling sword and bent to scoop it up.

I was not quick enough; however, for as I picked up the sword and rushed at the queen, I noticed it had already dodged the missile and was reaching for Munachi’s neck with its fangs in anger.

Time slowed.

I raced to defeat not just her, but time and space. Would I make it; would I be in time to save a lovely damsel in distress?

For that was a hero’s most sacred task.

I strove to fulfil that role with my sword outstretched and my body hurtling through space. Skin is pierced and flesh is rent. Munachi screamed and fell to the floor, unharmed as my sword pierced the monster in the mouth, directly between the fangs it had sort to end a damsel’s life. She looked at me gratefully while sobbing in relief and the others rushed to comfort her. I pulled my sword from the dead monster’s carcass.

A while later, we heard pounding on the door and I pulled my sword, took a few steps back and waited for the next foe. Tired but determined, I knew there was only so much a handsome hero could do. A bunch of keys rattled. One was inserted into the keyhole and turned. The door swung open and we all breathed a sigh, in relief.

It was the faculty president, Femi and the Faculty Dean, Proffessor Onadeko, coming to tell us that the school has been overrun. We all rushed out to find the school outside the Law faculty in chaos. Undead students everywhere, living students caught and eaten, and flying vampires, like the food seller, sailed through the air on leathery wings. They snatched students from the ground and consumed them in the sky, leaving their mangled bodies to drop to the earth.

The sky itself was dark and cloudy from the smoke billowing from the topmost floor of the Senate building that housed the VC’s office. I shook my head in despair and hoped there were more swords, more heroes for this one was weary and wounded. I put a hand to my shoulder, and it came away wet with blood for as I stabbed the food seller creature, its claws had torn my flesh. I felt sluggish and dizzy. Who knew what venom would be coursing through me now?

But I smiled my charming smile at one of my companions who smiled back bravely, and I drew my sword as one of the creatures swooped in.

As long as there were monsters to slay and people to save, tired heroes would keep fighting.

His Destroyer

Samantha Bryant

When Dienihatiri closed her eyes on the pain of the beating she had earned by birthing a girl-child again, she never expected to open them. Her end had come and she fell into darkness praying that the daughter she had born would be allowed to live, that her life might offer a greater chance at happiness, or that God might welcome them both in peace.

When she woke, she was wrapped for burial. Thin cloth bound her, obscuring her vision. No one sat with her body, so when she freed herself from the rough matting, no one witnessed her rise to her feet or saw her walk out into the darkness, burial cloth dangling from her like a tattered cape.

In the abandoned streets, evidence of great destruction spread. Burnt out hulls of dwellings crawled with locusts and broken pots littered the streets. Dienihatiri’s eyes widened with dismay. What had happened here? Had the city been attacked? Maybe it was good that she’d been mistaken for dead. It might have saved her life.

The city was so altered that she was no longer sure which direction would lead to her home, so she made her way toward the river instead. Though the sky was moonless and devoid of stars, she had little trouble making her way. As if the ground were illuminated, each stone and pit of the pathway stood out clearly and she made her way without stumbling.

The night air cooled and soothed her skin. As she walked down the hill to the river, she noticed how good she felt--strong, full of energy. Though her last memory was of a beating from the overseer of the woman’s house, her body moved without stiffness or pain. Despite her near nudity, she was not cold. Her only physical discomfort was a hollow hunger. She worried more for her daughter, confused about what had happened to her.

At the bottom of the long hill that led to the great Nile river, she saw a pillar of light, white and swirling, long enough it seemed to stretch from the earth to the heavens and perhaps beyond. Something about it filled her with joy and fear at the same time and she hurried toward the terrible glory, even while part of her trembled to think what she might find when she arrived.

Her bare feet padded against the ground soundlessly, the rough stone barely noticeable. She knew the distance to be great--she had struggled down the hill laden with burdens often enough--but tonight, the journey slipped by as quickly as a dance. In what seemed only a moment, she arrived at the gently lapping bank of the river.

The column of light still shone. Up close it flickered as though made of flame, but a white flame offered no heat. Blue tendrils spiraled within. Though the column seemed to rise from the dark waters, it was not reflected in their depths. Dienihatiri bent and dipped her fingers into the warm water and raised them to her face to cleanse the street dust from her skin.

When she uncovered her face, the column of light burned mere inches from her. She fell back onto her bottom, grunting in surprise. A voice spoke. An impossible voice that was both a battle cry and a soothing whisper, both male and female, both in the air and vibrating within her own chest. “My Destroyer,” it said.

Dienihatiri shivered though she was unaffected by any chill. Laying her hand upon her heart, she noticed that she could not feel it beating. She scuttled like a crab, backing away from the light, her face wet with tears she had not realized she was crying. Somewhere within, she understood, though her mind still rebelled against the idea.

A warmth bloomed in her chest and Dienihatiri who had risen to her knees, collapsed against the earth, pinned there by overwhelming grief. She heard no more words, but the voice spoke directly to her heart, filling her with sad duty. She understood. All the attempts to help Pharoah understand, all the chances he had been given to do what was right--all these had failed, and the worst of punishments would now have to be dealt.

She was to be the instrument.

She whose own son had been snatched from her arms and killed because Pharaoh feared the prophecy that one of their tribe would evince his end and purged the city of male Hebrew infants. Pharaoh would see his own tactics turned on himself and his people and only then would his blindness be alleviated--enlightenment was cruel.

Too afraid to beg release from the task before her, she lay on the ground while tears watered the earth beneath her face. At length, she found the strength to rise and dared again to gaze upon the column of light.

“Come.” The single word thrummed in the air and underneath her own skin.

She dared not speak her acquiescence but turned her obedient feet in the direction of the palace. Silently, she moved past the familiar domiciles of the slave quarters, the homes of people she had known all her life. Further ahead, up the hill, she knew the houses grew grander. As she walked, a pain spread in her belly, a horrible hunger like none she had ever known. She could eat for weeks and never find her fill.

The light flitted ahead of her, bouncing from hovel to hovel. As Dienihatiri passed each one, she turned her head to look and found herself repelled--though this had once been her home, she could not enter here now. The feeling was physical, like she’d been shoved back by an invisible hand. If she tried to step nearer these doorways, pressure grew behind her eyes and her skin crawled as if scorpions pricked at her.

Standing outside one home, she saw the spatter of blood on the doorpost. The smell of it burned her nose and throat, and a retching feeling rose through her guts. She backed away, hand over her mouth and nose.

Then the voice hummed across the air, calling to her. “Here, my Destroyer.”

Dienihatiri followed the call and stopped on the threshold of a large home, consisting of several rooms. The column of light spun beside her, the twisting patterns of shadow and fire exhorting her to begin her work. She leaned towards the entry with trepidation, but no answering counterpressure arose and she crossed the entryway.

Her feet made no sound in the silent home, and she quickly made her way to an alcove where a woman slept in a chair and a boy-child rested in a small bed. The hunger spiked in her and she felt her teeth grow long and press into her lower lip. She opened her mouth to alleviate the pain and a delicious smell assaulted her senses. Before she knew what was happening, she had seized the child and sunken her teeth into the tender flesh of his neck. In a matter of seconds, he lay limp in her arms, lifeless and still. He had never even struggled.

The woman in the chair slept on.

Horrified, Dienihatiri replaced the boy in his bed and fled from the house. Back out on the street, she fell to her knees, expecting to be struck down for the horror of her crimes. Instead a warm glow fell over her, soothing as the sun’s rays at dawn. Gulping back the tears, she stared into the light which swirled implacably around and around.

“Come.” The voice vibrated within her chest, as if it spoke from within her own heart. “There is much work to be done.”

House after house, the scene was repeated. Dienihatiri screamed within her mind but dared not speak aloud her revulsion and loathing. First born sons of Egypt were sacrificed by the score, and there seemed no end to her hunger or God’s demands. Guilt soured the blood she swallowed, even as her thirst continued unslaked.

Unasked questions swirled through her mind. Why me? Can this be just? She dared ask none of them.

Child after child breathed his last in her arms and still the light swirled, demanding more. The name she’d been given echoed in her consciousness. Destroyer. Destroyer. Destroyer. Dienihatiri no more.

By the time they arrived at the steps of the palace, dawn should have been approaching, but darkness still inked over the starless sky. Pharoah’s eldest son’s rooms lay at the edge of an opulent garden, made green by the labor of slaves who fought the arid land and forced impossible blooms from the earth. Dienihatiri breathed in the moist air and let her fingertips brush the leaves of exotic plants as she traversed the path--still beautiful, despite the blood shed for their existence.

The guards slept at their posts and Dienihatiri considered this a blessing. She could have killed them, if it were necessary. The strength coursing through her muscles was sufficient to topple buildings and rupture mere human flesh like the thinnest sheet of papyrus. But God had seen fit to clear the way for her, at least. She could perform her horrible calling without the need for additional violence. She longed to cast the duty away, to throw herself on the earth and cry for the violence she had wrought, but one could not refuse the demands of the Lord, regardless of the difficulty and pain.

Who was she to question His will?

The boy was perhaps ten years old, long and lanky, still boney with new growth.

He lay on his back in silent repose in a room lined with small precious objects, playthings, and scrolls. Dienihatiri climbed into the bed, raising the boy into her arms. Despite the many lives she had ended that night, hunger still drove her. The boy’s body twitched in her arms as she drained him, but weakly, like a puppy suffering a minor nightmare.

When the task was nearly complete, a gasp of anguish disturbed her in her work. Dienihatiri looked up to find a man in the doorway, eyes wide with horror, one hand clasping at his sumptuous robes while the other fought for purchase on the doorway. He froze there, whether held by God or immobilized by his own grief Dienihatiri could not have said.

She knew him to be Pharoah, though she had never seen the man in her life. Their eyes locked, connecting them. Dienihatiri felt as if her own tears ran down his cheeks, but she did not relinquish her task.

The voice hummed through the air. “This is what your pride has wrought.”

When Dienihatiri let the shell that had once housed Pharoah’s heir crumple to the bed, the man fell to his knees, a keening cry rising in his throat. She stepped over his outstretched arms.

As had been the case in every household she had entered that evening, no one saw her. People who might have tried to stop her were asleep or simply not at their posts. She reached the street without the slightest outcry, despite Pharoah’s wail rising into a howl behind her. An answering cry sounded in the depths of Dienihatiri’s own unbeating heart, though no sound escaped her blood-reddened mouth. She knelt in the street, allowing her empty hands to fall open to her sides.

She waited, head bowed to the ground, grief washing through her like a river after rain--fresh and raw, forceful and frightening.

When at last she raised her head, she found she was within the column of light, surrounded in a swirling glow that evoked at once the night sky, the warmth of a fire, and the mid-day sun. Looking made her giddy and she closed her eyes, letting tears flow freely over her cheeks, salt stinging her lips.

“Rest now, my Destroyer. You have served me well.”

Oblivion, her final wish, was granted.

Quadrille

Colin Cloud Dance

Back

Being a vampire is disgusting. Whoever decided that it was romantic and sexy was delusional. The blood lust, the killing, the avoiding detection, the lack of control - the worst part is that my victims orgasm as they die - part of the chemical makeup of my saliva.

Right

Being a vampire is hereditary. When I turned thirty, I developed a thirst for blood that culminated in me murdering my lover. I staged the dead body as best I could to implicate a suicide. After a time long enough to avoid suspicion, I packed my things and left California to go spend time with my family in Virginia before I committed suicide. I had decided to kill myself. I felt guilty that I protected myself from the murder charge rather than go through a trial, incarceration, and execution.

Back

The impact of my saliva starts with a kiss.

Right

“Oh, you are like Uncle Leviathan. We didn’t think there would be one of you in this generation. I guess you are a late bloomer,” my father said.

“Why did you keep this from me and from the rest of us?” I asked.

“Well, there is no point in talking about our family history if there isn’t a new vampire to raise,” my mother said.

“Aren’t vampires some Hungarian shit? How can I be Black and a vampire?” I asked.

“Obviously, you don’t need to be Hungarian or Romanian. Watch your language!” my mother warned.

My life was destroyed, and my mother was worried about me saying ‘shit’. I didn’t know whether to walk out or start crying.

“You need to figure out how to keep yourself fed without drawing attention to yourself. That’s what Uncle Leviathan does,” my father said.

“How does he do it?” I asked. “Isn’t there some way to suppress it?”

“Not that he’s discovered. He works in palliative care,” my mother said.

“Is his being…like me…the reason he never comes around?” I asked.

They both sounded, “Ummhmm.”

“He didn’t want to burden the family. He tried to keep what he was up to in the dark, to protect us,” my father said.

Left

My family convinced me to make a new life for myself. I decided that the easiest way to cover my…needs…was to travel to places in conflict. Places where finding a dead body was normal. I camouflaged myself as a journalist specializing in covering wars. I moved to Syria.

Back

I can dry kiss people, but if my saliva comes into contact with skin, a chemical reaction occurs. It is a slow reaction, but it works. My saliva is absorbed through the skin and enters my victim’s bloodstream. Two chemical components of my saliva are important during this phase: a mild sedative most closely related to winter berry and an aphrodisiac similar to cloves.

Right

One moment she was there, at the head of the alleyway where I was still holding the body of a soldier. She was wrapped in brown cloth, with a black scarf framing her face. The next moment, there was a strong wind and a small tornado of dust that grew in size and strength. I dropped to the ground with the body underneath me and covered my head with my arms to protect myself from the swirling dust. After some time, the wind subsided. The semi-arid environment was like this, sudden winds, too much sand and dust. Wind made a fog of dust, like walking in a thick haze at times.

I rolled onto my back and the woman in brown was standing above me, watching me. “Salamat?” I said.

“American?” she said.

“Yes. Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Enough.” She circled me, never turning her back. I thought about what to do with the body and what I could and could not do with the body while she was watching me. “Leave the body,” she said. “You should come with me. I can protect you. You are like me, but…I think different.”

I felt exposed. Death felt near. It had been a thought of mine that I would eventually be a fatality while working in a war zone. It was a way to end my pernicious life without killing myself. I had promised my parents that I would not commit suicide, but if I got killed…

Now that Death was stalking me, I wanted to live. Why? I asked myself. Was it just a habit?

She made a rude sound that indicated her impatience. Then she vanished, as I was picked up by the wind and carried away. I was surrounded by dust and couldn’t tell up from down. This must have been the equivalent of being sucked into a tornado. I was pushed and pulled by the wind. When my feet touched the ground, I was picked up again. My arms and legs sprawled in all directions as I floated, tumbled, drifted, soared. As the sun set, the wind subsided, and I found myself on a beach. My ears rang from the wind. I liked that I had a normal human response such as my ears ringing. Since becoming a vampire, my stomach no longer got nauseous or hungry or felt empty. It was as if that organ no longer existed in my body. There were other parts of my body that seemed similarly absent, so nice that my ears were normal. I lay on the sand and watched the sky darken. Since I had just killed, I was satiated. It would be another three days until I would need to kill again.

Back

My need for blood turned me into a gentleman in terms of adopting the old-fashioned manner of kissing a woman’s hand and I do the same for bisexual and gay men. If their sexuality is not clear, I put a bit of my spit on my hand and simply shake hands with my victim.

Right

The wind picked up again and I saw another whirlwind of dust and sand coming towards me. I jumped up and started running along the shore away from the dust devil. I remembered watching swirling leaves when I was growing up in Virginia and thinking how fun it was to run into the middle. Just entering those gentle swirls disrupted the flow, dissipating the wind and collapsing the mini-tornado. Not so this time. I did not want to be spun away again. The woman in brown was running beside me, matching my pace. My masculine pride was hurt since I considered myself to be a fast runner.

I stopped.

She stopped.

“Can you book us passage by boat away from here?” she asked.

My mind could not catch up to what was happening. Why was she here?

“How are you here?” I asked.

“I brought you here.”

“What?” She stared at me.

I stared back at her.

Her skin was not white. It was a light brown. She had brown eyes, a straight nose, and thin lips. She was very plain. She was…

“You are the wind?” I asked.

She nodded. “I am a djinn.” She smiled at me and said, “and you are a vampire.”

The feeling of Death approaching returned. How could she recognize what I was? If she could recognize me, did I have to be on guard for other people recognizing me, too? How could I conceal myself better? She touched my arm and my attention returned to her. “Can you book us passage by boat away from here?”

“Yes,” I said. “Where do you want to go?” My brain did a rapid dance with the vulnerability of her knowledge about me. Stilling my brain, I said, “How did you find out I was a vampire?”

“You were holding a body drained of blood,” she said. I laughed in spite of myself, then pondered how I could be laughing in this situation. It was relief. She hadn’t recognized me, so much as recognized the situation in which she found me.

“I want to see your country, America.”

“That isn’t a good idea. The trip is too long by boat and with my...condition, that could be a problem.”

“Let’s go to Africa or Europe, anywhere but Syria.”

I checked my pockets to find my passport and wallet. I had a secret wallet under my shirt that had American dollars for emergencies such as this. It would be nice to not be so alone. I hoped that my loneliness wasn’t leading me into trouble, but what could be more troublesome than ourselves: a vampire and a djinn?

Left

In the winter, Ukraine was deadly cold, but Wayra and I were impervious. We dressed warmly but that was just camouflage. The Russian backed separatists used the cold as a weapon entering the warm homes of soldiers and civilians capturing many prisoners because the cold sapped their will to fight. On the one hand, there were hardly any casualties; on the other hand, it was harder for me to kill. I had to learn a new way to hunt and kill, which Wayra facilitated. We would go out when we knew a storm was coming, otherwise Wayra would create a mini-storm. My victim could then be classified as a casualty of exposure after becoming disoriented in the storm.

Back

Ten minutes after coming in contact with my saliva, my victim usually needs to sit down as the sedative takes effect and then begins to smile in a dreamy way. It is easier to tell with men, as they start to become erect.

Right

Living with Wayra alleviated my loneliness, but she wasn’t good company. She was too quiet. I found that I had to be the one to start and maintain conversations. Wayra had been a djinn from birth. While still an infant, she had whirled around the room. Fortunately, her mother had shut all the windows and doors to keep her trapped. She had had a normal childhood but had not learned regulation until she was a teenager. Her lack of control caused her parents to keep her at their farm tending the animals. When she could restrain herself, they allowed her to attend school and she moved to the city where the rest of her family lived most of the year.

Left

Wayra and I captured a bear. Wayra had isolated a man alone in the snow, but when she dropped my victim, it was a bear. I was disappointed and wanted to drink blood, so tried to stay calm in the face of her mistake. “Wayra? It’s a bear!” I stated the obvious. “No, it isn’t. It is a man,” she said. “Let’s take him home and then I will find you another person.”

She transformed and disappeared with the bear. A few moments later she returned with a soldier.

Back

I hoped and prayed that I could drink the blood of animals. It doesn’t work. I lose my senses as my body is overcome by pain as if animal blood is poison to me.

Right

Satiated. I walked back to the place where we were living. Curious, I asked Wayra, “Where did you put the bear?”

“In our apartment.”

“What? Why did you put a bear in our apartment? Are you insane? When it wakes up it will go on a rampage and destroy everything!” I shouted at her.

She shrugged and said, “We’ll see when we get there.”

Left

A man was sitting in our living room reading a book and sipping hot tea. I could only stare.

Wayra pushed past me saying, “I told you he was not a bear.”

“Hello, call me Wayra.”

“That means wind in my language.” He nodded in understanding. His accent was American but had a guttural quality that marked him as Native American. “I’m Gruffin. Call me Gruff.” Why was this happening? Who was this bear or man or what?

“He is Tariq.” Wayra volunteered my name without my permission. He looked me over, obviously contemplating if I was normal or something else.

“You are a…bear?” I asked.

He smiled and I was momentarily dazzled. He was handsome when he smiled and there was charisma there, too. I, on the other hand, am ugly. Truthfully, it was as if I got all the bad components of every one of my antecedents. My only commendable feature was that I was tallish and thin, but the latter was because of my blood diet.

“I’m a shape-shifter.”

“He’s a vampire.”

At that moment I wanted to slap Wayra. Why did she keep telling him my secrets? Why did she trust this Gruff?

She said, “Are you hungry? I just fed Tariq.”

Gruff, again, looked at me inquisitively. I had had enough and went to my room, but I could hear the two of them eating and conversing. This was probably for the best since I couldn’t eat and drink with them anyway.

Back

While my victims are sedated and slightly aroused, I can walk away or kill them. Most of the time I kill them. I know the effect of my saliva and if I have gone through that trouble, then I need blood. I do not use my spit casually.

Right

Wayra had shown little curiosity about me being a vampire. She was equally not curious about Gruff being a shapeshifter.

Left

Gruff spent time learning everything about our abilities.

“What do you mean you have never tested it on Wayra? Let’s do it! Wayra do you mind if we test Tariq’s spit on you?”

“Only if we can test it on you, also.”

Gruff said, “That’s fair. You want me to go first?”

“Yes.”

I interjected, “Wait, I haven’t agreed to do this.”

“Oh, come on. I think we should know,” Gruff said. I took his hand and licked it so that I wouldn’t have to hear him talk anymore. He was shocked then went to the other side of the room and sat down. I was slightly offended since I had already told him that I could not drink the blood of animals. I was sure that his blood was some unholy mix of human and bear. Wayra moved close to Gruff and watched him. After several minutes he got an impressive erection. Wayra’s eyes widened then she started smiling. Gruff got a goofy grin. The next moment he was a bear.

I panicked, “Oh, shit!”

Wayra observed Gruff. “I think it is fine. He seems sedated.”

Back

Once sedated and aroused, I take them to a safe location to kill them. My saliva makes them docile and it takes little persuasion to move them to a better location. Oh, there is a time limit to the effects of my saliva, and it is about an hour.

Right

When it was Wayra’s turn, we decided to put her in an empty closet to be safe. I kissed her hand. She rolled her eyes. I wondered if she would remain so indifferent once my saliva did its magic. As with Gruff, Wayra turned into a tornado after ten minutes. Then she banged around the closet for about thirty minutes. Gruff asked, “How much longer?”

“It usually lasts an hour, but I think she is back to normal.”

“How do you know?” Gruff asked.

“It’s quiet.”

I opened the closet and picked up Wayra who seemed to be sleeping. Gruff rushed to check her pulse and her breath. “I didn’t think that maybe she could have an adverse reaction to your saliva. We seem to be so immune to death…” he said.

Back

Once in a secluded location, I bite them. Bite isn’t quite correct. I locate a vein and slice into it with my sharp incisors. My saliva starts producing an anti-coagulant nearly identical to garlic that keeps the blood from clotting. Then I drink all of their blood by sucking it out of their body.

Right

Wayra was fine, but every now and then I would catch her staring at me with a new expression on her face. Then, when I caught her staring, she would just keep staring. I had long concluded that Wayra was peculiar. I would be the first to break eye contact since I knew she would not. “You are not hungry?” Wayra asked me. As the winter had progressed, I had gone from killing every three days to killing once a week.

“Yes. I seem to be on a weekly schedule,” I answered.

“It must be Gruff,” she said.

“What? What do you mean?” “You eat less since I caught Gruff.”

Back

When the blood enters my mouth, my body changes the chemistry of my saliva to something much more potent. I produce a stronger sedative similar to extracts from the poppy plant. This keeps them still and induces a euphoric state.

Left

“Spring is here. We need to leave Ukraine. I don’t think it is safe for you and Wayra to hunt anymore,” Gruff said.

Gruff had begun shape-shifting when he was a teen-ager. His people recognized him and his abilities immediately. They even had an initiation ritual that taught him how to control his transformations. He had left his people because he felt too exposed; among them he had an elevated status similar to a shaman. He felt that everyone treated him with deference yet caution. Not even his family treated him normally. When Gruff first entered our lives, I festered with resentment. I couldn’t help but be upset that both Wayra and Gruff could eat normal human food. I was the evil one. Their abilities could be harmful, but they didn’t use them that way. Just to live I had to kill. There was nothing positive about me being a vampire. All I did was kill.

“Where should we go? I want to see America!” Wayra said.

Gruff said, “I don’t think that is a good idea. I have had too many close calls back there.” That was the first time that I saw Wayra pouting. It did not improve her looks.

“You are both American and don’t want to go home,” she said.

“You are in no hurry to return to Syria,” I said. She nodded in agreement.

“I’ve always been fascinated by Africa,” I said.

Right

Wayra owned the Sahara. Gruff and I were just along for the ride. She put us down at an oasis in Chad. Since we did not want to be found or traced, we did not have phones. Instead I had a handheld GPS unit that I used to keep track of our location. It gave me some feeling of control when, in reality, I was at the whim of wherever Wayra wanted to take me. She couldn’t cross water, but once on land she was unstoppable. I wasn’t bothered by how long it took to travel, but Gruff could only go without water and food for a day. So, we stopped every night for Gruff, but Wayra ate and drank as well. I had never paid much attention to Wayra’s eating habits beyond the fact that she ate normal human food. I had gotten used to Gruff but still felt a sting of jealousy when they sat down to eat together.

Back

Then near the end, as if my body knows just the right moment before death - the chemicals in my saliva change again to include a high dose of the hormone oxytocin that evokes their final dying orgasm. The pleasure in their eyes as they die is heinous, foul, horrible.

Foreword

A European man walked into our camp. I was startled and licked my palm to stun him with my saliva. Gruff jumped to his feet and was a bear in the blink of an eye. Wayra swirled then stood in front of the man holding her hands out to stop us. “What?” I asked. I grabbed ahold of Gruff’s fur at his neck to hold him next to me. He started crooning and rolled onto his back exposing his belly.

“Shit, my spit!” I said.

Moments later we were treated to the sight of a bear’s erection.

Wayra said, “There is something about this human…”

The man seemed unnaturally calm as if it wasn’t the first time, he had seen a bear’s erection. It was a sight that I hoped to never see again. “What are you doing here?” I tried to be threatening.

His voice was even as he said, “I work here.”

What did he mean by here?

“You mean in Chad?”

“Yes, but I work with plants. I am studying this oasis.”

Right

We spent several days at the oasis. I had thought that Wayra was too quiet, but he gave her a run for her money.

Foreword

Like Wayra, without fan-faire he said, “This is not a good place for you, Tariq.” His words depressed me. Demarcus seemed ordinary, but he had some strange thing with plants. Gruff and Wayra accepted him into our group without consulting me. I was the monster and now this kind stranger was doing the same as Gruff and Wayra: protecting me and taking care of me. Demarcus said, “I suggest we go to my home which is east of Abéché and close to the border with Sudan.” I smiled in sick pleasure as Demarcus’s face took on a look of shock as he was embraced into the Wayra tornado. Then I was flying with him and Gruff.

Back

The last phase is getting rid of the body.

Left

Gruff said, “This place is amazing!” He examined the inside of the house, then walked the gardens surrounding the house. There were four bedrooms. I took the one that looked easiest to break into from the outside. I hoped to make a meal of a burglar in the future. Gruff came in asking for my GPS. “I need to check something.”

The house was shaded by four enormous trees. I recognized one as being a baobab. The gardens had several types of palm trees. There were vegetables, leafy greens that looked edible - at least edible for Demarcus, Gruff and Wayra.

“I’m right,” Gruff said. “Demarcus? Where are you?”

Foreward

Demarcus sauntered out of the bedroom next to mine. He said, “Yes?”

“You have this entire place laid out cardinally. Was it intentional? Even the four tall trees mark north, south, east and west.” Gruff said. I shook my head and went into my room. There was a layer of dust that needed to be cleaned. I returned to the central space. Gruff and Demarcus were still talking.

“So, you arranged everything until you felt things were in balance?” Gruff asked.

“Yes,” Demarcus said, “Once everything was in their correct place, they grew at twice their normal rate. If a plant isn’t thriving, I move it until it grows better.”

“So, is it that you felt things were in the right place or did you move things until they grew?” Gruff asked.

“Where are the cleaning things?” I interrupted.

Demarcus pointed.

Right

Wayra fell in behind me. I turned towards her broom in hand.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“No.”

“It has been over a week.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t kill Demarcus.”

I had to get ahold of myself before answering with forced calm, “I won’t kill Demarcus.”

“He is a special human, but still human,” she said. I was beyond words. How could she think that I would kill a person that she had befriended? I gently moved her aside and headed towards my room.

Foreword

Demarcus followed me into my room. “Do you know about the conflict in Darfur, Sudan?” he asked me.

“I’m a war correspondent, of course I know about it.” I began sweeping the floor of my room. Demarcus was silent for a long time.

“That is a perfect job for someone like you.” I give him an irritated glance and kept sweeping. “I have a housekeeper. By the way, are you married?”

“No.”

“You don’t fit my idea of a …vampire.”

“Demarcus, don’t start. Is there something important that you want to say?”

“Welcome to my home. I hope that the three of you come to think of it as your home, too.”

I dropped the broom and walked out of the house into the garden. I found a shady spot to sit by myself and cry.

Back

I do not eat or drink. I survive on human blood alone.

Left

My need to kill diminished with time. Gruff swore that it was because of the way that Demarcus had cardinally aligned the house, the trees, the garden. For his next experiment, Gruff prepared various nutritious concoctions for me to try to eat or drink from plants grown in Demarcus’ garden. My body rejected these via vomiting. Gruff kept trying.

Right

Wayra and I traveled into Sudan to witness the atrocities and report it to the world. If I was hungry, I would kill before returning to Chad. One time I called my family in Virginia from Sudan to let them know that I was safe, but I didn’t tell them my location. “Your Uncle Leviathan has been putting money into an account for you. Here is his phone number. You should call him,” my father said. My mother got on the line, “Boy, I know you are in Sudan. I read your reports. Stop being so mysterious.” That was fine by me, since I lived in Chad. I was happy that they thought I lived elsewhere. Wayra continued to be my companion for reporting and for killing. She would whirl us away if there was the slightest chance of me being caught. She was my companion, but Gruff was her lover.

Foreword

Demarcus kept detailed records on the life of his plants, how much water they consumed, and their yield. He sold produce to people that came by the house and had regular customers that resold his harvest.

He seemed unconcerned that everyone was profiting from his labor. He pointed out that it was his job to keep everyone fed. The one thing he could talk about at great length and with passion was that food scarcity was a myth and that if people were not so determined to make a profit there was enough food for every person on the Earth to have a nutritious diet. Agricultural scientists and farmers came to learn from his techniques. He never spoke about how he had come to position the plants, just that some plants did better in north facing plots or south facing plots, with more or less water, etcetera.

Demarcus was dating a woman from Chad. She was hesitating about marry him because he was European. I’m not sure if he knew this. I found out because I asked her one day when we were alone in the garden.

Back

Watching my victims’ orgasms as they died, makes me not want to be intimate with anyone. However, having friends balances me and makes my life worth living. Maybe I can think about giving pleasure in a more healthy way in the future, but not right now.

Asi’s Horror and Delight

Sumiko Saulson

The Impundulu and the Witch

“I don’t think a mere vampire can best the God of Nightmares,” Asi sighed, furrowing well-manicured eyebrows over piercing yellow eyes fringed by a charcoal-smudge of eyelashes. Currently in his humanoid form, the South African vampire was of the bloodsucker type known as impundulu. The impundulu or lightning bird was a vampiric familiar, a shapeshifter who often appeared as a blood-drinking bird. Ari, in humanoid form, appeared as a comely young man in his mid-twenties. In truth he was more than five hundred and twenty. Jet black curls hung over his bare, honey-tinged chocolate shoulders. A velvet smile sweetly twisted his hot cocoa lips. Asi was hungry… always hungry. Both in humanoid and avian form, the vampire was hauntingly beautiful, and his bloodlust never satisfied.

“This is not a contest of might, nor of wit and will,” Ozymora, Asi’s mistress and mortal bond, purred. “It is a contest the sort of which my lovely Asi could most readily win. Asi, whose eyes melt both hearts and loins? Asi, whose gentle touch seduces, whose sharp teeth cut, and blooded mouth does greedily suckle. You whose alluring features and succulent aroma bring delight to your victims even as you, tempting Asi, bleed them dry. You would compete for the heart of Phobetor, God of Nightmares, and perhaps if that is won, gain keys to his Kingdom.

“Gods are not easily deceived,” Asi protested. “You ask me to compete when you know I may lose. A vampire is no God! This will end in my destruction, foolhardy mortal. Even so, Asi must do Ozymora’s biding.”

“Fear not, Asi! I am well informed on these matters. As for you, but listen, and learn,” Ozymora said. She, a young African witch, was curled up on a burgundy satin settee, with an illustrated book of Grecian lore in her hands. Each of her long coffee fingers was tipped by a sharply filed nail coated in rhinestone studded cherry-wine polish. She pointed to a jet black bird, eyes like burning coals, a blood-red tuft spilling from the crest of its head. “Like you, he is a shape shifter,” she said.

“Perhaps I can drink him dry in his avian form?” Asi queried, rolling his head up against Ozymora’s neck thirstily, nuzzling at the nape, begging for her blood. “I could become a lightning bird, hrmmm? Crack open his little raven neck like the top on a soda can.” An irritated Ozymora brushed Asi away impatiently.

“Pay attention, Asi!” Ozymora bade, pointing to the woodcut image of a tall, handsome Afro-Grecian man with a crimson cloud of curls and blazing orange tiger-eyes. A wide, deep nose and heavy brows gave him an intensely brooding appearance. Emotion clouded his temperamental brow, a petulant scowl upon his lips. From his broad shoulders rose two wings, feathered like angels, but as dark as deepest night. His name was Phobetor, and he was the God of Nightmares.

“Feast your eyes, changeling!” Ozymora called out.

“Asi like…,” the vampire familiar cooed, licking his luscious lips. “If you wanted me to claim this lovely one as my lover, I don’t think I could decline. But how would I protect myself from his darker sides?” He alit upon a cushion at her feet, attentively taking instruction.

“In most of his many forms, Phobetor is easily identified by dark red hair, yellow-orange to ruby eyes, and black fur or skin. Like many of the oldest of immortals, he has grown lonely,” Ozymora explained.

“It seems a contest of wit and will to me,” he observed. “It is your will to outwit him, using all of my charms, which are so well known to you, my love.” Impish and disobedient, he smirked at the ire in her eyes.

“He does love young men, as do most of the Greek gods, Afro-Greek or otherwise,” she assured him. “Yes. And he is lonely and seeking an immortal companion. I heard only good will comes to whosoever gains his favor. And what is good for Asi is also good for his mistress.”

“What is good for Asi is good for Ozymora, and I have been good, so good!” Asi pouted impatiently, “And I shall be better still, so much better, once I feed…” He rubbed his soft silky slate curls against her hand impatiently, and she tousled his hair and scratched his scalp like a cat.

“Very well,” she trilled, offering her wrist to the hungry creature. Asi sunk in his two sharp canines and began to feed. Ozymora stroked her naked servant’s bare back with her free hand, chanting incantations until his form began to tremble. Well-formed arms outstretched from either of Asi’s shoulders sprouted a quick series of shiny gunmetal gray feathers. His toes extended into talons and then curled below bent knee. His flat, upturned nose extended into a bright, sharp beak. Soon, all that remained to identify him were his bright yellow eyes, surrounded by charcoal feathers. He continued to feed from his beak as his bird-form shrank.

When he was no larger than a peacock, Ozymora lifted Asi and placed him upon a perch inside his gilded metal cage. The firebird was legendary among the Zulu, Pondo, and Xhosa tribes. Many were the names for this magnificent creature… hewane, izulu, inyoni yezulu, and of course, impundulu. The bird of prey was predominately black metallic in plumage. The dark, iridescent feathers were complemented by a tuft of white chest features and band of white on the neck and to the rear of the skull. Its beak, talons, tail and remaining head feathers were the color of the blood he craved.

Ozymora locked Asi away for the night, lovingly tossing a green silk scarf over his prison. From within the emerald tent he sang mournful songs of unrequited love and desperately craved blood until dawn broke.

The Obsidian Throne

Long, lean and leggy, Phobetor, he of languid stride and licorice skin, prowled across the floor for hours in his throne room. When he wasn’t pacing, he sat brooding and inconsolable on his obsidian throne, moody amber eyes burning deep into the soul of every enchanted guest who appeared before him in court.

“Come in,” he commanded, his thunderous baritone filling the basalt cavern he called home.

The first of the evening’s guests entered, prostrating himself desperately before the obsidian throne, much to Phoebetor’s amusement. It was a very young and scrawny male faun, perhaps twenty-two with a faceful of spotty and pathetic beard undergrowth dotting its pimply face. Snickering, Phobetor walked over to the little goatman and idly kicked it before putting a large foot at the center of its lower back, pinning it to the ground.

“A faun?” Phobetor sneered, staring down at its little furry hindquarters, smirking sadistically at the nervously ticking of its goat-tail as the trembling creature lay face down, kissing the floor. “The call was for members of the undying clans. Fauns are well-known to be mortal!”

“Pan is no mortal faun, Pan is a God!” the horned man-child cried out unconvincingly from the floor, his strained nutmeg cheeks flushing burgundy. Phobetor, Greco-Roman God of Nightmares, who was unusually cranky about his long and frequently traumatic love life this time of year, was short on patience. Spring was upon the raven-skinned immortal, filling him with longing and lust. The fear of the horned goat-boy both aroused and amused the bored and often cruel immortal.

Phobetor cackled intensely, staring down at him. “Which Pan might that be? Peter Pan?”

The actual Pan, God of the Wild, was a robust and muscular creature with a decorous beard of lovely dark curls, but there was a definite resemblance between Pan and the undersized impostor under Phobetor’s foot. Like Phobetor, Pan was a fertility god and as such had many offspring, of which this whelp upstart was undoubtedly one.

“Pan, God of the Wild, of Sheep and Shepherds, Mountains and Nature,” the muffled voice whispered from the floor…

“I know Pan, and you are no Pan!” Phobetor shouted, aggressively twisting his foot into the goatman’s hip bone. He stifled a laugh as the faun’s agitated tail responded by lifting up to release a series of little brown turd pellets onto the floor. Phobetor jerked his foot to avoid the faun manure, accidentally releasing the victim. The goat man quickly leapt from the floor and righted himself and casually brushed himself off, struggling to regain composure.

“I meant… that Pan sent me,” the faun youth asserted with a wink and a shrug. “He is my grandsire, and I have inherited his good looks. Indeed, I have inherited his immortality as well!” The goat-man stared lecherously at Phobetor’s round hindquarters, looking more like his grandsire than ever.

Phobetor was fetching in all ways with his fiery eyes and lionesque mane of blood-red wavy hair, sensuous plum lips and sexy baritone. But, when he wasn’t too angry and tormented to reflect upon it, he was also hauntingly lonely. These preposterous love games distracted him from the void within.

“He has a thousand or more grandwhelp like you, nary a one eternal. He would never send the likes of you, who pretend to be him or even akin to him. Furthermore, I smell your mortality upon you, temporal flesh creature! Flee now, before I dismember you, impostor!” Phobetor shouted.

The sound of galloping hooves clomping noisily against the polished black marble floor muted the terrified squeals of the faun as he scampered out of the basalt cavern, leaving a trail of poop on the floor behind him. “Next!” Phobetor called out impatiently as his enchanted golems cleaned up the mess on the floor.

The Witches’ Gift

Into his antechamber glided a statuesque young Zulu witch, her lustrous black curls complimented by a crown braid and a Grecian updo. She wore a flowing emerald gown under an embroidered jacket. Inset within the jacket were panels arranged as a tapestry, each depicting a different scene with the witch and her lover. The lover was a beautiful young Zulu soldier. In the first scene, the graceful man carried a shield and weapons and wore a hooded cloak of feathers. In the next, he began his transformation into a life-sized bird while drinking blood from her wrist. In the final, she sat him upon a perch in a cage.

“My name is Ozymora. I am from umGungundlovu, home of my ancestor the famed Dingane,” the woman bragged.

“A fine pedigree,” Phobetor grumbled. “You are mortal, nonetheless. I seek no dying flesh vessel with which one such as you may bind her lover to her memory once she passes, with nothing but unbearable eternal heartache.”

“Phobetor was immortal, but sad, for all of his lovers and children had been mortal for millennia after the angry Hawaiian Volcano Goddess cursed him. Only recently had she lifted this curse,” the impudent young witch chanted, removing the tapestry and walking forward and to one side, to reveal a tall and domed shape behind her.

“Pele once cursed Phobetor, for he had offended her…” the witch Ozymora continued the incantation, as Phobetor the God of Nightmares and Human-Animal Hybrids gazed in absorption. “His loneliness, unabated since his mortal beloved Maribelle died, shall at last be sated, for his new friend the witch Ozymora brings to him a consort of unparalleled beauty and grace, a magical creature of the rarest sort.”

Ozymora snapped her fingers, and in a dazzling pool of light, her tapestry began to disintegrate. Balls of beautiful gilded aura arose from the pool, alit above and disappeared, until a cage was revealed. Within it, sat a finely formed young vampire of Zulu origin, with bizarre yellow animal’s eyes, glowing and nocturnal with no whites, like a panther. The God of Nightmares smiled.

“A lovely creature to match your own beauty,” Ozymora flattered. “For the impundulu is a vampire of such rare and incomparable beauty that all would be seduced thereby.”

“An impundulu serves only one master,” Phobetor intoned, his commanding vibrato setting the glass beads adorning Asi’s cage and Ozymora’s bejeweled headdress and skirts to trembling. Phobetor lovely and perfect being that he was, stood well over six-foot-five and was perfectly formed. That was when he didn’t use his preternatural powers to elevate himself to well over seven feet, like a cobra extending its hood, as he now did.

Ozymora’s eyes widened in fear, but even at his most terrifying, he was majestic beyond compare and hot as hell, and for the first time, a weakness overcame her with regards to her lust for Phobetor and an unfamiliar wanting.

“His name is Asi,” Ozymora informed him. “Unbound as he is, he shall become only yours. You will be his master and liege!”

Phobetor laughed. “You can’t fool me, mortal! That creature is bound to you. You are the witch it must serve, that is why it doesn’t devour you! Hungry, starving little impundulu Asi. Let’s bring in some snacks for our beautiful guest, so he may be well fed before I greet him.”

“Indeed,” Ozymora nodded, the very picture of sagacity. “And then I will free him, and he shall be really and truly yours”

“Do you swear an oath to free him?” Phobetor asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed, I do!” she lied, clapping her hands together. “I will sever our bond, and he will be ever so loyal to you.”

“Very well,” Phobetor smiled. “With such joy I do receive your generous gift. And in return, I swear I shall give you immortality.”

“Indeed!” Ozymora cried greedily. “With all gratitude I accept, Lord Phobetor!”

The Golem Three

“Bring in the humans,” he called out to his golem. The three creatures, one of basalt, one of black marble, and the other obsidian, emerged as formations of rock humanoid creatures from his floor, throne and cavern walls. They lumbered in unison towards the hall to the rear of his chamber room. The Basalt Golem wandered to the storeroom and reemerged with a bare-breasted maiden whose long hair was bound at one side in a single braid tossed over its shoulder. The Basalt Golem pressed her against the wall and performed magic that made the wall around her wrists and ankles melt and extend. The extruded particles encircled the ankles and wrists, restraining her.

Asi’s mouth began to water. Phobetor and Ozymora turned in unison to observe the creature’s drooling.

“Does your new liege tempt and torture you?” Phobetor taunted Asi. “Soon, you will learn to delight in my cruel ways, to enjoy the longing that wells deep within you, waiting to be released. To feed only after you have lusted and been driven mad by desire.”

Ozymora found herself responding to Phobetor’s baritone with an unquenchable desire of her own. Heat rose to her flushed cheeks, and a trickle of sweat tracked down her mouth like a forgotten tear.

“Watch and feel the heat rise in your loins and the bloodlust in your heart!” Phobetor sang, his voice reverberating from the walls, smooth and hypnotic. For a moment, Ozymora thought he was speaking to her, but then she watched as he strode to Asi’s cage and freed the clasp, releasing the vampire.

The Basalt Golem removed a gag from between the maiden’s lips so her screams could be heard, then it disappeared into the wall.

Asi approached, prowling like a jungle cat, his dark wings half-risen from his muscular arms. Glowing yellow eyes enchanted the girl, and soon her mouth lay open, slack, drooling onto the cloth gag that now sat around her chin.

“What is your name, my pretty?” Asi asked, sliding sharpened teeth into the side of her neck to release small trickles of blood. A drug-like stupor overcame the human victim, and she smiled gently as she mumbled, “Laitenya.”

“Laitenya is the wife of a mortal named Prolince. Bring him also, so that they may partake in the horror and delight of one another’s departure,” Phobetor ordered gruffly. The Black Marble Golem withdrew to the back and retuned with a bound, gagged and muscular man. As Laitenya had been bound to the wall, so was Prolince to the floor. Again, the gag was removed, and the Golem returned to the ground.

Laitenya and Prolince

This time, instead of screaming, the unbound human began to profess love for his mate. Confused, the hungry Asi paused and turned to give a pleading look to first Ozymora and then Phobetor. “But they are so in love… must we?” he asked.

“Our love will be born from these noble acts of sacrifice,” Phobetor confided. “It is no accident that they are paired. Paired in true love, they will reincarnate as a destined pair of loves only to find each other in their next lives, as Maribelle and I surely must. Only when you give in to your truest and most forbidden desire will you and I belong to one another forever, as these two do, immortal one.”

“And you?” Asi asked Ozymora.

“Perhaps Phobetor should add a substantial sum of money to my gift of immortality,” she suggested, her natural greedy acquisitiveness overcoming her caution.

“Yes…” Phobetor agreed, his dark, deep voice sending rich shudders through her body as her lust for the god and for his wealth combined into a compulsion. “To you, I will grant a castle, and within it, a chamber filled with gold. Until you sit on your own throne, you may sit on mine. Go and occupy it now.” Smiling, Ozymora swirled her emerald and lime skirts in delight as she ascended and then lit upon the obsidian throne.

“Very well,” Asi said, stroking the flesh of the enchanted human couple to make them yielding and compliant. Rows of tiny, sharp teeth bit both of the humans in tender spots, delighting them, but leaving them wounded and bleeding. Tiny droplets of blood appeared like sweat from the tears and bruises pooled in navels and other indentations. Asi licked them up with his crimson tongue. He latched on to ears and nose, lip and breast, sucking until the blood was drained, leaving them pallid and listless.

“Now you will reincarnate together into your new world, your just reward,” Phobetor somberly informed Laitenya and Prolince as they stared deeply into one another’s eyes. “Have it done now, Asi.”

“Yeeesssss,” Ozymora crooned, mesmerized.

And so, Asi transformed… a bird, as large as a human. Long feathered arms dragged on the ground, their ends curled into talons. Two more talons replaced its feet. A long, very sharp and pointed beak dug into Laitenya’s chest, plucking out her heart. Quickly, so that the lovers together would part, Asi dropped to his knees, and with his hard beak pierced flesh and bone, only to scoop out from beneath muscle, Prolince’s still beating heart.

The two hearts mingled, their blood exchanged in the vampire bird’s mouth. Then, the lightning bird stretched its taloned toes into Prolince’s flesh. Its clawed fingers into dug into Laitenya’s before unleashing its lightening. A flash, and a moment later the couple had left this world, their bodies flash fried. The smell of their crisp fried flesh, like bacon, filled the antechamber.

Ozymora clapped and cheered, egging him on as Asi hungrily tore into the cooked flesh, eating both skin and bone until nothing remained.

Asi’s Desire

By the time Asi finished off his meal, Ozymora’s clapping was over and done with. It was followed by brief, deafening silence… and soon after, an ear-piercing screech. “Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” she screamed. Asi turned around just in time to see her bound by obsidian cuffs to the throne. The Obsidian Golem shoved itself into the solid rock upon which Ozymora sat. It quickly disappeared, merging back into the throne.

“Shush, witch…,” Phobetor ordered, gently stroking Ozymora’s neck to mesmerize her. The protests turned into moans as her knees began to tremble and quake with desire. “You promised to free him. Everyone knows an impundulu vampire is a familiar that serves its witch all of her life. Only your death frees Asi, sneaky one. So I thank you for your generosity.”

Asi rolled her eyes. She hadn’t noticed the Obsidian Golem sneaking up on her, even though the set-up was obvious. “You promised me riches, a castle, and immortality – did you lie?”

“Of course not!” Phobetor laughed. “I am just clever, like you, tricky girl. You will be an immortal ghost haunting my castle. I’ll make sure you have riches and a castle, too, although the gold may be hard to spend as a phantom.

“Save me,” Ozymora begged her consort. And in an instant, rescue fantasies ran in a fast-paced montage through Asi’s mind. He thought of all the ways he might trick and seduce Phobetor, the God of Nightmares and rescue his foolish mortal mistress. Then, he thought of ways he might use force to get out of it. Finally, he remembered all of the times Ozymora had used him badly and realized he wanted something for himself.

“Be free, lovebird,” Phobetor smiled. “Own Ozymora as she once owned you, and with her blood, take her love. Take her power, her power over you and all of her power to be your own, with her blood. Take all of her love, her blood, and her life, and give unto her a new, better life as your servant, my beautiful vampire boy.”

He stared at Ozymora’s hands, bound palm up, wrist extended, the radial artery straining up against the flesh. To his delight and horror, Asi found he wanted this. He transformed back into his humanoid visage, and as a lovely young man, took Ozymora’s her wrist to his mouth, drinking her in.

Memories of Ozymora’s love and abuse fell away, and only hunger remained. New visions entered Asi’s mind, fancies of a castle where Ozymora’s house once stood. Within the castle walls were unimaginable riches. There were new tapestries documenting her transformation into a servile specter. Ozymora saw the visions, too… and she heard Phobetor whispering that surely this would be a better life for the both of them, as Asi drained her dry.

In Egypt's Shadows

Vonnie Winslow Crist

“Curse eternity,” muttered Akhon as late afternoon sunshine tinted Giza's brick buildings orange and gold. Not twenty steps from him, Kebi, played outside her family's home with her young daughters.

Akhon breathed deeply and caught Kebi's familiar scent on the desert breeze. He'd never forget the honey smell of his wife-to-be or the warmth of her hand in his. He tilted his head, listened to the thump of Kebi's heart and the sound of blood rushing through her veins and arteries. It took all of his strength not to step from the shadows and call her name.

Touching the point of each of his cuspids with the tip of his tongue to remind himself of how he'd changed, Akhon still longed for Kebi. She was the only remnant of his old life he couldn't, or maybe the word was wouldn't, give up.

As Kebi laughed at her daughters' antics then hugged their small bodies, Akhon felt his chest tighten. “Kebi should be my wife, and those should be my children,” he told the woman standing in the shade beside him.

“You gave her the chance to join us,” said Nawa. “She declined.”

“At least I gave her a choice.” Akhon glared at the woman who'd made him into an Eternal.

The Bastet priestess shrugged her shoulders. “You should be grateful for my gift,” she responded. “But it is time for us to feed, so unless you want to hunt here...”

“No,” snapped Akhon. He gazed once more at his beloved. Kebi's skin contrasted with the white cloth of her kalasiris. It pleased him to note she also wore the bead and feather necklace he'd given her years ago. Tearing his eyes away from the pleasant domestic scene before him, he sighed, then followed his maker through dim-lit alleyways and passages towards the Nile.

As soon as they spotted the docks, Akhon and Nawa halted.

“Now to find a new arrival whom no one will miss,” said Akhon.

Nawa tapped his upper arm. “There.” The priestess who'd bitten him nearly a decade ago was always quicker than Akhon at locating prey.

He nodded.

Stealthy as cats, they stalked a young man who was clearly in unfamiliar territory. At first, he stood beside the boat from which he'd disembarked with his mouth slightly open and his eyes drinking in the wonders of the city. Probably waiting for an employer or distant family member to meet him, he then paced back and forth on the dock near the river's edge disrupting the gulls perched on nearby boats. When he noticed a beautiful Bastet priestess beckoning him, he smiled, left the brightness of the wharf, and strode toward Nawa. As soon as he reached the shade where she stood, Akhon sprang from behind a stack of cargo, and, quick as a scorpion sting, broke the man's neck.

After dragging the body into a quiet alcove, Akhon and his mother took turns feeding. When their hunger was sated, Akhon lugged the bloodless corpse to the banks of the Nile where crocodiles were slipping one by one into the river as the daylight faded.

“Here's a gift for you, sons and daughters of Sobek,” he said. Whistling softly, he slipped the corpse into the lapping water. Akhon didn't move as the crocodiles approached, studied him with their yellow eyes, then ripped the unlucky traveler's carcass into bite-sized chunks and swallowed him.

Quiet as a tomb, Akhon stood on the banks of the Nile, admiring the crocodiles' efficiency. He smiled as within a few minutes, the children of Sobek finished their meal and there was nothing left on the surface of the water at Akhon's feet but moonlight.

Every few months, Akhon returned to the neighborhood where he and Kebi grew up, fell in love, and pledged to marry. He always stayed out of sight. Nonetheless, as he observed her, Kebi would peer in his direction now and again as if she sensed he was near. But she never approached his hiding place.

And every time he found himself lurking outside Kebi's home longing for his old life, Nawa appeared at his side. Like every good maker, his Eternal mother reminded him of his apartness, his timelessness, and his never-ending blood hunger.

Finally, on a spring evening when frogs sang their mating songs and the Nile once again threatened to overflow her banks, upon finding him skulking near Kebi's home Nawa slapped the side of Akhon's face.

“You must stop this,” she hissed. “Let Kebi live her brief life in peace. You've served Bastet's temple as a guard for long enough. You'd be a perfect soldier. No flaming arrow, poison, or metal-tipped spear can murder you—only a wooden stake to the heart.”

“But the sun,” began Akhon.

“Won't kill you. It only weakens,” finished Nawa. “And even weakened, you're stronger than most men.”

Akhon leaned against the brick wall of the house across the street from where his beloved lived. His hands dropped to his sides. He exhaled.

“As you wish,” he said. “I'll become a soldier and leave Giza, but only if you'll send for me when Kebi is near death.”

“I will do so,” the Bastet priestess promised.

Akhon excelled at soldiering and quickly climbed the ranks. His eyesight, even in day, was far superior to his comrades and commanders. Therefore, he proved to be an excellent scout and adviser when the Egyptian men dealt with their enemies. His fearlessness and strength were unmatched. So much so, his fellow soldiers often commented, “Akhon doesn't fear death. Perhaps he's a favorite of the gods.”

As years turned to decades, praise and possessions were heaped on Akhon. But happiness eluded him as he stayed away from Giza.

Finally, during an especially dry summer when the wind carried dust from the Western Desert with every gust, Akhon received a message from Nawa.

“Return to Giza immediately,” the servant standing before Akhon said. “The Temple of Bastet has need of your services.”

Leaving his home and assets in the care of a friend, Akhon journeyed by boat down the Nile. Swiftest way to traverse the distance, still the northbound vessel seemed to take forever to reach Giza. As he observed waterbirds lift into the blue-as-faience-beads sky, Akhon wished he had wings like the egrets and storks to sail to his beloved.

Upon reaching the docks of Giza, Akhon leapt from the vessel and hurried to Kebi's home. Though night was descending, his preternatural eyes allowed him to see through the open front door and into the oil lamp illumined interior of Kebi's house. He saw an old woman lying in bed, surrounded by her daughters, granddaughters, and others.

Akhon inhaled. Kebi's scent reached him. He listened closely. The beating of Kebi's heart was slow and irregular. He wasn't sure how long he waited, but some time during the night, his beloved's essence left her flesh. Though no one else witnessed it, Akhon believed he saw Kebi's spirit exit her house, pause, glance at him, then vanish like a dream.

“She's gone,” whispered a voice from behind him.

“Nawa!” So focused was he on his beloved and her death, he hadn't heard his maker's arrival.

“Close this door, Akhon,” the Bastet priestess said. “It is time for us to assume new identities. We've already lingered too long. Soon, acquaintances will question our longevity and youthfulness. Leave Kebi in this life and move forward.”

“I'm not sure I can,” replied Akhon as he watched one of Kebi's granddaughters weeping beside her grandmother. Though his eyesight was tainted with tears, he realized this descendant of his beloved was nearly her twin.

Nawa followed his gaze. “It is not her,” she warned. “This young woman doesn't know you, and you cannot tell her who you are.”

Akhon nodded, then followed his maker-mother.

“Our next two meals must be carefully chosen,” Nawa. explained. “We pick a man whose life you can step into, and a woman whose identity I can assume.”

“But what about their families?”

“They must be distant or nonexistent,” the Bastet priestess said. “Which is why planning is needed.”

“I'll follow your lead,” Akhon said as he thought about Kebi's lovely granddaughter.

Akhon slouched against a whitewashed wall looking up at Miu's apartment. A street vendor passed by him pushing his cart, but he barely noticed the man. Taxis and delivery trucks navigated the street before him, but he didn't look at the drivers or passengers. Tourists pushed past him filling the air with the odor of sunblock and too much perfume, but he ignored them as well.

How many generations of Kebi's granddaughters have I followed?

He supposed if he sat down in front of a computer and typed out five thousand years’ worth of names, he could make a close guess. It was uncanny how there was always one granddaughter who resembled his beloved so closely that she could have been Kebi come back from the dead.

Akhon glanced around. No sign of Nawa. His Eternal mother seemed to appear whenever he got too close to one of Kebi's granddaughters, but she'd yet to discover him monitoring Miu.

Miu, he mused. It meant softness. It was an appropriate name for a direct descendant of Kebi. Kebi of the warm-skin. Kebi of the dark, braided hair. Kebi of the gazelle eyes.

He heard a scuffing in the parking area to his right and looked to see if Nawa had discovered his fixation again. Instead, his eyes looked into the Miu’s eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” she called, then ducked behind a dumpster.

Heart beating faster than it had the first time he kissed Kebi, Akhon crossed the street and walked to where Miu waited.

I will tell her who I am, he decided as he gazed down at Kebi's doppelganger.

“I know what you are,” said Miu.

He saw her eyes were not those of a gazelle, but those of a lioness.

“I am someone who loved your many times great-grandmother when she lived in Giza,” said Akhon. “Her name was Kebi, and you look just like...”

“You're an undead,” said Miu.

“I am an Eternal,” responded Akhon. “And should you also like to live forever, I can...”

“You're unnatural. Evil,” said Miu as she pulled a wooden stake and mallet from behind her back.

Akhon saw his maker-mother, Nawa, behind Miu. He raised his hand and shook his head.

“Do as you will, daughter of Egypt,” said Akhon as he pulled open his shirt exposing his bare chest. “I've lived millennia without my beloved, and now, I'm tired. Perhaps, I'll find my Kebi in the afterlife.”

Quick as a cobra strike, the lion-eyed great-granddaughter of Akhon's beloved drove the stake through his heart. As he slumped to the ground, eyes still fixed on Miu's face, Akhon managed to gasp, “Kebi.”

Then, from the shadows of the Old City's buildings a figure stepped into the faint glow of a streetlight. Garbed in a white linen sheath dress and a necklace made of beads and feathers, the woman walked to the fallen Eternal, knelt, and kissed his cold lips.

“I've come for you,” murmured the woman.

As an astonished Miu and a grief-stricken Nawa watched, Akhon departed Giza for the final time holding his beloved's hand.

END

Rampage

Miranda J. Riley

1.

Surrounded by the enemy, Aziza spied an opening to save her kingdom. She picked up the unblocked checker piece and jumped her opponent’s attacker. Jokum chuckled across from her and uncrossed his arms, jumping two pieces in return to claim a king.

“Ahh!” Aziza groaned in frustration and flipped the board, pieces scattering across the dirt road, losing yet again to the elder. Jokum guffawed at her distress and bent over to pick up the pieces.

“Another round tomorrow, then?” He huffed as he arranged the board back together.

“I hate this game! You always win!” Aziza scooped up the remaining pieces and set the stump she had been sitting on back into place.

“Practice, child. You did not learn to wield your scythe on the first day, young murwi.” Aziza picked up her staff and danced her fingers across the smooth side of the antelope jawbone.

“True…but I do not think I will ever beat you.” Aziza smiled and helped Jokum to his feet. They walked arm in arm down the road leading towards the edge of town.

“Where are you going today, shiri diki?”

“Same place I always go. The river. I have yet to master my balancing act.”

“Ah…the one where you will fall and break your neck on your own weapon. Who would protect us then? I can see the look on Heakim’s face now, being told he’s the next defender of Machanga.” Aziza laughed at the image of her young aid trying to lift a bow or spear in mock bravery as his knees buckle underneath him.

“Do not worry about me, mukoma. I will be fine.”

Aziza kissed his hand and waved goodbye as she jogged three miles south to the river.

Aziza raised her legs above her body as she gripped the jawbone scythe beneath her. The river tugged around the wooden staff, willing it to fall and send it floating downstream. Steady beams of sweat dripped down her face. The tension increased and she pushed off with all her strength, landing on the shore with a back flip, staff still firmly upright in the currents.

Jokum whistled from a nearby tree and clapped his hands. Aziza smirked and waded into the water to uproot her weapon.

“Do you cheat by wedging it between rocks?” Jokum stroked his white beard as he studied her.

“No, I place it in the wet soil that is constantly shifting. The wood goes further into the earth when I add my weight, anchoring it into place.”

“Hm. I still fear that shaft will break one day and impale you.”

“You fear too much, muporesi mukuru.”

Jokum scoffed and waved away her compliment. Aziza rested her arms on the jawbone. “Why are you here? You should be resting, not walking long distances.”

“The Order needs your help.” Jokum met Aziza’s gaze and held it.

“The Order? Of vampire hunters? No, I already told them my place was here at the village. Why do they need my help? Why can they not send one of their own slayers?”

“Show me your knife.”

Aziza sighed and reached under her capulana, unsheathing the knife attached to her thigh, not sure how this answered her questions.

“This is why they need your help. You have experience with killing animals. This donkey, whose jaw you took as recompense and fashioned into a deadly weapon, could have only been stopped by you. No one in the village could have done it. You have a way with animals, shiri diki. Be proud of your gift.”

Aziza took her knife back from Jokum and turned it in her hands. “What does the Order want?”

“Kruger Park has a rampaging elephant. The matriarch killed its entire herd in one night. The rangers found her eating the flesh of her young. Bullets and tranquilizers do not work, and no one can get close to pierce its hide. They need your help. Will you accept the challenge? This is your calling, hanzvadzi mudiki! Accept it!”

“This is coming from the man who was worried about me falling on my own weapon. Now you want to send me into a battle with an elephant? No. I will stay here.” Aziza picked up her scythe and plunged it into the river again.

“What is all this training for if you do not put it to good use?” Jokum sighed and stood up to reason with her. “Our village is safe. We have not had an attack in three years. Please. You are more than your past buried here.”

Aziza shrugged him off and paced along the river’s edge. She sighed and rubbed her hands down her face.

“Fine. I will go. But I doubt I will be able to stop a…a mutated elephant? This is madness.” Aziza once more grabbed her scythe and offered her arm for Jokum to take. His broad smile churned Aziza’s gut.

“You do not need to escort me. Did you really think I walked this whole distance in my state? Ha! No, the Order sent an escort to drive you to the park.” Jokum tapped her arm and pointed to the white vehicle a few yards away.

Aziza swallowed her uncomfortableness in small quarters with strangers and climbed in the passenger seat, the driver closing the door behind her. The driver helped Jokum into the back seat and they dropped him off at the village before turning south towards Kruger National Park. Aziza kept quiet as the driver talked on a headpiece to his wife the entirety of the trip. She closed her eyes and dreamed of a little girl with amber eyes, smiling up at the monster who ended her life.

2.

“Here we are! Kruger Park, Mozambique side!” Aziza jolted awake with the shaking of her shoulder and blinked at the frightened driver with a knife to his throat. “Um…huh, sorry to wake you.”

“The fault is mine.” Aziza withdrew her knife and settled it back in its holster. The driver rubbed his neck and stepped away from the vehicle, leaving the door open for Aziza to exit. She cracked her neck joints and flexed her muscles as she stepped out of the car. Twelve hours was a long time for muscles to sit unused. She stretched her legs and jumped a few times before following the driver to the entrance of the park, scythe slung over her back with her pack.

“Aziza! Welcome! How was the drive?” A South African man in khakis approached them inside the park and opened the gate for them. “My name is Charles Petersen; I am the head ranger of this quadrant. I trust you have been informed of the situation?”

“You have a elephant eating other elephants.” Aziza eyed the man in front of her, not confident with her English. Charles paid the driver and closed the gate behind them. The Milky Way illuminated the rich earth underneath Aziza’s bare feet.

“Yes, the matriarch, Talik, killed her herd. She has been feasting on the remains near the caves. No animal has come near the fresh meat, not even the jackals. It’s like the meat is tainted or they are afraid of Talik. I am afraid of Talik, if I am being honest. She was the sweetest creature in our preserve. Whoever did this to her needs to be stopped.”

“’Who’? You think someone changed her?”

“Yes. The vampire virus does not transmit to animals, nor has there been any recorded evidence of it appearing in the animal kingdom except through humanity. Someone is behind this experiment and needs to be stopped. I was told by the Order that they would send their best hunter to find the culprit and stop Talik.”

“Oh…I am a hunter, not the police. I can help kill the elephant, but I am not good with people. I am not part of the Order, only doing a favor.” Aziza shook her head and Charles placed his hands on his hips, fussing over his lip.

“Well, I need the elephant taken care of first. I am grateful for any help I can get, even if it’s not what I asked for. Come on, let’s sleep and plan our attack in the morning.”

Aziza nodded and followed the ranger along the fence line to a stake out elevated above the ground on wooden support beams. The guards lowered a rope ladder for them to climb up and settle in bunk beds for the night. Aziza lowered the mosquito net and sighed heavily. Why am I here? The Order is wrong; I am not the right person for this job. I hope Jokum and Heakim are safe and in bed. I wish I were sleeping under the stars and not in this hut. Aziza listened to Charles snore as she drifted off to sleep.

3.

Aziza opened her eyes to men rushing about and shouting outside. She yawned and was thankful to find her scythe untouched under her bed. She opened the door and peered over the balcony to the men arranging in formation below, some hiding behind Jeeps that were not there last night.

“Morning! Here’s some jerky. It’s all I could muster for now. Eat as much as you can before she gets here.”

“She? What is going on?” Aziza accepted the meat from Charles.

“Talik is coming. We heard her trumpet a couple miles away and our scouts reported her coming straight for us. Have you heard an elephant’s mutated sound? It’s unnatural and leaves a cold shiver down your spine. This morning it sounded like a banshee. Ah!” A woman wearing a white lab coat climbed the ladder and joined them on the terrace.

“Aziza, meet Hannah, our resident vet and behavioral expert. I called her in to observe and help with the attack.” Aziza shook Hannah’s hand.

“Charles, she is charging. She is going to bust through here and knock those cars aside. We need to get off this–"

Before Hannah could finish her thought, the ground thundered and Talik broke through the canopy. Aziza froze in horror. Talik’s trunk was crusted with blood and guts, her tusks serrated, and her back teeth sharpened for tearing flesh. Her body was skin and bones, the normal fattened hide missing, making her legs look like stilts and her tail a whip behind her. Aziza covered her ears as Talik trumpeted a shrill piercing war cry before charging the cars in front of her. Gunshots ensued but the bullets bounced off in different directions. A couple spears stuck from close range, but Talik reached behind her and took them out with her trunk before breaking them apart. She reared up on her hind legs and Aziza could see the piercing red eyes spewing puss down her face.

“This is a monster.”

“Yes, she is. Now GO!” Charles pushed Aziza out of her trance, and they descended the ladder one by one. Hannah dropped to the ground and ran for cover in the nearby trees. Charles landed and switched to commander mode to organize his men. Aziza jumped down the remaining distance and rolled to the side as the elephant broke through the ranks to ram a support beam head on. The beam snapped in half and the outpost collapsed on top of Talik. The men cheered thinking she had doomed herself, but Aziza watched with fascination as the elephant reared up through the settling dust and debris to approach her.

Talik raised her trunk and spit blood on the ground before charging. Aziza waited, scythe in hand, until she was in range. Aziza howled and ran directly at the oncoming elephant, Talik slowing down in surprise, giving Aziza enough time to anchor her staff and vault herself into the air above Talik’s head. Aziza smiled thinking her plan would work, but Talik caught her midriff in the air with her trunk. Aziza gasped as she was flung into the side of a tree, knocking the air out of her lungs. Talik charged but Charles ran beside her, piercing her side with a spear, causing Talik to change direction and focus her attention back on the rangers. Hannah appeared out of nowhere and helped Aziza to her feet.

“Thank you.” Aziza coughed out once she could breathe again.

“She’s smart and fast. You will have to be cleverer than that to defeat her. What were you thinking, running right into her? Are you crazy?” Hannah tsk’d and continued watching the elephant’s movements. Aziza scowled at her, ready to defend her actions when Talik ripped the door off a Jeep to use as a shield against the spears. Aziza picked up her scythe and used this distraction to attack again.

“No, wait!” Hannah tried to stop her, but Aziza pushed her away. I am a warrior; I know how to fight. Aziza ran behind Talik and hooked her back with the tip of the antelope jaw, pulling herself up onto the heated animal. Talik tried to grab at her with her trunk, but Aziza sliced at her attempts with her knife causing the elephant to hesitate. Aziza took that moment to swing her scythe around under Talik’s neck to slice her throat, but Talik grabbed the wooden staff and broke it in half.

“NO!” Aziza thrust her knife between the elephant’s shoulder blades. Talik bucked her off and struggled to remove the knife from her back. Giving up, she crushed Aziza’s scythe head underneath her feet and charged out of the clearing.

“After her! Don’t lose sight of her!” Charles commanded his men to follow Talik, while he stayed behind with Aziza. Aziza kneeled next to the broken pieces of her finely crafted weapon, cradling the broken jewelry in her hands.

“I am sorry about your weapons, Aziza. I tried to stop you, but you ran straight into the fray again. We have to be smarter than that.” Hannah reached down to offer her a hand, but Aziza swatted it away.

“I should not be here! I am not one of them! I trained to protect my village, not stop giant beasts. And now my weapons are gone! I am useless! I was the wrong choice for this. I am going home.”

“Wait, Aziza, we could really use your help still! Your bravery –”

“My bravery? I saw brave men and women fighting today. You are smarter than me. I am sure you will come up with a better plan. I am going home.” Aziza pushed past the doctor and the ranger and walked away towards the exit.

Charles caught up to let her out, misery and disappointment written plainly across his face. Aziza sighed and walked toward a bus stop to take her home, feeling the weight of failure on her shoulders.

4.

“Amai! Amai! Look what I caught!” Ichiya ran up to Aziza holding out the tiny fish on the strand. Aziza grinned over her daughter’s head at her husband bringing in the big haul of river shrimp.

“Big catch today?” Aziza asked her husband but Ichiya responded.

“Biggest one I ever caught!”

Aziza laughed and ruffled her daughter’s thick locks, bringing her in close for a hug. They picked up the blanket and picnic supplies and walked back towards the village, enjoying their last happy moments together before the vampire attack would take it all away.

Aziza opened her eyes to see Jokum standing over her. She sat up and motioned for him to join her under the tree. He nodded and chose a nearby rock to sit on.

“Aziza, why are you here?”

“Ugh, not again, Jokum. You know why I am here. I lost. I lost to an elephant, and she broke my weapons. I was not strong enough to defeat her.” Aziza crossed her arms over her knees and rested her forehead on them.

“No, I am asking why are you here, by the river? You are not training unless sleep is a new form of meditation.” Jokum hmph’d and poked her with his walking stick.

“Why are you here? Did you walk this time?” Aziza peeked through her fingers at the old man.

“Yes, I walked. I brought my cane to ease the strain, but I do not think it helped. Why did you fail?”

“I did not choose to fail, if that is what you are implying. I fought and I lost. End of story.”

“No, you fought and relied on your weapons, not on yourself. Aziza…you are a strong woman, the strongest I know! You should be able to overcome anything in your path. Why did you not work with the ranger’s team to take down the elephant? Why did you go at it alone?”

“Because I am strong, just like you said! I have the strength to take down whole herds of elephants, but this one was different. She was a monster.”

“Were you afraid?”

“Yes. Terrified.”

“And yet you charged anyways. Why?”

“Jokum, please, I do not know what you want from me. Just leave me in peace.”

“Mahru would not leave you here to wallow in your misery.”

“Do NOT speak my husband’s name.” Aziza stood and fisted her hands at her sides. “You were not there when I had to pry his fangs off my daughter.”

“You are right, I was not there, but do you not remember the man your husband was before he became a monster? He was a willful man who always saw his projects through to the end. He was dependable. You should honor his life by living the way he did.”

“I do not need this, Jokum. Even if I went back, what am I going to use to defeat the elephant? Or even find the real vampire? I do not know how to hunt vampires, only kill them when they come at me.” Aziza collapsed on the ground again and wiped away the tears from her eyes.

“You can use your eyes.”

Aziza looked up at Jokum and watched him remove a potion bottle and a book from his satchel.

“What do you mean? What is that?”

“An old legend. I found this in my travels a long time ago, probably before you were born. I concocted the serum, but I do not know if it will work. However, if it does work, you will be able to see the heart of any creature, including the vampire’s heart. You do not need your scythe to pierce a heart, Aziza. You do not need all your strength to take down this monster. Sometimes admitting to your flaws and asking for help shows the biggest amount of courage and strength. Do you want to try again?” Jokum swirled the yellowish liquid in the bottle and opened the book to the correct page. Aziza eyed the potion suspiciously.

“What must I give in order for this legend to work?”

“Your eyes. You will lose your sight in order to see the truth.” Aziza blinked a few times, contemplating the loss as she gazed across the river. She closed her eyes and watched her daughter run across the bank, chasing her father. She took a deep breath and kneeled before Jokum.

“I will do it. I do not need my eyes to see the most beautiful thing on earth.”

Jokum nodded and instructed her to lie down. He poured the liquid onto her face without warning and chanted from the book while Aziza screamed in pain. She reached up to touch her eyes but found the liquid burned against her skin. She could only scream as her eyes glazed over and she passed out.

Aziza opened her eyes to a cloudy sky. “Jokum?”

“Here I am, mudiki.”

Aziza sat up from the ground and looked around her.

“Where are you? I cannot see you.” She could only see white fog and hear the coursing of the river.

“I am behind you, under the tree. Tell me, what do you see?” Aziza turned and gasped. She saw Jokum and the tree, but they were not Jokum and the tree in flesh. Aziza blinked and rubbed her eyes as she tried to make sense it.

“I see an outline of you, or an inside of you. I see your heart beating and every vein shooting from it. I can see your whole blood system, Jokum! And it is blue! And it pulses every few seconds with a light. But the tree…the tree is green…but it is not a web of lines like your blood, it is splotches of green moving constantly, like little buses going up and down the trunk.”

“Wonderful! The legend is true! Hallelujah!” Jokum stood up to dance but Aziza pulled back in fear as she watched the veins in his arms and legs move in different directions.

“The legend is…disturbing.” Aziza tried to stand but found it difficult to grasp not being able to see the dirt beneath her feet. She could hear the river, but she could not see it. Aziza walked towards the river and fell with a yelp when her foot plummeted into the water. Before swimming back up, she marveled at the inner workings of fish life swimming near the bottom. She could see all of them, all their blood, moving in unison and breaking apart and coming back together. Aziza broke the surface and used her hands to feel her way back to shore. Jokum reached out a veiny hand and she grabbed it, surprised to feel his flesh in her hand.

“This is too strange, Jokum. How am I going to fight like this?”

“It will take time to get used to, I am sure. But now you can help the rangers stop the elephant by piercing its heart! I will send for a car to take you! You must go! Defeat the monster and discover the truth about the world around you!”

“Thank you, mukoma. For everything. I will do my best to make you proud.” Jokum embraced her and she awkwardly put her hands on his back, several inches above the veins she could see.

“You already have, shiri diki. Soar to new heights and describe the world to me when you come back.”

5.

“Aziza, I’m so glad to see you!” Charles welcomed her over with a wave and she inched towards him. She could see the heads of those around her turn and follow her slow movements. “What’s wrong? You’re moving slow and your face is contorted and your eyes…they are clouded. Is everything alright?” Charles offered his arm to her and she took it gingerly.

“I gave up my eyes to see the truth. I can see your blood and your veins and the trees and the grass and other creatures crawling just below the surface of the earth, but I cannot see your guns or your spears or your cars.”

“Woah, okay then…are you able to fight at all?”

“I…I am not sure…but I will try.”

“Okay, well, here’s the latest development. Our vampire elephant can now camouflage herself into the herd. We followed her to this pack, but my men can’t determine which one she is from the others. And the bulls ran us off for disturbing them, so we haven’t been able to get close enough to determine which one she is. Can your newfound “sight” see her?”

Aziza followed his outstretched arm and concentrated between the trees to the swaying grassland in the breeze. She spotted a few creatures moving about, but some would venture away and disappear into her fog.

“I can see a few, but my sight is limited. If I could get closer, I could tell you more.”

“Roger that. Amad, lead Aziza closer to the herd, but don’t spook them!”

A man touched Aziza on the shoulder, and she turned to dignify which man she was following. He nodded towards her and walked along the tree line closer to the herd. Aziza followed him, trying to pick up her feet as much as possible to avoid tripping on dead logs or rocks. She rammed her knee into a boulder and cursed loudly.

“Sorry, shumba yedu, I will warn you of rocks in the path.”

“Lioness? Why do you call me your lioness?” Aziza followed Amad more closely as they came to the opening in the tree line.

“Because you attacked just like a lead lioness would lead the hunt. We are in awe of you, murwi. All the gunners are. It pains us to see you like this, without your eyes.” Aziza felt a warmth in her heart for the men and women behind her, and she wished she had heeded their advice in the beginning of the hunt. They crouched down low in the bushes and Aziza covered her mouth, eyes narrowing on a very different picture in front of her.

“Amad, I know which one is Talik.”

“You can see her?? Which one is she? How can you know for sure?”

“Your blood is blue inside your body. It has not seen the air. So is the blood of the other pachyderm, but Talik’s is red. She does not produce her own blood but takes the blood of others. It is scary to look at.” Aziza averted her eyes but explained to Amad Talik’s exact position in the field. Amad nodded and raised his weapon. Aziza heard the whistle of an arrow fly into the back of Talik. The elephant reared and trumpeted a warning cry, sending the herd into a frenzy.

Charles and his team drove out from their position and separated the elephants using their car horns and gunshots. Talik and a couple of bulls charged, but the men saw the arrow and knew which elephant to lead away and which to back off from. Having successfully separated Talik from the herd, the Jeeps surrounded her on three sides, and the rangers yelled at her to frighten and confuse her. Aziza and Amad caught up with the group and someone pressed a spear into Aziza’s hands. She stayed at the edge of the group, feeling the length of her weapon, but she wanted to be in the front, in the middle of the fight. Her body ached with held tension and she knew she needed to attack.

Aziza shoved her way to the front and hollered at Talik. Talik turned to face her opponent and trumpeted in response to the challenge. The men and women shouted behind Aziza, cheering her on, but also staying close for backup. Aziza made a mental note to thank them for their trust in her later. Talik waved her trunk back and forth, stomping her foot on the ground. Aziza waited and watched the crimson lines pulse, leading back to contorted red center. She focused on that center. Aziza took a deep breath and exhaled as Talik charged. She dodged to the right and ran to the opposite side of the ranger’s output. Talik stopped just short of the Jeeps and turned to charge once more at her small enemy.

Aziza took a few steps back and felt water rise around her ankles. She gripped her spear tight and whooped for Talik to come get her. Talik charged with a roar and Aziza stuck the spear down into the soggy earth, causing Talik to rear up on her hind legs to stop her forward momentum. The rangers ran forward and speared her in the back, forcing Talik to fall forward on Aziza’s weapon, trapping Aziza underneath. Aziza squirmed as water and earth shifted underneath her, sinking her further into the watering hole. Hands grabbed her shoulders and pried her free from the elephant’s death grip.

They all watched in silence, waiting for Talik to move, Aziza shivering. She watched with horror the veins turn black as they exited the body down the spears and onto the ground. Aziza turned her gaze towards the ensemble of pumping blue veins around her. She nodded, confirming Talik’s death, and everyone cheered. Some men picked her up and hoisted her on their shoulders. Aziza joined in their contagious laughter, feeling her spirit lift for the first time in years. Charles gave her a hug and placed his ranger hat on her head.

“How can we ever thank you, Aziza? You went through so much for us!”

Aziza looked at Talik and an idea formed in her head.

“I want Talik’s jaw and tusk. I have new weapons to make.”

Charles whistled but agreed.

“You are going to frighten every vampire away just by brandishing your weapons.”

Aziza smirked at Charles and watched as the men set to work carving up the bones. Aziza heard a familiar voice behind her, and she turned to see the red veins of Hannah approaching them.

“Aziza! Well done! I knew you would come to your senses!”

“It is nice to see you again, Hannah.” Aziza’s tone turned cold, and Hannah stopped in her tracks. Several of the crew around her felt the shift in tension and stopped what they were doing to watch the confrontation. “Would you like to tell Charles why you caused this mess?”

“What mess? What are you talking about?”

“You know. Why did you hurt Talik? Why did you do this to an innocent? Why is your blood red in my eyes?” Hannah glanced left and right as the rangers closed in around her, picking up on Aziza’s meaning.

“You can’t possibly believe this brute. Argos, we’ve worked together for years! Honestly, she could be a vampire for all we know! Why are you trusting her? She’s a weakling! How did she know that was Talik? What if she’s infiltrating the Order? Nab her, not me!”

Aziza felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up into the face of its owner.

“It’s over, Hannah. Don’t pretend any more. It sickens me that I fell for your charade and let you on my team. Argos, Amad. Dispatch her.” Charles said.

“What? Charles, you can’t be – NO!”

Argos grabbed Hannah from behind while Amad took a knife and stabbed her chest. Hannah spat blood in his face and hissed, kicking Argos off her and jumping on Amad, biting his neck. Amad screamed and Aziza ripped Hannah aside, pulling the knife out of her chest. She could see Amad’s strike was inches from the heart. Hannah lunged at her, but Aziza was faster and struck true. Hannah slumped over her shoulder, the knife sticking out her back, heart turning black. Aziza dropped her as Charles stabbed Amad in the heart.

“Once bitten, death is a mercy.” Charles cleaned off his knife and Aziza nodded, regret filling her stomach.

“It is finished. I am sorry about Hannah. How did you know I was telling you the truth?”

“I had my suspicions for a while, given her actions and the reddish color peeking out from behind her contacts in direct sunlight. All I needed was your confirmation today. You saved us. All of us.”

Aziza looked out over the grassland at the returning elephants coming to graze. She grinned as a little one ran up to the carcass at the watering hole, her mother trumpeting behind her to stay clear of the defeated beast.

Aziza listened to Heakim describe the board’s positioning. She reviewed all her options before taking Jokum’s king. Jokum bowed his head in defeat and Aziza whooped for victory! She and Heakim danced in the streets, singing a song of praise while Jokum watched from the sidelines, stroking his beard.

“Have you given the Order an answer?” Jokum inquired after the singing had died down. Aziza turned to Heakim who nodded encouragement.

“Yes. I accepted their offer to become a member. I start my new training tomorrow in Europe.”

“Good. I expect great things from you, Aziza. Great things.”

Aziza smiled, hearing her daughter’s laughter echo in the breeze, enchanting her to embark on her next big adventure.

No God But Hunger

Steve Van Samson

How many years had it been? Remembering is hard but memories, however faded or fractured, are all we have. They’ve taken everything else. Everything real. Blood drinkers, vampires, sasabonsam. When he was still alive, my uncle called them matsatsaku maza—the leech men. What they really were, was an end. The end… and a beginning that no one asked for.

As the plague spread, so did things like panic, chaos, and finally, a long silence. Because after that, the only flies left upon Earth’s carcass were the ones who had learned a very hard lesson. Those little bugs knew better than to beat their tiny, buzzing wings. In other words—if what remained of mankind wanted to survive, he was going to have to crawl.

I can still remember that last night with Nico. In fact, if I concentrate hard enough… I can even smell the air. Sweet and a little spoiled. Like compost under a hot Tanzanian sun. Like meat that’s gone to the worms.

Twenty-five. That’s it. As of that night it had been twenty-five years since the world went red. Right before my world ended for the third time.

1

For hours we moved across the Serengeti, checking every tree along the way. Carefully, systematically—always keeping one eye on the sun and its slow but steady descent. Though I did not yet regret my decision to go after the leopard, I was growing increasingly anxious. At my suggestion, further measures were added to our costumes. The acacia tree’s yellow sap smells a bit like bee honey, but it adds to the unappetizing qualities of our bouquet. We applied it in dots and lines to our faces and anywhere skin was showing and then we kept going.

I worried that Nico had lost the trail, but then, there would be something—a print, some disturbed brush, or most encouraging of all: the lines in the dirt that told us the animal was still dragging whatever it had killed. In the dying light, we saw something far more disturbing than the sky’s colors.

Signs of civilization.

“What do you think it is?” I narrowed my eyes at the collection of metal poles sticking straight up out of the ground. There must have been twenty or more.

“I think,” Nico said thoughtfully. “It’s a camp. Or at least, it was.”

For a second, I remained confused, but then it clicked.

“Ah.” I nodded. “The canvas roofs are probably long gone. I see now... those are the naked poles of some kind of campsite.”

“Maybe-maybe.” Nico didn’t sound terribly interested. “Or one of those open-air lodges? All the way out here for that authentic safari experience.”

My fingers loosened around my sharpened oar. Civilization was a dangerous thing. Over the last twenty-five years, even the most meager of structures had been claimed. Four walls, a roof, something to block the windows, little more was required to escape the deadly rays of their great nemesis. In Predator World, the sun shone as brightly as ever, but the matsatsaku maza never saw it. For as Nico had said, by that particular point in history, the cities belonged to them.

“Well,” I said with a sigh of relief. “Whatever that is or was, it doesn’t look like a place for leeches.”

“Nor for leopards, it would seem.” Nico’s eyed the ground, but they moved to the distance, past the old campsite and to a large acacia, maybe a kilometer away. “Do you see the part in the grass? There. Right there.”

I peered through the eye slits of my mask.

“That’s the one,” he said with a hint of excitement.

“But we’ve passed so many trees. Why would this leopard come so far?”

To my surprise, Nico said nothing. At least at first.

“Home is where we make it, my China.” He smiled, showing that I was not the only one wearing a cracked mask. “Just look how far we have come, you and I.” He turned to inspect the swath of land behind us. Not west, but south. Toward Jua.”

“Nico,” I placed a hand on his shoulder—glanced down at a man slightly shorter than myself. “It’s 6:21. The sun will be down in less than thirty minutes. If that’s our tree, I would like to finish this.”

After a few silent moments, he said “Yes. The lizard who considers the road for too long, may get paved over before ever taking a step.”

“If you say so.” I shook my head.

Making sure to stay low to the ground, the two of us set off, moving as quickly as possible. As we came to the big acacia, our pace slowed. The branches were high. The lowest had to be fifteen meters from the ground. But there was no sign of any leopard.

“This is it.” Nico whispered. “Check out at the bark!”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. The sun was almost set, and we were still moving.

“I see a tree.”

“Is that all?” Even whispering there was an insidious smile in Nico’s voice.

“Yes, damn it. I—”

I stopped—talking, moving… everything but searching. I reached out to the acacia’s trunk irregular surface, and that’s when I realized that portions of it had been clawed away. I turned to Nico, then gazed up into the branches. I couldn’t see, hear or smell the beast but by God, I knew it was up there.

“The best way to catch a leopard is to find where it lives. If it’s not home, just climb up and wait. I guarantee you will be the last thing it will expect to find in its parlor.”

“Yeah?” I stared up into the dark, canopy shadows. “And what if it is home?”

“Well…” Nico took out a length of rope from his pack. With one hand, he swung it around the trunk—catching the end with his other. “Then you are most definitely going to piss it off,” He flipped the rope a bit more up the trunk. “In that case, it is best to have someone on the ground with strong arms, because they may very well need to catch you.”

“Can you do me one favor?” I asked. “Can that one be the last proverb of the day?”

“What proverb? I’m being completely literal.” Nico pulled himself a bit higher up the tree, before digging in his heels and repeating the process. “Just hold onto that oar. And if something falls that isn’t me, I want you to hit it on the head. A lot.”

“Okay, okay,” I said dismissively. “Don’t worry about me. Just pay attention to what you’re—”

A low noise drifted down from above. A warning. A growl wrapped in a hiss. It stopped my mouth from flapping, my heart from beating. And though it felt as if I were moving in slow motion, I inclined my head up, up, once more into the acacia’s pitch-dark shadows just in time to see two yellow eyes.

I raised my weapon, just not fast enough. The leopard pounced. Nico had been right about one thing at least—the animal was undeniably pissed off. The initial impact felt more like someone had dropped a water buffalo on me than a 30 kilo cat. I lifted my weapon, but the force was too much. I felt the thing snap.

After that, the world was replaced with horrible, yellow teeth. My hands gripped what had once been a canoe oar and I braced myself for the inevitable. For the vice-like pressure of the leopard’s kiss upon my throat.

I think it was then that I began to feel we had made the wrong decision. Gone the wrong way. We could have gone home. Could have been safe. Safe? In that moment, as I realized that the hot breath in my nostrils was not my own—I remembered this was bullshit. There was no such thing as safe. In Predator World, there was only this. That which had replaced God. The question was, who was hungrier? The cat? Or the crazy bitch in the elephant mask?

My face shot forward, resulting in an impact that registered as a flash behind my eyes. I had smashed the leopard right in the mouth, causing it to rear back, just enough. Needing to capitalize, my right hand stabbed down, still gripping wood. The thrust was all and everything I had. It wasn’t enough to puncture the leopard’s hide, but the gasping shriek as I stabbed that broken piece of oar into its throat was music. It told me I had hurt the thing.

I tried to roll away, but a large paw came down on my chest and slammed me back to the ground. Then, powerful legs were all around, as a spotted hide became the sky.

I remember screaming. Beating the heavy thing on top of me with alternating pieces of broken oar. Wanting to deal out more pain, but even my strongest hits were glancing, feeble things. I was weak and pathetic and worst of all, I was going to die looking like a damned fool. Nico’s grass could do nothing to protect me from anything as natural as a leopard.

“Get off! Get off!” I roared in impotent outrage—thoroughly underwhelmed with what might be my final words.

The teeth had returned. Curved and long and yellow. And past them, radiated the heat of a thousand suns. But the thing’s reeking breath was like smelling salts, steeling my waning nerve. I fought and I pushed, and I continued to scream—dreading more than anything, that inevitable moment when the cat’s claws would find my flesh. And though uninvited, would proceed to enter me.

“Ha!!”

The impact came from the side. The metal head of a garden hoe was jabbed so hard into the cat’s side, I heard a dull cracking. I tried to see what was happening, but everything swam. With a sharp inhalation, I scrambled to my feet. And though I knew Nico was battling for his life and mine, something in me went soft. Both of my hands opened—letting the two halves of oar fall and bounce off the ground.

My hands flew over my body and then searched for new openings, finding none. And as I stood there, hugging myself, wanting to weep out of rage and violation, I felt the pain of an old scar. Unable to stop myself, one hand began to travel behind my shoulder—suddenly needing to touch. To feel the raised skin of the letters that had been carved there.

“Mirèlha!” The sound of my name pulled me back to the moment. “We have to be quick! End this, now!”

I beheld the scene with wide, startled eyes. Nico and the leopard were facing each other. The cat, snarling, baring its long teeth and considerable fury. Nico had switched to the other end of his garden hoe. The vampire-killing end—sharpened to a long point in the fashion of my late oar. This was a shocking thing to see. After all, it was Nico who loved reminding me that a smart kill was one with no blood spilled.

Because that was the safe play. The reason he always chose to brain animals with the dull, metal end of that hoe. Because blood brings blood.

“If it runs out there, we can’t track it till morning!”

I gazed out across the savanna, which was now almost completely dark. “We have to get in front of it,” I began, shakily. “Put the tree to its back!”

Out of my left boot, I retrieved the kitchen knife I had put there. Then, the two of us began sidestepping until the animal we had tracked for so many hours had nowhere to go. In the moonlight, its eyes flashed as yellow as its teeth, but with unholy light. It snarled and spat and then… it stopped.

The change that came over the leopard was instantaneous. Lips fell. Ears shot straight back, lying flat against the skull. The animal’s boundless rage was inexplicably gone—replaced by what I could only describe as fear. Fear, yes… but not for us.

As I peered again into those darkened plains, I saw that the leopard was staring straight at the site we had passed. That collection of poles that stuck straight up in the air that had once been a camp, or lodge, but could not possibly offer shelter for something like the matsatsaku maza.

At first, the noises were distant. A faint, high-pitched snarling that I recognized at once. Then the grass between us and the vertical poles began to rustle. Whatever was coming was moving fast and low to the ground.

“Mirèlha.”

I heard my name distantly, as if in a dream.

“Take this.”

The leopard was forgotten as was the knife in my hand. In that moment, all I could do was stare at the unseen death rustling through the grass, coming straight for us.

“Damn it, woman!” That time, Nico’s voice came with a physical component. The handle of his garden hoe pressed into me—lengthwise across my chest. “I can’t do this alone.”

Finally, I turned to him. To my partner. My friend. The first I had made in a long time. Then I pushed the garden implement back towards him.

“You don’t have to.” I kneeled to pick up a piece of broken oar from the ground. The movement caused the leopard to hiss at me before scrambling out and away, disappearing into the dark savanna.

“Shit,” I said with a sneer.

“Forget the cat.” Nico had his battle-hoe up and ready. “We’ll find it again. Carry its carcass back to Jua and then eat like kings and queens.”

From behind my mask, I grinned. “As long as we live through the next few minutes, you mean?”

“Minutes?” Nico smiled. “Think this will last so long?”

“Maybe-maybe,” I said without meaning to. The set of weapons felt strange and wrong, but I had survived with less. Still, I couldn’t stop wondering if I should lead with the kitchen knife or the broken piece of wood. But after another second passed, the grass parted, and I had something else to think about.

The masatsaku maza were utterly hairless—their skin a perfect pitch black. But this only served to accentuate certain other features. The white teeth, the talon-like nails and those hideous eyes—solid red like whole cherries. All these things flashed, but Nico and I stood our ground. For with their emergence came a small measure of relief. These four, were the small kind. The sort of monster that still approximated the size and shape of men… or in this case, children.

If I had to guess, none had been more than fifteen when they last felt the sun on their backs. And though I knew they were all far older than they appeared, it was difficult to trick my eyes.

I had faced others like them before. Killed them too. But it had never been easy.“Get the cat.”

I realized the pack’s alpha was a girl. She spoke Swahili, but never more than a few words at a go. Though I wasn’t fluent, I managed to keep up.

“Take it home” She hissed. “We follow.”

Something like that.

I watched as two broke from the rest and vanished into the outer dark. Right then I felt a great swell of outrage in my chest. They were going after the leopard. Our fucking leopard.

I knew that a single bite was all it would take to spoil the meat. And that thought, at that particular moment, made me very angry. No—angry isn’t the word.

My arm muscles brimmed with frustrated, potential energies. And when the moment finally came, my body shot forward, straight past Nico, straight for the alpha. As I rushed, she stood there unconcerned. As if an errant breeze was coming her way instead of a thoroughly pissed off Ugandan.

I think I heard my name, but it was too late for thought. Too late for anything to stop the knife—already thrusting down. Even so, the little bitch didn’t move. I can still feel her eyes and that ever widening, piranha-smile, searing into my retinas. Right then, I didn’t know what was making her so damned confident... but I learned.

Three more appeared from the grass. Hitting me in the side like a careening truck. Adding their weight to the two already standing by her side as they slammed me to the ground. Even a single young leech is a dangerous thing and right then, I had a dogpile of five to contend with.

In frustration more than anything, I screamed obscenities in their faces. For there I was again—on my back, struggling in vain, helpless, waiting for the end. I could feel them gripping my arms and neck and legs. Reaching down with little hooked fingers, giggling their insidious liquid giggles.

Les enfants infernaux. That was the phrase that popped into my mind as I lay buried. Something my mother might have said.

“Little shits!” The voice of Nico Bramsen roared—cutting through the ravening hiss like a choir of fucking angels. “You get off her!”

One shrieked, leaving my ears ringing. There was a surge in the crushing weight and then, some much needed relief as two from the pile above were pulled away. I gasped to regain some of my lost air, then turned to my right. Nico’s homemade spear had gone all the way through the first one’s heart and into the ribs of the second. That was the one who had shrieked in my ear and it was shrieking still. The three still on top of me were distracted. Seizing the moment, I thrust my knife forward, plunging it directly into one of their chests. Then I reached out and pulled the screaming thing toward me—squeezing until I saw the point of the blade stick out of its back.

As it happens, the stories got a few things right. Sun burns, garlic repels, and the heart is always the spot you aim for. Thing is, the killing blow can be dealt with a consecrated stake of white oak, a kitchen knife or pretty much anything else, as long as it goes all the way through.

The leech slumped down, covering me like a shroud. It was dead. I had killed something that looked a lot like a child, but I couldn’t think of it like that. Had to remind my eyes that they were lying. That however this creature appeared, like its brothers and sisters, it was a predator. And worse, our competition.

With a great roar of effort, I freed myself and got back on my feet. Adrenaline coursing, I spun on my heel to swing the piece of wood in my hand. The broken oar whistled and then it smashed one of those Goddamned leech kids square in the jaw!

“The leader’s gone!” From the sound of Nico’s voice, I could tell he was actively fighting. “She’s going back to that camp—or whatever the hell it used to be.”

Nico finished off the one he was fighting, and I turned to the one I had hit. It was rubbing its jaw and appeared to be afraid… or at the very least, uncertain. It was a boy, or at least, had been. Maybe eight or nine when turned.

“I think she sent the others after the leopard.” I shouted without taking my eyes off the boy that wasn’t. “As alpha, they might wait for her to eat first, but our leopard will be torn apart in seconds. We can’t let that happen.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Out of breath, Nico stepped to my side.

United, we stared down the last of them. Les enfants infernaux. Watching as those solid red eyes flitted between us and the dark unknown. It reminded me of a little bird that wanted to fly. Despite everything I knew—everything I had seen and done to survive since the world went red, right then, there was only one thing I wanted.

“Fly, little bird. Fly away and don’t turn back.”

2

It’s funny the bits that come back… and the ones that never do.

When I try, I cannot summon the name of my first professor or the way my mother smelled when she gave me that last hug before bed. But after Nico and I killed the last of those baby leeches—when we were running straight for those poles, I remember the wind. How cool it felt on my hot, blood-spattered skin.

Once we reached the poles, it was clear that Nico had been right. The site had been one of those open-air lodges, complete with the skeletons of eight tents that had surely once catered to a special breed of tourist.

Between the poles there were piles of various things I could not identify. I moved in closer and saw that all matter of things had been used. Some items, like broken chairs and other furniture, had probably been part of the lodge. Others looked to be personal belongings. Packs and clothes, even things that might be used as weapons. Then there were the bones. Animal and human alike. Thousands of them, gleaming in the light of the moon. Collected by earth’s newest apex and placed in tribute to that which replaced their God.

“Maybe there’s something here we can use.” I approached a long wooden pole sticking out of a pile. I had lost my knife in the last tussle and had only the broken oar to defend myself with. “Do you see her?”

“No.” Nico circled the naked tents, checking to make sure the alpha wasn’t hiding behind.

“This makes no sense.” I pulled on the pole, hoping for something the length of a quarterstaff I could whittle into a point. “Leeches need four walls, a roof—and even then, they black out the windows.” I pulled again, harder this time. “How can there be a nest here? There is nowhere to hide.”

“I don’t know. But I have heard stories of leech men doing some very strange things.”

Having checked the last of the roofless tents, Nico leaned on his garden hoe. “There was a man I knew in Mozambique. Raul. He claimed to have come upon one of them, just as the sun was about to rise. It was lying there—dead, he assumed, but only until it turned its head. Locking its soulless, cherry eyes with his. And so, Raul just stood there, too afraid to do anything but wait for the rosy fingers of dawn to turn the damned thing to ash.”

I stopped what I was doing then. Just listened as Nico went on.

“Eventually,” he said, “the leech just put its head back down. Right in the dirt. Then, just as the sun’s light was about to reach it, something happened. Something that my friend Raul could never have expected. The dirt reached up. Made the monster a part of itself.”

“The dirt...” I repeated the word, unconvinced. “Reached?”

“It’s how Raul described it,” Nico said. “As if the earth itself were trying to shield that leech from the sun. Protecting it in a kind of cocoon.”

“Huh,” I said. “Sounds like Raul didn’t have both his oars in the water.”

Nico snickered. “Maybe so. But as we both know just because something has never been seen before does not mean it isn’t happening.”

I relinquished a nod. My mind drifted back to those early news reports—to the rampant jokes, tweets, and posts that made believing the impossible even harder.

“Dirt cocoons,” I said knowing that I had no right or reason to disbelieve a damn thing. “You really think that is happening here?”

“Me?” Nico poked at an overturned chair with the toe of his boot. “Heck, I’m just making conversation.”

With a sigh, my hands returned to the wooden pole—gripping as tight as they could. Then, mustering one final pull, the thing came loose! Unable to stop myself, I stumbled back. My heart raced as I inspected at my hard-won prize. The tip of the spear was solid steel, maybe thirty-five centimeters long. Sturdy, relatively free of rust. I thrust the weapon forward in the air—once and again.

“Yeah,” I said. “This will do.” Just then, my foot stepped on something that wasn’t earth. Glancing downward, I moved my foot in an arc—sweeping some of the dirt away. “Nico, check this out. There are boards here. I think it’s a deck or some kind of patio.”

Though the light was low, once we knew what to look for, the repeating parallel lines were hard to miss. The boards had been set directly into the ground. My eyes followed them around two of the tents. Then I saw it. The ultimate amenity one insists upon when booking an authentic trip to adventure.

“I’ll be damned.” Nico’s voice dripped with disdain as much as wonder. “It’s a pool.”

“Of course. What else?” I said with a snicker. “You can’t get that authentic safari experience without a swimming pool.”

With practiced caution, I approached the edge of the deep, rectangular hole and glared down. The old pool was lined with concrete and tile, but it held no water—only what appeared to be a number of huge, crumpled tarps.

“Dirt cocoons, eh?” I said with far too much sarcasm. “More like the roofs to all these tents. Still, that must have taken some real ingenuity. Finding this place and seeing a potential home.”

“Home…” His tone had a distant, thinking-out-loud quality. “Home is where you make it… where you take your bread and break it.”

“Don’t think these kids are living on bread, Nico.”

He laughed then, but it was thin—automatic and mirthless. The eyes of the old Saffa were pointing past the pool at the coming pair of pitch-black forms rushing toward us. One of them had something over its shoulder. Something tawny and covered in spots.

At that point, I cursed in Hausa. Can’t remember what was said exactly, but I’m sure it was colorful. The pair who had been sent after the leopard were returning to discover they had a couple of uninvited guests in their parlor. At a distance of perhaps ten meters, I could see that the two leeches had only three eyes between them. Suddenly, the one I’ve come to think of as Tall Boy hurled his prize—the limp body of the leopard sliding in the dirt, rolling until it came to a stop by one of the tent poles. It was dark and I only spared a second’s glance, but right then, couldn’t tell if the animal was dead or simply stunned.

The shorter of the two was missing an eye. It was the first to lunge and was the first to be cut down. First, Nico delivered a hard jab with the flat of the garden hoe’s head. Then he pivoted—swinging with centrifugal force, burying the edge into the meat of One-eye’s right side. It screamed. And then it didn’t. Though I had seldom seen him use it, the edge of Nico’s trusty hoe had been sharpened to a razor. After pulling back the weapon, Nico lashed out again with that sharpened edge. Separating the still wailing head of One Eye from its post.

Preoccupied as he was, Nico couldn’t see the attack coming from behind. Didn’t know that his actions had sent Tall Boy charging with outstretched arms that seemed too long on its frame. Fortunately, that old Saffa had Mirèlha Nanji for his partner. A girl who, once upon a time, had chosen javelin over table tennis as her sport of choice. It had been years since I’d thrown, but I didn’t waste time remembering how. My arm and my eye remembered how to aim. My hand, just when to release. The spear whistled as it flew. And then it didn’t.

And though my strike missed the heart, it gave Nico ample time to spin round and thrust with the stake end of his weapon. Finishing the lanky, slathering Tall Boy off in one, well placed hit.

Nico and I regarded each other.

Both of us were out of breath and covered in blood that was not our own. For a second, I thought we were done. That we had made it through.

But there was something pulling at my attention. A rustling sound drew my eye down, down into the deep, rectangular hole in the ground. To the crumpled mass of tarps which I could now tell, were moving.

My heart skipped. My fingers desperately clutching for the weapon I had already thrown.

“Mirèlha!”

I pivoted round to see my spear already flying through the air. Instinct took over. My hand reached out, seized the moving shaft in mid-flight. I turned then, but the weapon and the arm wielding it were promptly pinned in a position that denied leverage. The alpha leech had leapt out of the pool and was on me, above me, everywhere! Its legs wrapped around and under my arms, squeezing, forcing the air from my lungs! Though it weighed very little, the strength of that damned little leech was enormous. With every step I stumbled backward, its gaping mouth moved closer.

I remember the teeth. How whitely they had gleamed in the moonlight. How perfect. Like slivers of solid pearl. One hand shot free and without a second’s hesitation, I drove a thumb deep into the left eye of my attacker. There came a shriek and an incredible relief of pressure. Finally, with the damn thing off me, I could breathe.

I lashed out with the spear. The new extension of myself. It was my set of claws. My rage. My first strike went through its throat. The child-shaped thing I could find no pity for. The alpha seemed dazed. Its remaining eye, wide and red with surprise. I had the strangest sensation that it wanted to speak or maybe, just beg. Maybe-maybe.

Before it could do any of that, I pulled the spear out and shoved it right through the thing’s heart.

I remember how I felt then. Breathing, standing there amidst those naked tents and bones and piles of collected treasure with the inky blood of the alpha on my skin. I lifted the Babanki mask and swept my eyes over the camp. Then I turned to my friend. Nico was tired and maybe, older than either he or I liked to admit.

Like he had done so many times before, the old Saffa offered me a smile. And though I did not return it, I did allow myself to feel triumphant. To believe that, for one damn second, we were safe. But safe was an outdated concept. Had been for twenty-five years. Les enfants infernaux may have all been dead, but I had forgotten about the leopard.

It all happened so fast.

First, I saw movement in the shadows. Then a flash of color.

I cannot say when the animal had awakened, only that it did not waste the quiet moment. The attack was well planned, well timed. The leopard struck fast, sinking its teeth into Nico Bramsen’s throat.

I wanted to scream and to vomit. To lash out with my spear—to rip the spotted devil apart with my bare hands. By God, I wanted to do all of it. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. I was frozen, bewitched by those yellow eyes. The very same I first saw up in the shadowy branches of an old acacia.

So, I watched, gaping in horror as my friend was dragged away. As the animal we had tracked for most of a day pulled at his already limp form and then, began to run.

Disappearing into the grass and the long, merciless hours of night.

3

Remembering is hard, but it is also important. However painful, I remember that last night with Nico as if it were yesterday. In fact, if I concentrate hard enough, I can even smell the air. Sweet and a little spoiled. Like compost under a hot Tanzanian sun. Like meat that’s gone to the worms.

It reminds me of how much we’ve lost. Of how much has been sacrificed at the altar of the only God this world worships.

For me that night was far from over. Once the leopard was out of sight, control of my body returned to a woman who was utterly shattered, but who was also filled with enough rage to fill a mountain. Revenge was all I wanted. I needed it. Hungered for it.

And so, after consulting my plastic, yellow watch, I reached up to the mask again, that old slab of wood, shaped long ago by the Babanki into something fierce. Something with curved tusks, a painted trunk and ugly vertical eyes. Like I did whenever I needed to become something other than myself, I slid the mask down.

Hiding the woman.

Becoming the beast once again.

The Future

Bloodline

Milton J. Davis

We were cruising down Peachtree Street when Kerry got pissed. It was midnight. Despite his treatments, he still preferred to go out after sundown, especially on cloudy nights. The slick streets shimmered from the recent summer shower, so I told him to slow down.

“What? You afraid we might have an accident?” He smiled at me devilishly.

“That’s easy for you to laugh at,” I replied. “I’m new.”

Kerry jerked the steering wheel and we drifted left off Peachtree to International. We plunged down the steep hill before he slammed on the brakes at the intersection. An Inquisitor standing on the corner by Peachtree Plaza glared at us from behind his facemask, his lance aimed in our direction. Kerry gripped the steering wheel tighter, the veins in his hands and forearms visible.

“Kerry, don’t,” I whispered.

“Fucking overseers,” he whispered back.

Kerry was angry, but he wasn’t a fool. That lance would spit a streak of angel fire that would smoke both of us in seconds. He waited for the light to turn then pulled away slowly. We stopped again at the light before Centennial Park then turned left again, migrating around the park to the light between Phillips Arena and the CNN Center.

“I’m hungry,” I said.

Kerry looked at me with a frown. “You expect me to take you all the way back home so you can eat?”

“No, there’s an open market nearby,” I answered.

“Where?”

“In Midtown near Ponce City Market.”

The light turned green and Kerry slammed on the gas, leaving a blue-white cloud of smoke. I felt sorry for him. I was born after the Inquisition, so life had always been this way for me. Kerry was old school, a Trueblood. He looked my age, but he was at least seven hundred years old. He’d known only one way to live and that had been stripped from him by the Church. Once the scientists identified the genetic codes that revealed what we were, it was easy for the Inquisitors to hunt us down. They rounded us up and locked us in internment camps until the See could determine what to do with us. The others weren’t so lucky. We had always been popular in a morbid sort of way so there were Believers that spoke for our salvation. The others were killed where they stood; werewolves, witches, and warlocks slaughtered by the Inquisitors and their Angel Fire staffs. At least that’s what I was taught in history class. The same scientists that discovered how to identify us came up with a way to fix us. It involved a series of treatments that would convert our DNA and make us almost normal. But some things they couldn’t change.

Kerry drove to the market without my directions. He pretended earlier not to know but I knew he did. All of us do.

“Hurry up,” he said.

I got out the car and entered the Sunshine Market. I was dressed for date night; my skirt was short and my blouse low cut. My hair floated over my head in an afro; this time of year, was too humid so I just let it go natural. The men in the market leered at me until it became clear where I was headed. Their looks became frowns of disgust. By the time I reached the back of the market the only person paying attention to me was Jackie Zhang.

“Whoa, Telisa! You look good tonight!”

“Watch it, Jackie,” I warned. “Mrs. Zhang might hear you. You got some fruit?”

He grinned. “Just got some in today. Good ones, too”

Jackie reached under the counter and brought up a large blood fruit. The veins pulsed close to the surface and my stomach growled.

“Do all of them look like this one?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll take four.”

Jackie bagged them up. “This is a lot of fruit for one person.”

“I’m with Kerry.”

Jackie frowned. “I don’t see why you spend time with that low life.”

It was my turn to frown. “Shut it, Jackie. You’re not my daddy. How much?”

“It’s on the house tonight.”

“You’re so sweet!” I leaned over the counter and kissed him on the cheek. “Tell Mrs. Zhang I said hi.”

Kerry was still mean mugging when I got back to the car.

“What took you so long?”

I jumped in and took a blood fruit from the bag. “Me and Jackie were talking.”

“That dirty old bastard makes me sick.”

“Everybody makes you sick.” I bit into the blood fruit, my fangs sinking into a thick vein. It was a juicy one; the warm red fluid ran down my cheek. I wiped it away with my hand then licked my fingers.

“Want one?” I offered.

Kerry looked away. “I’m not hungry.”

I shrugged and enjoyed my meal. The boys in the white coats failed to curb our cravings completely, so they developed blood fruit. It’s not really a fruit, but a simple organism that produces human blood. They’re great, but the old heads think they’re disgusting. They prefer the alternative, but the alternative will get you smoked.

We were cruising through Buckhead when things got funky. We stopped at a red light at the corner of Peachtree and Pharr. A swarm of party goers crossed before us, young men and women smelling and looking good.

“That’s what we should be enjoying,” Kerry said.

“Stop it,” I said.

“They used to fear us, now they just laugh at us.”

“The light’s green,” I said.

Kerry ignored me; his eyes locked on the young throng forming a line into the nightclub. Then he slammed on the gas and we sped toward downtown.

“Slow down! I said.

He kept speeding until we were downtown. He swung into a parking lot and grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the car. I had to almost run to keep up with him, he was walking so fast.

“What’s going on?” I said. Nervous sweat beaded on my forehead and hands trembled. “Where are we going?”

He led me into a narrow alley, spun me about and kissed me. I kissed him back hard, moaning as his hand moved down my back and under my skirt. This wasn’t the first time we’d done it in public, but something about this time was different. I was working my hands down his pants when he pushed me away.

“Wait here,” he said.

“What?”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

A chill ran from my head to my toes, dousing my amorous heat. One minute my man was feeling me up in an alley and the next minute he was gone. Before I could get angry, he was back.

“I brought you something,” he said.

It was a man. He was dressed in a concierge uniform, his eyes half closed.

“Now here’s a real meal!”

He jerked the man up and bit his neck. The man groaned but didn’t struggle as Kerry drank his blood. He dropped the man then came to me.

“Kerry, I don’t want any part of this,” I said. He gripped the back of my head and kissed me. I tasted blood on his lips, blood like I never tasted before. It was so warm and so . . . sweet. I ran my tongue through his mouth, savoring the trickle of blood still there.

Kerry pulled away. “See? This is what we were meant to have.”

A bright light flooded the alley, blinding us.

“They’re in here,” a voice shouted. “Send back up!”

An Inquisitor emerged from the light, his lance tip glowing. Kerry shoved me aside and leaped higher than I’d ever seen anyone leap. Angel fire burned over my head as I fell. My head struck the ground and I was stunned for a minute; when my vision cleared Kerry and the Inquisitor struggled in front of me. The lance was broken. The two of them slammed each other against the walls. I heard footsteps heading towards the alley.

Kerry lifted the Inquisitor off the ground by the neck with both hands. He pinned him against the wall and looked at me.

“Get out of here!” he shouted.

“Kerry, no!” I pleaded. “Let him go. They’re going to kill you.”

“Living like this, I’m already dead.” He smiled at me. “Remember what you are. Remember what it’s like.”

A squad of Inquisitors charged into the alley. Kerry threw his Inquisitor at them then leaped into their midst. I ran in the other direction, escaping into the parking lot. The concierge was there propped against the wall, trying to stop the bleeding from his neck. I rushed him, knocking his hand away and digging my fangs into his neck. The taste was exhilarating. He tried to struggle but I held him still, surprised at my strength. I drank until there was nothing left, the concierge limp in my arms. Angel fire flashed from the alley; I dropped the body and ran.

I don’t know whether to thank Kerry or curse him. He’s dead so I can’t do either. The Inquisitors are hunting me, calling me a backslider. If I turned myself in and confessed, I would be rehabilitated. But I can’t. It’s just too good. I feel better and stronger that I ever have. Kerry told me to remember what I am, but the reality is I never knew.

Now I do.

I can never go back.

-2-

I love the feel of night. I love the way the shadows caress my shoulders and obscure my flaws. I revel in coolness that exists in the dark despite the time of year. Most of all, I love how the night brings out the best and the worst in us all. The absence of sunlight, a shield that hides our actions, whatever they might be.

I understand now why the old ones hunted at night. The light was their enemy, revealing the natural urge in them considered vile and grotesque by the others. Kerry was an old one, preferring the night despite the freedom of the Inquisition. I never understood, until now.

I had been a backslider for two years, seven hundred and thirty days of hunting and being hunted. I smelled, my clothes were ragged, and my hair had twisted into knots. Sometimes I tried to hate Kerry for introducing me to this life, but most of the time I rarely thought of him. I was consumed with the hunger and the pursuit of prey. There was no other feeling.

The abandoned building I called home teemed with the homeless, their coming and going a parade of curses, clanging and crunching. The fact that the Inquisitors attempted to be silent gave them away.

Despite the noise, I heard them. I crouched in filth and closed my eyes to see with my other senses. After I began feeding the old way, I changed. This was one of the ways. My entire being transformed, tuned to my prey’s existence like a lion instinctively knows the ways of the antelope. The men reeked; their pheromones making them easy to spot. Someone else lurked among them, a person whose image was less distinct. It was a woman. Her scent was an irritant to me; it seems I was meant to hunt men. Her presence could cause a problem, especially if she broke away from the others.

She did.

I worked my way towards the rear of the building, expecting to escape out of the back door leading into a trash strewn alley and on to the streets. Cold metal pressed against my back and a sharp prick burned in my neck just as I was about to turn.

“Come with me, “ the woman ordered. I expected her to lead me towards her companions. Instead she took me where I was headed, the alleyway.

“Turn around,” she said. I turned and looked into her stern face. She was pretty, strands of black hair escaping from beneath her helmet.

“Remember my face. I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”

“Why should I come back if you’re letting me go?”

“You have a nano GPS swimming in your veins. If you try to leave town within the next forty-eight hours, I’ll call a team, tell them where you are, and you’ll get smoked.”

“I could just turn myself in for redemption.”

She smiled. “Not you. Besides, I can get you out of here.”

“Where?” I asked.

“Somewhere safe,” she answered. “Somewhere vampires aren’t hated or hunted.”

I snarled, baring my fangs. “Why are you doing this?”

Her face changed. A shadow of sorrow flashed across her eyes. “I need your help.”

I heard chatter spilling from her earpiece and her face became stern again. “Remember. Here. Tomorrow. Now go.”

She stepped aside and I ran into the alley. The darkness proved no problem for me. The other skill I now had was excellent night vision. I had morphed into a predator, my physical senses enhanced and attuned to my prey. It was a waste. I wasn’t hunting down wary Homo sapiens in dense forests; I was swatting them like flies in a human trash heap. All I had to do was reach out and dinner was served.

Leaving the slums meant changing my appearance. I jumped alleyways and vacant lots until I reached Buckhead, and then did a quick smash and grab on an upscale jeans boutique. I washed up the best I could at the Marta station and changed. With the exception of makeup, I cleaned up pretty good. Old memories crept into my head; the days when men looked at me with desire until they saw my fangs. Now they didn’t bother. I was just another homeless bitch to be used or avoided, except when they approached me to have a little fun. Then they found the tables turned.

Later, I returned to the building and I was hungry. The woman was waiting. She looked different out of uniform, cute, actually. Her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail that teased the small of her back. She wore a white blouse and short blue jean mini-skirt, showing off her toned legs. It was a dangerous way to dress in that part of town. She spotted me and waved me over to her Jeep. The passenger door swung open.

“Get in,” she ordered.

I hesitated but got in. A grocery bag rested on the floor between us; I knew what it was before she said a word.

“Eat, but not too much. I need you hungry.”

I reached into the bag and pulled out a pulsing blood fruit. It had been so long since I fed on the placebo that I had no appetite for it. I bit into it anyway and was surprised. It was better that I thought it would be. Not good, but good enough.

The woman sped off, working her way out of the slums and onto 75/85. We headed north out of the city and into the mountains. We were both quiet, her eyes locked on the road, my eyes locked on her. I reached for another blood fruit and she grabbed my wrist.

“That’s enough,” she barked.

I’ve never bitten anyone out of anger, but I came damn close.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “It’s best you don’t know. Better for both of us.”

Our journey ended on a dirt road before a redwood cabin. The woman jumped out of the Jeep and ran to the door. I followed as I was expected to. The inside of the cabin was modest, similar to a studio apartment. There was a small kitchen, an old couch and a DTV hanging on the wall. A double bed filled the corner of the cabin, filled by a man hooked to an IV. The woman grabbed my arm and towed me to the bed ridden man.

“What wrong with him?” I asked.

“Cancer,” she said, her voice trembling. “Terminal.”

“So why am I here?”

She looked at me and I couldn’t tell if she was angry or desperate.

“Bite him.”

I was stunned. I looked at her and read the certainty in her eyes.

“So, you want me to kill him, to put him out of his misery.”

She laughed. “I want you to do just the opposite. I want you to heal him.”

“Look, if I bite him, I kill him.”

She laughed again, which pissed me off. “You should look behind you once you’re done eating. Every person you’ve bitten has lived. Better still, they come back just like you.”

“Bullshit,” was all I could say.

“That’s why the Clergy wants you dead. You’re a vampire virus. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

She sat in a metal folding chair by the man’s head and whispered to him in Spanish.

“You were created to scare people back to the church. Once the Redemption began, they eliminated all the freaks except vampires. They saw possibilities in you, clues to immortality. You’re the first one to prove that it’s possible.”

I wanted to sit. No, I wanted to faint, but I was too mad.

“So, they want me so they can dissect me and study me.”

The woman nodded. I looked at her man, his skin grayish, his chest barely rising and falling.

“If I bite him, he’ll be like me.”

The woman looked at me with pleading eyes. “I know, but he’ll be alive.”

So, I bit him. I had no choice. She wouldn’t remove the tracking chip unless I did. I could taste the cancer in him, but I drank. I quickly remembered why I gave up blood fruit. I took my fill then stopped, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

“Now what?” I asked.

The woman stroked the man’s hair for a moment then went to the tiny chest at the foot of the bed.

“Sit down,” she ordered.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“This is going to hurt,” she said.

I felt a sharp pain at the base of my neck. After a few uncomfortable minutes, the pain subsided.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I deactivated the tracker,” the woman replied. “Stand up.”

I stood. The woman opened the chest where I sat, took out a satchel and gave it to me.

“These documents will get you into Canada. From there you can go to Europe. I’ve heard they don’t hunt your kind there. A few people actually worship you.”

For the last two years I had existed in a daze, thinking of nothing but feeding. It never occurred to me that I was being hunted. I never considered leaving Atlanta, let alone the country. But if what the woman said was true, I was marked for death.

The woman tossed me the keys to the Jeep.

“Take it,” she said. “I won’t need it for a while.”

I looked at her and at the man. He breathed deeper and color had come back to his skin.

“He’ll get hungry,” I said.

She looked hopeful. “I know.”

“Give him the fruit.” I advised. “Never let him bite a person, not even you.”

She looked at me and smiled. “Thank you.”

I turned away and headed for the door.

“My name is Maria,” she called out.

“Goodbye, Maria,” I said.

“Goodbye, Telisa,” she replied. “God bless you.”

I hesitated, and then stepped out the door into the night.

-3-

Sometimes enough is enough. It’s like you look around and realize you made a very bad mistake. At that point you know you have two choices. You can go back to where you started, or you can continue forward and hope for the best. But one thing you can’t do. You can’t sit still because if you stop, you’ll die. It’s that simple. Or at least it should be.

I’d never driven through snow. I spent my entire life in the South and the only snow I ever saw occurred before I could drive. So, I was surprised at how well I handled the heavy snowfall as I travelled through Michigan. I was on my way to Detroit. If all went well, I’d cross into Windsor, and after a few more days I’d be on my way to Europe. Maria supplied me with the documents I needed to get into Canada, and I’d done the best I could to change my appearance. The DIY perm job was bad, yet good enough. I sobbed when I compressed my afro, but pride had to give way to survival.

For days I’d been living out of my car, afraid to check into a hotel and be discovered. My name and face were everywhere, as well it should be. The blood fruit didn’t satisfy me any longer. I craved human blood. Sometimes I managed to break into a blood bank and steal bags of plasma, but they were only a little more filling than the artificial blood pod designed to keep me and those like me in check. Kerry said he was liberating me that day; he said he was showing me what I truly was. I curse the day I met him.

I booked a hotel on the outskirts of the city. I was sure of my disguise, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I was only a few miles from freedom, and I wasn’t going to muck it up. The check-in clerk, an older woman with pasty skin and thinning hair, barely paid attention to me as I gave her my false information and paid for my room in cash. But I paid attention to her. I could feel her blood pulsing through her veins. A sharp pang in my gut caused me to wince.

“You alright, honey?” she asked.

I looked into her ruddy eyes and felt her concern.

“I’m okay,” I replied. “Just a little hungry.”

“There’s a diner a mile down the road,” the woman replied. “It’s open twenty-four hours. The lunch and dinner menu suck, but their breakfast is to die for.”

I stared at the woman a moment longer then forced a smile to my face.

“I’ll be okay. I’m going into the city.”

The woman shrugged then handed me my key card.

“Have a nice stay. If there’s anything wrong with your room, give me a call.”

I took the key card then hurried to my room. By the time I reached it, my hands trembled so bad I could barely insert the card into the slot. I finally unlocked the door then stormed in. I flung my backpack onto the room, closed and locked the door then hurried back to my car. I needed to feed.

It seemed like hours before I reached the city. I didn’t know anything about Detroit, but I’ve been hunting long enough to find what I was yearning for. I made a left turn off the main thoroughfare and found myself in the club district. A long line snaked from a non-descript building with a glaring neon sign. The name made no difference to me; I focused on the club goers waiting to enter. I parked in the nearest parking lot then fast walked toward the club. I didn’t have to complete my journey; a man entered the parking lot, whistling as he strolled to his car. I hurried toward him, a smile on my face. He smiled back; apparently, he thought I was attractive.

“What’s up, baby girl?” he said.

I pushed him against the nearest car then sank my teeth deep into his throat. He struggled, but I was stronger, much stronger. I drained him then dropped his body like an empty shell. But I was still hungry. A woman entered the parking lot, her eyes darting about like women do when walking alone. She saw me and relaxed; I almost felt sorry for her. I pounced on her as she opened her car door. I pushed her inside to the passenger side then bit into her neck. Her screams subsided quickly as I drank. I left her limp in the seat.

I hurried back to my car, the bottom half of my face and the front of my shirt covered in blood. I was sloppy, my hunger making me careless. There was no way I could stay the night at the hotel. I would have to pack my things and find another crossing point.

I drove slowly until I was out of the city then sped back to the hotel. As my hunger subsided, the guilt settled in. I killed two people. I wish I could turn things back. I wish I could start it all over again. But I couldn’t. A glimmer of hope pierced my darkness when I thought of Europe. Maybe there was something going there that would quell my hunger without taking anyone’s life or changing them into what I am. That was probably why they accepted our kind.

I saw the commotion before I reached the hotel. The parking lot teemed with unmarked cars. Inquisitors and clergy swarmed, inspecting cars and knocking on doors. How did they find me? Did the clerk suspect something? It didn’t matter. I had to run.

Something slammed into my car from behind. I didn’t look to see, I just jumped out my car and ran. Someone grabbed my arm and I struck out, hitting something hard. The person let go of me; I took a few more steps before I was tackled. I rolled and shoved the person off of me then clambered to my feet. A blinding pain flashed in my back and my limbs went limp. I collapsed to the ground; my vision blurred.

“We got her,” I heard someone say.

“Let’s get out of here before the others see us,” another voice said.

“Hit her again,” the first voice said.

Piercing pain swallowed me, and I blacked out.

I woke in a white room strapped to a hospital bed raised to a sitting position. A gown covered my body and an IV was attached to my right arm. An Inquisitor stood at the door facing me; he frowned when he saw me conscious then exited the room. I tugged at my restraints. A few minutes later the Inquisitor returned with another one and a few others. Two were doctors, one an older woman with a graying afro and a suspicious grin, the other a tall man with short cropped hair and a serious stare. The man carried a tablet; the woman went to the instruments and studied them.

“Well Miss Telisa, you’ve been a difficult person to find,” the woman said. “I’m Dr. Felicia Garrett. My colleague is Dr. Samuel Phillips. It’s an honor to finally meet a true vampire.”

“Where are the clergy?” I asked.

“The clergy have nothing to do with this,” Dr. Garrett replied. “This is a private operation.”

“But the Inquisitors?”

“Holy Protectors in uniform only,” the doctor replied. “They work for us.”

“And who are you?” I asked.

“An interested party,” Dr. Garrett replied. “You possess abilities that our clients are very interested in.”

“I’m a vamp,” I said. “There are plenty of us out there.”

“But none quite like you,” the doctor said. “You’ve developed a taste for human blood, thanks to your boyfriend.”

My chest tightened.

“How . . . how is Kerry?” I asked.

“Kerry is dead,” the doctor replied. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

I did, but to hear it crushed me. I held back my tears.

“But he didn’t die in vain,” the doctor continued. “He showed you what you are, and he showed us what you could become.”

A nurse entered the room with an IV bag filled with a red fluid.

“No thanks,” I said. “I already ate.”

Dr. Garrett laughed out loud. Dr. Phillips smirked as he continued to type.

“Yes, you have,” Dr. Garrett replied. “And you left quite a mess. I believe our people are still cleaning up.”

The nurse replaced the IV drip with the bag containing the red liquid.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a reunion of sorts,” Dr. Garrett said. “You see, no other created vampire has reacted to human blood consumption like you. When given a choice, they do prefer human fluid, but they have no problem with blood fruit. But you crave it. We think it has everything to do with your relationship with Kerry.”

“What are you saying?”

“He infected you,” Dr. Garrett said. “But what he did to you was only partial.”

The nurse began the drip.

“Today we see what happens with a total immersion. This serum was created from Kerry’s blood. We found some interesting things in his genetic code, and you seem to be particularly sensitive to his . . . secretions.”

“No . . . wait!” I yelled.

A burning sensation began where the IV needle pierced my skin then surged throughout my body. The pain became so intense I scream and convulsed, my arms and legs tugging at my straps. I felt like I was expanding like a balloon, growing so large that I was about to explode. Another scream escaped my mouth. The straps holding my arms snapped and I sat up. I looked down at Dr. Garrett and the others and saw their terror-filled eyes.

“Shoot her! Shoot her now!” Dr. Garrett screamed as she fled the room.

Through my agony I focused on the guards. Their faces were twisted by fear, and that pleased me. I yanked my legs free from the restraints before they could act then pounced at the guard to my right. He raised his lance and I batted it aside with my right hand then slammed my left hand into his throat. His eye bucked then closed as he slumped to the floor.

I looked at my hands. They were larger, with each of my elongated fingers tipped with talons. What had they done to me? I looked at my body and staggered. I was taller and thinner, yet hard muscles creased my skin. I dared not look at my face.

Something hit my chest and I staggered. I looked up to see the other fake Inquisitor aiming at me with his lance. I jumped the gap between us then stabbed my talons into his forehead. He dropped the lance as his arms fell to his side, his dead eyes locked on mine. I shook him free then tried to leave the room. Something held me back; I turned to see large wings protruding from my back. The sight made me weak and angry. Whatever they had done, they had turned me into a monster!

The rage consumed me again. I rampaged through the room, destroying everything in sight. I hunted for Dr. Garrett and her assistant, but they were nowhere to be seen. I had to get out. I had to get away. The room had no window, so I forced my way out the door and into the hallway.

Guards crammed the corridor. They fired their lances, striking me all over my body with little effect. Whatever was done to me had made me stronger. I sliced through them with my talons, hunting for the exit. When I finally found it, my way was clear except for one person standing in the way; Dr. Garrett. I ran at her consumed with hate. She kept her composure until I was almost upon her, then her fear broke through, radiating from her eyes. I grabbed her throat and lifted her to eye level.

“What did you do to me?” I growled.

“It’s the next step,” she managed to say despite my grip on her neck. She jerked up her hand, holding a syringe filled with a fluid that looked similar to the one in the IV bag. I threw her into the wall before she could stab me and heard her head crack.

“There it is!”

I turned to see more guards running toward me. I dashed out of the building into the night. Despite the darkness I could see like it was day. I sprinted across the parking lot too fast for them to catch up with me, so they began shooting. A bolt struck me in the back, knocking me off my feet. Instead of falling my wings extended and I glided back to my feet. Despite my better judgement I jumped into the air.

“Fly,” I whispered.

My wings flapped. I felt the muscles move that controlled them and I flapped harder and faster until I climbed up and over the trees surrounding the compound. There was nothing but forest below me; I had no idea where I was. I continued flying until I was well away from the compound, then I began looking for some kind of landmark. The lights from a large city emerged over the horizon, a glaring illumination due to my transformed eyesight. Once my eyes adjusted, I saw I was near Detroit. Before me was the narrow strip of water which separated the city from Windsor. It was not the way I planned to cross the border, but at that point it didn’t matter.

I flew into Canada and into freedom.

Days passed before I transformed into my normal self. I spent those days wandering the wilderness, feeding when I could and feeling remorse for every person I claimed. More days passed before my life and body returned to normal. Maria told me of a place I would be welcomed, and she was right. They gave me clothes and a new identity. They also gave me blood. After a few more months I was ready to travel to Europe.

I roamed the continent for a time and eventually settled in France. There were others like me . . . well, almost like me. I never told anyone about the transformations. Most of the time I can control it, but sometimes it takes over. At some point I need to seek help, but for the time being I revel in my solitude. I’ve heard there is a place in Uganda where there may be a ‘cure’ for our condition. They have a long history dealing with our kind, some say.

For now, I’m content. In some ways I am free, and yet in other ways I will never be free again.

Message in a Vessel

V.G. Harrison

Nobody knew how the disease-carrying mosquitoes would affect us. Thirty years later and a food shortage to boot, and we knew we’d pay the price. Authorities harvested those in prisons and on the streets. The ones who wouldn’t be missed. Then they went to anyone older than sixty-five. The younger you were, the more protected you were. If you were like me, who had parents that could teach you a valuable trade, then you survived the Cleansing Era.

I sat back in my seat and breathed in a deep breath. Even though we healed better and aged slower, stress was still a part of our lives.

“You look like you need a break, Dr. Jakande.” Cora walked in like her tight pencil skirt kept her tights taped together. She kept her head held high while confidence leaked from her pores. She placed a food card on my lab table. “You’ve been neglecting your allotted daily nourishment.”

“I’m fine.” My growling stomach probably gave me away.

“This project means nothing, unless you eat.” She placed one of her bright red fingernails on the nourishment card and pushed it to me.

“I’m a little busy right now. I’ll go in a minute. Just let me finish this.” I turned back to my computer to review the bioinformatic collection program my team had been working on for the last year and a half.

“I understand the nature of your work, doctor. But protocols are in place. If you don’t eat now, I must report you.”

I hated this woman. Unfortunately, I would also give anything to be off this project permanently, too. A food break wasn’t long enough.

“Dr. Jakande?” She leaned closed. “Please do not force me to get security to escort you.”

“Son of--” I slammed my hand down on the counter and shoved my chair away from my desk. “Are you going to lick my lips clean while you’re at it?”

She said nothing. She lifted her head higher as though protocols dictated everything right down to her cold-hearted determination to make sure I followed the rules. Every click of her heels on the marbled floors made me want to reach back and break her neck. Security would be down on me so fast and probably stab me with enough silver knives to make sure I could only work from the neck up. This project only needed my brain.

I flashed my hand across the keypad and pressed the cafeteria icon. A flashing arrow directed me to my designated elevator. When I entered, I went to the back and waited as more people entered behind me.

The view from the moon never got old. The Red Giant space shuttle was the tallest spaceship in the solar system and could carry a payload of more than a half million pounds. Because of the engine thrust, it had to launch from the moon and far enough away not to kill anyone. Our base was built miles away from the project to make sure the space program met our needs, including our dietary ones. The ship didn’t look like much on the surface, but it packed a technological punch. It had the ability to orbit a planet long enough to use the gravitational kinetic energy to power the light speed engines for multiple jumps from one solar system to another.

Everyone’s dream was to find an inhabited planet out there, but for a few like myself, it was a worst nightmare. We couldn’t pack up Earth and hope to find food out there, so the plan was to bring food to us. My team’s part was the most devious of all. We would use the scanners to probe a planet with inhabitants who were a close match to human DNA and then stick a flag in the star map. If they were capable of interstellar space travel like we were, then great. Come find us. If they weren’t, then they would become adopted into phase two of our mission. We conqueror them using the Neutron Starship that was twice as big as the Red Dwarf and only a few years out from launch.

I entered the cafeteria. Many of the workers already had their meals and sat around talking. Some things never changed despite our genetically altered state. I stood in line with the others for a quick drink.

“Dr. Jakande.” Cora touched my back and motioned me to the left of the line. “You have special privileges. Everyone else waits their turn and not the other way around. You also get fresh food.”

I hated this woman. I closed my eyes to calm my temper. This wasn’t her fault. It was the order of things. Those who were most important got the best of the best in amenities on the moon. That included live feedings.

Taking a page from her higher-than-thou book, I stepped around the line and went to the front where a shorter line had formed. Cora handed the clerk the nourishment card I had forgotten to take from her earlier. Once my retinal scan checked out, guards allowed me through a glass door on the right.

“I can handle it from here,” I said, holding my hand up to stop Cora from entering the glass container, too.

“Very well. I’ll wait here to escort you back to the lab.”

It didn’t use to be like this. As more mosquitos carried the virus, society did what it did best during uncertain times. We panicked. It wasn’t long before anarchy broke out in the streets. Those with an A blood type and considered healthy were more immune to the mosquitoes, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger. I was type O and born about a year after the mosquitoes finished running through the world. The only thing left was carnage. Survival of the fittest was the rule everyone lived by. Since the children born to the plague victims were carriers of the disease, the newkind especially sought us. Like many parents, mine changed me to save me.

My parents, both college professors, maintained their contacts, took me away and we hid off the grid for years. During that time, they used their knowledge in biochemistry and bioengineering to come up with alternatives for the “newkind” to survive.

By the time I was a teenager, society had changed drastically. All the fighting and wars resulted in our population dying off by more than half. Leaders around the world made both decisions and concessions to harvest the remaining humans and save the newkind. We ended up with a seven-leader Supreme Council that encompassed all nations’ interests in survival. So far, nothing has worked. Not even the human breeding programs could keep up with the demand. Newkind who lived an average of one-hundred-thirty years only made food shortages worse.

Four years ago, I was using my skills in bioinformatics to help compile information on harvesting animals throughout the world as a food alternative to help sustain our hungry population. Government officials knocked on my lab door and recruited me for a higher calling. I never had a choice in the matter. In this fascist regime, you did as you were told.

The glass cylinder turned around, opening me up into a hall. I stepped out of the vestibule and continued down the hall where there were a dozen doors on either side. A blacked-out screen meant that person wasn’t available. They had already given that day and needed to rest. At the end of the hall was a guard’s post and another dozen doors to choose from. Nobody was sure how many sacrifices we had on base, but there was always enough food to feed the three-hundred-ninety-six staff members.

It didn’t matter which one I picked because they were all the same. Those considered most vital to the mission always went straight to the source. Those who worked under us got the donated stuff. Plasma was for the support staff, and that was like giving a starving person bread and water. They only got a pint of blood every ten to twelve days, depending upon the supply.

I stopped at the door of a guy who looked like every other face to me. When I nodded, the guard met me there. He pressed the code into the keypad, and then motioned for me to scan my retina. I did, and the door slid open.

“Good morning, my beautiful, Nubian Queen.” The guy had his shirt off and his pants hung low at the waist. He held his arms out wide. “Well, come on it. The blood is fine, and it goes great with some wine.”

I glanced at the guard and sighed. “I made a mistake, didn’t I?”

“You sure did, Dr. Jakande.” He lowered his rifle to his side and pulled out a sack. “Want me to cover his face?”

“Aw, come on,” the guy said. “I’ll be nice. Promise.”

I stepped into the guy’s flamboyantly decorated, large cell. “I’ve been here for years and this is the first time I’ve ever met you. Who are you?”

“I’m Ramos. I got here about a month ago. They said something about changing out the blood supply. Fresh meat, so to speak.”

“You seemed pleased about it.”

“Why not? I’m one of the few humans left on the planet. A rare commodity these days. Now, I’m on the moon. Who would’ve thought, right? I consider it a privilege.”

“You’re a prisoner.”

“Only in the eyes of the beholder. Besides, I’m not stupid when it comes to the alternatives. I’d rather be here living among you guys than be down there as a comatose turnip on a food farm.”

How could anyone be okay with this? Sadly, Ramos was a typical blood sack. The kind who decided they were better off being willing cattle than stacked vertically in a coma and blood siphoned off periodically to meet supply and demand. Knowing this idiot, he would be just as happy being a breeder. The only good thing about them was their children didn’t know the truth behind their existence. Controlling their information was vital, so they wouldn’t have second thoughts about becoming the next generation of cattle.

What happened to us? We were better than this. I know because my parents taught me about life beyond the lab and how things used to be. They taught me about history and how it came into being and not this trumped up crap that we’ve been shoveling down our children’s throats. The Supreme Council decreed a change in all history books to reflect how this had always been our way of life. The only part that didn’t change too much was slavery. Officials made sure that always remained in place to prove that this was always the way of things. It was all a lie. Had anyone ever found out about my parents’ counter-teachings, the guard would have decapitated them in a public execution.

“Bag him.” My stomach knotted because of what would come next, rather than hunger pains.

The guard did as he was told. Once he had the bag secured on the man’s face, he motioned for him to get down on his knees. Most like me took pleasure in knowing their food more intimately. I did not. As hungry as I was, it didn’t mean I was a savage. Unfortunately, the resistance would beg to differ. At least they had the luxury of having their meals from livestock on Earth. This was our only option on the moon.

When the guard stepped away, I approached him. I opened my mouth and let my fangs sheathe over my normal canines. I leaned forward, tipped his head to the side, and pressed them into his warm flesh.

The delicious hotness of 98.7-degree blood was like drinking a fine, expensive wine. Whatever they fed him, they made sure it tantalized our senses, too. Unlike most depictions, we didn’t ravage our food. Our constant reconditioning throughout schooling took care of that. We drank a good pint or two and that was enough to sustain us for a few days up to a week. It had been nine days since my last feeding.

His hand touched my thigh and slid up to my butt cheek.

Sputtering, I released my hold and shoved him away. The guard swooped in between us with a baton held toward Ramos.

“What?” Chuckling, he held his arms spread wide. “You seemed a little tense. I thought a warm hand might loosen you up.”

“You thought wrong.” I grabbed the towel from the medical assistant who had found her way inside the room. I cleaned my face and made sure no blood was on my suit before heading back to work. “Touch me like that again and I’ll have your ass jettisoned.”

I stormed out of the room.

“Ma’am?” The medical attendant followed me into the hall. She held a thermometer meter up to my cheek. “Your body temperature is still 97.1 degrees. You need to feed more.”

“I’m fine.”

“I must insist. He only brought your body temperature up by two degrees. If you were at 98, then I would let it go. But I can’t. It’s regulations for our most highly regarded personnel.”

Damn. I gulped. That meant I’d have to go through this crap again. After taking a deep breath, I motioned for her to lead the way. If it was so damn important for me to eat, then someone with more expertise needed to choose my next meal.

“What about Ramos?” I asked, thumbing over my shoulder. I shouldn’t have cared, but part of me did. He wouldn’t get a beating for what he did, but definitely a stern warning to never do it again.

“He’ll be fine,” she said, her soft shoes swooshing down the hall. “Ready for another feeding tonight, since you didn’t take as much as you should have.” She stopped in front of a door with a young woman who looked too young. “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you wait so long between feedings?”

I sighed. “I was busy. There’s so much pressure to make sure everything is tripled-checked and little to no mistakes are made. My feeding became a distant second. Besides, I can go as long as fourteen days.”

“I know. Like when you lived with your parents on the homestead.”

I hated that so many people knew my history as well as I did. This woman was a med tech. That part of my history should have never been a part of her medical information, but it was. The space program officials considered people like me to be strong in personality and self-control. A psychological plus for a mission like this, and an example for others to follow.

We had livestock of deer and pigs we kept on our small farm that we fed from. We never ate enough to kill them off but bred them and sold them to others who thought like us. Feeding from humans wasn’t necessary, if we conditioned ourselves to live longer between feedings. The wild, tangy taste of animal blood was perfect for that. Hence, my ability to go twice as long between feedings.

Nobody cared. My parents pled their case and they had their findings documented and corroborated with dozens of scientists throughout the world. When it came down to it, people were just as impatient and roguish as the young, only they used their words to express their malignant thoughts rather than their fangs. The government thought our research had some merit to set up a hierarchy and maintain order among the Earth’s population. Rather than listen to us about using the animal blood to lengthen our need to feed, they fattened up the farm and wild-game populations to ensure there would always be enough food. Still, we were running out, and in ten years, we would be lucky if we had birds and fish left. Domesticated animals were the first to go when our humanity fell.

“This one is more docile.” The med tech punched in a code and then guided me forward to have my retina scanned. “She’s seventeen years old and has proven to have an exceptional character.”

“Seventeen?” I pulled back when the scan completed. “I thought they were at least eighteen.”

“Yes, but like I said, she’s exceptional. More mature for her age.”

Son of a—! I wanted to strangle this woman for bringing me to her. If I did, it would draw too much attention and starvation insanity didn’t always work. So I left it alone. Since I only needed a little, maybe the two of us could get through this.

The door slid open.

She looked like she was sixteen. She was pale with dark, defined curls and brown eyes. As I approached, I noticed freckles on her cheeks. She could have been any strong father’s little girl who would fight through hell to make sure his precious child didn’t end up like this.

“Close the door,” I said over my shoulder. When it slid shut, I approached. “Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not.” The girl lowered her head and got down on her knees. “I’m here for whatever you want.”

“Here for...?” I glanced around to make sure the med tech left. I kept my voice low because I knew how heightened our hearing had become. Still, it was hard to hear through these solid steel walls. “Is this your first time?”

“No. Others have fed from me.” She paused. “Mostly women. They don’t allow men. Not until I’m eighteen.”

Dear God, help us. I knew what would happen when she turned eighteen and drinking blood was only part of it. My heart swelled at the thought of that happening to her. She was no relationship to me, and I had never met her before now. Still, I felt something for her. An overwhelming duty to protect her as my parents protected me. The Earth belonged to children like her more than it did the newkind like us. This wasn’t right.

“Are you afraid?” I whispered.

She hesitated, but whispered back, “Only if you don’t get on with it.”

Rather than stand dominant above her, I got on my knees, too, and lifted her head to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Blinking, she gulped. She swallowed so many times that I almost missed the tears she tried to hide. She nodded once and tilted her head to the side.

“Close your eyes,” I said, holding her shoulders. “I’ll close mine, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She shut her eyes like it was better to sleep through this. No clenching them or whimpering. She had become accustomed to this, regardless of her feelings toward it. She did her duty as cattle in the short time she had been here.

I sank my fangs into her soft, warm flesh and drank. When I finished, I understood why she was here. Not only was she compliant, but she tasted exceptionally good. She was at peak ovulation. Once her menstrual cycle started, she was hands off until it finished. It was the only reprieve she would get.

When I finished with her, I lifted my head away and licked my lips clean. Her eyes slowly opened as though she woke from a dream.

“What’s your name?” I asked as I checked my suit to make sure it was clean.

“It’s Moira,” she replied. “What’s yours, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s Adelynn.” I half-smiled. “Do you like it here, Moira? You can be truthful with me because we both know it won’t change your situation.”

“I know.” She carefully got to her feet and slumped onto a plush couch. She massaged the bruise I left on her neck. “It's okay, I guess. It’s more important that I fulfill my duty.”

Someone knocked on the door. I jumped and looked over my shoulder. When I turned back to Moira, I noticed two pictures on her desk. Someone must have given them to her because they didn’t allow ties to previous lives.

“Who are they?” I motioned with my chin.

“Oh?” She glanced where I was pointing. “I was told they were my little brother and little sister. I’ve never met them. Someday I will, though. They promised me that when I came here.”

I bet. These people have no clue about how their hopes and dreams are used against them. Most likely it wasn’t her real brother or sister, but someone else’s because the government didn’t care to keep track of frivolities like that.

“Do you have any children?” Moira asked.

Half-chuckling, I shook my head. “No. It would be nice someday, but not now.”

If I had a child, I wasn’t so sure I’d change them. I’d prefer they make that decision on their own. The problem was, if I didn’t make it for them, then they would become veal instead of cattle. Nobody would intentionally drink from veal, but they would be carriers of the newkind disease. They also didn’t have the cravings that we did. Perhaps they and the humans should be the new generation to lead this world instead of us. For all of our strength and metabolic stamina, our biggest weakness was clear.

Someone knocked again. It wouldn’t be long before that door opened.

“It was nice to meet you, Moira,” I replied.

She smiled back. “It was nice to meet you, too, Adelynn.”

Moira gave me more than just blood. She made me remember what it was like to be normal. To be human. I missed that.

I went to the door and opened it. The med tech was waiting.

“You look so much better, Dr. Jakande.” She stepped aside so I could leave. “Did you enjoy her?”

“Yes.” My bland voice said otherwise.

“I noticed you never picked a favorite under your profile. Would you like me to put her down as one? There’s more of a chance she’ll stay, if you do.”

More of a what? Until now, I had never heard of that and I had been here four years. I stopped. “Where does she go, if I don’t favorite her?”

“She’ll probably go back to the farm like the others have. We allow only the most liked to stay as long as they remain in good favor.”

“Then put her down as a favorite.” I didn’t know if I was doing her a favor or not, but I didn’t want to see her returned to the farm.

“Will do. She needed someone high ranking like yourself to make the call. One more and she’ll be here a while.”

“What has everyone else said about her?” I turned the corner and headed back the way I came.

She shrugged. “She’s okay, I guess. But like I said, I didn’t have anyone of high ranking who liked her, until now. I’ve talked to her, and she seems like a perfect fit here.”

I stopped and turned. “Do you know her name without looking it up?”

“Of course. It’s Moira.”

“Moira what?”

She paused, her smile somewhat faltering. “I’m afraid I don’t know that much about her.”

“Maybe you should look it up. We’re no longer human beings, you know. But that seventeen-year-old girl is. It wouldn’t hurt to treat her like one until she’s eighteen and more than reality slams into her.”

I jabbed the button on the panel to let me out. When the door slid open, I entered the vestibule and exited out the other side as soon as the door opened again.

Someone buzzed my door. I wasn’t expecting any visitors. The few people I hang out with on the base had all left me alone to do some extra work in my cabin. I stepped down the three stairs that led up to my bed with the panoramic view across the moon landscape. My cabin was more like a luxurious suite that only the wealthy could afford. It was a symbol of my importance to the mission.

When I tapped the vid-comm panel to view who was out there, the med tech was waiting. Why in the world would she be here? I unlocked the door, and it slid open.

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Yes. Why?” Uneasiness twirled in my gut. I hoped she didn’t notice the slight tremor in my voice.

She waved down the hall for someone to approach. She reached around the edge of the door and shoved Moira into me. She pushed us both into my quarters and closed the door.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked.

“Keep her here until you leave for vacation,” the med tech said.

“What? Why? What’s going on?”

“You care about her, don’t you?”

My mouth wavered as I stared at frightened Moira. Clearing my thoughts, I glanced at the med tech. “What are you talking about? Of course, I care. I don’t want anyone to hurt her. She’s just a kid, for blood’s sake.”

“Then you have to take her with you.”

“With me where? You still haven’t said a damn word to help me understand why I should get in trouble for you.”

She sighed. “If you care about Moira Durand, you’ll take her with you. You’re taking two weeks off after the launch tomorrow and you’re going back to Earth to see your parents. I know who they are, and why they will keep her safe. They did the same for you as long as they could.”

“Whoa. You’re asking a lot and you know nothing about me.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” She paused, her eyes pleading. “But your pattern of missed feedings tells me how much you detest them. Your history speaks volumes as to why. You want to find another way to feed us because you know in your heart this isn’t it.”

“What does any of this have to do with her?” I thumbed over to Moira who had sat on my couch looking petrified to touch anything.

“You have privileges others don’t. Take her with you. Call her a gift basket, but I know she’ll be safest with you. When she turns eighteen, she’ll have nobody to protect her. You have the power to do just that, and nobody will question it. Make up any story you want about her running away or having to kill her, but she can never return here. No trouble will come to you or your family—I swear.”

When I hesitated, the desperation in the med tech’s eyes threatened to pop them out of the sockets. “You know I’m right. She’s an innocent in all of this. We should be on that shuttle looking for a new place to live and leave this one for them.”

We both knew that would never happen. The med tech risked a lot to bring her here. At least she was doing something proactive, just like my parents would have done. What good was it for me to harbor such resentment toward my kind, if I did nothing to help the humans? At least Ramos made peace with his lot in life. I hadn’t.

Rather than question her any further, I nodded. I would help her hide Moira Durand in the resistance. She didn’t have to say what I already knew was coming, if she risked this much.

I stood by and applauded with everyone else in the command center as the Red Dwarf’s engines fired up and launched our most promising rocket into space. Later that night, I celebrated with a glass of white champagne, since it was one of the few solid foods that still gave us pleasure with no pain. We bared our fangs in solidarity and enjoyed conversation and blood snacks into the night. The whole time, nobody mentioned Moira’s disappearance.

When I returned to my quarters, Moira was reading my tablet where I kept my work. Startled, she dropped it on the floor and scrambled off the couch to hide in a dark corner of the room.

Her body shook. “Why did you sabotage the mission? They’ll kill you if they find out.”

Calmly, I approached her and knelt in front. “You and your med tech friend interrupted me last night. I could only download so much of the code into the Red Dwarf, but it’s enough to make this right.”

“But why? You’ve slayed an entire planet of newkind.”

“How is that any different from what we did to mankind?” I sighed. "I couldn’t get every single newkind on that shuttle, so I made sure nobody will ever find us. The scans will send back false data about inhabitable planets. Also, it’ll send a silent message warning more advanced alien races to stay away. It’ll take some time, but eventually, we’ll die. You and your kind will be all that’s left, as it should have been.”

“You didn't answer my first question. Why condemn your people to death?”

I sighed. “Because nobody listened to my parents, and they were right. We didn’t survive because of natural selection. We died when we decided it was okay to kill and enslave mankind.”

Smiling, I held my hand out to her. Though hesitant, she reached out and took it.

Blood Saviors

Michele Tracy Berger

Shonda had wanted this assignment, fought for it. She believed in the Vampire Council’s authority and her mission—infiltrate the Glamour Day Spa, a national chain owned by Jackie Shelton, collect information on any unethical behavior, and interrupt it, if possible. Get in and get out without using lethal force. My specialty.

Magic left a vibrational trace, discernible even by creatures like herself. Like the gong of a bell. As she stood in the spa’s elegant waiting area, her head thrummed. She didn’t see it at first but when Shonda looked in the mirror again, the glass rippled as if made of water. This was the second time in weeks she had a clue that magic was afoot in the Glamour Day Spa. With renewed determination, in search of a hidden room, she knocked against the wall where the mirror was mounted.

Nothing.

She moved her hands over the luxurious settee, the recessed bookshelves, and the oak table supporting a large bowl of fresh fruit. Out the corner of her eye, she noticed another distortion, emanating from the large carafe of rosehip scented water atop the oak table. The water in the carafe glittered as if studded with diamonds. She ran her fingers against the coolness of the pitcher. Another swell of unseen energy rippled up her spine. I’m close.

Another knock and the wall panel slid sideways. She paused for a moment, listening. The panel opened into a long, dark hallway. Her keen vampire eyes adjusted. The corridor led to a massive gray door. This slid open, too. Motion responsive. All her senses were alert. Although she ached to search the premises when first hired, she had restrained herself and waited for an opportune Monday evening when the spa was closed.

The spa sat on two acres of land, forty-five minutes outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. Being the most popular luxury spa in the state, they were always booked. And, as a front desk receptionist, Shonda had little time to explore the large facility. The humans arrived wrinkled and covered in liver spots and left looking much younger. Impossibly young. Without surgery. The spa specialized in natural ‘rejuvenative’ anti-aging therapies. That’s all they did, which Shonda flagged as unusual. No fancy massages, pedicures, or hair treatments. According to the Vampire Council’s laboratory analysis of the spa’s skin care brand ‘GoLIFE’, smuggled from another Glamour Day spa, it was infused with elemental magic. That ruled out humans and vampires. That left the Fae.

The Council didn’t know what Jackie Shelton was up to but they figured that it violated the code of conduct for vampires--no grievous or irreparable harm to human culture, or deception in commerce with humans, and no unlawful contact with the Fae. Not all vampires played by those rules, but most did.

Her brother, Ronaldo, usually got assigned all the choice undercover jobs. But he had grown so weak in the last year, having caught the Cemetery Rot or ‘CR’ virus multiple times. He wasn’t robust anymore. She shuddered remembering their last visit. Multiple infusions of human blood hadn’t kept away the spread of disfiguring yellow pustules that dotted his ashen face, neck, and arms. Most of his carefully tended dreadlocks had fallen out. She edged away the thought of finding her brother like others in their last days, immobile and half-mad--eaten alive by the bacterial and fungal matter that lived off their dead skin, harmless on healthy vampires. Get well, brother.

She descended several flights of stairs and finally came to a door that opened into a large lab. The lights flickered on and Shonda gasped. Lined across the back wall were dozens of steel cages, big enough for dogs. In each cage lay an unresponsive or dead earth elemental. A fetid smell of decay, like rotting mushrooms pervaded the lab. Racing over to them, she took in their misery. Their usually bright, golden colored winged humanoid bodies were covered in sores and ugly, black bruises. Most lay on their backs, eyes closed. Some sat staring ahead with vacant eyes. She ran her hand across the cages, looking for life.

She had only seen earth elementals once at the gathering of the Sovereign Societies ball when she was a child. A memory tickled as she remembered how they carried themselves with an aloof dignity. They didn’t say much, unlike their talkative and flamboyant Fae cousins the fire, water and air elementals. It was rumored that their magic was the oldest and most potent among all elementals.

She said in a loud voice, “I’m Shonda French with the Vampire Council. I’m here to help.”

A small chirp sounded from a cage to her left and Shonda ran over. The magical creature sat slumped in the corner of the cage. The elemental’s gummy eyes barely opened. It wheezed as it tried to speak.

She grabbed the bars of the cage and pressed her face against them. “I’m so sorry that you’re here. Can you tell me what’s happened?”

It turned its head a fraction toward her. “GoLIFE cream,” it whispered. As if the force of speaking stole its life, the creature’s head drooped and drawing in a quivering breath, it collapsed.

She needed to get them out of here. I’ll transport them to my car. Not wasting time smashing the cages in, she used her telekinetic skills. Need to be careful. Can’t get drained. A green bubble formed in her mind’s eye as she concentrated on a living earth elemental. At the moment the pulling action of transport initiated, blinding pain surged through her body. Shonda released the mental hold and fell back. That hurt! The cages were somehow magically fortified with a dark energy that she had only read about in her training. OK that didn’t work. I don’t know what the hell I’m dealing with here.

Stepping back, Shonda saw the few earth elementals still alive take one look at her and cover their faces. Some whimpered and shivered, their ancient broad faces pulsing with fear. Something else was there, too, she noted, in the curl of their lips and the averting of their eyes. Repulsion? Hatred? Why would a vampire imprison them? What could we want with them?

It didn’t matter how they felt about her. Frustrated, she opened her arms and said, “I’m here to help. Someone speak, please! What about the GoLIFE cream?”

Out the corner of her eye, Shonda saw another earth elemental who had been staring in space, crawl to the front of the cage. Her silvery colored hair was matted, and her full lips showed crusty lesions as if they had been burned. She twitched, clung to the bars and in a croaking voice said, “Draining us, for your life.” She puckered her lips to spit but no liquid appeared.

Shonda bristled. “What? I don’t understand.” She wished she could probe the elemental’s mind and extract information. Unfortunately, unlike her brother and many other vampires, this was not one of her talents.

The earth elemental trembled and closed her eyes.

Given their degraded condition, maybe they don’t know much of anything about what’s going on. I’m lucky that enough of their magic presence was still traceable and led me here. Digging out her phone from a jacket pocket, she took pictures of the cages. Shonda shook her head as she walked around the lab, inspected the equipment, smelled bottles and test tubes, searching for any clues. At the end of one of the lab tables stood a medium-sized wooden box containing several vials of a yellowish fluid. All were labeled ‘GoLIFE Serum Version 10’. She grabbed it. Jackpot. Yes, this is going with me.

Shonda had less than a second to respond when she heard a voice behind her. “I suggest you put that box down now and do so carefully.”

Her insides thrummed as she recognized Jackie Shelton’s high-pitched and cold voice. In a flash, she leapt across the room away from Jackie.

Shonda spun around and maintained a semi-crouched stance. Jackie didn’t pursue but kept a steady gaze on her. The older woman with brown skin and a warm orange-red undertone laid the keys in her right hand down on a nearby table and offered a dazzling smile. Casually dressed in a green raincoat, black jeans and boots, her braids were coiffed into a tight bun. “You’ve got questions.”

You’re damn right I do. “I’m from-”

“From the Council,” Jackie waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve known about you all along. I’m always one step ahead of them.”

Shonda tried to hide her surprise. “This secret lab is in violation of Council rules.” She hugged the wooden box close to her chest. “I’ll be taking this back-”

“Do you want to know the truth, Shonda? Or are you so brainwashed by the Council that you won’t listen to what this lab represents for our future?”

Shonda flinched, disgusted by Jackie’s smug composure as she stood before the pitiful caged elementals. The collective misery emanating from them and enveloping Shonda was almost unbearable. If she had been human, she would have vomited. Although her stomach could no longer roil, like all vampires when she felt a sensation, she felt it deeply. Shonda allowed her killing teeth to become visible. Her voice deepened almost into a growl as she straightened and took a step forward, “You’re enslaving Fae for what? To make a fortune helping humans look younger? You’re already rich.”

To Shonda’s surprise, Jackie laughed, small creases forming across her almost ageless face. “You think I’m doing this for money? To make humans more vain? Oh, you are naïve and the Council is antiquated--built for a much simpler time.”

Shonda reached into her pocket and gripped the Council’s special-issued poison dart loaded with dissolved silver in an aqueous solution. Once thrown and lodged in Jackie, the fast-acting poison would give Shonda about forty-five seconds. Jackie would faint and be incapacitated. Enough time for me to transport into my car, without pursuit, and get the hell out of here. Someone from the Council can come back, shut this place down and rescue the earth elementals.

“Don’t you want to survive?” Jackie asked, a smile crossing her face.

“What are you talking about?” I shouldn’t listen. I have evidence of her abuse. I should leave.

“Do you even know why our numbers have dwindled over the past decade?” Jackie pressed. She took a step closer.

“It’s the virus,” Shonda replied. “Cemetery Rot.”

Jackie shook her head and pounded on the lab table. “The easy and standard answer! I thought you were supposed to be one of the smartest new members of the Council.”

Ignoring the jibe, Shonda said, “I’m committed to the Council. They help keep order among us.”

“Platitudes is what they offer. Think for yourself, damn it! Why has the virus shown up now? Why it is so virulent? The virus is just a symptom of the larger issue. Human blood is no longer sustaining us the way that it used to. Humans have so polluted themselves and the planet that it is finally impacting us. That’s why we got the damn virus in the first place. And, we have no immunity because our food source is contaminated.”

Shonda blanched. “A conspiracy theorist. I wouldn’t have taken you for one. The virus has been around since there have been vampires.”

Jackie shook her head, crossed her arms and continued. “We’re in a race against time, Shonda. I have come up with a remedy. My company is working around the clock to refine it and find an even better way to get it into humans. Is it perfect? No. Does it harm others? Yes.”

Shonda raised her eyebrows. I should take the shot now.

“Your brother is sick. Isn’t he?” Jackie stepped closer, her voice low.

Shonda winced at the mention of her brother, her face tightening. “It’s enslavement,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. She gestured toward Jackie, “We of all vampires should not be involved in anything like this.”

“The Council perpetuates the myth that the virus is cyclical. And, we are vampires above anything else.” Then without dropping her gaze, Jackie reached in the tote bag slung over her shoulder and dug out a manila folder. “Here,” she said. In a flash the folder disappeared.

Shonda responded to the vampire’s telekinetic abilities and grabbed the folder when it appeared in front of her.

“Those are the findings from my lab about the virus. It is lethal, Shonda. I predict the virus will eradicate all vampires within the next two years. Our kind will be extinct. Gone. Members on the Council refuse to believe me.”

Ronaldo! Shonda shook her head. She didn’t want to believe anything this enslaver said. She must be lying!

Jackie advanced a step closer, her eyes gleaming. “Child, the infusions I make from Fae blood and introduce into humans make the humans better and stronger. This better blood provides us with immunity. It is simple, no?”

Shonda glanced down and noted the heft of the file she held. She knew that files could be doctored. But, I should keep her talking. She needed to gather every scrap of information for the Council so they could punish this rogue vampire.

“This violates everything the Council stands for!” Shonda said. “The elementals are a protected class.”

Jackie’s eyes darkened. “Do you want to see your brother perish? I could have destroyed you the first day that you arrived here, but I didn’t. I wanted you to see. I need insiders on the Council who understand. My research is our best chance for survival. You would consign your own kind to extinction to save a few elementals?” Jackie pressed her lips into a hard line.

Jackie’s words weighed on her.

An eerie collective moan from the few living earth elementals flooded Shonda’s senses, momentarily distracting her. How can Jackie not feel that?

“Why trap them? Why not ask for their help and cooperation?” Though she asked with sincerity, a part of her already guessed the answer.

And, Jackie’s self-congratulatory tone confirmed her suspicion. “We did! Those little ancient shits weren’t interested in helping us. They don’t see us as one of them. Once a human to them, always a human. And almost all of them despise humans.”

The weight of Jackie’s words pricked at her. But then she looked into Jackie’s eyes and past her at the suffering elementals. They are residents of earth and guests here just like we are. Even if Council members hadn’t shared everything about the virus or had lied, she could never be a part of a solution that included enslavement. It would go against everything her family line stood for, fought for over the past two hundred years. How could she, a vampire whose sires had once been runaway slaves join someone like Jackie? I can’t. There’s got to be some other way besides what this mad half-assed scientist proposes.

Shonda threw the star shaped poison dart as she had practiced so many times before. It caught Jackie in the notch of her throat. A perfect throw, Shonda thought with momentary pride. Pride, however, turned into confusion as Shonda watched the skin on Jackie’s face bubble as she ripped out the dart. She was supposed to faint. The older vampire did sink to her knees but didn’t fall into unconsciousness. She kicked and writhed. And panted…and shrieked.

In her shock, the folder slipped from Shonda’s hand.

“What did they send you to do?” Jackie screamed; no trace of smugness left. The skin on her hands and arms sloughed off in wet, blackish strips. A powdery blue fire beginning at Jackie’s feet quickly engulfed her torso.

Magic! Dread set in as Shonda realized for the first time ever that perhaps the Council had not been truthful with her.

A feeling of helplessness flooded Shonda as she bent close to the dying vampire. Dark crimson foam bubbled out of Jackie’s mouth as she shook her head side to side. “Someone lied to you,” she sputtered. “I was not the enemy. Read the file-” Jackie’s form stilled.

Chills spilled down her back. She had just taken part in an assassination, not an investigation. A loud pop drew her attention to the cages. A thin line of blue flame encircled them and began melting the cages. Shonda grabbed the file from the floor, scrambled to her feet and rushed to the earth elementals. Maybe I have a chance to get them before whatever magic that took out Jackie takes them out, too. Earth elementals were convulsing inside their cages. Their greenish blood burst from their ears. Concentrating with gritted teeth she locked on the last two living earth elementals. Three seconds later Shonda transported herself and the ailing elementals into her car. As she prepared to speed away, a feeling nagged at her. Her thoughts raced. What if she had just accidentally killed the only vampire who might be able to help her brother and other vampires? Was she set up? Would others on the Council believe the truth?

An explosion of chittering and Fae language that she could not understand made Shonda turn to look in the backseat. The two earth elementals clung to each other. One was silver-haired (the one that tried to spit on her earlier) and the other had hair as dark as onyx, though little of it remained, besides a few tufts that dotted her head. The Fae let go of each other and began flapping their wings and stretching.

What am I going to do with them? “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Shonda said.

More unintelligible chittering commenced between them. The silver-haired earth elemental leaned forward and said. “We want to find the others.”

“Others?”

“That Jackie took. Our brothers and sisters.”

Shonda nodded. “Yes, of course. It’s just that,” she paused and ran her hand through her processed bob of thick hair, “It’s just that I don’t know who to trust. Things have gone seriously sideways and-”

The other earth elemental dug her hands into the leather interior and moaned with such force that for a moment the whole car shook.

Narrowing eyes that reminded Shonda of yellow amber, the silver-haired Fae said, “You said you came to help us. Vampires rarely do, so we should not be surprised.”

No good deed goes unpunished. “Look, I don’t know how to find them, they’re probably all over the U.S! Why can’t you find them?”

The Fae placed a hand around the neck of the other and brought her close. This gesture calmed the other. When she spoke again, her voice was low, “Most of us live in or near the old forests. When old trees are cut, we are weakened. That is when we they trap us. Jackie worked with rogue Fae to learn spells that can bind us. We are not strong enough now to find and save them all.”

Shonda wondered if those same Fae were working with members of the Council. The divisions between humans, vampires and Fae are getting worse.

While the hidden tree frogs began their trilling that signaled evening’s full promise, an idea came to Shonda. “We can’t trust the Council to help us now. But, maybe we can help each other.” The dark-haired Fae looked away, but the otherâ€™s eyes sparked with interest as Shonda shared her plan.

Within the half hour Shonda and the silver-haired Fae, who finally introduced herself as Eledia, were back in the now eerily quiet lab squatting over Jackie’s ruined form. The magical blue fire had sloughed off most of Jackie’s skin, leaving her bones exposed yet covered in a strange coppery ash.

She noticed the sour look on Eledia’s face as she looked at her former captor. With caution, Shonda put a hand on her companion’s arm.

“I promise you. She will pay for what she has done.”

Her words sounded more confident than she felt.

I don’t even know if what I’ve proposed will work. Eledia decided to trust me, so that’s a start.

Shonda removed a knife from her boot and used it to make a diagonal cut across her palm. It took a moment before her sluggish blood seeped to the surface. Seeing her own blood was such a rare occurrence that she watched with interest before turning her hand over, letting the sticky blackish drops drip on Jackie’s face. Eledia placed one hand on Jackie’s head and one hand on the laboratory floor. She beat her wings, first in a quick rhythm and then settled into a slow pace. Eledia’s face contorted as she threw her head back and released a guttural moan unlike anything Shonda had ever heard. Eledia’s wings quickened in a rhythm that made Shonda feel as if she lay inside a great drum played by a giant. he current of magic that swelled thrilled and scared her. The floor cracked, and laboratory equipment crashed to the floor around them.

Jackie’s corpse made a gurgling noise. The coppery ash dissolved into her bones. What was once the elegant Jackie Shelton was no more. What sat up was a hairless, coughing and wretched looking skeletal being with terror in its eyes.

Jackie croaked, “You brought me back. How? Gods, everything hurts.”

You have no right to complain. Shonda nodded toward the Fae. “Eledia did most of the work.”

Eledia stood and drew herself up. “We are the oldest of all the Fae and can summon life from the earth itself.”

Shonda watched with fascination as rough patches of skin formed on Jackie’s body. The reborn vampire drew its arms around its thin legs and mumbled, “I never thought I would have to say these words to anyone, but I am in your blood debt, Shonda.”

“We want to know all the places that you have enslaved the Fae. You will tell me, and I will go and release them. In exchange for your help, the Fae will take you into their territory. They will hide you until I can find out the truth about what it is going on.”

Jackie heaved and shook her head, “They’ll kill me as soon as I am no longer useful.”

Eledia stamped her foot. “Unthinkable. We keep our word, unlike humans or vampires.”

“Although you deserve it, they gave me their word. At an appointed time, you will account for your crimes.”

“And,” Shonda grabbed Jackie’s arm and continued, “You will tell me about the virus and how I can save my brother.”

Jackie shivered and after a long pause nodded. Shonda stood and helped the former enslaver to her feet. She would save her brother. And she would finish this mission, just not in any way the Vampire Council could imagine.

About the Editor

Nicole Givens Kurtz is an author, educator, and publisher. Her novels have been named as finalists in Fresh Voices in Science Fiction, Dream Realm Award, EPPIE Finalist in Science Fiction, and a member of SFWA. She has over 40 short story publications, three active novel series, and produced works for White Wolf, Serial Box, and Baen.

Additionally, Nicole is the owner and publisher for Mocha Memoirs Press. Since 2010, their mission has been to amplify marginalized voices in speculative fiction (SF/F/H). Join the newsletter to support and stay abreast of their new releases, coupons, author spotlights and more.

http://www.mochaemoirspress.com/newsletter

Connect with Nicole:

Nicole’s Patreon- https://www.patreon.com/user?u=19915635

Website: http://www.nicolegivenskurtz.net

Pulp Reports Newsletter: http://www.nicolegivenskurtz.net/newsletter

If you like, SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire, Support Diverse Speculative Fiction!

Facebook

Twitter

These Authors SLAY

Alicia McCalla writes stories for both new adults and adults with her brand of Black superheroes, dark paranormal, and horror. Her stories always include strong black women heroines who fight back, sometimes to the death. She is a native Detroiter and lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband. Readers can find her at www.aliciamccalla.com where she has Diverse SciFi & Fantasy stories podcast, thoughtful blog post musings, and other fun things. They can also sign-up for her subscriber’s list to get free reads and special deals.

Alledria Hurt is an African-American author of diverse works. She has written in the realms of Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror with nearly 30 published pieces across those genres. When she's not busy writing, she's being a full-time cat mom, an A+ actress, a stellar ghost tour coach, and an on again off again health enthusiast. She can be found on the internet under http://linktr.ee/alledria.

Balogun Ojetade is Master Instructor and Technical Director of the Afrikan Martial Arts Institute and Co-Chair/Founder of Blacktasticon, the largest gathering of Black science fiction and fantasy creators and fans in the South. He is the author of the bestselling non-fiction books Afrikan Martial Arts: Discovering the Warrior Within, The Afrikan Warriors’ Bible, and the Urban Self-Defense Manual and a score of bestselling novels, including, MOSES: The Chronicles of Harriet Tubman (Books 1 & 2), The Chronicles of Harriet Tubman: Freedonia; Redeemer; Once Upon A Time In Afrika; Fist of Africa; The Scythe; The Keys; A Haunting in the SWATS; Beneath the Shining Jewel and Kill City.

Balogun is also contributing co-editor of three anthologies: Ki: Khanga: The Anthology, Steamfunk and Dieselfunk and contributing editor of the Rococoa anthology and Black Power: The Superhero Anthology. He is creator of the Steamfunkateers Role Playing Game and the comedic martial arts role playing game, The Ice Cold RPG.

Finally, Balogun is the Director and Fight Choreographer of the feature film, A Single Link, and the short films, Forward Motion, Rite of Passage: Initiation and The Dentist of Westminster; co-author of the award winning screenplay, Ngolo; co-creator of Ki Khanga: The Sword and Soul Role-Playing Game, creator of the comic book series Jagunjagun Lewa and co-creator of the comic book series, Ngolo.

Colin Cloud Dance is a science professor in Cape Town, South Africa. Colin began writing to explore race, science, fantasy, the future, and the past in the imaginary. In 2020, Colin's collection of short stories based in South Africa, Cape Town Curios was published (MVMedia). The collection started with writing the short story "Free Me!" written to honor Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela during his long illness in 2013. Colin won a place in the 2014 Writivism Class which included workshops and mentoring and is meant to encourage African fiction (http://writivism.com/). In Cape Town, Colin has read several short stories on the former Taxi Radio. 'Quadrille' is Colin's first vampire story. Colin continues to write Afrofuturistic fiction, speculative fiction, and romance.

Craig Laurance Gidney writes both contemporary and genre fiction. He is the author of the collections Sea, Swallow Me & Other Stories (Lethe Press, 2008), Skin Deep Magic (Rebel Satori Press, 2014), Bereft (Tiny Satchel Press, 2013) and A Spectral Hue (Word Horde, 2019). Craig is the recipient of the Susan C. Petrey Scholarship to attend Clarion West Writing Workshop (1996), Gaylactic Spectrum Finalist for “A Bird of Ice” (2008), Lambda Literary Finalist: Sea, Swallow Me & Other Stories (2008), Skin Deep Magic: Short Fiction (2014) and A Spectral Hue (2019), Bronze Moonbeam Medal (2014) and Silver IPPY Medal(2014) for Bereft. You can find Craig online at http://craiglaurancegidney.com, on Twitter at ethereallad

Delizhia Jenkins is the proud author of multiple books ranging from adult paranormal romance to urban fantasy for young adults. She has always been a fan of the paranormal and the unseen. As a matter of fact, when she’s not lurking in the shadows, you will find her researching the missing books of the Apocrypha or waiting for the next installment of J.R. Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood series. Some of her personal literary favs include L.A. Banks; Karen Marie Moning and Christine Feehan.

She’s a shapeshifter writer who simply wants to leave her own mark on the literary world, leaving behind a legacy that will extend for generations to come.

Dicey Grenor is a black woman, attorney, author, podcaster, screenwriter, and all-around misfit known as Spicy Dicey. As author of The Narcoleptic Vampire Series and other erotic romance, sci-fi, fantasy, horror books and short stories, Dicey enjoys crossing genres, writing inclusive characters who overcome trauma, and sexy creatures that don’t stay dead. With eleven novels, over thirty short stories, and three scripts, writing isn’t just a career for Dicey. It’s a calling.

Jeff Carroll is a writer and filmmaker. He is pioneering what he calls Hip Hop horror, Sci/fi, and fantasy. His stories always have lots of action and a social edge. He has written and produced 6 films and has written over 15 science fiction and nonfiction books. His short stories have appeared in The Black Science Fiction Society’s anthology and their magazine as well as other anthologies. Jeff produces The Monster Panel a traveling sci-fi panel which features writers of color in a lively discussion of comic books, movies and Black people. His comic book series Horror Streetz features a variety of black horror stories. He has written in novel, film and comic books.

He is also is the Hip Hop dating coach is a leading voice of Hip Hop reform and his book The Hip Hop Dating Guide is used by public schools and community groups nationwide. Jeff Carroll is also the author of the non-fiction book, The Hip Hop Dating Guide. When he is not writing Sci-fi stories he enjoys speaking on healthy dating to college and high school students everywhere and goes by Yo Jeff. He writes out of South Florida where he lives with his wife and youngest son.

Jessica Cage is an International Award Winning, and USA Today Best Selling Author. Born and raised in Chicago, IL, writing has always been a passion for her. As a girl, Jessica enjoyed reading tales of fantasy and mystery, but she always hoped to find characters that looked like her. Those characters came few and far in between. When they did appear, they often played a minor role and were background figures. This is the inspiration for her writing today and the reason why she focuses on writing characters of color in fantasy. Representation matters in all mediums and Jessica is determined to give the young girl who looks like her, a story full of characters that she can relate.

John Linwood Grant is a pro writer/editor from Yorkshire, UK, with some fifty short stories and novelettes published in a wide range of magazines/anthologies over the last few years, including Lackington's Magazine, Vastarien, Weirdbook, and Space & Time. He writes disquieting dark fiction, both contemporary and period supernatural tales. “His Heart Shall Speak No More” was picked for Best New Horror #29, and his novel 13 Miller’s Court (with Alan M Clark) won the 2019 Ripperology Books award. He is the editor of Occult Detective Magazine and various anthologies, whilst his eccentric website greydogtales.com, features weird fiction and lurchers. A further collection of his weird fiction, Where All is Night, and Starless, will be out from Trepidatio next year.

Kai Leakes is a St. Louis native, hopeless romantic, and vampire lover. She began her obsession with all things fantasy, romance, and the dark as a teen. Kai is the creator of the popular dark fantasy/horror series Sin Eaters: Devotion Books, Sin Eater Chronicles’ novella & steamy romance: Love, Trust & Pleasure: BOK series. Kai's unique passion for romance with a touch of darkness has allowed her to be featured in the HWA award-nominated horror anthology Sycorax's Daughters, and sci-fi anthology The City. So, with fantasy and romance always on her mind, watch out for the darkness and magic that always follows. Learn more at: www.kaileakes.com

K. R. S. McEntire lives on a healthy diet of fiction and tea. She loves art, photography and travel because, like books, they allow her to explore new worlds. She lives in Indianapolis with her husband and runs the Facebook page Diverse Fantasy and Sci-Finds, where she shares book recommendations with other bibliophiles.

LH Moore is a writer, poet and historian. Her speculative fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies such as FIYAH, Fireside and Apex magazines; the Bram Stoker Award Finalist Sycorax's Daughters, Black Magic Women and Chiral Mad. You can follow her on Twitter at @ElleHM, IG: lh_moore or visit her website at lhmoorecreative.com.

L. Marie Wood is an award-winning author and screenwriter. She is the recipient of the Golden Stake Award for her novel The Promise Keeper, as well as the Harold L. Brown Award for her screenplay Home Party. Her short story, "The Ever After" is part of the Bram Stoker Award Finalist anthology Sycorax's Daughters. Wood was recognized in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror, Vol. 15 and as one of the 100+ Black Women in Horror Fiction. You can find her online at www.lmariewood.com.

Lynette S. Hoag is a freelance writer and lawyer. She is married to an adrenaline junkie engineer. Together, she and her husband share one creative, energetic son, a cat and a doodle. She lives, loves and laughs in the eclectic, diverse community of Oak Park, Illinois. She can be found on Twitter @LeftBrainMom1 and on Facebook as LeftBrainMom.

Michele Tracy Berger is a professor, a creative writer, a creativity coach and a pug-lover. Her main love is writing speculative fiction, though she also is known to write poetry and creative nonfiction, too. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Concrete Dreams: Witches, Warriors and Wise Women, Afromyth: A Fantasy Collection Volume 2, Stories We Tell After Midnight #2, UnCommon Origins: A Collection of Gods, Monsters, Nature and Science, Flying South: A Literary Journal; 100 Word Story; Thing Magazine, Blood and Bourbon, FIYAH: Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction, and The Red Clay Review.

Her nonfiction writing and poetry have appeared in The Chapel Hill News, Glint Literary Journal, South Writ Large, Oracle: Fine Arts Review, Trivia: Voices of Feminism, The Feminist Wire, Ms. Magazine, Carolina Woman Magazine, Western North Carolina Woman, A Letter to My Mom (Crown Press), Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler (Twelfth Planet Press) and various zines.

She runs an award-winning blog called ‘The Practice of Creativity’. https://micheleberger.wordpress.com

Her science fiction novella, “Reenu You” was recently published by Falstaff Books. Much of her work explores psychological horror, especially through issues of race and gender.

Milton Davis is a Black Fantastic fiction writer and owner of MVmedia, LLC, a publishing company specializing in Science Fiction, Fantasy based on African/African Diaspora culture, history and traditions. Milton is the author of nineteen novels; his most recent is the post-apocalyptic adventure Gunman’s Peace. He is the editor and co-editor of nine anthologies; The City, Terminus, Blacktastic, Dark Universe with Gene Peterson; Griots: A Sword and Soul Anthology and Griot: Sisters of the Spear, with Charles R. Saunders; The Ki Khanga Anthology, the Steamfunk! Anthology, and the Dieselfunk anthology with Balogun Ojetade. MVmedia has also published Once Upon A Time in Afrika by Balogun Ojetade and Abegoni: First Calling and Nyumbani Tales by Sword and Soul creator and icon Charles R. Saunders.

Milton’s work had also been featured in Black Power: The Superhero Anthology; Skelos 2: The Journal of Weird Fiction and Dark Fantasy Volume 2, Steampunk Writers Around the World published by Luna Press and Bass Reeves Frontier Marshal Volume Two. His Steamfunk story, “The Swarm” was nominated for the 2017 British Science Fiction Award. You can contact Milton Davis from his website: https://www.miltonjdavis.com

Miranda J. Riley lives in Nashville, TN with her husband and three feline children, working at a HPL library. When she isn’t writing, she’s working on arts and crafts, reading, horror movie watching, and spending time with her friends and family. She enjoys volunteering with her youth group at church and squeezing as many naps as she can fit into one day. “Rampage” is her first official published work but keep an eye out for full feature books coming soon!

Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki is an African speculative fiction writer, slush reader and editor from Nigeria. He was awarded an honourable mention, twice in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and his short story won the Nommo award for best short story by an African. He has been published in African Writer, Omenana magazine, Selene Quarterly, Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, Uncanny Magazine, Strange Horizons, and Tor. He co-edited the Invictus Quarterly, Selene Quarterly, and the Dominion Anthology. He also happens to be a member of the African Speculative Fiction Society, Codex, BFA, BSFA, HWA and the SFWA.

Penelope Flynn-As an author and 3D Illustrator Penelope Flynn enjoys creating mixed genre adult-targeted speculative fiction featuring elements of horror, suspense, science fiction, romantica and fantasy. She has works in the Dark Universe anthologies, The Steamfunk anthology, Genesis: An Anthology of Black Science Fiction Book II, Scierogenous II, Blerdrotica I and has published a novel, The Chronicles of Renfields: Regarding Koescu and the second of the Chronicles of Renfields: The First Book of Ramona is scheduled for release October 30, 2020.

She is also cover artist for her Chronicles of Renfields, the Flash Bang anthology, Carole McDonnell’s novelette, The Charcoal Bride and Stone Mays’ Blumeverse short “Ava Dianthus and her Minion of Evil.”

Monday through Friday at 9am EST Penelope is on attwitch.tv/emazingxp hosting Go With the Flow!, an hour of chat while creating fantasy landscapes with Flowscape. You can also find her Saturday nights at 9pm Eastern hosting the Talkshoe podcast Discussions From the Otherhoodhttps://www.talkshoe.com/conf/show/discussions-from-the-otherhood. Her art and literary works can be found at PenelopeFlynn.com and Renfields.us.

Samantha Bryant teaches Spanish to middle schoolers. Clearly, she’s tougher than she looks. She writes The Menopausal Superhero series of novels, and other feminist leaning speculative fiction. When she's not writing or teaching, Samantha enjoys family time, old movies, baking, gaming, and walking in the woods with her rescue dog. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram @samanthabwriter or at: http://samanthabryant.com and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/bwgsxD.

Sheree Renée Thomas is an award-winning fiction writer, poet, and editor. Her work is inspired by myth and folklore, natural science, music, and the genius of the Mississippi Delta. Nine Bar Blues: Stories from an Ancient Future (Third Man Books, May 2020) is her debut fiction collection. She is also the author of two multigenre/hybrid collections, Sleeping Under the Tree of Life (Aqueduct Press July 2016), longlisted for the 2016 Otherwise Award and honored with a Publishers Weekly Starred Review and Shotgun Lullabies (Aqueduct January 2011). She edited the World Fantasy Award-winning groundbreaking Black speculative fiction anthologies, Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora and Dark Matter: Reading the Bones (2000 and 2004) and is the first to introduce W.E.B. Du Bois’s science fiction short stories.

Sheree was the first Black author to be honored with the World Fantasy Award since its inception in 1975. As fiction writer, poet, and occasional essayist, her work is widely anthologized and appears in The New York Times and The Big Book of Modern Fantasy edited by Ann & Jeff VanderMeer (Vintage Anchor, 2020). She is the Associate Editor of the award-wining historic Black arts literary journal, Obsidian. She was recently honored as a 2020 World Fantasy Award Finalist in the Special Award – Professional category for contributions to the genre. She lives in her hometown, Memphis, Tennessee, near a mighty river and a pyramid. Follow her @blackpotmojo or visit http://www.shereereneethomas.com

Steven Van Patten is a Brooklyn native and the author of the critically acclaimed Brookwater’s Curse trilogy, about an 1860s Georgia plantation slave who becomes law enforcement within the vampire community. In contrast, the titular character in his Killer Genius series is a modern day hyper-intelligent black woman who uses high-end technology as a socially conscious serial killer.

SVP’s short fiction includes contributions to nearly a dozen horror anthologies, including the Stoker Award nominated New York State of Fright. A collection of short horror and dark fiction stories entitled Hell At The Way Station, published by his company Laughing Black Vampire Productions and co-authored by acclaimed storyteller, Marc Abbott hit shelves in 2018.

Along with a plethora of other honors and accolades, SVP won three African-African-American Literary Awards in 2019, two for Hell At The Way Station (Best Anthology and Best In Science Fiction) and one for Best Independent Publisher. He’s written about everything from sleep demons to the Harlem Hellfighters of WWI for episodes of the YouTube series’ Extra Credit and Extra Mythology, He’s also a contributor for Viral Vignettes, a charity-driven YouTube comedy series benefitting The Actor’s Fund.

He uses his full name on Facebook but goes by @svpthinks on Twitter and Instagram. When he’s not creating macabre literature, he can be found stage managing television shows primarily in New York City and occasionally on the West Coast. Along with
being a member of the New York Chapter of The Horror Writer’s Association, he’s also a member of The Director’s Guild of America and professional arts fraternity Gamma Xi Phi. His website is www.laughingblackvampire.com.

Steve Van Samson is the author of the Predator World series books and numerous short stories. His writing tends to be on the pulpy side--intermingling genres like horror, dystopian with dark fantasy and adventure. He believes that character is king and there should always be little seeds planted between the lines, that the reader will only discover in subsequent readings. His third novel Mark of the Witchwyrm is a dark fantasy tale and will be released by Rough House Publishing.

When not tapping the keys on his Chromebook, Steve co-hosts the Retro Ridoctopus podcast, writes and watches entirely too many black and white monster films.

Sumiko Saulson is an award-winning author of Afrosurrealist and multicultural sci-fi and horror. Ze is the editor of the anthologies and collections Black Magic Women, Scry of Lust, Black Celebration, and Wickedly Abled. Zhe is the winner of the 2016 HWA StokerCon "Scholarship from Hell", 2017 BCC Voice "Reframing the Other" contest, and 2018 AWW "Afrosurrealist Writer Award."

Zhe has an AA in English from Berkeley City College, and writes a column called "Writing While Black" for a national Black Newspaper, the San Francisco BayView.

V.G. Harrison-Science fiction has been my love since I was a little kid who purposely tried to stay up at 11 PM to watch Star Trek. I've been writing for a few years now and even though I watch a lot of sci-fi, I don't read it nearly as much of it as I do paranormal. It made sense to combine the two and come up with my Project Solstice series. From there, it's been pure science fiction all the way.

I like to write sci-fi that has some basis in reality. So, whenever I introduce something like the Fine Structure Constant or quantum entanglement, I do as much research as possible to make the story plausible. I don't like to rehash something that made you fall asleep in physics class, but rather, insert just enough to stir your imagination in the right direction. I guess my overly priced engineering degree paid off.

Between the day job, family, and enjoying life as a North Carolinian implant, I'm either hiking, binge watching TV, or trying to connect with my daughter, Jayden, on a cool level. I’m sure I’m failing at that last one, so I’ve resigned to embarrassing myself whenever things don’t go as planned

Valjeanne Jeffers is a speculative fiction writer, a Spelman College graduate, and a member of the Horror Writers Association and the Carolina African America Writers’ Collective. She is the author of nine books, including her Immortal and her Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective series. Valjeanne has been published in numerous anthologies including: Steamfunk!;The Ringing Ear; Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia E. Butler; Fitting In:Historical Accounts of Paranormal Subcultures; Sycorax’s Daughters; Black Magic Women, The Bright Empire, and, most recently, All the Songs We Sing. Preview or purchase her novels at: www.vjeffersandqveal.com.

Vonnie Winslow Crist, HWA, SFWA, is author of The Enchanted Dagger, Owl Light, The Greener Forest, Murder on Marawa Prime, and other award-winning books. Her fiction appears in Amazing Stories, Cast of Wonders, Chilling Ghost Short Stories, Killing It Softly 2, Creep, Blood & Beetles, Horror for Hire, Insignia 2020: Best Asian Speculative Fiction, and elsewhere. A clover-hand who has found so many four-leafed clovers she keeps them in jars, Vonnie believes the world is still filled with mystery, miracles, and magic. For more info: http://www.vonniewinslowcrist.com

Horror Anthologies from Mocha Memoirs Press

Black Magic Women: Terrifying Tales by Scary Sisters edited by Sumiko Saulson

An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes edited by A.C. Thompson

Curious Incidents: More Improbable Adventures edited by A.C. Thompson

In the Bloodstream: An Anthology of Dark Fantasy and Horror edited by Eden Royce

The Grotesquerie edited by Eden Royce

Ghosts, Gears and Grimoires edited by Rie Sheridan Rose