Selections from
BY BLOOD WE LIVE
Edited by John Joseph Adams

By Blood We Live © 2009 by John Joseph Adams
This edition of Selections from By Blood We Live © 2009 by Night Shade Books

This Sampler is licensed for individual use only.

Cover art © 2009 by David Palumbo
Cover design by Michael Ellis
Interior layout and design by Ross E. Lockhart

All rights reserved

"Introduction" and author notes © 2009 John Joseph Adams.

Internet edition
Look for By Blood We Live (ISBN 13: 978-1-59780-156-0)
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Other anthologies by John Joseph Adams
Federations
Seeds of Change
The Living Dead
Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse

Forthcoming Anthologies
Brave New Worlds
The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
The Living Dead 2
The Mad Scientist’s Guide to World Domination
The Way of the Wizard

Acknowledgment is made for permission
to print the following material:
 
"House of the Rising Sun" by Elizabeth Bear. © 2005 Elizabeth Bear. Originally published in The Third Alternative. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"Lifeblood" by Michael A. Burstein. © 2003 Michael A. Burstein. Originally published in New Voices in Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"For Further Reading" by Ross E. Lockhart. © 2009 Ross E. Lockhart. Original to this volume.
 
"Infestation" by Garth Nix. © 2008 Garth Nix. Originally published in The Starry Rift. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu" by Norman Partridge. © 1994 Norman Partridge. Originally published in Love in Vein. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"Peking Man" by Robert J. Sawyer. © 1996 Robert J. Sawyer. Originally published in Dark Destiny III. Reprinted by permission of the author. 
 
"This Is Now" by Michael Marshall Smith. © 2004 Michael Marshall Smith. Originally published online in BBCi Cult Vampire Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"After the Stone Age" by Brian Stableford. © 2004 Brian Stableford. Originally published online in BBCi Cult Vampire Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"Under St. Peter's" by Harry Turtledove. © 2007 Harry Turtledove. Originally published in The Secret History of Vampires. Reprinted by permission of the author.
 
"Exsanguinations" by Catherynne M. Valente. © 2005 Catherynne M. Valente. Originally published online at www.catherynemvalente.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Table of Contents
  6	Introduction by John Joseph Adams

  8	Under St. Peter's by Harry Turtledove

 20	Lifeblood by Michael A. Burstein

 33	Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu by Norman Partridge

 48	This Is Now by Michael Marshall Smith

 58	After the Stone Age by Brian Stableford

 69	House of the Rising Sun by Elizabeth Bear

 74	Peking Man by Robert J. Sawyer

 82	Exsanguinations: A Handbook for the Educated Vampire by Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu and translated from the Romanian by Catherynne M. Valente

 89	Lucy, In Her Splendor by Charles Coleman Finlay

100	For Further Reading compiled by Ross E. Lockhart

107	Acknowledgments

109	About The Author

Introduction
by John Joseph Adams
 
How do we define the vampire? Are they barely animated corpses, of a horrific visage, killing indiscriminately? Or are they suave, charismatic symbols of sexual repression in the Victorian era? Do they die in sunlight, or does it only make them itch a little, or, God forbid, sparkle? Do crosses and holy symbols work at repelling them, or is that just a superstition from the old times? Are they born, or made by other vampires? And anyway, are these vampires created through scientific means, such as genetic research or a virus, or are they the magical kind? Can they transform into bats? Or are they stuck in the appearance they had when they were turned? Are we talking the traditional Eastern European vampire, or something more exotic, like the Tagalog mandurugo, a pretty girl during the day, and a winged, mosquito-like monstrosity by night? Do they even drink blood, or are they some kind of psychic vampire, more directly attacking the life-force of their victims?
Vampire stories come from our myths, but their origins are quite diverse. Stories of the dead thirsting for human life have existed for thousands of years, although the most common version we speak of in popular culture originated in eighteenth-century Eastern Europe. Why is the notion of the dead risen to prey on the living such an omnipresent myth across so many cultures?
Perhaps the myth of the vampire comes from a little bit of projection on the part of the living. We have a hard time imagining our existence after death, and it may be easier to imagine a life that goes on somehow. But what kind of life would a corpse live? Our ancestors were intimately familiar with decomposition, even if they didn't precisely understand it. If I were dead, I know I would have a certain fixation for living things. And perhaps I might, finding death an unagreeable state, attempt to steal from the living some essence that defines the barrier between the living and death. Blood stands in for the notion of life easily enough. Now I just have to get that essence inside of me somehow, hmm. . . slurp.
Or perhaps there's a darker, more insidious reason for the pervasiveness of the vampire story. Is there some kernel of universal truth behind all these stories? Many of the tales included here will offer their own explanations for the stories and myths. Because if there's one thing we love almost as much as vampires themselves, it's exploring their true natures. With the wealth of material accumulated on the nasty bloodsuckers, no two authors approach the vampire myth in quite the same way. The commonality of the vampire's story means their tales can take place in any time and in any place. The backdrop changes, and the details too, but always, underneath it all, there is blood. All draw from those dark, fearful histories, but provide their own fresh take, each like a rare blood type, to be sought by connoisseurs such as yourself.
Hear again one of our oldest and most well-known fairy tales from a new, darker perspective in Neil Gaiman's "Snow, Glass, Apples." And just who is the mysterious Tribute in Elizabeth Bear's "House of the Rising Sun"? He seems so familiar. . . Visit the Philippines in Gabriela Lee's "Hunger," and see the world from the eyes of a creature of decidedly non-European origin. If that is not exotic enough for your tastes, then travel into the future and beyond with Ken Macleod's "Undead Again." 
Is your thirst still not satisfied? Hunt through these pages for stories by authors such as Stephen King, Joe Hill, Kelley Armstrong, Lilith Saintcrow, Carrie Vaughn, Harry Turtledove, and many more. There is a feast here to be had. Drink deeply.
 
Under St. Peter's
by Harry Turtledove
 
Harry Turtledove—who is often referred to as the "master of alternate history"—is the Hugo Award-winning author of more than 80 novels and 100 short stories. His most recent novels are The Man with the Iron Heart, After the Downfall, Give Me Back My Legions!, and Hitler's War. In addition to his SF, fantasy, and alternate history works, he's also published several straight historical novels under the name H. N. Turteltaub. Turtledove obtained a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA in 1977.
 
Turtledove says that part of the appeal of vampire fiction is that we humans like to think we're at the top of the food chain. "But what if we're not?" he said. "Vampire stories also often involve immortality—as this one does—and sex—which this one doesn't—and both of those are abiding themes to which vampires give a different slant." 
 
This story takes place in St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City—one of Christianity's holiest sites—and tells the tale of the vampire living underneath it. It's a difficult story to talk about without giving away the good parts. Let it suffice to say that it's oh-so blasphemous. Say three Hail Marys and an Our Father after reading.
 
Incense in the air, even down here behind the doors. Frankincense and myrrh, the scents he remembered from days gone by, days when he could face the sun. Somber Latin chants. He recognized them even now, though the chanters didn't pronounce Latin the way the legionaries had back in those bright days.
And the hunger. Always the hunger.
Would he finally feed? It had been a long time, such a very long time. He could hardly remember the last time he'd had to wait so long. 
He wouldn't die of starvation. He couldn't die of starvation. His laughter sent wild echoes chasing one another in his chamber. No, he couldn't very well die, not when he was already dead. But he could wish himself extinguished. He could, and he did, every waking moment—and every moment, from now to forever or the sun's next kiss, was a waking moment.
Much good wishing did him.
He waited, and he remembered. What else did he have to do? Nothing. They made sure of it. His memory since his death and resurrection was perfect. He could bring back any day, any instant, with absolute clarity, absolute accuracy.
Much good that did him, too.
He preferred recalling the days before, the days when he was only a man. (Was he ever only a man? He knew how many would say no. Maybe they were right, but he remembered himself as man and man alone. But his memories of those days blurred and shifted—as a man's would—so he might have been wrong. Maybe he was something else, something different, right from the start.)
He'd packed a lot into thirty-odd years. Refugee, carpenter, reformer, rebel. . . convict. He could still hear the thud of the hammer that drove in the spikes. He could still hear his own screams as those spikes pierced him. He'd never thought, down deep in his heart, that it would come to that—which only just went to show how much he knew.
He'd never thought, down deep in his heart, that it would come to this, either. Which, again, just went to show how much he knew.
If he were everything people said he was, would he have let it come to this? He could examine that portion of his—not of his life, no, but of his existence, with the perfect recall so very distant from mortality. He could examine it, and he had, time and again. Try as he would, he couldn't see anything he might have done differently.
And even if he did see something like that, it was much too late to matter now.
 
"Habemus papam!"
When you heard the Latin acclamation, when you knew it was for you. . . Was there any feeling to match that, any in all the world? People said a new Orthodox Patriarch once fell over dead with joy at learning he was chosen. That had never happened on this trunk of the tree that split in 1054, but seeing how it might wasn't hard. A lifetime of hopes, of dreams, of work, of prayer, of patience. . . and then, at last, you had to try to fill the Fisherman's sandals.
They will remember me forever, was the first thought that went through his mind. For a man who, by the nature of his office, had better not have children, it was the only kind of immortality he would ever get. A cardinal could run things behind the scenes for years, could be the greatest power in the oldest continually functioning institution in the world—and, five minutes after he was dead, even the scholars in the Curia would have trouble coming up with his name.
But once you heard "Habemus papam!". . .
He would have to deal with Italians for the rest of his life. He would have to smell garlic for the rest of his life. Part of him had wanted to retire when his friend, his patron, passed at last: to go back north of the Alps, to rusticate.
That was only part of him, though. The rest. . . He had been running things behind the scenes for years. Getting his chance to come out and do it in the open, to be noted for it, to be noticed for it, was sweet. And his fellow cardinals hadn't waited long before they chose him, either. What greater honor was there than the approval of your own? More than anyone else, they understood what this meant. Some of them wanted it, too. Most of them wanted it, no doubt, but most of the ones who did also understood they had no chance of gaining it.
Coming out of the shadows, becoming the public face of the Church, wasn't easy for a man who'd spent so long in the background. But he'd shown what he could do when he was chosen to eulogize his predecessor. He wrote the farewell in his own tongue, then translated it into Italian. That wasn't the churchly lingua franca Latin had been, but still, no one who wasn't fluent in it could reasonably hope to occupy Peter's seat.
If he spoke slowly, if he showed Italian wasn't his native tongue—well, so what? It gave translators around the world the chance to stay up with him. And delivering the eulogy meant people around the world saw him and learned who he was. When the College of Cardinals convened to deliberate, that had to be in the back of some minds.
He wouldn't have a reign to match the one that had gone before, not unless he lived well past the century mark. But Achilles said glory mattered more than length of days. And John XXIII showed you didn't need a long reign to make your mark.
Vatican II cleared away centuries of deadwood from the Church. Even the Latin of the Mass went. Well, there was reason behind that. Who spoke Latin nowadays? This wasn't the Roman Empire any more, even if cardinals' vestments came straight out of Byzantine court regalia.
But change always spawned a cry for more change. Female priests? Married priests? Homosexuality? Contraception? Abortion? When? Ever? The world shouted for all those things. The world, though, was a weather vane, turning now this way, now that, changeable as the breeze. The Church was supposed to stand for what was right. . . whatever that turned out to be.
If changes come, they'll come because of me. If they don't, that will also be because of me, the new Holy Father thought. Which way more than a billion people go depends on me.
Why anyone would want a job like this made him scratch his head. That he wanted it himself, or that most of him did. . . was true, no matter how strange it seemed. So much to decide, to do. So little time.
 
A tavern in the late afternoon. They were all worried. Even the publican was worried; he hadn't looked for such a big crowd so late in the day. They were all eating and drinking and talking. They showed no signs of getting up and leaving. If they kept hanging around, he would have to light the lamps, and olive oil wasn't cheap.
But they kept digging their right hands into the bowl of chickpeas and mashed garlic he'd set out, and eating more bread, and calling for wine. One of them had already drunk himself into quite a state.
Looking back from down here, understanding why was easy. Hindsight was always easy. Foresight? They'd called it prophecy in those days. Had he had the gift? His human memory wasn't sure. But then, his human memory wasn't sure about a lot of things. That was what made trying to trace the different threads twisting through the fabric so eternally fascinating.
He wished he hadn't used that word, even to himself. He kept hoping it wasn't so. He'd been down here a long, long, long time, but not forever. He wouldn't stay down here forever, either. He couldn't.
Could he?
He was so hungry.
The tavern. He'd been looking back at the tavern again. He wasn't hungry then. He'd eaten his fill, and he'd drunk plenty of wine, wine red as blood.
What did wine taste like? He remembered it was sweet, and he remembered it could mount to your head. . . almost the way any food did these days. But the taste? The taste, now, was a memory of a memory of a memory—and thus so blurred, it was no memory at all. He'd lost the taste of wine, just as he'd lost the tastes of bread and chickpeas. Garlic, though, garlic he still knew.
He remembered the sensation of chewing, of reducing the resistive mass in his mouth—whatever it tasted like—to something that easily went down the throat. He almost smiled, there in the darkness. He hadn't needed to worry about that in a while.
Where was he? So easy to let your thoughts wander down here. What else did they have to do? Oh, yes. The tavern. The wine. The feel of the cup in his hands. The smell of the stuff wafting upwards, nearly as intoxicating as. . . But if his thoughts wandered there, they wouldn't come back. He was so hungry.
The tavern, then. The wine. The cup. The last cup. He remembered saying, "And I tell you, I won't drink from the fruit of the vine any more till that day when I drink it anew with you in my father's kingdom."
They'd nodded. He wasn't sure how much attention they paid, or whether they even took him seriously. How long could anybody go without drinking wine? What would you use instead? Water? Milk? You were asking for a flux of the bowels if you did.
But he'd kept that promise. He'd kept it longer than he dreamt he would, longer than he dreamt he could. He was still keeping it now, after all these years.
Soon, though, soon, he would have something else to drink.
 
If you paid attention to the television, you would think he was the first Pope ever installed. His predecessor had had a long reign, so long that none of the reporters remembered the last succession. For them, it was as if nothing that came before this moment really happened. One innocent—an American, of course—even remarked, "The new Pope is named after a previous one."
He was not a mirthful man, but he had to laugh at that. What did the fool think the Roman numeral after his name stood for? He wasn't named after just one previous Pope. He was named after fifteen!
One of these days, he would have to try to figure out what to do about the United Sates. So many people there thought they could stay good Catholics while turning their backs on any teachings they didn't happen to like. If they did that, how were they any different from Protestants? How could he tell them they couldn't do that without turning them into Protestants? Well, he didn't have to decide right away, Deo gratias.
So much had happened, this first day of his new reign. If this wasn't enough to overwhelm a man, nothing ever would be. Pretty soon, he thought, he would get around to actually being Pope. Pretty soon, yes, but not quite yet.
As if to prove as much, a tubby little Italian—not even a priest but a deacon—came up to him and waited to be noticed. The new Pope had seen the fellow around for as long as he could remember. Actually, he didn't really remember seeing him around—the deacon was about as nondescript as any man ever born. But the odor of strong, garlicky sausages always clung to him.
When it became obvious the man wouldn't go away, the Pope sighed a small, discreet sigh. "What is it, Giuseppe?"
"Please to excuse me, Holy Father, but there's one more thing each new Keeper of the Keys has to do," the deacon said.
"Ah?" Now the Pope made a small, interested noise. "I thought I knew all the rituals." He was, in fact, sure he knew all the rituals—or he had been sure, till this moment.
But Deacon Giuseppe shook his head. He seemed most certain, and most self-assured. "No, sir. Only the Popes know—the Popes and the men of the Order of the Pipistrelle."
"The what?" The new Pope had also been sure he was acquainted with all the orders, religious and honorary and both commingled, in Vatican City.
"The Order of the Pipistrelle," Giuseppe repeated patiently. "We are small, and we are quiet, but we are the oldest order in this place. We go. . . back to the very beginning of things, close enough." Pride rang in his voice.
"Is that so?" The Pope carefully held his tone neutral. Any order with a foundation date the least bit uncertain claimed to be much older than anyone outside its ranks would have wanted to believe. Even so, he'd never heard of an order with pretensions like that. Back to the beginning of things? "I suppose you came here with Peter?"
"That's right, your Holiness. We handled his baggage." Deacon Giuseppe spoke altogether without irony. He either believed what he was saying or could have gone on the stage with his acting.
"Did my friend, my predecessor, do. . . whatever this is?" the Pope asked.
"Yes, sir, he did. And all the others before him. If you don't do this, you aren't really the Pope. You don't really understand what being the Pope means."
Freemasonry. We have a freemasonry of our own. Who would have thought that? Freemasonry, of course, wasn't nearly so old as its members claimed, either. But that was—or might be—beside the point. "All right," the Pope said. "This must be complete, whatever it is."
Deacon Giuseppe raised his right hand in what wasn't a formal salute but certainly suggested one. "Grazie, Holy Father. Mille grazie," he said. "I knew you were a. . . thorough man." He nodded, seeming pleased he'd found the right word. And it was the right word; the Pope also nodded, acknowledging its justice.
Deacon Giuseppe took his elbow and steered him down the long nave of St. Peter's, away from the Papal altar and toward the main entrance. Past the haloed statue of St. Peter and the altar of St. Jerome they went, past the Chapel of the Sacrament and, on the Pope's right, the tombs of Innocent VIII and Pius X.
Not far from the main entrance, a red porphyry disk was set into the floor, marking the spot where, in the Old St. Peter's that preceded Bernini's magnificent building, Charlemagne was crowned Roman Emperor. Now, to the Pope's surprise, crimson silk draperies surrounded the disk, discreetly walling it off from view.
Another surprise: "I've never seen these draperies before."
"They belong to the Order," Deacon Giuseppe said, as if that explained everything. To him, it must have. But he had to see it didn't explain everything to his companion, for he added, "We don't use them very often. Will you step through with me?"
The Pope did. Once inside the blood-red billowing silk, he got surprised yet again. "I didn't know that disk came up."
"You weren't supposed to, Holy Father," Deacon Giuseppe said. "You'd think we'd do this over in the Sacred Grotto. It would make more sense, what with the Popes' tombs there—even Peter's, they say. Maybe it was like that years and years ago, but it hasn't been for a long, long time. Here we do it, and here it'll stay. Amen." He crossed himself.
"There's. . . a stairway going down," the Pope said. How many more amazements did the Vatican hold?
"Yes. That's where we're going. You first, Holy Father," Giuseppe said. "Be careful. It's narrow, and there's no bannister."
 
Air. Fresh air. Even through doors closed and locked and warded against him, he sensed it. His nostrils twitched. He knew what fresh air meant, sure as a hungry dog knew a bell meant it was time to salivate. When he was a man, he'd lived out in the fresh air. He'd taken it for granted. He'd lived in it. And, much too soon, he'd died in it.
Crucifixion was a Roman punishment, not a Jewish one. Jews killed even animals as mercifully as they could. When they had to kill men, the sword or the axe got it over with fast. The Romans wanted criminals to suffer, and be seen to suffer. They thought that resulted in fewer criminals. The number of men they crucified made the argument seem dubious, but they didn't care.
As for the suffering. . . They were right about that. The pain was the worst thing he'd ever known. It unmanned him so that he cried out on the cross. Then he swooned, swooned so deeply the watching soldiers and people thought he was dead.
He dimly remembered them taking him down from the cross—pulling out the spikes that nailed him to it was a fresh torment. And one more followed it, for one of the Roman soldiers bit him then, hard enough to tear his flesh open but not hard enough, evidently, to force a sound past his dry throat and parched lips.
How the rest of the Romans laughed! That was the last purely human memory he had, of their mirth at their friend's savagery. When he woke to memory again, he was. . . changed.
No. There was one thing more. They'd called the biter Dacicus. At the time, it didn't mean anything to a man almost dead. But he never forgot it even though it was meaningless, so maybe—probably—the change in him had begun that soon. When he did think about it again, for a while he believed it was only a name.
Then he learned better. Dacicus meant the Dacian, the man from Dacia. Not one more human in ten thousand, these days, could tell you where Dacia lay—had lain. But its borders matched those of what they called Romania these days, or near enough. And people told stories about Romania. . . He had no way to know how many of those stories were true. Some, like sliding under doors, surely weren't, or he would have. Considering what had happened to him, though, he had no reason to doubt others.
And now he smelled fresh air. Soon, very soon. . .
 
"How long has this been here?" the Pope asked. "I never dreamt anything like this lay under St. Peter's!" The stone spiral stairway certainly seemed ancient. Deacon Giuseppe lit it, however, not with a flickering olive-oil lamp but with a large, powerful flashlight that he pulled from one of the large, deep pockets of his black vestments.
"Your Holiness, as far as I know, it's been here since Peter's day," Giuseppe answered seriously. "I told you before: the Order of the Pipistrelle is in charge of what Peter brought in his baggage."
"And that was?" the Pope asked, a trifle impatiently.
"I don't want to talk about it now. You'll see soon enough. But I'm a keeper of the keys, too." Metal jingled as the deacon pulled a key ring from a pocket. The Pope stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Giuseppe obligingly shone the flashlight beam on the keys. They were as ordinary, as modern, as boring, as the flashlight itself. The Pope had hoped for massive, ancient ones, rusty or green with verdigris. No such luck.
At the bottom of the stairway, a short corridor led to a formidable steel door. The Pope's slippers scuffed through the dust of ages. Motes he kicked up danced in the flashlight beam. "Who last came here?" he asked in a low voice.
"Why, your blessed predecessor, your Holiness," Deacon Giuseppe replied. "Oh, and mine, of course." He opened the door with the key, which worked smoothly. As he held it for the Pope, he went on, "This used to be wood—well, naturally. That's what they had in the old days. They replaced it after the last war. Better safe than sorry, you know."
"Safe from what? Sorry because of what?" As the Pope asked the questions, the door swung behind the deacon and him with what sounded like a most definitive and final click. A large and fancy crucifix was mounted on the inner surface. Another such door, seemingly identical, lay a short distance ahead.
"With Peter's baggage, of course," Giuseppe answered.
"Will you stop playing games with me?" The Pope was a proud and touchy man.
"I'm not!" The deacon crossed himself again. "Before God, your Holiness, I'm not!" He seemed at least as touchy, and at least as proud, as the Pope himself. And then, out of the same pocket from which he'd taken the flashlight, he produced a long, phallic chunk of sausage and bit off a good-sized chunk. The odors of pepper and garlic assailed the Pope's nostrils.
And the incongruity assailed his strong sense of fitness even more. He knocked the sausage out of Giuseppe's hand and into the dust. "Stop that!" he cried.
To his amazement, the Italian picked up the sausage, brushed off most of whatever clung to it, and went on eating. The Pope's gorge rose. "Meaning no disrespect, Holy Father," Giuseppe mumbled with his mouth full, "but I need this. It's part of the ritual. God will strike me dead if I lie."
Not, May God strike me dead if I lie. The deacon said, God will strike me dead. The Pope, relentlessly precise, noted the distinction. He pointed to the door ahead. "What is on the other side of that?" he asked, a sudden and startling quaver in his voice.
"An empty chamber," Deacon Giuseppe replied.
"And beyond that? Something, I hope."
"Think on the Last Supper, Holy Father," the deacon answered, which didn't help.
 
He thought of his last supper, which didn't help. Not now, not with his raging hunger. It was too long ago. They were out there. He could hear them out there, talking in that language that wasn't Latin but sounded a little like it. He could see the dancing light under the door. Any light at all stung his eyes, but he didn't mind. And he could smell them. Man's flesh was the most delicious odor in the world, but when he smelled it up close it was always mingled with the other smell, the hateful smell.
His keepers knew their business, all right. Even without garlic, the cross on the farthest door would have held him captive here—had held him captive here. He'd tasted the irony of that, times uncounted.
"This is my blood," he'd said. "This is my flesh." Irony there, too. Oh, yes. Now—soon—he hoped to taste something sweeter than irony.
Where would he have been without Dacicus? Not here—he was sure of that, anyhow. He supposed his body would have stayed in the tomb where they laid it, and his spirit would have soared up to the heavens where it belonged. Did he even have a spirit any more? Or was he all body, all hunger, all appetite? He didn't know. He didn't much care, either. It had been too long.
Dacicus must have been new when he bit him, new or stubborn in believing he remained a man. After being bitten, rolling away the stone was easy. Going about with his friends was easy, too—for a little while. But then the sun began to pain him, and then the hunger began. Taking refuge in the daytime began to feel natural. So did slaking the hunger. . . when he could.
Soon now. Soon!
 
"Why the Last Supper?" the Pope demanded.
"Because we reenact it—in a manner of speaking—down here," Deacon Giu-seppe replied. "This is the mystery of the Order of the Pipistrelle. Even the Orthodox, even the Copts, would be jealous if they knew. They have relics of the Son. We have. . . the Son."
The Pope stared at him. "Our Lord's body lies here?" he whispered hoarsely. "His body? He was not taken up as we preach? He was—a man?" Was that the mystery at—or rather, here below—the heart of the Church? The mystery being that there was no mystery, that since the days of the Roman Empire prelates had lived a lie?
His stern faith stumbled. No, his friend, his predecessor, would never have told him about this. It would have been too cruel.
But the little round sausage-munching deacon shook his head. "It's not so simple, your Holiness. I'll show you."
He had another key on the ring. He used it to unlock the last door, and he shone the flashlight into the chamber beyond.
 
Light! A spear of light! It stabbed into his eyes, stabbed straight through his eyes and into his brain! How long had he gone without? As long as he'd gone without food. But sustenance he cherished, he craved, he yearned for. Light was the pain that accompanied it, the pain he couldn't avoid or evade.
He got used to it, moment by agonizing moment. So long here in the silent dark, he had to remember how to see. Yes, there was the black-robed one, the untouchable, inedible one, the stinker, who carried his light-thrower like a sword. What had happened to torches and oil lamps? Like the last several of his predecessors, this black-robe had one of these unnatural things instead.
Well, I am an unnatural thing myself these days, he thought, and his lips skinned back from his teeth in a smile both wryly amused and hungry, so very hungry.
 
Now the Pope crossed himself, violently. "Who is this?" he gasped. "What. . . is this?"
But even as he gasped, he found himself fearing he knew the answer. The short, scrawny young man impaled on the flashlight beam looked alarmingly like so many Byzantine images of the Second Person of the Trinity: shaggy dark brown hair and beard, long oval face, long nose. The wounds to his hands and feet, and the one in his side, looked fresh, even if they were bloodless. And there was another wound, a small one, on his neck. None of the art showed that one; none of the texts spoke of it. Seeing it made the Pope think of films he'd watched as a boy. And when he did. . .
His hand shaped the sign of the cross once more. It had no effect on the young-looking man who stood there blinking. He hadn't thought it would, not really. "No!" he said. "It cannot be! It must not be!"
He noticed one thing more. Even when Deacon Giuseppe shone the flashlight full in the young-looking man's face, the pupils did not contract. Did not. . . Could not? With each passing second, it seemed more likely.
Deacon Giuseppe's somber nod told him it wasn't just likely—it was true. "Well, Holy Father, now you know," said the Deacon from the Order of the Pipistrelle. "Behold the Son of Man. Behold the Resurrection. Behold the greatest secret of the Church."
"But. . . why? How?" Not even the Pope, as organized and coherent as any man now living, could speak clearly in the presence of—that.
"Once—that—happened to him, he couldn't stand the sun after a while." Deacon Giuseppe told the tale as if it had been told many times before. And so, no doubt, it had. "When Peter came to Rome, he came, too, in the saint's baggage—under the sign of the cross, of course, to make sure nothing. . . untoward happened. He's been here ever since. We keep him. We take care of him."
"Great God!" The Pope tried to make sense of his whirling thoughts. "No wonder you told me to think of the Last Supper." He forced some iron into his spine. A long-dead Feldwebel who'd drilled him during the last round of global madness would have been proud of how well his lessons stuck. "All right. I've seen him. God help me, I have. Take me up to the light again."
"Not quite yet, your Holiness," the deacon replied. "We finish the ritual first."
"Eh?"
"We finish the ritual," Deacon Giuseppe repeated with sad patience. "Seeing him does not suffice. It is his first supper in a very long time, your predecessor being so young when he was chosen. Remember the text: your blood is his wine, your flesh his bread."
He said something else, in a language that wasn't Italian. The Pope, a formidable scholar, recognized it as Aramaic. He even understood it: "Supper's ready!"
 
The last meal had been juicier. That was his first thought. But he wasn't complaining, not after so long. He drank and drank: his own communion with the world of the living. He would have drunk the life right out of him if not for the black-robed one.
"Be careful!" that one urged, still speaking the only language he really knew well. "Remember what happened time before last!"
He remembered. He'd got greedy. He'd drunk too much. The man died not long after coming down here to meet him. Then he'd fed again—twice in such a little while! They didn't let him do anything like that the next time, however much he wanted to. And that one lasted and lasted—lasted so long, he began to fear he'd made the man into one like himself.
He hadn't done that very often. He wondered whether Dacicus intended to do that with him—to him. He never had the chance to ask. Did Dacicus still wander the world, not alive any more but still quick? One of these centuries, if Dacicus did, they might meet again. You never could tell.
When he didn't let go fast enough, the black-robed one breathed full in his face. That horrible, poisonous stink made him back away in a hurry.
He hadn't got enough. It could never be enough, not if he drank the world dry. But it was ever so much better than nothing. Before he fed, he was empty. He couldn't end, barring stake, sunlight, or perhaps a surfeit of garlic, but he could wish he would. He could—and he had.
No more. Fresh vitality flowed through him. He wasn't happy—he didn't think he could be happy—but he felt as lively as a dead thing could.
 
"My God!" the new Pope said, not in Aramaic, not in Latin, not even in Italian. His hand went to the wound on his neck. The bleeding had already stopped. He shuddered. He didn't know what he'd expected when Deacon Giuseppe took him down below St. Peter's, but not this. Never this.
"Are you all right, your Holiness?" Real concern rode the deacon's voice.
"I—think so." And the Pope had to think about it before he answered, too.
"Good." Deacon Giuseppe held out a hand. Automatically, the Pope clasped it, and, in so doing, felt how cold his own flesh had gone. The round little nondescript Italian went on, "Can't let him have too much. We did that not so long ago, and it didn't work out well."
The new Pope understood him altogether too well. Then he touched the wound again, a fresh horror filling him. Yes, he remembered the films too well. "Am I going to turn into. . . one of those?" He pointed toward the central figure of his faith, who was licking blood off his lips with a tongue that seemed longer and more prehensile than a mere man's had any business being.
"We don't think so," Giuseppe said matter-of-factly. "Just to be sure, though, the papal undertaker drives a thin ash spike through the heart after each passing. We don't talk about that to the press. One of the traditions of the Order of the Pipistrelle is that when the sixth ecumenical council anathematized Pope Honorius, back thirteen hundred years ago, it wasn't for his doctrine, but because. . .."
"Is. . . Honorius out there, too? Or under here somewhere?"
"No. He was dealt with a long time ago." Deacon Giuseppe made pounding motions.
"I see." The Pope wondered if he could talk to. . . talk to the Son of God. Or the son of someone, anyhow. Did he have Aramaic enough for that? Or possibly Hebrew? How the Rabbi of Rome would laugh—or cry—if he knew! "Does every Pope do this? Endure this?"
"Every single one," Giuseppe said proudly. "What better way to connect to the beginning of things? Here is the beginning of things. He was risen, you know, Holy Father. How much does why really matter?"
For a lot of the world, why would matter enormously. The Muslims. . . The Protestants. . . The Orthodox. . . His head began to hurt, although the wound didn't. Maybe talking with. . . him wasn't such a good idea after all. How much do I really want to know?
"When we go back up, I have a lot of praying to do," the Pope said. Would all the prayer in the world free him from the feel of teeth in his throat? And what could he tell his confessor? The truth? The priest would think he'd gone mad—or, worse, wouldn't think so and would start the scandal. A lie? But wasn't inadequate confession of sin a sin in and of itself? The headache got worse.
Deacon Giuseppe might have read his thoughts. "You have a dispensation against speaking of this, your Holiness. It dates from the fourth century, and it may be the oldest document in the Vatican Library. It's not like the Donation of Constantine, either—there's no doubt it's genuine."
"Deo gratias!" the Pope said again.
"Shall we go, then?" the deacon asked.
"One moment." The Pope flogged his memory and found enough Aramaic for the question he had to ask: "Are you the Son of God?"
The sharp-toothed mouth twisted in a—reminiscent?—smile. "You say it," came the reply.
Well, he told Pilate the same thing, even if the question was a bit different, the Pope thought as he left the little chamber and Deacon Giuseppe meticulously closed and locked doors behind them. And, when the Pope was on the stairs going back up to the warmth and blessed light of St. Peter's, one more question occurred to him. How many Popes had heard that same answer?
 
How many of them had asked that same question? He'd heard it in Aramaic, in Greek, in Latin, and in the language Latin had turned into. He always said the same thing, and he always said it in Aramaic.
"You say it," he murmured to himself, there alone in the comfortable darkness again. Was he really? How could he know? But if they thought he was, then he was—for them. Wasn't that the only thing that counted?
That Roman had washed his hands of finding absolute truth. He was a brute, but not a stupid brute.
And this new one was old, and likely wouldn't last long. Pretty soon, he would feed again. And if he had to try to answer that question one more time afterwards. . . then he did, that was all.
 
Lifeblood
by Michael A. Burstein
 
Michael A. Burstein is a ten-time finalist for the Hugo Award and the winner of the 1996 John W. Campbell Award for best new writer. His fiction frequently appears in Analog Science Fiction & Fact magazine, and much of his short work was recently collected in I Remember the Future, from Apex Publications. 
 
"Lifeblood" takes the vampire mythos out of its usual Christian context and adds Judaism to the equation. "I've always been interested in the question of how someone who doesn't use the cross as a religious symbol would turn a vampire," Burstein said. "I was interested in the specific question of how a Jewish person might turn a vampire. Could he or she use a cross? Would a Jewish symbol have any sort of power?"
 
Although Burstein originally wrote the story just to play with the concept of Jews vs. vampires, the story ended up being a cautionary tale about the dangers of assimilation. "A lot of debate takes place among the Jewish people, especially American Jews, about assimilating into the overall culture," he said. "Without my realizing it, 'Lifeblood' turned out to display my own biases in the debate."
 
Lincoln Kliman burst into the synagogue, causing the cantor at the front of the room to halt his chanting momentarily. Lincoln panted, catching his breath, and the congregants turned to look at him. He knew his disheveled appearance would not endear him to them, and he noticed one or two of the congregants scowling. 
The cantor resumed his Hebrew chant, and Lincoln took a moment to study the synagogue. It wasn't a synagogue really, just a small room where these particular Jews gathered to pray. There were three rows of folding chairs set up, mostly empty of people, which gave the room an aura of despair, at least for Lincoln. He was used to much more elaborate synagogues, but then again, he hadn't been in one for over fifteen years. 
He counted the number of congregants. Ten men, exactly the minimum number of Jews required for a minyan. Technically, Lincoln's presence made the number eleven.
He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.
"Pardon me," he said, "but—"
The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. "Shush," he said. "Put on a yarmulka."
Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn't done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, "I must speak with the cantor. It's important."
The man glared at him. "You must wait. We're about to do the Alenu; the service will be over soon." His tone was accusatory, as if he was questioning Lincoln's right to show up at the end of a service. 
Lincoln wondered that himself, but felt better when he realized that he still remembered to stand and bow at the appropriate times. He didn't pray, though. The man next to him offered his siddur, but Lincoln shook his head; he couldn't read Hebrew anymore even well enough to pronounce the words, let alone understand them.
True to the man's word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chairs and stacking them up next to the wall. Lincoln muttered, "Excuse me," to his row companion, and darted to the front of the room. The cantor was just removing his tallis, his prayer shawl, when Lincoln approached. He was an old man, slightly stooped, with a pair of round glasses on his face.
Despite the fact that Lincoln had interrupted him before, the cantor smiled as he folded his tallis. "Good shabbes," he said. He spoke with a slight Hungarian accent.
Lincoln repeated the phrase; it echoed oddly in his ears. "Good shabbes, Cantor—?"
"Erno Gross. How may I help you?"
Lincoln's eyes darted around the room. Two congregants were opening boxes of little pastries and setting them out on a table, and speaking in a language Lincoln didn't recognize. Another man hummed, and poured small cups of red wine out of a dark bottle. Lincoln almost shuddered at that, but controlled himself.
"Cantor, where is your rabbi? I need to speak with him."
The cantor sighed. "Unfortunately, we have no rabbi. Rabbi Weinberg, a dear friend of mine, was the last rabbi to serve this congregation. We are a small group, and so can't offer a new rabbi enough of an incentive to join us on a permanent basis. Not that one is needed for a service, you must know."
Lincoln felt embarrassed. "Actually, I didn't know. But if you have no rabbi, then all hope is lost. The others—" He shook his head.
"Perhaps all is not lost," said the cantor. He put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "Perhaps I can help you, Mister—?"
"Kliman, with a long 'i.' Lincoln Kliman."
"Lincoln. An odd name, for a Jew."
Lincoln shrugged. "My father was a historian, studied American history." He was used to explaining it.
"Very well, Mr. Kliman. How can I help you?"
"Not here. Can we go talk alone some—"
Lincoln was interrupted by shouts of "Erno!" The cantor said, "Excuse me a moment; I must make kiddush." He gave Lincoln an odd look. "Unless you would rather do the honors?"
Lincoln felt his face flush. "Uh, no thank you, Cantor, I really would rather not."
The cantor nodded. "At least take a cup of wine."
Lincoln assented, and tried not to look uncomfortable as the cantor began chanting kiddush and the others joined in. The only words he remembered was the last part of the blessing over wine, borai p'ri hagafen, and after the cantor sang it, Lincoln chorused "Amen" with the rest of the congregation.
The wine tasted sweet going down his throat.
Lincoln walked over to a small bookcase afterwards, studying the titles as the cantor circulated among the congregation. One by one, the elderly men put on their coats and left the room, until finally, the cantor came over to Lincoln.
"I believe you wanted to talk with me alone?" he said.
"Yes. Thank you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Kliman?"
Lincoln looked into the cantor's eyes. "There is a boy. My son. He's very sick."
"Sick? Shouldn't you be fetching a doctor, and not a rabbi? Unless. . ." The cantor looked grim.
"It's not that kind of illness, not physical."
"Spiritual?"
Lincoln thought for a moment. "Cantor, may I ask you a question?"
"Certainly."
"Have you studied Kaba—Kaba—Jewish mysticism?"
"Kabala. Why do you ask?"
"You believe in God, right?" Lincoln blurted.
The cantor looked shocked. "An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in God. I devoted my life to helping the Jewish people practice our religion." There was a chastising tone in his voice; Lincoln noticed that he slightly stressed the word "our."
"I didn't mean to question your faith, Cantor," Lincoln said. "I just don't want you to think I'm crazy. I needed to know that you can accept the possibility of something out there that you have no direct evidence for, something—something mystical."
"As a Jew," the cantor said, "I have all the evidence I need for God in seeing the wonders of the Earth each and every day. I rise from bed with praise of Him on my lips and I go to sleep the same way. That does not necessarily mean that I will believe in anything at all, Mr. Kliman."
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that—well, I needed to find a religious man, a religious leader, and I didn't feel comfortable going to a Catholic priest. I thought a rabbi could help as well."
"Help with what, Mr. Kliman? You barge in here, claim to be worried about your son, and then question my faith. What do you need my help with?"
Lincoln looked down at his shoes for a moment and wrung his hands. "I'll have to trust you. My son's been bitten, and I need you to lift the curse."
"Bitten? By a dog? Better to see a doctor."
"No, not a dog. Cantor, my son Joseph has been bitten three times by a vampire. And unless I can find a cure by sundown tonight, he's going to turn into one himself."
 
An hour later, Lincoln and the cantor arrived at Lincoln's apartment building. It would have taken only ten minutes if they had driven, but the cantor would not ride on the Sabbath, and so Lincoln left his car parked at the synagogue. Although it was early spring, the weather was cold and overcast, and Lincoln had to bundle himself up in his thin jacket as best as he could while they walked.
When they got to his building, the cantor also refused to take the elevator up to Lincoln's ninth floor apartment, so they slowly climbed the stairs.
The cantor had been decidedly uncommunicative during the walk over, but as they ascended he began to ask Lincoln about the boy.
"Tell me exactly what it is you think happened."
"You don't believe me, do you?"
The cantor shrugged. "That remains to be seen. But I will tell you this much: I find what you describe hard to believe."
Lincoln sighed. "Well, you've trusted me this far, at least. I appreciate that. The others refused to even listen to me."
"The others?"
Lincoln felt his cheeks redden. "Yours wasn't the first synagogue I went to, Cantor. I tried a Reform temple and a Conservative synagogue first, but neither of the rabbis believed me. They wouldn't help."
The cantor nodded, stopped at a landing to catch his breath. "The boy," he prodded.
"Yes. The boy. Joseph is a pretty good kid, does well in school and all that, but recently has been acting very independent. He's just turned twelve; you know what that means."
The cantor shook his head. "Go on."
"Anyway, it started when Joseph came home very late from school three weeks ago. It's only a few blocks away, and I've let him run around the neighborhood before. I mean, I grew up in New York as well, and I never got in serious trouble. But this time he didn't call."
"Don't you meet him after school to bring him home?"
"I can't. I work."
"What about the boy's mother?"
Lincoln looked away from the cantor. "Gone, these past five years."
"Oh. I am sorry, Mr. Kliman."
"Thanks. It's been hard, raising Joseph on my own. Anyway, he finally did come home that night, well after sundown, and he looked terrible. His color was bad, and he looked sick to his stomach. I thought it was food poisoning, as he smelled like he'd been to a fast food place. You know, that cheeseburger smell."
The cantor glared at him. "No, I do not know."
Lincoln felt embarrassed again. "Right. Well, anyway, he practically passed out when he came in the door, and I rushed him to the doctor."
"Nu? What did he find?"
"Anemia. Loss of blood. That and two tiny pinpricks on Joseph's neck."
"Hm. Did he say anything about that?"
"No. He gave Joseph a shot of something, chastised him and me over drug use, and that was all. Only thing is, he didn't find drugs in Joseph's system.
"Joseph refused to answer my questions about where he was that night, and the next day he acted like he had forgotten the whole thing. His color had returned, though, and he ate a big breakfast, so I let him go to school. The next day he came home on time, and I thought that would be the end of it."
"I presume it was not."
"Well, it was for about a week. Then the same thing happened. He came home late, looking very sick, and he almost passed out before I could get him to bed."
The cantor's eyebrows shot up. "You didn't bring him to the doctor this time?"
Lincoln shook his head. "No, I didn't. I know what you're thinking, but after that first time, I didn't want the doctor to chastise me again."
"And did you send Joseph to school again the next day?"
"No, because it was Saturday. A week ago today."
"That makes two bites."
"The third one was last night. Same pattern, only this time Joseph told me the full story. Apparently the vampire—"
"Yes?" the cantor prodded.
Lincoln whispered. "I'd rather not say. Let's just say that she promised to show Joseph a good time, and being the adolescent that he is. . ."
"I understand. You need not elaborate."
They had reached the door to Lincoln's apartment, and Lincoln let them in. The room was dark. Lincoln turned on the light and then pulled his hand back from the switch. "Sorry. I forgot, no lights on shabbat, right?"
"No using electricity," replied the cantor. "But you can leave lights on from the day before. Where is the boy?"
"This way." Lincoln showed the cantor through the living room to a small bedroom. They entered and closed the door behind them. It was dark inside. A small figure writhed under the blankets of the bed.
"I'm not going to turn the lights on in here. Joseph asked me not to. He says it hurts his eyes."
The boy moaned from under the blankets. "Dad? Is that you?" 
"Yes, Joseph, and I've brought help."
Joseph coughed. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I don't know what got into me. Lily promised so much pleasure, but this is all pain."
"It's okay, son." To the cantor he said, "Please look at him. You'll see that I didn't lie to you. Then maybe you can tell me what to do."
The cantor approached the bed, and slowly removed the sheets. All he could make out was the outline of a shivering child.
"Joseph, I will need light to see you. May I open the shades?"
"Yes," the boy replied weakly, "but please be quick." He moaned again.
The cantor pulled up a window shade, allowing sunlight to fall upon Joseph, who screamed. "It hurts! It hurts! It's too hot! Make it stop!"
"Quiet, Joseph," Lincoln said. "It'll only be for a second." He opened the window, and a breeze drifted in. "There, that will cool you off."
The cantor turned back to Joseph, who quieted down but was clearly in great pain. The boy's face was pale, but his lips were a bright red and there was a reddish tinge in his eyes. The cantor cupped the boy's chin in his hand and pulled open his mouth.
His canine teeth were half an inch long, and glowing brightly in a sickening mixture of orange, red, and white.
He jerked his hand away and the boy's head fell to the pillow. "Dear Lord. You were right."
 
A few minutes later, Lincoln and the cantor sat across from each other in the living room, where they could talk. Joseph had passed out again, and Lincoln had restored the bedroom to darkness for his son's comfort.
"I find it difficult to believe that a Jew could be turned into a vampire, even if he were bitten by one. Possession by a dybbuk, perhaps, but not transformation into a vampire. Vampires are not part of the Jewish Kabala. They are part of Christian lore, not Jewish. They should only be able to affect Christians."
"Perhaps," said Lincoln slowly, "it's because Joseph has not yet been Bar Mitzvahed. He won't turn thirteen until next year."
The cantor looked startled. "That doesn't make sense at all. One does not become Jewish when one is Bar Mitzvah. You are Jewish at birth, and you join the covenant at the age of eight days."
Lincoln's eyes lit up. "Cantor, can't you do it anyway?"
"Do what?"
"Bar Mitzvah the boy? So he'll be an adult? Maybe that's the key to saving him!"
The cantor gave Lincoln a hard stare. "Mr. Kliman, you seem to be under the impression that a Bar Mitzvah ceremony is a magical ritual that will establish the boy as Jewish and render him immune to the vampirism. Bar Mitzvah is not a ceremony; it happens to a Jewish boy at the age of thirteen even if no ceremony occurs. All it means is that the Jew becomes responsible for his own actions in the eyes of God. It is akin to turning eighteen, and becoming an adult in the eyes of the law."
"Cantor Gross." Lincoln leaned forward. He felt tears on the side of his face. "Joseph is my only son, my only family. He is all that I have left. I beg of you, would you please do this? You don't know that it isn't the thing to do. It may save him."
The cantor looked deep into Lincoln's eyes. "There is nothing logical in your request, but I must agree. I don't know that it won't work."
He stood up. "Let me return to the synagogue and get a siddur and chumash."
"Chumash?" Lincoln asked.
"The Torah, Mr. Kliman, with all the passages we recite aloud on shabbat as the year progresses. Surely you know what the Torah is."
"Yes," Lincoln said quietly.
"Very well," the cantor said as he headed towards the door. "I shall return soon, and with God's help, we shall teach the boy to fight the curse of the dead with the ancient songs of life."
 
"Repeat after me, Joseph: Baruch atah. . ."
"Baruch atah," the boy said weakly.
"No," said the cantor. "Sing it. As I am."
"Why do I have to sing? It hurts so much."
"It is a Hasidic custom, Joseph. It will help you concentrate your thoughts to the spiritual task at hand. Listen again. . ."
Lincoln closed the door of the bedroom behind him and sat down to read. The song of the cantor filtered out through the closed door, haunting and lilting. It was a chant that went up and down in pitch, but always seemed to hover around the same notes. Its effects were so hypnotic, that Lincoln forwent his book, closed his eyes, and leaned back to contemplate the past.
He remembered his own Bar Mitzvah ceremony, and the agony that led up to it for almost half a year. Every Wednesday afternoon he had gone to the cantor's office to learn his Torah portion, the verses of the Torah that he would be expected to sing on the Saturday morning of the ceremony. Lincoln's voice was not good, and its cracking had embarrassed him.
Finally, the day arrived. He had stood in front of a large synagogue filled with his parents' friends, and a few of his own. He was called to the Torah, and trembling with nervousness, somehow he had managed to get through it.
The very next week his parents pulled him out of Hebrew School. They had never been particularly religious anyway. Lincoln's Bar Mitzvah had been solely a social thing, and once it was over, they had felt no need for Lincoln to continue his Jewish studies.
Perhaps they had been mistaken.
Lincoln blinked, and realized that he was back in his apartment. He was surprised to see that many hours had passed. The cantor's music had been so powerful that it had felt to Lincoln as if he had actually been sent back in time to relive his own Bar Mitzvah. He strained to hear the final words of song coming from his son's bedroom.
". . .nosain hatora-ah." Was that his son's voice, sounding so strong?
A minute later, the cantor opened the door and approached Lincoln. He had a sad look on his face. "It did not work. I helped the boy sing today's parsha, with the appropriate blessings before and after, but it did not work."
He sat down across from Lincoln and said, "I did not think it would."
"But your music—your singing—so beautiful."
The cantor nodded. "Thank you. But it takes more than beautiful singing to ward off a curse."
He leaned back, removed his glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I still do not understand how this is possible, Mr. Kliman, how a Jew could be turned into a vampire. Nothing in our history, in our legends, would account for it. A Jew simply cannot become a vampire."
Lincoln coughed and cleared his throat. "Ummm."
The cantor peered at him. "What is it, Mr. Kliman? Was there something you did not tell me?"
"Well. . ." Lincoln shifted in his seat. "Cantor, I didn't want to admit this before, but. . ." He trailed off.
"But what? How can I help the boy if you don't tell me what I need to know?"
"Joseph's not Jewish," he blurted out.
There was a moment of silence. "You are Jewish, are you not?" the cantor asked.
"Yes," Lincoln whispered.
"Then his mother—"
"She wasn't."
The cantor sighed. "Oy. You know that by Jewish law, the boy follows the religion of the mother. What was she?"
Lincoln shrugged. "I don't know. Christian of some sort, I guess. We were both agnostic when we met, and I never really bothered to find out, since we never celebrated any holidays anyway."
"You lied to me, Mr. Kliman. You said your son was Jewish."
"I know. I'm sorry. But like I said, I would never have felt comfortable asking a priest or a reverend for help. I may not practice my religion much, Cantor, but I would never—"
The cantor interrupted. "A thought occurs to me. Was the boy ever circumcised?"
"Well, yes. By a doctor in the hospital when—"
The cantor leaped out of his seat, startling Lincoln. "That may be it." He marched towards the bedroom door.
"What may be it?" Lincoln asked.
The cantor stopped short and turned back to Lincoln. "The boy may yet be saved. The vampirism is affecting him because technically, he is not Jewish. And yet, he has your Jewish blood within him. So I shall make the vampire think he is Jewish."
"You mean—"
"I mean that I shall convert him."
Lincoln sputtered. "But—but—I thought conversion was something that took study, and time!"
The cantor gave him an odd look. "You know little of the ways of your own people, and yet you are familiar with the conversion ceremony?"
"Um—it's a long story. My wife wasn't Jewish, but my parents wanted her to convert."
The cantor nodded. "A familiar pattern. The parents who never teach their child about Judaism, and are surprised when he chooses to marry outside the tribe. At any rate, you are correct. A real conversion requires the person converting to study Judaism, and present his or her knowledge to a Bes Din, a court of three rabbis. A man must undergo circumcision, or if he is already circumcised, a tiny drop of blood is sufficient. Then he must be brought to the mikvah, the ritual pool, to be immersed and to make a blessing that declares his decision to become Jewish. And none of this can be done on shabbes.
"But time here is of the essence, Mr. Kliman, as the boy's life is in danger, and God is not without mercy. There is a principle called pikuach nefesh, which states that saving a life overrides all else. Indeed, the Talmud states that he who saves a life, it is as if he has saved the entire world. I will teach the boy the proper blessings, perform the proper rituals. I am sure that once the boy is saved, you will take steps to ensure that his conversion remains valid. Otherwise the vampirism may return."
Lincoln nodded weakly. "If you save Joseph, I will do anything. He's all I have."
The cantor nodded back and opened the door to Joseph's bedroom. Just before entering, he said, "Ironic, isn't it?"
"What?"
"The vampire has been drawing blood to doom the boy. Now I shall draw blood to save him."
 
Lincoln couldn't stand the sight of blood, but he had to know what was going on. So after a few minutes of pacing around the apartment and saying what prayers he could recall, he entered Joseph's bedroom.
The cantor sat on the bed next to Joseph, holding his hand and cradling his head. Joseph was crying, but his color seemed better. Joseph was singing something, along with the cantor, that Lincoln did not recognize. The cantor stopped when he saw Lincoln.
"Good, Joseph, very good," he said to the boy. "Keep singing."
He stood up and walked over to Lincoln. "The boy has a way to go, but I believe it is working. I have him reciting the Psalms."
"How much longer?" Lincoln asked.
"I am not sure. But he is getting better."
"Yes, but—Cantor, have you had a chance to look out the window?"
The cantor turned to the window; it was dark outside. "Shabbes is over. I must recite Havdalah."
"That's not exactly what I meant. Are you sure Joseph will be cured? According to legend, since he's been bitten three times and sundown has now come—"
The cantor smiled. "Fear not, Mr. Kliman. Your son should be fine. I don't think there is anything more you need to—"
A loud bang at the window startled the three of them, and Lincoln looked up. For a moment he thought he saw a bat, but then smoke swirled around it and into the room, blocking his vision.
"Oh God. Oh no oh no oh no. . ."
The smoke curled around the window, and coalesced into a pretty woman with long blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She wore a white V-neck sweater, cut low enough to display her cleavage, and a pair of tight blue jeans. She smelled of sweet perfume. She looked around the room, her red eyes peering out over a pair of dark sunglasses.
Lincoln shouted, "Go away! We haven't invited you in!"
"Ah, but the boy has, and I have come for the boy," said the vampire. She smiled, displaying two prominent canine teeth. "He is mine."
"You can't have him!" shouted Lincoln. He rushed at the vampire, who laughed and turned to smoke just as Lincoln got to where she had been standing. Lincoln lost his balance and almost fell out the window, but the cantor grabbed him.
The vampire re-formed at the bed. "Hello, Joseph." She reached her hand out to Joseph's head; Joseph recoiled, a look of horror upon his face.
"Keep her away!" Joseph shouted.
"Why, Joseph! Is that the way to treat your good friend Lily?" She cupped his chin and stared into his eyes. "Are you ready to come with me? To become one of us?"
The cantor walked over to the bed and spoke directly into the vampire's ear. "You are too late," he intoned. "The boy is lost to you. I have ensured it. Depart."
The vampire laughed. "Do you think I have not dealt with these last minute conversions before? I look into the boy and I see the soul of an agnostic. He has no belief in the God of the Jews. I have encountered many of his type before, brought up unprotected from my magic. He is mine for the taking."
"Why do you want him?" Lincoln asked. "Why can't you leave him alone?"
She grinned at Lincoln, showing her long canine teeth. He shuddered. "Because he is so easy to take, so defenseless. As are so many of your sons." She turned away, bent over the boy, and began to kiss him all over his face.
"Come, Joseph," she crooned. "Forget this religious nonsense. Your dad didn't let it stop him from marrying out of the faith; why should it stop you? Your friends are waiting for you, Joseph. It is time to join us."
Lincoln felt a chill at the back of his neck, and he turned around to look back at the window. There were definitely figures out there, dark silhouettes hovering outside, waiting for Joseph to join them.
Entranced by his fear of what lay outside, he barely heard Joseph's next words. "Yes, Lily, it is time to join our friends." He began to lift himself out of the bed.
"No!" shouted the cantor. "Joseph, don't listen to her! What about all you have gone through today?"
Joseph snarled. "You don't understand! Lily and her friends have shown me so much of the world I never knew. We've gone out and had so much fun, every night! I want to live in her world!"
Lincoln broke out of his trance. "No!" he screamed, and rushed at the vampire. She changed into a bat this time, and Lincoln stopped short. The transformation was too frightening.
"Lincoln!" shouted the cantor. "Grab her!"
Lincoln broke out of his trance of fear and lunged at the bat, which flew away from him to the other side of the room.
"Now!" the cantor shouted, and jumped to Joseph's side. "Joseph, you must sing. You must sing the ancient melodies that will protect you from this evil creature, or you will become like her. You must sing of your faith, your belief, in the Lord.
"Sing, Joseph. Sing with me."
The cantor began to sing, in sepulchral tones. "Mizmor l'David. Repeat it, Joseph!"
"No, I—"
He grabbed Joseph by the shoulders and shook him. "Come to your senses! Her world offers you nothing but corruption! You shall lose everything that defines who you are, Joseph. Your background, your ancestors—you will never see your father again."
"My father," he said weakly. "I love my father."
"Then sing! Mizmor l'David."
"Mizmor l'David," Joseph sang, in a faint imitation of the cantor's voice.
"Louder, Joseph! Listen to the tune. Hashem ro'i lo echsar. Bin'ot Desheh yarbitzaini al me minuchos yinahalayni."
Joseph repeated the song, more strongly this time.
The bat turned back into a woman. "No," she whispered. "Stop!"
Lincoln blinked his eyes in surprise. As Joseph and the cantor sang, the room started to glow with a faint, yellow light. It was a soft, comforting glow, like that of the afternoon sun in a perfect blue sky.
"No," said the vampire, much more weakly. "Stop, Joseph. If I ever meant anything to you, stop." She crouched down and covered her eyes with her arm.
Noticing this, Lincoln realized that the light had distracted him. He turned his attention back to the song, and discovered with surprise that he now understood the Hebrew words. He knew what they meant, translating them instantly as they were sung.
"Gam ki aylech b'gai tsalmavet lo eir'eh ra ki atah imadi," Joseph sang.
Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for You are with me.
"Shivt'cha umishantecha haymah y'nachamuni."
Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.
The glow became brighter, emanating from all around, but as they finished singing it started to gather around the forms of Joseph and the cantor. The light became so bright and hot that Lincoln followed the vampire's lead and shielded his eyes.
Then Lincoln heard the song change. Without any prompting from the cantor, Joseph began singing another psalm. He listened carefully.
"Omar ladoshem machsee umtsudati, elokai evtach bo, kee hu yahtseel'cha meepach yakoosh, midever havot."
I say of the Lord, my refuge and stronghold, my God in whom I trust, that He will save you from the fowler's trap, from the destructive plague.
Lincoln opened his eyes and looked over his arm. Was the light starting to move towards the vampire?
"Lo teera meepachad lailah. . ." You need not fear the terror by night. . .
The light began to coalesce around the vampire. She screamed. "Joseph! No!"
". . .meedever ba'ofel yahaloch." The plague that stalks in the darkness.
The light surrounded her completely, so brightly that her form was completely covered. Her screams became softer, muffled.
Joseph stopped singing. "Begone," the cantor and he said in unison.
Lincoln heard one more loud scream, and the light flared up, forcing him to cover his eyes again. When the light faded from beyond his arm, he looked up again, and noticed three things in succession. First, he saw Joseph, lying on his bed asleep, with all the normal color back in his face. Second, he saw the cantor holding up in front of him a silver Magen David, a Star of David.
Finally, he looked to where the vampire had last stood. All that was left of her was a pile of black dust, and a pair of sunglasses.
 
"Perhaps she was sent to test you, Mr. Kliman, perhaps not. I would not even guess."
It was Monday afternoon, two days later, and Lincoln had stopped by the synagogue to thank the cantor once again.
"At any rate, Cantor, it was your music that saved my son. And your Star of David. I owe you my eternal gratitude."
Cantor Gross shook his head slightly and smiled. "It was not merely my music, Mr. Kliman, but what my music represented, where it came from. As for the star of David, it has absolutely no religious significance at all. But I counted on the vampire not knowing that, and I was right. In short, I think your gratitude is well meant, but misplaced."
"Yes. Well. Cantor, I need to get back home now. I want to check on Joseph."
Lincoln turned to go, but the cantor gripped him by the arm. "Mr. Kliman, remember what we went through a few nights ago. What Joseph went through. Do not take his pseudo-conversion lightly and assume that he is now safe. The vampirism may still return."
"What do you suggest?" Lincoln asked softly.
The cantor looked him directly in the eye. "Start bringing the boy to synagogue. If you are not comfortable with this place, then bring him to one easier for you to accept. But do bring him to one. Let him build up an understanding, an appreciation of his background, his culture, his religion."
Lincoln pulled his arm away. "I'll consider it," he said, and to his surprise realized that he was speaking sincerely.
The cantor nodded. "It would be best for the boy to develop his own beliefs, his own defenses. Remember, Mr. Kliman, religion protects us from the many vampires of the world."
Lincoln nodded and walked out. It was a cold day, and he sneezed when he got outside. He reached into his coat pocket and found the yarmulka that he had been told to wear when he first entered the synagogue. He had forgotten to return it.
He looked back at the synagogue for a moment, then returned the yarmulka to his pocket and walked home. Perhaps he would find use for it soon. 
 
Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu
by Norman Partridge
 
Norman Partridge is a three-time Stoker Award-winner, and author of the novels Saguaro Riptide, The Ten Ounce Siesta, Slippin' into Darkness, Wildest Dreams, and Dark Harvest, which was named one of the 100 Best Books of 2006 by Publishers Weekly. Partridge's short fiction has been collected in three volumes: Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales, Bad Intentions, and The Man with the Barbed-Wire Fists. A new collection is due out in October called Lesser Demons, which features an original vampire novella called "The Iron Dead."
 
This story, which first appeared in the landmark vampire anthology Love in Vein, riffs off Bram Stoker's Dracula, telling the story of Quincey Morris, the American cowboy who, along with Jonathan Harker, kills the count at the climax of the novel. "My version of the tale is different than Stoker's, and it involves Morris's Texas homecoming after the events of Dracula," Partridge said. "It's about demons old and new, on both sides of the pond."
 
ONE
He was done up all mysterious-like—black bandana covering half his face, black duster, black boots and hat. Traveling incognito, just like that coachman who picked up Harker at the Borgo Pass.
Yeah. As a red man might figure it, that was many moons ago. . . at the beginning of the story. Stoker's story, anyway. But that tale of mannered woe and stiff-upper-lip bravado was as crazy as the lies Texans told about Crockett and his Alamo bunch. Harker didn't exist. Leastways, the man in black had never met him.
Nobody argued sweet-told lies, though. Nobody in England, anyhow. Especially with Stoker tying things up so neat and proper, and the count gone to dust and dirt and all.
A grin wrinkled the masked man's face as he remembered the vampire crumbling to nothing finger-snap quick, like the remnants of a cow-flop campfire worried by an unbridled prairie wind. Son of a bitch must have been mucho old. Count Dracula had departed this vale of tears, gone off to suckle the devil's own tit. . .though the man in black doubted that Dracula's scientific turn of mind would allow him to believe in Old Scratch.
You could slice it fine or thick—ultimately, the fate of Count Dracula didn't make no never mind. The man in black was one hell of a long way from Whitby, and his dealings with the count seemed about as unreal as Stoker's scribblings. Leastways, that business was behind him. This was to be his story. And he was just about to slap the ribbons to it.
Slap the ribbons he did, and the horses picked up the pace. The wagon bucked over ruts, creaking like an arthritic dinosaur. Big black box jostling in the back. Tired horses sweating steam up front. West Texas sky a quilt for the night, patched blood red and bruise purple and shot through with blue-pink streaks, same color as the meat that lines a woman's heart.
And black. Thick black squares in that quilt, too. More coming every second. Awful soon, there'd be nothing but those black squares and a round white moon.
Not yet, though. The man could still see the faint outline of a town on the horizon. There was Morrisville, up ahead, waiting in the red and purple and blue-pink shadows.
He wondered what she'd make of Morrisville. It was about as far from the stone manors of Whitby as one could possibly get. No vine-covered mysteries here. No cool salt breezes whispering from the green sea, blanketing emerald lawns, traveling lush garden paths. Not much of anything green at all. No crumbling Carfax estate, either. And no swirling fog to mask the night—everything right out in the open, just as plain as the nose on your face. A West Texas shitsplat. Cattle business, mostly. A match-stick kind of town. Wooden buildings—wind-dried, sun-bleached—that weren't much more than tinder dreading the match.
The people who lived there were the same way.
But it wasn't the town that made this place. He'd told her that. It was that big blanket of a sky, an eternal wave threatening to break over the dead dry husk of the prairie, fading darker with each turn of the wagon wheels—cresting, cresting—ready to smother the earth like a hungry thing.
Not a bigger, blacker night anywhere on the planet. When that nightwave broke, as it did all too rarely—wide and mean and full up with mad lightning and thunder—it was something to see.
He'd promised her that. He'd promised to show her the heart of a wild Texas night, the way she'd shown him the shadows of Whitby.
Not that he always kept his promises. But this one was a promise to himself as much as it was a promise to her.
He'd hidden from it for a while. Sure. In the wake of all that horror, he'd run. But finally he'd returned to Whitby, and to her. He'd returned to keep his promise.
And now he was coming home.
 
"Not another place like it anywhere, Miss Lucy. Damn sure not on this side of the pond, anyhow."
She didn't fake a blush or get all offended by his language, like so many of the English missies did, and he liked that. She played right with him, like she knew the game. Not just knew it, but thrived on it. "No," she said. "Nothing here could possibly resemble your Texas, Quincey P. Morris. Because no one here resembles you."
She took him by the lapels and kissed him like she was so hungry for it, like she couldn't wait another moment, and then he had her in his arms and they were moving together, off the terrace, away from the house and the party and the dry rattle of polite conversation. He was pulling her and she was pushing him and together they were going back, back into the shadows of Whitby, deep into the garden where fog settled like velvet and the air carried what for him would always be the green scent of England.
And then they were alone. The party sounds were a world away. But those sounds were nothing worth hearing—they were dead sounds compared to the music secret lovers could make. Matched with the rustle of her skirts, and the whisper of his fingers on her tender thighs, and the sweet duet of hungry lips, the sounds locked up in the big stone house were as sad and empty as the cries of the damned souls in Dr. Seward's loony bin, and he drew her away from them, and she pushed him away from them, and together they entered another world where strange shadows met, cloaking them like fringed buckskin, like gathered satin.
Buckskin and satin. It wasn't what you'd call a likely match. They'd been dancing around it for months. But now the dancing was over.
"God, I want you," he said.
She didn't say anything. There was really nothing more to say. She gave. She took. And he did the same.
 
He reined in the horses just short of town. Everything was black but that one circle of white hanging high in the sky.
He stepped down from the driver's box and stretched. He drew the night air deep into his lungs. The air was dry and dusty, and there wasn't anything in it that was pleasant.
He was tired. He lay down on top of the big black box in the back of the wagon and thought of her. His fingers traveled wood warped in the leaky cargo hold of a British ship. Splinters fought his callused hands, lost the battle. But he lost the war, because the dissonant rasp of rough fingers on warped wood was nothing like the music the same rough fingers could make when exploring a young woman's thighs.
He didn't give up easy, though. He searched for the memory of the green scent of England, and the music he'd made there, and shadows of satin and buckskin. He searched for the perfume of her hair, and her skin. The ready, eager perfume of her sex.
His hands traveled the wood. Scurrying like scorpions. Damn things just wouldn't give up, and he couldn't help laughing
Raindrops beaded on the box. The nightwave was breaking.
No. Not raindrops at all. Only his tears.
The sky was empty. No clouds. No rain.
No lightning.
But there was lightning in his eyes.
 
TWO
The morning sunlight couldn't penetrate the filthy jailhouse window. That didn't bother the man in black. He had grown to appreciate the darkness.
Sheriff Josh Muller scratched his head. "This is the damnedest thing, Quincey. You got to admit that that Stoker fella made it pretty plain in his book."
Quincey smiled. "You believe the lies that Buntline wrote about Buffalo Bill, too?"
"Shit no, Quince. But, hell, that Stoker is a silver stickpin gentleman. I thought they was different and all—"
"I used to think that. Until I got to know a few of the bastards, that is."
"Well," the sheriff said, "that may be. . .but the way it was, was. . .we all thought that you had been killed by them Transylvanian gypsies, like you was in the book."
"I've been some places, before and since. But we never got to Transylvania. Not one of us. And I ain't even feelin' poorly."
"But in the book—"
"Just how stupid are you, Josh? You believe in vampires, too? Your bowels get loose thinkin' about Count Dracula?" 
"Hell, no, of course not, but—"
"Shit, Josh, I didn't mean that like a question you were supposed to answer." 
"Huh?"
Quincey sighed. "Let's toss this on the fire and watch it sizzle. It's real simple—I ain't dead. I'm back. Things are gonna be just like they used to be. We can start with this here window."
Quincey Morris shot a thumb over his shoulder. The sheriff looked up and saw how dirty the window was. He grabbed a rag from his desk. "I'll take care of it, Quince."
"You don't get it," the man in black said.
"Huh?"
Again, Quincey sighed. "I ain't dead. I'm back. Things are gonna be just like they used to be. And this is Morrisville, right?"
The sheriff squinted at the words painted on the window. He wasn't a particularly fast reader—he'd been four months reading the Stoker book, and that was with his son doing most of the reading out loud. On top of that, he had to read this backwards. He started in, reading right to left: O-W-E-N-S-V-I-L-L—
That was as far as he got. Quincey Morris picked up a chair and sent it flying through the glass, and then the word wasn't there anymore.
Morris stepped through the opening and started toward his wagon. He stopped in the street, which was like a river of sunlight, turned, and squinted at the sheriff. "Get that window fixed," he said. "Before I come back."
"Where are you headed?" The words were out of Josh Muller's mouth before he could stop himself, and he flinched at the grin Morris gave him in return.
"I'm goin' home," was all he said.
 
There in the shadows, none of it mattered, because it was only the two of them. Two creatures from different worlds, but with hearts that were the same.
He'd come one hell of a long way to find this. Searched the world over. He'd known that he'd find it, once he went looking, same as he'd known that it was something he had to go out and find if he wanted to keep on living. His gut told him, Find it, or put a bullet in your brainpan. But he hadn't known it would feel like this. It never had before. But this time, with this person. . .she filled him up like no one else. And he figured it was the same with her. "I want you."
"I think you just had me, Mr. Morris."
Her laughter tickled his neck, warm breath washing a cool patch traced by her tongue, drawn by her lips. Just a bruise, but as sure and real as a brand. He belonged to her. He knew that. But he didn't know—
The words slipped out before he could think them through. "I want you, forever."
That about said it, all right.
He felt her shiver, and then her lips found his.
"Forever is a long time," she said.
They laughed about that, embracing in the shadows.
They actually laughed.
 
She came running out of the big house as soon as he turned in from the road. Seeing her, he didn't feel a thing. That made him happy, because in England, in the midst of everything else, he'd thought about her a lot. He'd wondered just what kind of fuel made her belly burn, and why she wasn't more honest about it, in the way of the count. He wondered why she'd never gone ahead and torn open his jugular, the way a vampire would, because she sure as hell had torn open his heart.
Leonora ran through the blowing dust, her hair a blond tangle, and she was up on the driver's box sitting next to him before he could slow the horses—her arms around him, her lips on his cheek, her little flute of a voice all happy. "Quince! Oh, Quince! It is you! We thought you were dead!"
He shook his head. His eyes were on the big house. It hadn't changed. Not in the looks department, anyway. The occupants. . .now that was a different story.
"Miss me?" he asked, and his tone of voice was not a pleasant thing.
"I'm sorry." She said it like she'd done something silly, like maybe she'd spilled some salt at the supper table or something. "I'm glad you came back." She hugged him. "It'll be different now. We've both had a chance to grow up."
He chuckled at that one, and she got it crossed up. "Oh, Quince, we'll work it out. . .you'll see. We both made mistakes. But it's not too late to straighten them out." She leaned over and kissed his neck, her tongue working between her lips.
Quincey flushed with anger and embarrassment. The bitch. And with the box right there, behind them, in plain view. With him dressed head to toe in black. God, Leonora had the perceptive abilities of a blind armadillo.
He shoved her, hard. She tumbled off the driver's box. Her skirts caught on the seat, tearing as she fell. She landed in the dirt, petticoats bunched up around her waist.
She cussed him real good. But he didn't hear her at all, because suddenly he could see everything so clearly. The golden wedding band on her finger didn't mean much. Not to her it didn't, so it didn't mean anything to him. But the fist-sized bruises on her legs did.
He'd seen enough. He'd drawn a couple conclusions. Hal Owens hadn't changed. Looking at those bruises, that was for damn sure. And it was misery that filled up Leonora's belly—that had to be the answer which had eluded him for so long—and at present it seemed that she was having to make do with her own. Knowing Leonora as he did, he figured that she was probably about ready for a change of menu, and he wanted to make it real clear that he wasn't going to be the next course.
"You bastard!" she yelled. "You're finished around here! You can't just come walkin' back into town, big as you please! This ain't Morrisville, anymore, Quincey! It's Owensville! And Hal's gonna kill you! I'm his wife, dammit! And when I tell him what you did to me, he's gonna flat-out kill you!" She scooped up fistfuls of dirt, threw them at him. "You don't belong here anymore, you bastard!"
She was right about that. He didn't belong here anymore. This wasn't his world. His world was contained in a big black box. That was the only place for him anymore. Anywhere else there was only trouble.
Didn't matter where he went these days, folks were always threatening him.
Threats seemed to be his lot in life.
 
Take Arthur Holmwood, for instance. He was a big one for threats. The morning after the Westenra's party, he'd visited Quincey's lodgings, bringing with him Dr. Seward and a varnished box with brass hinges.
"I demand satisfaction," he'd said, opening the box and setting it on the table.
Quincey stared down at the pistols. Flintlocks. Real pioneer stuff. "Hell, Art," he said, snatching his Peacemaker from beneath his breakfast napkin (Texas habits died hard, after all), "let's you and me get real satisfied, then." 
The doctor went ahead and pissed in the pot. "Look here, Morris. You're in England now. A man does things in a certain way here. A gentleman, I should say."
Quincey was sufficiently cowed to table his Peacemaker. "Maybe I am a fish out of water, like you say, Doc." He examined one of the dueling pistols. "But ain't these a little old-fashioned, even for England? I thought this kind of thing went out with powdered wigs and such."
"A concession to you." Holmwood sneered. "We understand that in your Texas, men duel in the streets quite regularly." 
Quincey grinned. "That's kind of an exaggeration." 
"The fact remains that you compromised Miss Lucy's honor." 
"Who says?"
Seward straightened. "I myself observed the way you thrust yourself upon her last night, on the terrace. And I saw Miss Lucy leave the party in your charge."
"You get a real good look, Doc?" Quincey's eyes narrowed. "You get a right proper fly-on-a-dung-pile close-up view, or are you just telling tales out of school?"
Holmwood's hand darted out. Fisted, but he did his business with a pair of kid gloves knotted in his grip. The gloves slapped the Texan's left cheek and came back for his right, at which time Quincey Morris exploded from his chair and kneed Arthur Holmwood in the balls.
Holmwood was a tall man. He seemed to go down in sections. Doctor Seward trembled as Quincey retrieved his Peacemaker, and he didn't calm down at all when the Texan holstered the weapon.
Quincey didn't see any point to stretching things out, not when there was serious fence-mending to do at the Westenra's house. "I hope you boys will think on this real seriously," he said as he stepped over Holmwood and made for the door.
 
There was a Mexican kid pretending to do some work behind the big house. Quincey gave him a nickel and took him around front.
The kid wasn't happy to see the box. He crossed himself several times. Then he spit on his palms and took one end, delighted to find that the box wasn't as heavy as it looked.
They set it in the parlor. Quincey had to take a chair and catch his breath. After all that time on the ship, and then more time sitting on his butt slapping reins to a pair of sway-backs, he wasn't much good. Of course, this wasn't as tough as when he'd had to haul the box from the Westenra family tomb, all by his lonesome, but it was bad enough. By the time he remembered to thank the kid, the kid had already gone.
Nothing for it, then.
Nothing, but to do it.
The words came back to him, echoing in his head. And it wasn't the voice of some European doctor, like in Stoker's book. It was Seward's voice. "One moment's courage, and it is done."
He shook those words away. He was alone here. The parlor hadn't changed much since the day he'd left to tour the world. The curtains were heavy and dark, and the deep shadows seemed to brush his cheek, one moment buckskin-rough, next moment satin-smooth.
Like the shadows in the Westenra's garden. The shadows where he'd held Lucy to him. Held her so close.
No. He wouldn't think of that. Not now. He had work to do. He couldn't start thinking about how it had been, because then he'd certainly start thinking about how it might be, again. . .
One moment's courage, and it is done.
God, how he wanted to laugh, but he kept it inside.
His big bowie knife was in his hand. He didn't know quite how it had gotten there. He went to work on the lid of the box, first removing brass screws, then removing the hinges.
One moment's courage. . .
The lid crashed heavily to the floor, but he never heard it. His horror was too great for that. After all this time, the stink of garlic burned his nostrils, scorched his lungs. But that wasn't the hell of it.
The hell of it was that she had moved.
Oh, she hadn't moved. He knew that. He could see the stake spearing her poor breast, the breast that he had teased between his own lips. She couldn't move. Not with the stake there.
But the churning Atlantic had rocked a sailing ship, and that had moved her. And a bucking wagon had jostled over the rutted roads of Texas, and that had moved her. And now her poor head, her poor severed head with all that dark and beautiful hair, was trapped between her own sweet legs, nestled between her own tender thighs, just as his head had been.
Once. A long time ago.
Maybe, once again. . .
No. He wouldn't start thinking like that. He stared at her head, knowing he'd have to touch it. There was no sign of decay, no stink of corruption. But he could see the buds of garlic jammed into the open hole of her throat, the ragged gashes and severed muscles, the dangling ropes of flesh.
In his mind's eye, he saw Seward standing stiff and straight with a scalpel in his bloodstained grip.
And that bastard called himself a doctor.
 
There were shadows, of course, in their secret place in the Westenra garden. And he held her, as he had before. But now she never stopped shaking.
"You shouldn't have done it," she said. "Arthur is behaving like one of Seward's lunatics. You must be careful."
"You're the one has to be careful, Lucy," he said.
"No." She laughed. "Mother has disregarded the entire episode. Well, nearly so. She's convinced that I behaved quite recklessly—and this judging from one kiss on the terrace. I had to assure her that we did nothing more than tour the garden in search of a better view of the moon. I said that was the custom in Texas. I'm not certain that she accepted my story, but. . ." She kissed him, very quickly. "I've feigned illness for her benefit, and she believes that I am in the grip of a rare and exotic fever. Seward has convinced her of this, I think. Once I'm pronounced fit, I'm certain that she will forgive your imagined indiscretion."
"Now, Miss Lucy, I don't think that was my imagination," he joked.
She laughed, trembling laughter there in his arms. "Seward has consulted a specialist. A European fellow. He's said to be an expert in fevers of the blood. I'm to see him tomorrow. Hopefully that will put an end to the charade."
He wanted to say it. More than anything, he wanted to say, Forget tomorrow. Let's leave here, tonight. But he didn't say it, because she was trembling so.
"You English," he said. "You do love your charades."
Moonlight washed the shadows. He caught the wild look in her eye. A twin to the fearful look a colt gets just before it's broken.
He kept his silence. He was imagining things. He held her. It was the last time he would hold her, alive.
 
THREE
Quincey pushed through the double-doors of the saloon and was surprised to find it deserted except for a sleepy-eyed man who was polishing the piano.
"You the piano player?" Quincey asked.
"Sure," the fellow said.
Quincey brought out the Peacemaker. "Can you play 'Red River Valley'?"
"S-sure." The man sat down, rolled up his sleeves.
"Not here," Quincey said.
"H-huh?"
"I got a big house on the edge of town."
The man swallowed hard. "You mean Mr. Owens' place?"
"No. I mean my place."
"H-huh?"
"Anyway, you go on up there, and you wait for me." The man rose from the piano stool, both eyes on the Peacemaker, and started toward the double-doors.
"Wait a minute," Quincey said. "You're forgetting something." 
"W-what?"
"Well, I don't have a piano up at the house."
"Y-you don't?"
"Nope."
"Well. . . Hell, mister, what do you want me to do?" 
Quincey cocked the Peacemaker. "I guess you'd better start pushing."
"You mean. . .you want me to take the piano with me?" 
Quincey nodded. "Now, I'll be home in a couple hours or so. You put the piano in the parlor, then you help yourself to a glass of whiskey. But don't linger in the parlor, hear?"
The man nodded. He seemed to catch on pretty quick. Had to be that he was a stranger in these parts.
Quincey moved on. He stopped off at Murphy's laundry, asked a few questions about garlic, received a few expansive answers detailing the amazing restorative power of Mrs. Murphy's soap, after which he set a gunnysack on the counter. He set it down real gentle-like, and the rough material settled over something kind of round, and, seeing this, Mr. Murphy excused himself and made a beeline for the saloon.
Next Quincey stopped off at the church with a bottle of whiskey for the preacher. They chatted a bit, and Quincey had a snort before moving on, just to be sociable.
He had just stepped into the home of Mrs. Danvers, the best seamstress in town, when he glanced through the window and spotted Hal Owens coming his way, two men in tow, one of them being the sheriff.
 
Things were never quite so plain in England. Oh, they were just as dangerous, that was for sure. But, with the exception of lunatics like Arthur Holmwood, the upper-crust of Whitby cloaked their confrontational behavior in a veil of politeness.
Three nights running, Quincey stood alone in the garden, just waiting. Finally, he went to Lucy's mother in the light of day, hat literally in hand. He inquired as to Lucy's health. Mrs. Westenra said that Lucy was convalescing. Three similar visits, and his testiness began to show through.
So did Mrs. Westenra's. She blamed Quincey for her daughter's poor health. He wanted to tell her that the whole thing was melodrama, and for her benefit, too, but he held off.
And that was when the old woman slipped up. Or maybe she didn't, because her voice was as sharp as his bowie, and it was plain that she intended to do damage with it. "Lucy's condition is quite serious," she said. "Her behavior of late, which Dr. Seward has described in no small detail. . . Well, I mean to tell you that Lucy has shown little consideration for her family or her station, and there is no doubt that she is quite ill. We have placed her in hospital, under the care of Dr. Seward and his associates."
Mrs. Westenra had torn away the veil. He would not keep silent now. He made it as plain as plain could be. "You want to break her. You want to pocket her, heart and soul."
She seemed to consider her answer very carefully. Finally, she said, "We only do what we must."
 
"Nobody wants you here," Owens said.
Quincey grinned. Funny that Owens should say that. Those were the same words that had spilled from Seward's lips when Quincey confronted him at the asylum.
Of course, that had happened an ocean away, and Dr. Seward hadn't had a gun. But he'd had a needle, and that had done the job for him right proper.
Quincey stared down at Mrs. Danvers' sewing table. There were needles here, too. Sharp ones, little slivers of metal. But these needles weren't attached to syringes. They weren't like Dr. Seward's needles at all.
Something pressed against Quincey's stomach. He blinked several times, but he couldn't decide who was standing in front of him. Owens, or Seward, or. . .
Someone said, "Get out of town, or I'll make you wish you was dead." There was a sharp click. The pressure on Quincey's belly increased, and a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.
The hand of Count Dracula. A European nobleman and scientist. Stoker had split him into two characters—a kindly doctor and a hellborn monster. But Quincey knew that the truth was somewhere in between.
"Start movin', Quince. Otherwise, I'll spill your innards all over the floor."
The count had only held him. He didn't make idle threats. He didn't use his teeth. He didn't spill a single drop of Quincey's blood. He let Seward do all the work, jabbing Quincey's arm with the needle, day after day, week after week.
That wasn't how the count handled Lucy, though. He had a special way with Dr. Seward's most combative patient, a method that brought real results. He emptied her bit by bit, draining her blood, and with it the strength that so disturbed Lucy's mother and the independent spirit that so troubled unsuccessful suitors such as Seward and Holmwood. The blind fools had been so happy at first, until they realized that they'd been suckered by another outsider, a Transylvanian bastard with good manners who was much worse than anything that had ever come out of Texas.
They'd come to him, of course. The stranger with the wild gleam in his eyes. Told him the whole awful tale. Cut him out of the straitjacket with his own bowie, placed the Peacemaker in one hand. A silver crucifix and an iron stake jammed in a cricketing bag filled the other.
"You make your play, Quince," Owens said. "I'm not goin' to give you forever."
"Forever is a long time."
"You ain't listenin' to me, Quince."
"A moment's courage, and it is done."
Count Dracula, waiting for him in the ruins of the chapel at Carfax. His fangs gleaming in the dark. . .fangs that could take everything. . .
The pistol bucked against Quincey's belly. The slug ripped straight through him, shattered the window behind. Blood spilled out of him, running down his leg. Lucy's blood on the count's lips, spilling from her neck as he took and took and took some more. Quincey could see it from the depths of Seward's hell, he could see the garden and the shadows and their love flowing in Lucy's blood. Her strength, her dreams, her spirit. . .
"This is my town," Owens said, his hand still heavy on Quincey's shoulder. "I took it, and I mean to keep it."
Quincey opened his mouth. A gout of blood bubbled over his lips. He couldn't find words. Only blood, rushing away, running down his leg, spilling over his lips. It seemed his blood was everywhere, rushing wild, like once-still waters escaping the rubble of a collapsed dam.
He sagged against Owens. The big man laughed.
And then the big man screamed.
Quincey's teeth were at Owens' neck. He ripped through flesh, tore muscle and artery. Blood filled his mouth, and the Peacemaker thundered again and again in his hand, and then Owens was nothing but a leaking mess there in his arms, a husk of a man puddling red, washing away to nothing so fast, spurting red rich blood one second, then stagnant-pool dead the next.
Quincey's gun was empty. He fumbled for his bowie, arming himself against Owens' compadres.
There was no need.
Mrs. Danvers stood over them, a smoking shotgun in her hands.
Quincey released Owens' corpse. Watched it drop to the floor. 
"Let me get a look at you," Mrs. Danvers said. 
"There ain't no time for that," he said.
 
Dracula chuckled. "I can't believe it is you they sent. The American cowboy. The romantic."
Quincey studied the count's amused grin. Unnatural canines gleamed in the moonlight. In the ruined wasteland of Carfax, Dracula seemed strangely alive.
"Make your play," Quincey offered.
Icy laughter rode the shadows. "There is no need for such melodrama, Mr. Morris. I only wanted the blood. Nothing else. And I have taken that." 
"That ain't what Seward says." Quincey squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. "He claims you're after Miss Lucy's soul."
Again, the laughter. "I am a man of science, Mr. Morris. I accept my condition, and my biological need. Disease, and the transmission of disease, make for interesting study. I am more skeptical concerning the mythology of my kind. Fairy stories bore me. Certainly, powers exist which I cannot explain. But I cannot explain the moon and the stars, yet I know that these things exist because I see them in the night sky. It is the same with my special abilities—they exist, I use them, hence I believe in them. As for the human soul, I cannot see any evidence of such a thing. What I cannot see, I refuse to believe."
But Quincey could see. He could see Dracula, clearer every second. The narrow outline of his jaw. The eyes burning beneath his heavy brow. The long, thin line of his lips hiding jaws that could gape so wide.
"You don't want her," Quincey said. "That's what you're saying."
"I only want a full belly, Mr. Morris. That is the way of it." He stepped forward, his eyes like coals. "I only take the blood. Your kind is different. You want everything. The flesh, the heart, the. . .soul, which of course has a certain tangibility fueled by your belief. You take it all. In comparison, I demand very little—"
"We take. But we give, too."
"That is what your kind would have me believe. I have seen little evidence that this is the truth." Red eyes swam in the darkness. "Think about it, Mr. Morris. They have sent you here to kill me. They have told you how evil I am. But who are they—these men who brought me to your Miss Lucy? What do they want?" He did not blink; he only advanced. "Think on it, Mr. Morris. Examine the needs of these men, Seward and Holmwood. Look into your own heart. Examine your needs."
And now Quincey smiled. "Maybe I ain't as smart as you, Count." He stepped forward. "Maybe you could take a look for me. . .let me know just what you see."
Their eyes met.
The vampire stumbled backward. He had looked into Quincey Morris' eyes. Seen a pair of empty green wells. Bottomless green pits. Something was alive there, undying, something that had known pain and hurt, and, very briefly, ecstasy.
Very suddenly, the vampire realized that he had never known real hunger at all.
The vampire tried to steady himself, but his voice trembled. "What I can see. . .I believe."
Quincey Morris did not blink.
He took the stake from Seward's bag.
"I want you to know that this ain't something I take lightly," he said.
 
FOUR
He'd drawn a sash around his belly, but it hadn't done much good. His jeans were stiff with blood, and his left boot seemed to be swimming with the stuff. That was his guess, anyway—there wasn't much more than a tingle of feeling in his left foot, and he wasn't going to stoop low and investigate.
Seeing himself in the mirror was bad enough. His face was so white. Almost like the count's.
Almost like her face, in death.
Mrs. Danvers stepped away from the coffin, tucking a pair of scissors into a carpet bag. "I did the best I could," she said.
"I'm much obliged, ma'am." Quincey leaned against the lip of the box, numb fingers brushing the yellow ribbon that circled Lucy's neck.
"You can't see them stitches at all," the whiskey-breathed preacher said, and the seamstress cut him off with a glance.
"You did a fine job, Mrs. Danvers." Quincey tried to smile. "You can go on home now."
"If you don't mind, I think I'd like to stay." 
"That'll be fine," Quincey said.
He turned to the preacher, but he didn't look at him. Instead, he stared through the parlor window. Outside, the sky was going to blood red and bruise purple.
He reached into the box. His fingers were cold, clumsy. Lucy's delicate hand almost seemed warm by comparison.
Quincey nodded at the preacher. "Let's get on with it."
The preacher started in. Quincey had heard the words many times. He'd seen people stand up to them, and he'd seen people totter under their weight, and he'd seen plenty who didn't care a damn for them at all.
But this time it was him hearing those words. Him answering them. And when the preacher got to the part about taking. . .do you take this woman. . .Quincey said, "Right now I just want to give."
That's what the count couldn't understand, him with all the emotion of a tick. Seward and Holmwood, even Lucy's mother, they weren't much better. But Quincey understood. Now more than ever. He held tight to Lucy's hand.
"If you've a mind to, you can go ahead and kiss her now," the preacher said.
Quincey bent low. His lips brushed hers, ever so gently. He caught a faint whiff of Mrs. Murphy's soap, no trace of garlic at all.
With some effort, he straightened. It seemed some time had passed, because the preacher was gone, and the evening sky was veined with blue-pink streaks.
The piano player just sat there, his eyes closed tight, his hands fisted in his lap. "You can play it now," Quincey said, and the man got right to it, fingers light and shaky on the keys, voice no more than a whisper:
 
"Come and sit by my side if you love me, 
Do not hasten to bid me adieu, 
But remember the Red River Valley, 
And the cowboy who loved you so true."
 
Quincey listened to the words, holding Lucy's hand, watching the night. The sky was going black now, blacker every second. There was no blood left in it at all.
Just like you, you damn fool, he thought.
He pulled his bowie from its sheath. Seward's words rang in his ears: "One moment's courage, and it is done."
But Seward hadn't been talking to Quincey when he'd said those words. Those words were for Holmwood. And Quincey had heard them, but he'd been about ten steps short of doing something about them. If he hadn't taken the time to discuss philosophy with Count Dracula, that might have been different. As it was, Holmwood had had plenty of time to use the stake, while Seward had done his business with a scalpel.
For too many moments, Quincey had watched them, too stunned to move. But when he did move, there was no stopping him.
He used the bowie, and he left Whitby that night.
He ran out. He wasn't proud of that. And all the time he was running, he'd thought, So much blood, all spilled for no good reason. Dracula, with the needs of a tick. Holmwood and Seward, who wanted to be masters or nothing at all.
He ran out. Sure. But he came back. Because he knew that there was more to the blood, more than just the taking.
One moment's courage. . .
Quincey stared down at the stake jammed through his beloved's heart, the cold shaft spearing the blue-pink muscle that had thundered at the touch of his fingers. The bowie shook in his hand. The piano man sang:
 
"There never could be such a longing, 
In the heart of a poor cowboy's breast, 
As dwells in this heart you are breaking, 
While I wait in my home in the West."
 
Outside, the sky was black. Every square in the quilt. No moon tonight.
Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows.
Quincey put the bowie to his neck. Lightning flashed, and white spiderwebs of brightness danced on Lucy's flesh. The shadows receded for the briefest moment, then flooded the parlor once more, and Quincey was lost in them. Lost in shadows he'd brought home from Whitby.
One moment's courage. . .
He sliced his neck, praying that there was some red left in him. A thin line of blood welled from the wound, overflowing the spot where Lucy had branded him with eager kisses.
He sagged against the box. Pressed his neck to her lips. 
He dropped the bowie. His hand closed around the stake. 
One moment's courage. . .
He tore the wooden shaft from her heart, and waited.
Minutes passed. He closed his eyes. Buried his face in her dark hair. His hands were scorpions, scurrying everywhere, dancing to the music of her tender thighs.
Her breast did not rise, did not fall. She did not breathe.
She would never breathe again.
But her lips parted. Her fangs gleamed. And she drank. 
Together, they welcomed the night.
 
This Is Now
by Michael Marshall Smith
 
Michael Marshall Smith is the author of several novels, including Only Forward, which won the Philip K. Dick Award and the British Fantasy Award, and The Servants, which was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award. He also publishes under the name Michael Marshall; his most recent novels under that pen name are Bad Things and The Intruders, the latter of which is being adapted into a miniseries to air on the BBC. His short fiction has been collected in three volumes, most recently in More Tomorrow & Other Stories.
 
This story, which first appeared in the BBC's Vampire Cult Magazine, tells the story of a small group of friends, as they recall a formative event in their lives. It explores how big a gap there is between then and now, and all the things that can fall through that gap.
 
"Okay," Henry said. "So now we're here."
He was using his "So entertain me" voice, and he was cold but trying not to show it. Pete and I were cold too. We were trying not to show it either. Being cold is not manly. You look at your condensing breath as if it's a surprise to you, what with it being so balmy and all. Even when you've known each other for over thirty years, you do these things. Why? I don't know. 
"Yep," I agreed. It wasn't my job to entertain Henry. 
Pete walked up to the thick wire fence. He tilted his head back until he was looking at the top, four feet above his head. A ten-foot wall of tautly criss-crossed wire. 
"Who's going to test it?" 
"Well, hey, you're closest." Like the others, I was speaking quietly, though we were half a mile from the nearest road or house or person. 
This side of the fence, anyhow. 
"I did it last time."
"Long while ago."
"Still," he said, stepping back. "Your turn, Dave."
I held up my hands. "These are my tools, man."
Henry sniggered. "You're a tool, that's for sure." 
Pete laughed too, I had to smile, and for a moment it was like it was the last time. Hey presto: time travel. You don't need a machine, it turns out, you just need a friend to laugh like a teenager. Chronology shivers. 
And so—quickly, before I could think about it—I flipped my hand out and touched the fence. My whole arm jolted, as if every bone in it had been tapped with a hammer. Tapped hard, and in different directions.
"Christ," I hissed, spinning away, shaking my hand like I was trying to rid myself of it. "Goddamn Christ that hurts."
Henry nodded sagely. "This stretch got current, then. Also, didn't we use a stick last time?" 
"Always been the brains of the operation, right, Hank?"
Pete snickered again. I was annoyed, but the shock had pushed me over a line. It had brought it all back much more strongly. 
I nodded up the line of the fence as it marched off into the trees. "Further," I said, and pointed at Henry. "And you're testing the next section, bro."
It was one of those things you do, one of those stupid, drunken things, that afterwards seem hard to understand. You ask yourself why, confused and sad, like the ghost of a man killed though a careless step in front of a car. 
We could have not gone to The Junction, for a start, though it was a Thursday and the Thursday session is a winter tradition with us, a way of making January and February seem less like a living death. The two young guys could have given up the pool table, though, instead of bogarting it all night (by being better than us, and efficiently dismissing each of our challenges in turn): in which case we would have played a dozen slow frames and gone home around eleven, like usual—ready to get up the next morning feeling no more than a little fusty. This time of year it hardly matters if Henry yawns over the gas pump, or Pete zones out behind the counter in the Massaqua Mart, and I can sling a morning's home fries and sausage in my sleep. We've been doing these things so long that we barely have to be present. Maybe that's the point. Maybe that's the real problem right there. 
By quarter after eight, proven pool-fools, we were sitting at the corner table. We always have, since back when it was Bill's place and beer tasted strange and metallic in our mouths. We were talking back and forth, laughing once in a while, none of us bothered about the pool but yes, a little bit bothered all the same. It wasn't some macho thing. I don't care about being beat by some guys who are passing through. I don't much care about being beat by anyone. Henry and Pete and I tend to win games about equally. If it weren't that way then probably we wouldn't play together. It's never been about winning. It was more that I just wished I was better. Had assumed I'd be better, one day, like I expected to wind up being something other than a short order cook. Don't get me wrong: you eat one of my breakfasts, you're set up for the day and tomorrow you'll come back and order the same thing. It just wasn't what I had in mind when I was young. Not sure what I did have in mind—I used to think maybe I'd go over the mountains to Seattle, be in a band or something, but the thought got vague after that—but it certainly wasn't being first in command at a hot griddle. None of ours are bad jobs, but they're the kind held by people in the background. People who are getting by. People who don't play pool that well. 
It struck me, as I watched Pete banter with Nicole when she brought round number four or five, that I was still smoking. I had been assuming I would have given it up by now. Tried, once or twice. Didn't take. Would it happen? Probably not. Would it give me cancer sooner or later? Most likely. Better try again, then. At some point. 
Henry watched Nicole's ass as it accompanied her back to the counter. "Cute as hell," he said, approvingly, not for the first time. 
Pete and I grunted, in the way we would if he'd observed that the moon was smaller than the Earth. Henry's observation was both true and something that had little bearing on our lives. Nicole was twenty-three. We could give her fifteen years each. That's not the kind of gift that cute girls covet.
So we sat and talked, and smoked, and didn't listen to the sound of balls being efficiently slotted into pockets by people who weren't us. 
You walk for long enough in the woods at night, you start getting a little jittery. Forests have a way of making civilisation seem less inevitable. In sunlight they may make you want to build yourself a cabin and get back to nature, get that whole Davy Crockett vibe going on. In the dark they remind you what a good thing chairs and hot meals and electric light really are, and you thank God you live now instead of then. 
Every once in a while we'd test the fence—using a stick now. The current was on each time we tried. So we kept walking. We followed the line of the wire as it cut up the rise, then down into a shallow streambed, then up again steeply on the other side.
If you were seeing the fence for the first time, you'd likely wonder at the straightness of it, the way in which the concrete posts had been planted at ten-yard intervals, deep into the rock. You might ask yourself if national forests normally went to these lengths, and you'd soon remember they didn't, that for the most part a cheerful little wooden sign by the side of the road was all that was judged to be required. If you kept on walking deeper, intrigued, sooner or later you'd see a notice attached to one of the posts. The notices are small, designed to convey authority rather than draw attention. 
"No Trespassing," they say. "Military Land."
That could strike you as a little strange, perhaps, because you might have believed that most of the marked-off areas were down over in the moonscapes of Nevada, rather than up here at the quiet northeast corner of Washington State. But who knows what the military's up to, right? Apart from protecting us from foreign aggressors, of course, and The Terrorist Threat, and if that means they need a few acres to themselves then that's actually kind of comforting. The army moves in mysterious ways, our freedoms to defend. Good for them, you'd think, and you'd likely turn and head back for town, having had enough of tramping through snow for the day. In the evening you'd come into Ruby's and eat hearty, some of my wings or a burger or the brisket—which, though I say so myself, isn't half bad. Next morning you'd drive back south. 
I remember when the fences went up. Thirty years ago. 1985. Our parents knew what they were for. Hell, we were only eight and we knew.
There was a danger, and it was getting worse: the last decade had proved that. Four people had disappeared in the last year alone. One came back and was sick for a week, in an odd and dangerous kind of way, and then died. The others were never seen again. My aunt Jean was one of those. 
But there's a danger to going in abandoned mine shafts, too, or talking to strangers, or juggling knives when you're drunk. So. . . you don't do it. You walk the town in pairs at night, and you observe the unspoken curfew. You kept an eye out for men who didn't blink, for slim women whose strides were too short—or so people said. There was never that much passing trade in town. Massaqua isn't on the way to anywhere. Massaqua is a single guy who keeps his yard tidy and doesn't bother anyone. The tourist season up here is short and not exactly intense. There is no ski lodge or health spa and the motel frankly isn't up to much. The fence seemed to keep the danger contained and out of town, and within a few years its existence was part of life. It wasn't like it was right there on the doorstep. No big-city reporter heard of it and came up looking to make a sensation—or, if they did, they didn't make it all the way here.
Life went on. Years passed. Sometimes small signs work better than great big ones.
As we climbed deeper into the forest, Pete was in front, I was more-or-less beside him, and Henry lagged a few steps behind. It had been that way the last time, too, but then we hadn't had hip flasks to keep us fuelled in our intentions. We hadn't needed to stop to catch our breath so often either. 
"We just going to keep on walking?"
It was Henry asked the question, of course. Pete and I didn't even answer. 
At quarter after ten we were still in the bar. The two guys remained at the pool table. When one leaned down, the other stood silently, judiciously sipping from a bottled beer. They weren't talking to each other, just slotting the balls away. Looked like they're having a whale of a time.
We were drinking steadily, and the conversation was often two-way while one or other of us trekked back and forth to empty our bladder. By then we were resigned to sitting around. We were a little too drunk to start playing pool, even when the table became free. There was no news to catch up on. We felt aimless. We already knew that Pete was ten years married, that they had no children and it was likely going to stay that way. His wife is fine, and still pleasant to be with, though her collection of dolls is getting exponentially bigger. We knew that Henry was married once too, had a little boy, and that though the kid and his mother now lived forty miles away, relations between them remained cordial. Neither Pete nor I are much surprised that he has achieved this. Henry can be a royal pain in the ass at times, but he wouldn't still be our friend if that's all he was. 
"Same again, boys? You're thirsty tonight."
It was Pete's turn in the gents so it was Henry and I who looked up to see Nicole smiling down at us, thumb hovering over the REPEAT button on her pad. Deprived of Pete's easy manner (partly genetic, also honed over years of chatting while totting and bagging groceries), our response was cluttered and vague.
Quick nods and smiles, I said thanks and Henry got in a "Hell, yes!" that came out a little loud. 
Nicole winked at me and went away again, as she has done many times over the last three years. As she got to the bar I saw one of the pool-players looking at her, and felt a strange twist of something in my stomach. It wasn't because they were strangers, or because I suspected they might be something else, something that shouldn't be here.
They were just younger guys, that's all. 
Of course they're going to look at her. She's probably going to want them to.
I lit another cigarette and wondered why I still didn't really know how to deal with women. They've always seemed so different to me. So confident, so powerful, so in themselves. Kind of scary, even. Most teenage boys feel that way, I guess, but I had assumed age would help. That being older might make a difference. Apparently not. The opposite, if anything. "Cute just don't really cover it," Henry said, again not for the first time. "Going to have to come up with a whole new word. Supercute, how's that. Hyperhot. Ultra—"
How about just beautiful?
For a horrible moment I thought I'd said this out loud. I guess in a way I did, because what pronouncements are louder than the ones you make in your own head? 
Pete returned at the same time as the new beers arrived, and with him around it was easier to come across like grown-ups. He came back looking thoughtful, too. 
He waited until the three of us were alone again, and then he reached across and took one of my Marlboro: like he used to, back in the day, when he couldn't afford his own. He didn't seem to be aware he'd done it. He looked pretty drunk, in fact, and I realised that I was too. Henry is generally at least a little drunk.
Pete lit the cigarette, took a long mouthful of beer, and then he said:
"You remember that time we went over the fence?"
The stick touched, and nothing happened. 
I did it again. Same result. We stopped walking. My legs ached and I was glad for the break. Pete hesitated a beat, then reached out and brushed the thick black wire with his hand. When we were kids he might have pretended it was charged, and jiggered back and forth, eyes rolling and tongue sticking out. 
He didn't now. He just curled his fingers around it, gave it a light tug.
"Power's down," he said, quietly. 
Henry and I stepped up close. Even with Pete standing there grasping it, you still had to gird yourself to do the same. 
Then all three of us were holding the fence, holding it with both hands, looking in.
That close up, the wire fuzzed out of focus and it was almost as if it wasn't there. You just saw the forest beyond it: moonlit trunks, snow; you heard the quietness. If you stood on the other side and looked out, the view would be exactly the same. With a fence that long, it could be difficult to tell which side was in, which was out. 
This, too, was what had happened the previous time, when we were fifteen. We'd heard that sometimes a section went down, and so we went looking. With animals, snow, the random impacts of falling branches and a wind that could blow hard and cold at most times of year, once in a while a cable stopped supplying the juice to one ten-yard stretch. The power was never down for more than a day. There was a computer that kept track, and—somewhere, nobody knew where—a small station from which a couple of military engineers could come to repair the outage. It had happened back then. It had happened now.
We stood, this silent row of older men, and remembered what had happened then.
Pete had gone up first. He shuffled along to one of the concrete posts, so the wire wouldn't bag out, and started pulling himself up. As soon as his feet left the ground I didn't want to be left behind, so I went to the other post and went up just as quickly. 
We reached the top at around the same time. Soon as we started down the other side—lowering ourselves at first, then just dropping, Henry started his own climb. 
We all landed silently in the snow, with bent knees. 
We were on the other side, and we stood very still. Far as we knew, no one had ever done this before. 
To some people, this might have been enough. 
Not to three boys. 
Moving very quietly, hearts beating hard—just from the exertion, none of us were scared, not exactly, not enough to admit it anyway—we moved away from the fence. After about twenty yards I stopped and looked back.
"You chickening out?"
"No, Henry," I said. His voice had been quiet and shaky. I took pains that mine sound firm. "Memorising. We want to be able to find that dead section again."
He'd nodded. "Good thinking, smart boy."
Pete looked back with us. Stand of three trees close together there. Unusually big tree over on the right. Kind of a semi-clearing, on a crest. Shouldn't be hard to find. 
We glanced at each other, judged it logged, then turned and headed away, into a place no one had been for nearly ten years. 
The forest floor led away gently. There was just enough moonlight to show the ground panning down towards a kind of high valley lined with thick trees. 
As we walked, bent over a little with unconscious caution, part of me was already relishing how we'd remember this in the future, leaping over the event into retrospection. Not that we'd talk about it, outside the three of us. It was the kind of thing which might attract attention to the town, including maybe attention from this side of the fence.
There was one person I thought I might mention it to, though. Her name was Lauren and she was very cute, the kind of beautiful that doesn't have to open its mouth to call your name from across the street. I had talked to her a couple times, finding bravery I didn't know I possessed. It was she who had talked about Seattle, said she'd like to go hang out there someday. That sounded good to me, good and exciting and strange. What I didn't know, that night in the forest, was that she would do this, and I would not, and that she would leave without us ever having kissed.
I just assumed. . . I assumed a lot back then.
After a couple of hundred yards we stopped, huddled together, shared one of my cigarettes. Our hearts were beating heavily, even though we'd been coming downhill. The forest is hard work whatever direction it slopes. But it wasn't just that. It felt a little colder here. There was also something about the light. It seemed to hold more shadows. You found your eyes flicking from side to side, checking things out, wanting to be reassured, but not being sure that you had been after all. 
I bent down to put the cigarette out in the snow. It was extinguished in a hiss that seemed very loud. 
We continued in the direction we'd been heading. We walked maybe another five, six hundred yards. 
It was Henry who stopped.
Keyed up as we were, Pete and I stopped immediately too. Henry was leaning forward a little, squinting ahead.
"What?"
He pointed. Down at the bottom of the rocky valley was a shape. A big shape. 
 
After a moment I could make out it was a building. Two wooden storeys high, and slanting. You saw that kind of thing, sometimes. The sagging remnant of some pioneer's attempt to claim an area of this wilderness and pretend it could be a home. 
Pete nudged me and pointed in a slightly different direction. There was the remnants of another house further down. A little fancier, with a fallen-down porch. 
And thirty yards further, another: smaller, with a false front.
"Cool," Henry said, and briefly I admired him. 
We sidled now, a lot more slowly and heading along the rise instead of down it. Ruined houses look real interesting during the day. At night they feel different, especially when lost high up in the forest. Trees grow too close to them, pressing in. The lack of a road, long overgrown, can make the houses look like they were never built but instead made their own way to this forgotten place, in which you have now disturbed them; they sit at angles which do not seem quite right. 
I was beginning to wonder if maybe we'd done enough, come far enough, and I doubt I was the only one. 
Then we saw the light.
After Pete asked his question in the bar, there was silence for a moment. Of course we remembered that night. It wasn't something you'd forget. It was a dumb question unless you were really asking something else, and we both knew Pete wasn't dumb. 
Behind us, on the other side of the room, came the quiet, reproachful sound of pool balls hitting each other, and then one of them going down a pocket. 
We could hear each other thinking. Thinking it was a cold evening, and there was thick snow on the ground, as there had been on that other night. That the rest of the town had pretty much gone to bed. That we could get in Henry's truck and be at the head of a hiking trail in twenty minutes, even driving drunkard slow. 
I didn't hear anyone thinking a reason, though. I didn't hear anyone think why we might do such a thing, or what might happen. 
By the time Pete had finished his cigarette our glasses were empty. We put on our coats and left and crunched across the lot to the truck. 
 
Back then, on that long-ago night, suddenly my heart hadn't seemed to be beating at all. When we saw the light in the second house, a faint and curdled glow in one of the downstairs windows, my whole body suddenly felt light and insubstantial. 
One of us tried to speak. It came out like a dry click. I realised there was a light in the other house too, faint and golden. Had I missed it before, or had it just come on?
I took a step backwards. The forest was silent but for the sound of my friends breathing. "Oh, no," Pete said. He started moving backwards, stumbling. Then I saw it too. 
A figure, standing in front of the first house. 
It was tall and slim, like a rake's shadow. It was a hundred yards away but still it seemed as though you could make out an oval shape on its shoulders, the colour of milk diluted with water. It was looking in our direction.
Then another was standing near the other house. 
No, two. 
Henry moaned softly, we three boys turned as one, and I have never run like that before or since. 
The first ten yards were fast but then the slope cut in and our feet slipped, and we were down on hands half the time, scrabbling and pulling—every muscle working together in a headlong attempt to be somewhere else. 
I heard a crash behind and flicked my head to see Pete had gone down hard, banging his knee, falling on his side. 
Henry kept on going but I made myself turn around and grab Pete's hand, not really helping but just pulling, trying to yank him back to his feet or at least away. 
Over his shoulder I glimpsed the valley below and I saw the figures were down at the bottom of the rise, speeding our way in jerky blurred-black movements, like half-seen spiders darting across an icy window pane. 
Pete's face jerked up and I saw there what I felt in myself, and it was not a cold fear but a hot one, a red-hot meltdown as if you were going to rattle and break apart. 
Then he was on his feet again, moving past me, and I followed on after him towards the disappearing shape of Henry's back. It seemed so much further than we'd walked. It was uphill and the trees no longer formed a path and even the wind seemed to be pushing us back. We caught up with Henry and passed him, streaking up the last hundred yards towards the fence. None of us turned around. You didn't have to. You could feel them coming, like rocks thrown at your head, rocks glimpsed at the last minute when there is time to flinch but not to turn. 
I was sprinting straight at the fence when Henry called out. I was going too fast and didn't want to know what his problem was. I leapt up at the wire.
It was like a truck hit me from the side. 
I crashed the ground fizzing, arms sparking and with no idea which way was up. Then two pairs of hands were on me, pulling at my coat, cold hands and strong. 
I thought the fingers would be long and pale and milky but then I realised it was my friends and they were pulling me along from the wrong section of the fence, dragging me to the side, when they could have just left me where I fell and made their own escape. 
The three of us jumped up at the wire at once, scrabbling like monkeys, stretching out for the top. I rolled over wildly, grunting as I scored deep scratches across my back that would earn me a long, hard look from my mother when she happened to glimpse them a week later. We landed heavily on the other side, still moving forward, having realised that we'd just given away the location of a portion of dead fence. But now we had to look back, and what I saw—though my head was still vibrating from the shock I'd received, so I cannot swear to it—was at least three, maybe five, figures on the other side of the fence. Not right up against it, but a few yards back. 
Black hair was whipped up around their faces, and they looked like absences ill-lit by moonlight. 
Then they were gone. 
We moved fast. We didn't know why they'd stopped, but we didn't hang around. We didn't stick too close to the fence either, in case they changed their minds. 
We half-walked, half-ran, and at first we were quiet but as we got further away, and nothing came, we began to laugh and then to shout, punching the air, boys who had come triumphantly out the other side. 
The forest felt like some huge football field, applauding its heroes with whispering leaves. We got back to town a little after two in the morning. We walked down the middle of the deserted main street, slowly, untouchable, knowing the world had changed: that we were not the boys who had started the evening, but men, and that the stars were there to be touched. That was then. 
As older men we stood together at the fence for a long time, recalling that night. 
Parts of it are fuzzy now, of course, and it comes down to snapshots: Pete's terrified face when he slipped, the first glimpse of light at the houses, Henry's shout as he tried to warn me, narrow faces the colour of moonlight. They most likely remembered other things, defined that night in different ways and were the centre of their recollections. As I looked now through the fence at the other forest I was thinking how long a decade had seemed back then, and how you could learn that it was no time at all.
Henry stepped away first. I wasn't far behind. Pete stayed a moment longer, then took a couple of steps back. Nobody said anything. We just looked at the fence a little longer, and then we turned and walked away. 
Took us forty minutes to get back to the truck.
 
The next Thursday Henry couldn't make it, so it was just me and Pete at the pool table. Late in the evening, with many beers drunk, I mentioned the fence. 
Not looking at me, chalking his cue, Pete said that if Henry hadn't stepped back when he did, he'd have climbed it. 
"And gone over?"
"Yeah," he said. 
This was bullshit, and I knew it. "Really?"
There was a pause. "No," he said, eventually, and I wished I hadn't asked the second time. I could have left him with something, left us with it. Calling an ass cute isn't much, but it's better than just coming right out and admitting you'll never cup it in your hand.
The next week it was the three of us again, and our walk in the woods wasn't even mentioned. We've never brought it up since, and we can't talk about the first time any more either. I think about it sometimes, though. 
I know I could go out walking there myself some night, and there have been slow afternoons and dry, sleepless small hours when I think I might do it: when I tell myself such a thing isn't impossible now, that I am still who I once was. But I have learned a little since I was fifteen, and I know now that you don't need to look for things that will suck the life out of you. Time will do that all by itself. 
 
After the Stone Age
by Brian Stableford
 
Brian Stableford's latest novels, all new this year, include Sherlock Holmes and the Vampires of Eternity, The Dragon Man, and The Moment of Truth. He is well-known in vampire circles for his novels The Hunger and Ecstasy of Vampires, The Empire of Fear, and Young Blood, and for his translations of French author Paul Féval, père's nineteenth-century works of vampire fiction (which pre-date Bram Stoker's Dracula). He has also authored many other novels and French translations, as well as numerous works of non-fiction about science fiction.
 
About vampire fiction, Stableford says: "It's probably popular because it imagines a kind of charisma, a subspecies of angst and an insidious variety of violence of which humans are incapable, thus providing a temporary distraction from the charismatic void, ineffably tedious angst and mere brutality that constitute the quotidian human condition. I became interested in it when the history of the subgenre took an interesting turn in the 1970s, when assumptions of monstrosity formerly taken more-or-less for granted were challenged and interrogated in various quirky ways, presumably reflecting—albeit in a distorting mirror—contemporary sociological shifts in attitudes to sexuality."
 
This tale, which first appeared in the BBC's Cult Vampire Magazine, is about the potential utility of vampirism as a "natural" substitute for liposuction.
 
Mina had tried them all: WeightWatchers, Conley, grapefruit, Atkins, hypnotherapy and pumping iron. On the day she decided, after three grueling months, that the Stone Age diet was doing her more harm than good—just like all the rest—she felt that she had hit rock bottom in the abyss of despair. She clocked in at sixteen stone five pounds, just six pounds lighter than the day she had embarked on the Stone Age with such steely determination. By the end of March she would doubtless crack the seventeen stone barrier, going in the wrong direction.
Younger people, she supposed, calculated in kilograms but she had never contrived to adjust. Mercifully, she was in public finance rather than the commercial sector, so she rarely had to audit accounts that were connected, even in the remotest degree, with the EU. She never traveled abroad, because she couldn't bear the thought of an airplane seat, let alone stripping down to a bikini on a beach in Marbella. She had never lost the habits of embarrassment gained in childhood, and now she had the prospect of middle-age spread looming before her.
Mina hadn't an atom of proof that she had been passed over for promotion because of the way she looked. The fact that her newly imported line manager, Lucy Stanwere, had a figure like Paula Radcliffe as well as being ten years younger might have been coincidence. The fact that Lucy was able to wear four-inch heels, thus allowing her to tower over those condemned by gravity to flat soles, might also be irrelevant to her rapid ascent of the status ladder. The fact that Mina was due to see Lucy for her annual appraisal the morning after she fell off the Stone Age wagon and gorged herself on Welsh rarebit and chocolate milk was, however, definitely not a coincidence. Anxiety had always been a key factor in Mina's comfort eating.
Lucy's office was, of course, incredibly neat. It wasn't just that the cleaners made more effort there than in the open-plan, but that Lucy's own personal neatness radiated out from her size-ten suit to bathe her entire environment with a kind of bloodless perfection. Simply being there made Mina feel even more like a rubbish-heap than usual; from the moment she stepped through the door her one ambition was to escape as soon as possible, no matter how much criticism she had to absorb and acknowledge in order to do it.
She didn't, of course, dare to entertain the ambition that she might accomplish that escape without some slighting reference being made to her appearance—in fact, the first thing Lucy said, after "Please sit down, Miss Mint," was "Are you unwell?" That, in health-fascist-ese, meant: "How can you even breathe when you're carrying so much excess baggage, you disgusting calorie-addict?"
"I've had a little tummy trouble recently," Mina admitted, "but it's sure to clear up now."
"Coming off the Stone Age?" Lucy asked, in a tone that sounded almost sympathetic.
Mina had never talked to Lucy in a non-work context, so she couldn't claim to know her well, but she certainly hadn't expected sympathy. She decided that it must be an illusion.
"Yes, actually," Mina admitted.
"I thought so," Lucy said. "The trouble with all these theories about what evolution shaped our digestive systems to do is that humans are so exceedingly adaptable. We grow up on grains and dairy products, and our bodies learn to love them. If there's one thing that separates humans from all the other animals, it's the ability to learn to love. Don't you agree?"
The chance would be a fine thing, Mina thought. What she said aloud was: "Yes, Miss Stanwere."
"It's Lucy. Look, Mina, I don't want to seem presumptuous, and I'll understand if you want to confine our discussion to the nerves and sinews of auditing practice and Gordon Brown's latest wrinkles, but there's a better way to lose weight, if you really want to. It's about time that you were let in on the secret."
Mina had long suspected that there must be a vast conspiracy of the fit and thin whose precious secrets were sternly withheld from people like her, but she had never expected to be let into it. She said nothing.
"I know what you're thinking," Lucy Stanwere said, when the pause had passed from pregnant to eggbound. "How would I know? Well, I do." She took up her handbag. Any normal person would have had to root about for at least thirty seconds to find what she wanted, but Lucy only required a mere moment to pluck the desired item from its innermost depths. She handed Mina a photograph.
Mina stared at the snapshot in frank disbelief. It wasn't so much the sixteen stone version of Lucy Stanwere that startled and appalled her so much as the expression the teenager was wearing: an expression of profound shame and terror of exposure that Mina had only ever seen at WeightWatchers—or in a mirror.
When she looked up again, Mina saw her superior with entirely new eyes. She could find but one word: "How?"
Lucy's perfectly manicured fingers dipped into the mysterious bag for a second time, and produced another slim item. At first, Mina judged from its size that it was a business-card, but it was glossy and black, and bore an image of two magnificently athletic individuals dancing what appeared to be the tango, above the red-lettered inscription: THE AFTER DARK CLUB. The postcode attached to the address was suggestive of Mayfair.
"Meet me there at ten-thirty," Lucy said. "I'll tell the desk to expect you, and I'll take you in."
"A night club?" Mina said, aghast. "I can't go to a night club."
"Ten-thirty," Lucy Stanwere repeated, insistently. "Be on time."
 
Mina had nothing suitable to wear, but the situation was so surreal that it didn't seem to matter. She was usually curled up in bed with a Mills and Boon not long after ten-thirty, once she'd watched the news on the BBC, so she went to catch the Central Line tube at Ealing Broadway with the kind of disturbed feeling that changes in a familiar routine always bring on.
She had never realized that the urban wilderness between Piccadilly and Oxford Street had so many hidden trails and discreet coverts but her pocket A-to-Z eventually guided her to an unmarked door with a discreet intercom and bell-push. Mina almost turned round and went home right then, but eventually plucked up courage to press the button. When a fuzzy voice said "Yes?" she blurted out "Is-that-the-After-Dark-Club-Lucy-Stanwere-asked-me-to-meet-her-here?" without the slightest pause for breath.
There was an eerie buzzing sound—more like a swarm of angry wasps than placid bees, but no less welcome for that—punctuated by a click. Mina pushed the door open, and entered a gloomy corridor which led to a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a desk, manned by a teenage male in an absurdly old-fashioned suit. "Miss Mint?" he said, before she could gather her breath. "We've been expecting you. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Mina had not had time to frame a reply when the burgundy-colored door to the left of the desk opened and Lucy Stanwere came out, accompanied by two other men, each as callow as the receptionist, both complexioned like Turks or Italians. They too were wearing black suits cut to standards of formality that had surely gone out with the last King George, or maybe Queen Victoria.
Lucy, by contrast, was dressed in a very now manner that was far more relaxed—louche, even—than her everyday office-wear. "Mina, darling!" she said, with a brazen bonhomie that contrasted just as sharply with the flinty face of public finance. "I want you to meet Marcian and Szandor. You'll have to forgive Szandor—I'm afraid his English is a trifle rusty—but Marcian will translate for him. Come through, won't you?"
Mina was unable to respond to this invitation immediately, because Marcian and Szandor were busy kissing her hands, so enthusiastically that they hadn't waited to take turns, seizing one apiece. Nor did they let go when they had finished, arranging themselves to either side of her with an affectionate politeness that she had never encountered before.
She had, of course, avoided making eye-contact, her embarrassment being so intense that she had all but closed her eyes, but as she stole sidelong glances to her left and right she observed that both of them were looking at her with expressions that betrayed not the slightest hint of disgust, contempt, scorn or disapproval.
If she had only dared, she might have felt a surge of joy, but she had lived in the world too long to be free of the suspicion that she was about to suffer some humiliating reversal of fortune.
Marcian and Szandor escorted her through the doorway, although it didn't seem humanly possible that there was room enough for either to pass through it beside her, let alone both. She was swept along another purple-carpeted corridor to another darkly varnished door, while Lucy followed.
The image on the card had left Mina with the impression that there might be a ballroom swirling with exotic couples, all engaged in a furiously erotic tango, but the whole building seemed silent, insulated from the unceasing noise of the capital; the room in which Mina now found herself was actually a bedroom.
My God! Mina thought, as she contemplated the king-sized four-poster with the red velvet curtains. It's not a night club at all. It's a knocking-shop for chubby-chasers!
So far as she was concerned, chubby-chasers were creatures of legend, one of whom she had always longed to meet. Like unicorns, which refused to have anything to do with anyone but virgins, men who were sexually attracted to fat women were exceedingly thin on the ground in Ealing. Then Mina remembered Lucy, who was only half the woman now that she had been as a teenager, and realized that there must be more to the situation than had yet met her eye. She turned, opening her fearful eyes sufficiently to demand an explanation.
"It's all right, Mina," Lucy said. "There's nothing to be afraid of. No one's gong to do anything to you that you don't want them to do. But the time has come for you to ask yourself the question: Do I sincerely want to be thin?"
Mina swallowed a hysterical laugh. The consequent frog in her throat made it impossible to do anything but croak: "Yes."
It seemed a pitifully feeble expression of her desire, but Lucy seemed satisfied. "Good," she said. "I'll cut to the chase, then—no point in beating about the bush. Marcian and Szandor are vampires. Given a few months of weekly sessions, they can literally drink your superfluous flesh away. You'll need to take iron tablets to facilitate the manufacture of new blood, but their enzymes will do the rest—reorientate your metabolism to convert your adipose deposits, that kind of thing. It won't make you feel bad—quite the reverse. You'll feel better than you've ever felt before: full of energy, in more ways than one. Natural selection is a wonderful thing, and we talked only this morning about the marvelous ability of human beings to adapt themselves.
"Marcian and Szandor are human too, of course—you'll have to forget all that superstitious nonsense about the undead rising from their graves and canine teeth becoming fangs. Vampires are just another natural species, near relatives of ours in the genus Homo, who accompanied us to the brink of extinction more than once, but are now on the increase again. They're not quite ready to come out of hiding yet—like us, they're not entirely free of their old instincts—but they're making discreet diplomatic moves at every level, taking one step at a time in the tedious business of winning hearts and minds."
Mina hadn't noticed Lucy Stanwere's cliché-addiction before, but she tried to concentrate her attention on the more important aspects of the speech. Apparently, she wasn't going to be required to dance the tango in any literal sense. Instead, she was going to lie down on the bed while Marcian and Szandor drank her blood, presumably relieving her of forty fluid ounces or so, while pumping some kind of enzymes into her that would retune her metabolism to mobilize her fat reserves and set her on the road to paradise, or at least size twelve.
All in all, it was difficult to see a downside.
Eyes wide open now, Mina found herself staring at Lucy's neck, looking for tell-tale holes.
Lucy smiled. "That stuff about fangs is just Hammer horror," Lucy said. "It's more sucking than biting, actually. It doesn't even leave a love-bite, because there are no leftovers. You'll feel a slight numbness for a day or two, and your complexion might be a trifle pale, but you'll feel a lot better in yourself."
Mina belatedly thought of a potential downside. "Will I turn into a vampire too?" she asked, surprised at the lack of faintness in her own voice.
"No, silly," Lucy replied. "I told you, they're just another human species. You can't turn into one of them any more than they can turn into wolves or bats. It's symbiosis. They obtain sustenance from us; we get fitness and an amazing sense of well-being in return. Mutual profit—the ultimate expression of free-market economics at its finest. There's no rush; you can have all the time you need to think about it. All we ask is a little discretion."
"Discretion?" Mina echoed, with a confidence she had never felt before. "To hell with discretion. Let's get on with it!"
 
In the next two hours Mina discovered why the After Dark Club's card depicted two dancing figures. The movement was internal and emotional, and there were three people involved rather than two, but it was rhythmic as well as hectic, measured as well as erotic.
Marcian and Szandor never touched her below the waist, but that didn't matter. Mina understood well enough, by the time she went to catch the night bus back to Ealing, why sophisticated people said that the most important sexual organ was the brain.
She didn't see Lucy Stanwere before she left. Presumably, that wonderful woman and perfect friend was still engaged in a languorous horizontal tarantella of her own, probably with a single partner given that she no longer had the stored-up wealth to satisfy two. Marcian saw her to the door, bid her a fond goodnight, and made another date with her for the following Tuesday.
The old Mina would have asked, anxiously, whether she'd be ready for another session quite so soon, but the new Mina took it for granted that she could raise her blood to the required pressure with time to spare.
Marcian's conversation had been mostly devoted to technical matters and mild warnings, so Mina felt that he hadn't really warmed to her as yet, but Szandor—who had been silent apart from a few incomprehensible mumblings—had been free to indulge himself in fond stares and tactile explorations, and Mina felt that they had already built a delicate rapport. Although she was besotted with them both, she couldn't help feeling a little fonder of Szandor.
They seemed such nice young men, so expert in their arcane art, that she would have been more than happy to see them again even if the pounds hadn't started to melt away with such awesome rapidity.
It wasn't until the Tuesday, when Mina plucked up enough nerve to make a feeble joke about Dracula, that she discovered how old the seemingly young men actually were.
"Old Vlad!" Marcian said, with a delighted chuckle that was a fine compliment to her joke. "I remember him. Not one of us, of course—just a. . .how do you say?. . .a groupie. Thought he might become immortal if we would only teach him the trick. Poor sap!"
Her experience was so ecstatic that it took Mina ten minutes to realize that she too was a groupie: someone who hung around vampires, avidly offering blood. Twenty more were required to disclose that "poor sap" wasn't an Americanism. "Sap" was a vampire colloquialism for Homo sapiens; Marcian referred to his own kind as "ultras"—that being a contraction of Homo ultrasapiens, which, loosely translated, meant "man the extremely wise." It wasn't until it was nearly time to go home that it occurred to Mina to wonder how old Marcian actually was, given that he had obviously been around for centuries, but it didn't seem polite to ask forthrightly. After all, he'd been polite enough not to ask her age. She resolved to make discreet and indirect inquiries on the following Sunday, for which they made a third date.
By the time Friday night arrived, eight days after Mina's introduction to the joys of vampire victimhood, she felt that her life had undergone a fabulous transformation. As she said good night to Lucy Stanwere she gloried in the conspiratorial glance that they exchanged—a pleasure in which she had never indulged with any other colleague, of either sex, during her entire career in public finance. At work, of course, they behaved with strict formality, never making the slightest mention of their secret, but as they stepped over the threshold each evening they made their silent acknowledgements.
Mina went straight from work to the gym, where she went to work, first on the rowing machine and then on the cycling machine. She sometimes caught other people staring at her, but that didn't make her feel self-conscious any more. Once, they would merely have been appalled by her bulk; now she was content to assume that they were amazed at her capacity for exercise. Regenerating the blood she required to feed Marcian and Szandor was no mere matter of stuffing herself with calories and iron tablets; she had to crank up her retuned metabolism, rebalancing the energy-economy of her physical and spiritual being. Even fake rowing and fake cycling were beginning to give her a sense of furious speed and steadfast endurance that was remarkably satisfying—though not, of course, anywhere near as satisfying as lying on the curtained four-poster while Marcian and Szandor sucked their sustenance from her flesh with such obvious avidity and appreciation.
On Sunday, she observed that it must have been hard for vampires living through times of plague, famine and religious persecution.
"The Black Death was bad," Marcian admitted, "but the Church wasn't too inconvenient. Bishops grow as fat as members of any other priviligentsia. Civilization is a fine thing; life was harder before there were cities."
"You must have very good memories to recall a time when there wasn't," Mina suggested, delicately.
"Ach, it's more tradition than memory," Marcian admitted. "We make up stories to remind ourselves of all the things we're bound to forget. We all feel nostalgic about the good old days before you saps wiped out the Neanderthals, but it's legend-based. Nobody really remembers anything much before the fall of Troy, and it's all momentary flashes until the last two hundred years or so."
"The price of living forever, I suppose," Mina said, pensively.
Marcian actually raised his head then, to look her in the eye—as fondly as Szandor, but also a trifle darkly.
"Nobody lives forever, Mina," he said. "Ultras don't age or suffer from disease, but we all die in the end: drowned or decapitated, burned or blown up. Every living thing dies."
 
In the early hours of that Monday morning Mina stepped on the scales to find that she had broken fifteen-seven for the first time in three years, going in the right direction. She couldn't expect to continue to shed weight at more than a pound a day for very long, of course, but even as the rate of loss tailed off she could reasonably expect to be below fourteen stone by the end of April and below twelve by the end of June. Come Hallowe'en, she might be the woman of her dreams, not an ounce over nine stone and fit as a flea.
Mina had rarely contemplated the future in any frame of mind but abject horror, but she found herself wondering now about very serious questions. When, for instance, would she no longer be able to feed two hungry vampires? Would she have to choose between Marcian and Szandor, or would they settle her fate between themselves? And what, then, would be her long-term prospects? How long could a sap continue to feed a single vampire, if she made every possible effort to maximize her blood-production? Years? Decades? A whole sap lifetime?
Marcian would have known all the answers, but Mina felt that she needed a different perspective. One Friday when she wasn't due at the After Dark, she asked Lucy Stanwere if they could meet up for a drink. Lucy looked her up and down, as if trying to decide whether Mina had lost sufficient weight to be fit company in a sap-filled wine-bar, but eventually nodded. "Let's have dinner," she said. "Do you know the Arlequino Andante in Marylebone High Street? It's late to make a booking, but they'll let me in if I ring."
Mina didn't know the restaurant, but she promised to find it and meet Lucy there at eight.
"I've been meaning to have an in-depth chat to find out how you were getting along," Lucy said, when they'd ordered, "but you know how it is. It's obviously working. Happy?"
"Never been happier," Mina agreed. "It's just that I've been wondering about a few things, and I don't like to trouble Marcian with too much chat while he's. . .drinking."
"Oh, Marcy wouldn't mind. He's a real chatterbox by comparison with my Otto. What is it? The not-going-out-in-daylight business?"
"That too," Mina agreed, although it had not been among the items praying on her mind.
"They don't catch fire and shrivel up or anything Hammery like that," Lucy told her. It's just a matter of ingrained habit. Evolution shaped them as nocturnal hunters, like most other vampiric species—bats, bedbugs and the like. They could give it up if they wanted to, but they don't."
That prompted Mina to think of another question. "If natural selection gave them such long lives," she said, "why did we poor saps get stuck with seventy years?"
"Why did the chimps get stuck with all that hair and no brains? Small differences in DNA can easily be amplified into big differences of lifestyle. We've outstripped chimps because human babies are born at a relatively early stage of development, so our brains gain from experience as they grow. The older we grow the more benefit we get from that experience, so natural selection favors living longer—but we poor saps never got the benefit of the mutation that freed the ultras from the burden of ageing. The corollary is that they reproduce very slowly—ultra males and females don't mix much and only have sex once or twice a millennium—and there's the nutritional limitation too. It has to be human blood, you see—no other species will do. It's almost as if they were our extra selves, formed entirely from our spare flesh—but maybe that's a bit too philosophical. The Parma ham's good, isn't it? Nice texture."
Mina found the ham a trifle chewy, and it had a tendency to stick to her teeth, so it wasn't until she was tucking into her veal Marsala that she raised the question of where her new relationship might be headed, medium-term-wise.
"Didn't Marcy tell you?" Lucy asked. "You only had to ask. Szandor will take you on eventually—I hope that's not a disappointing prospect. His English is improving, I hope? He's supposed to be doing night-classes at the City Lit. Marcy runs the Club—he's the fixer for the entire London community. He'll put you on home visits soon if that's okay—just Szandor, I suppose, although Marcy might drop in occasionally. He kept tabs on me for a while, once he'd set me up with Otto. I love Otto. Good job we no longer live in an era when lifelong spinsters were automatically assumed to be consorting with the devil, isn't it?"
"Yes it is," Mina agreed. "When you say lifelong. . .?"
"Don't worry about that," Lucy said. "It's not really a matter of living fast, dying young and leaving a beautiful corpse. What if we do get used up by fifty or fifty-five? We'll look as good as we possibly can until then, and all you'll ever have to do to reconcile yourself to it is consider the alternative."
Even the new Mina didn't quite have courage enough to ask exactly how old Lucy really was, although she had concluded that appearances were probably deceptive and that Lucy's CV might not be honest about such details as date of birth. It didn't seem to matter much; the crucial datum, so far as Mina was concerned, was her own age, which was thirty-three. If feeding a vampire meant that she was likely to die at fifty-something rather than the contemporary female average of seventy-nine, that didn't seem too high a price to pay for twenty years of better-than-normal slenderness. Anyway, who could tell how many years of life-expectancy her obesity might have cost her if she'd stayed on the boom-and-bust diet carousel?
Mina did, however, summon enough courage to ask whether Lucy had sap boyfriends as well as Otto.
"I had a few, when I still wanted to catch up on all the sex I thought I'd missed out on," Lucy admitted, frankly. "It didn't take long to realize that I hadn't missed anything at all, compared to the real thing. You'll find that out for yourself, I dare say."
 
Mina did find out for herself. Indeed, everything transpired as Lucy had prophesied. Szandor's English improved enough for him to ask her himself whether he might visit her at home, once a week to begin with, and Mina readily agreed. Marcian dropped in on her too, once a month or so, more for a chat than a feed. On one such occasion, in August, he mentioned to her that the club had moved, but he didn't give her a card with the new address. Soon after that, Lucy announced that she was moving on again too, having been promoted to a senior position in Newcastle.
Mina breezed through the interview panel for Lucy's job, so the farewell party was a double celebration. It got so wild by midnight that some jumped-up office-boy from Procurement blurted out the office rumor which held that Mina and Lucy were lesbian lovers. Far from feeling appalled or insulted, Mina was delighted that she should be thought so versatile, so desirable and so interesting. She told Szandor about it when he visited her on the following Sunday—Sundays having now become their regular date—but he didn't laugh. It wasn't that vampires didn't have a sense of humor, just that they found different things amusing.
"Anyway," Mina said, "the promotion will mean a hike in salary, so I'll be able to buy a house. You could move in if you wanted to—it might be more convenient."
He laughed at that. "Sank you very much," he said, "but it vouldn't be right."
"Where do you live now?" she asked, for the first time. "Do you have a job of your own—night security or something."
Szandor's gaze, though still fond, became troubled. "I cannot tell you vere I liff," he said. "As for jops, ve liff as ve liffed in the old country, as communists—real communists, not those Soffiet bastards. Effer since. . .." He broke off.
"Ever since what?" Mina prompted, assuming he was thinking about something that had happened after the collapse of communism, in Bosnia or Chechnya or wherever he had recently come from.
"Effer since the Stone Age," he said. "Ven you began to vork in bronze. . .ve vere neffer a part of that. The vorld of vork, of jops. . .is not ours."
Mina realized then how little she actually knew about the vampire way of life, and how they occupied themselves when they were not feeding. She realized, too, how wide the gulf between the two human species must be, if all of history since the end of the Stone Age had been sap history, never recognizing, let alone involving the ultras, except as myth and shadow, mystery and threat. And yet, the ultras lived in a world that saps had remade, an ecosphere that saps had spoiled, on the edges of a global civilization organized and driven by sap machines and money.
Mina nearly asked Szandor what the communist vampires did for money, but realized that she didn't have to. They obtained their money as they obtained their blood, from their sapient groupies—not, evidently, in weekly handouts, but at intervals nevertheless adequate to their peculiar needs. In all probability, they were content to wait until their victims were used up; who else, after all, but her one and only dependent was a groupie likely to appoint as her heir?
Vampires could afford to be patient, and had certainly had abundant opportunity to acquire the habit.
How many victims, Mina wondered, had Szandor had before her? Far more, she guessed, than she had had hot dinners of her own. . .that being, at the end of the day, exactly what she was. It wouldn't be right for him to move in with her, she realized, for exactly the same reasons that it wouldn't be right for her to move into a battery cage or a veal crate. She was no longer the fat cow she had been in spring, but she would be a cow for as long as she might live.
After that reverie there was only one question that she needed to ask.
"Szandor," she said, "do you love me? Do you really love me?"
The ultra paused in his appreciation of the wonderfully appetizing blood that he was sucking from her breast to say: "Yes, my darlink. I loff you ferry much."
Mina knew that it was true. He loved her, not as a boy-child is obliged to love the mother at whose teat he sucks, nor as a farmer is obliged to love his prize cattle, nor as saps were obliged by their carefully selected hormones to love one another, but freely. He loved her in his own unique way, as only a vampire could love a member of his sister species, who provided the substance of his life in a single miraculous red stream.
 
When her lover had gone, after kissing her hand as any over-polite European might have done in saying au revoir, Mina went to the full-length mirror that she had bought only the previous day, and stood naked before it to make a critical study of the skin that sagged loosely about her ten stone two pound frame.
There was still a way to go, but she was getting there.
The skin would tighten up in time; even at thirty-three she still had enough adaptability to continue tightening its grip on her compacted flesh.
She would never reach perfection, but every day, in every way, she was getting better and better—and how many hard-working saps could honestly say that. . .except for all the others who were secretly in bed with the real reds?
All in all, she told herself, more in self-congratulation than in a spirit of self-discipline, it's quite impossible to see a downside.
 
House of the Rising Sun
by Elizabeth Bear
 
Elizabeth Bear's recent books include All the Windwracked Stars and Seven for a Secret. A new novel, By the Mountain Bound, is due out this fall. Other novels include Carnival, which was a finalist for the Philip K. Dick Award, Undertow, and the Jenny Casey trilogy—Hammered, Scardown, and Worldwired—which won the Locus Award for best first novel. She is a prolific short story writer as well, much of which has been collected in The Chains That You Refuse. Additionally, she is one of the creative minds behind Shadow Unit (www.shadowunit.org), an ongoing, hyperfiction serial. Bear is a winner of the Hugo Award and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer.
 
This story first appeared in the UK magazine The Third Alternative (which is now known as Black Static). It follows a man who used to be the most famous person in the world, living a life of anonymity that still has strange echoes of his fame. To say more than that might give too much away, but let's just say that as a result of writing this story, Bear knows a lot more about the history of blues, gospel, and rock and roll than she used to.
 
Sycorax smiled at me through the mantilla shadowing her eyes: eyes untouched by that smile. She lolled against a wrought-iron railing, one narrow hip thrust out, dyed red hair tumbling out of the black spiderweb of her shawl, looking like a Mac Rebennack song come to life. 
The dead quickly grow thin.
She licked her lips with a long pale tongue and even the semblance of amusement fell away. "You're pale, Tribute. No coup tonight?"
"Nothing appealed." Tribute wasn't my real name any more than Sycorax was hers. 
She leaned into me, pressed a hand to my throat. Her flesh lay like ice against the chill of my skin. "I told you to hunt."
"I hunted." Backing away, red nails trailing down my chest. I hunted. Hunted and returned empty-handed. It's as much how you hear the orders as how they're given.
She followed close on my steps, driving me before her. Ragged black chiffon clung and drifted around her calves; she reached up to lace china fingers in the fine hairs at the nape of my neck. Her face against my throat was waxen: too long unfed. "You weaken me on purpose, Tribute. Give me what you have."
She needed me, needed me to feed. Old as she was, she had to have the blood more often and she couldn't take it straight from a human anymore. She needed someone like me to purge the little taints and poisons from it first—and even then, I had to be careful what I brought home. So sensitive, the old.
She caught at my collar, pulled it open with fumbling hands. I leaned down to her—chattel, blood of her blood, no more able to resist her will than her own right hand, commanded to protect and feed her. At least this time, I knew what sort of predator I served, although I had less choice about it. 
I figured things out too late, again. 
Sycorax curled cold lips back from fangs like a row of perfect icicles, sank her teeth into my flaccid vein and tried to drink. All that pain and desire spiked through me—every time like the first time—and on its heels a hollowness. Sycorax hissed, drew back. She turned her head and spat transparent fluid on the cobbles. I smiled as she turned on me, spreading my hands like Jesus on a hilltop, still backing slowly away. I had made very sure that I had nothing to feed her on. 
Petty, I know. And she'd make me pay for it before dawn.
Down the narrow lane, a club's red door swung open and I turned with a predator's eye, attracted to the movement. Spill of light cut like a slice of cake, booted feet crunching on glittering glass. Girls. Laughing, young, drunk. I remembered what that felt like.
I raked a hand through my forelock and looked away, making the mistake of catching Sycorax's china-blue eye.
"Those," she said, jerking her chin.
I shook my head. "Too easy, baby. Let me get you something more challenging." I used to have an accent—down-home Mississippi. Faded by the years, just like everything else. I suspected I sounded pan-European now, like Sycorax; I've put some effort into changing my speech patterns. Her lips, painted pale to match china-white skin, curled into a sulk.
"Tribute. After a quarter of a century, you ought to know I mean what I say."
I tugged my collar, glancing down.
"Them." Sycorax twisted a stiletto-heeled boot, crushing the litter of cracked glass against the bricks.
She enjoyed the hunt a little too much. But who but a madwoman would have drained my living body and made me hers? Just fetching my corpse from the grave would have taken insane effort. 
"I'm hungry," she complained while I sharpened my teeth on my lip to stop a malicious smile.
If I could buy a little time, the girls might make it to the street and I could lose them in the crowds and tangled shadows of the gaslamp district. Footsteps receded down the alley; I spread my hands in protest, cocking my head to one side and giving her the little half-smile that used to work so well on my wife. "Something with a little more fight in it, sweetie."
My wife was a hell of a lot younger than Sycorax. "Those two girls. Bring me their blood, Tribute. That's an order."
And that was the end of the argument. I turned to obey.
"Tribute."
Coming back around slowly, her gaze—catching mine—flat and pale. "Sycorax."
"I could just spike your pretty eyes out on my pinkie finger and eat them, lovely boy," she purred. "Hazel, aren't they?"
"Blue." 
She shrugged and made an irritated, dismissive gesture, hands white as wax. "It's so hard to tell in the dark."
 
The girls made it to the street before Sycorax ended the discussion, but I had to follow them anyway. I paced my ordained prey, staying to the shadows, the collar of the black leather trenchcoat that Sycorax had picked out for me tugged up to half-hide the outline of my jaw. I never would have bought that coat for myself. You'd think anybody who'd been dead for any time at all would have had enough of blackness and shadows, thank you very much. Sycorax reveled in it. If she were three hundred years younger, she'd have been a gothchick.
It was a good night: nobody turned for a second look. 
People are always dying, and human memory is short. In a hundred years, I shall probably be able to walk down any street in the world without raising an eyebrow.
As long as the sun is down.
Sycorax didn't bother to follow. I had no choice but to do as I was bid. It's more than a rule; it's a fact. I expected there were still a few women I knew who would get a kick out of that.
My girls staggered somewhat, weaving. One was a blonde, brittle dyed hair and a red beret. The other one had glossy chestnut brown waves and the profile of a little girl. I tracked them through the district toward the ocean, neon glow and littered sidewalks. A door would open and music would issue forth, and it wasn't long before I found myself mouthing the words to one particular song.
There's something gloriously ironic in a man charting a number-one hit twenty-five years after he's dead. Otis Redding, eat your heart out.
My quarry paused at an open-air patio where a live band played the blues. Girl singer, open coat and a spill of curls like wicked midnight: performing old standards, the kind I've always loved. Mama, tell my baby sister, not to do what I have done. I'll spend my life in sin and misery, in the House of the Rising Sun. A song that was already venerable when Eric Burdon made it famous. 
There's all kinds of whoredom, aren't there? And all kinds of bloodsuckers, too.
The singer nailed "Amazing Grace" a capella like heartbreak, voice sharp and gritty as little Mary Johnson doing "Cold, Cold Heart." I caught myself singing along and slashed my tongue with needle teeth before someone could overhear. Still no blood. I hadn't fed in a long time and it hurt more than it should have.
The girls sat down at a table and ordered food. I smelled beer, hot wings, eyewatering garlic. I suddenly very badly wanted a peanut butter sandwich and a milkshake.
Leaning against the high black iron fence, I watched the girls watching the band until a passerby in her fifties turned to get a startled better look at me. I stood up straight and met her gaze directly, giving her the crooked little-kid smile. It almost always works, except on Sycorax.
Trying to hide your face only convinces them they've seen something.
"Sorry," she said, waving me away with a smile. A moment later, she turned back. "You know you look like. . .."
"People say," I answered, pitching my voice high.
"Amazing." She nodded cheerfully, gave me a wide wondering grin, and continued on her way. I watched her go, chattering with her friends, shaking their heads.
The girls didn't stay for "King of the Road," although I would have liked to hear the version.
Kids.
I almost turned away when they walked past. They stank of garlic-stuffed mushrooms and beer. The reek of the herb knotted my stomach and seared my eyes. I actually tried to take a half-step away before the compulsion Sycorax had laid on me locked my knees and forced me back into pursuit.
They walked arm in arm, skinny twenty-year-olds with fake IDs and black vinyl miniskirts. Cheap boots, too much eyeliner. The one with the brown hair broke my heart every time she tossed her head, just that way. I let myself drift ahead of them, taking a gamble on where they would cut across the residential neighborhood near the ocean: a dangerous place for girls to be.
I ducked down a side street to cut them off and waited in the dark of an unlit doorway. Sycorax's control permitted that much. I leaned against the wall, scrubbing my face against my hands. It felt like a waxen mask, cold and stiff. My hands weren't much better.
They weren't long. I was unlucky. They picked the better of the two routes through the brownstones, the one I had been able to justify choosing, and just that innocently chose their fate.
The scent of bougainvillea and jacaranda filled the spaces of the night. I watched them skipping from streetlight to streetlight, shadows stretched out behind them, catching up, and then reaching before. The brown-haired one walked a few steps ahead of the bleach-blonde, humming to herself.
I couldn't help it. It wasn't one of my standards, but every blues singer born knows the words to that one. Hell, I used to have a horse by that name. 
I picked up the tune.
I had to.
". . ..they call the Rising Sun. It's been the ruin of many a poor boy. And me, O God, I'm one!"
Their heads snapped up. Twenty, maybe. I was dead before they were born. Gratifying that they recognized my voice.
"Fellas, don't believe what a bad woman tells you—though her eyes be blue, or brown. . .." I strolled out of the shadows, ducking my head and smiling, letting the words trail away. 
The dark-haired girl did a double take. She had a lovely nose, pert and turned up. The blonde blinked a couple of times, but I don't think she made the connection. I'd changed my appearance some, and I'd lost a lot of weight.
The stench of garlic on their breath would have thickened my blood in my veins if I had any left. I swallowed hard, remembering all those songs about wandering ghosts and unquiet graves. Ghosts that all seem to want the same thing: revenge, and to lay down and rest. 
I smiled wider. What the lady wants, the lady gets.
"Oh, wow," the darker girl said. "Do you have any idea how much you look like. . .."
The street was empty, dark and deserted. I came up under the streetlight, close enough to reach out and touch the tip of that nose if I wanted. I dropped them a look that used to melt hearts, sidelong glance under lowered lashes. "People say," I answered.
And, sick to my stomach, I broke their necks before I fed.
It was the least I could do. 
Poison roiled in my belly when I laid them out gently in the light of that streetlamp, in the rich dark covering the waterfront, close enough to smell the sea. I straightened their spines so they wouldn't look so terrible for whoever found them, but at least they wouldn't be coming back. 
It was happening already: my limbs jerked and shook. My flesh crawled with ripples like fire, my tongue numb as a drunk's. I'm going back to New Orleans, to wear that ball and chain. . ..
Not this time. Struggling to smooth each step, to hide the venom flooding my veins, I hurried back to my poor, hungry mistress. I stole the brunette's wallet. I stopped and bought breath mints at the all-night grocery.
I beat Sycorax home.
 
Peking Man
by Robert J. Sawyer
 
Robert J. Sawyer is the author of twenty novels, including Hominids, which won the Hugo Award, The Terminal Experiment, which won the Nebula Award, and Mindscan, which won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award. He has also won ten Aurora Awards, three Seiun Awards, and is the only three-time winner of Spain's prestigious UPC Award, which bestows the largest cash prize in all of science fiction.
 
Sawyer's novel Flashforward is currently being adapted for television and is scheduled to air on ABC this fall. His latest novel project is the WWW trilogy, consisting of Wake, Watch, and Wonder. The first volume, Wake, was recently serialized in the pages of Analog and was released in hardcover in April.
 
Although Sawyer is best known for his science fiction, he's written a number of works that deal with fantastic themes, such as this story, which won the Aurora Award and first appeared in the anthology Dark Destiny III. But, as you might guess from the title, this one doesn't see Sawyer straying too far from his science fiction roots. . .
 
The lid was attached to the wooden crate with eighteen nails. The return address, in blue ink on the blond wood, said, "Sender: Dept. of Anatomy, P.U.M.C., Peking, China." The destination address, in larger letters, was:
 
Dr. Roy Chapman Andrews
The American Museum of Natural History
Central Park West at 79th Street
New York, N.Y. U.S.A.
 
The case was marked "Fragile!" and "REGISTERED" and "Par Avion." A brand had burned the words "Via Hongkong and by U.S. Air Service" into the wood.
Andrews had waited anxiously for this arrival. Between 1922 and 1930, he himself had led the now-famous Gobi Desert expeditions, searching for the Asian cradle of humanity. Although he'd brought back untold scientific riches—including the first-ever dinosaur eggs—Andrews had failed to discover a single ancient human remain.
But now a German scientist, Franz Weidenreich, had shipped to him a treasure trove from the Orient: the complete fossil remains of Sinanthropus pekinensis. In this very crate were the bones of Peking Man.
Andrews was actually salivating as he used a crowbar to pry off the lid. He'd waited so long for these, terrified that they wouldn't survive the journey, desperate to see what humanity's forefathers had looked like, anxious—
The lid came off. The contents were carefully packed in smaller cardboard boxes. He picked one up and moved over to his cluttered desk. He swept the books and papers to the floor, laid down the box, and opened it. Inside was a ball of rice paper, wrapped around a large object. Andrews carefully unwrapped the sheets, and—
White.
White?
No—no, it couldn't be.
But it was. It was a skull, certainly—but not a fossil skull. The material was bright white.
And it didn't weigh nearly enough.
A plaster cast. Not the original at all.
Andrews opened every box inside the wooden crate, his heart sinking as each new one yielded its contents. In total, there were fourteen skulls and eleven jawbones. The skulls were subhuman, with low foreheads, prominent brow ridges, flat faces, and the most unlikely looking perfect square teeth. Amazingly, each of the skull casts also showed clear artificial damage to the foramen magnum.
Oh, some work could indeed be done on these casts, no doubt. But where were the original fossils? With the Japanese having invaded China, surely they were too precious to be left in the Far East. What was Weidenreich up to?
 
Fire.
It was like a piece of the sun, brought down to earth. It kept the tribe warm at night, kept the saber-toothed cats away—and it did something wonderful to meat, making it softer and easier to chew, while at the same time restoring the warmth the flesh had had when still part of the prey.
Fire was the most precious thing the tribe owned. They'd had it for eleven summers now, ever since Bok the brave had brought out a burning stick from the burning forest. The glowing coals were always fanned, always kept alive.
And then, one night, the Stranger came—tall, thin, pale, with red-rimmed eyes that somehow seemed to glow from beneath his brow ridge.
The Stranger did the unthinkable, the unforgivable.
He doused the flames, throwing a gourd full of water on to the fire. The logs hissed, and steam rose up into the blackness. The children of the tribe began to cry; the adults quaked with fury. The Stranger turned and walked into the darkness. Two of the strongest hunters ran after him, but his long legs had apparently carried him quickly away.
The sounds of the forest grew closer—the chirps of insects, the rustling of small animals in the vegetation, and—
A flapping sound.
The Stranger was gone.
And the silhouette of a bat fluttered briefly in front of the waning moon.
 
Franz Weidenreich had been born in Germany in 1873. A completely bald, thickset man, he had made a name for himself as an expert in hematology and osteology. He was currently Visiting Professor at the University of Chicago, but that was coming to an end, and now he was faced with the uncomfortable prospect of having to return to Nazi Germany—something, as a Jew, he desperately wanted to avoid.
And then word came of the sudden death of the Canadian paleontologist Davidson Black. Black had been at the Peking Union Medical College, studying the fragmentary remains of early man being recovered from the limestone quarry at Chou Kou Tien. Weidenreich, who once made a study of Neanderthal bones found in Germany, had read Black's papers in Nature and Science describing Sinanthropus.
But now, at fifty, Black was as dead as his fossil charges—an unexpected heart attack. And, to Weidenreich's delight, the China Medical Board of the Rockefeller Foundation wanted him to fill Black's post. China was a strange, foreboding place—and tensions between the Chinese and the Japanese were high—but it beat all hell out of returning to Hitler's Germany. . .
 
At night, most of the tribe huddled under the rocky overhang or crawled into the damp, smelly recesses of the limestone cave. Without the fire to keep animals away, someone had to stand watch each night, armed with a large branch and a pile of rocks for throwing. Last night, it had been Kart's turn. Everyone had slept well, for Kart was the strongest member of the tribe. They knew they were safe from whatever lurked in the darkness.
When daybreak came, the members of the tribe were astounded. Kart had fallen asleep. They found him lying in the dirt, next to the cold, black pit where their fire had once been. And on Kart's neck there were two small red-rimmed holes, staring up at them like the eyes of the Stranger. . .
 
During his work on hematology, Weidenreich had met a remarkable man named Brancusi—gaunt, pale, with disconcertingly sharp canine teeth. Brancusi suffered from a peculiar anemia, which Weidenreich had been unable to cure, and an almost pathological photophobia. Still, the gentleman was cultured and widely read, and Weidenreich had ever since maintained a correspondence with him.
When Weidenreich arrived in Peking, work was still continuing at the quarry. So far, only teeth and fragments of skull had been found. Davidson Black had done a good job of cataloging and describing some of the material, but as Weidenreich went through the specimens he was surprised to discover a small collection of sharp, pointed fossil teeth.
Black had evidently assumed they weren't part of the Sinanthropus material, as he hadn't included them in his descriptions. And, at first glance, Black's assessment seemed correct—they were far longer than normal human canines, and much more sharply pointed. But, to Weidenreich's eye, the root pattern was possibly hominid. He dropped a letter to his friend Brancusi, half-joking that he'd found Brancusi's great-to-the-nth grandfather in China.
To Weidenreich's infinite surprise, within weeks Brancusi had arrived in Peking.
 
Each night, another member of the tribe stood watch—and each morning, that member was found unconscious, with a pair of tiny wounds to his neck.
The tribe members were terrified. Soon multiple guards were posted each night, and, for a time, the happenings ceased.
But then something even more unusual happened. . .
They were hunting deer. It would not be the same, not without fire to cook the meat, but, still, the tribe needed to eat. Four men, Kart included, led the assault. They moved stealthily amongst the tall grasses, tracking a large buck with a giant rack of antlers. The hunters communicated by sign language, carefully coordinating their movements, closing in on the animal from both sides.
Kart raised his right arm, preparing to signal the final attack, when—
—a streak of light brown, slicing through the grass—
—fangs flashing, the roar of the giant cat, the stag bolting away, and then—
—Kart's own scream as the saber-tooth grabbed hold of his thigh and shook him viciously.
The other three hunters ran as fast as they could, desperate to get away. They didn't stop to look back, even when the cat let out the strangest yelp. . .
That night, the tribe huddled together and sang songs urging Kart's soul a safe trip to heaven.
 
One of the Chinese laborers found the first skull. Weidenreich was summoned at once. Brancusi still suffered from his photophobia, and apparently had never adjusted to the shift in time zones—he slept during the day. Weidenreich thought about waking him to see this great discovery, but decided against it.
The skull was still partially encased in the limestone muck at the bottom of the cave. It had a thick cranial wall and a beetle brow—definitely a more primitive creature than Neanderthal, probably akin to Solo Man or Java Man. . .
It took careful work to remove the skull from the ground, but, when it did come free, two astonishing things became apparent.
The loose teeth Davidson Black had set aside had indeed come from the hominids here: this skull still had all its upper teeth intact, and the canines were long and pointed.
Second, and even more astonishing, was the foramen magnum—the large opening in the base of the skull through which the spinal cord passes. It was clear from its chipped, frayed margin that this individual's foramen magnum had been artificially widened—
—meaning he'd been decapitated, and then had something shoved up into his brain through the bottom of his skull.
 
Five hunters stood guard that night. The moon had set, and the great sky river arched high over head. The Stranger returned—but this time, he was not alone. The tribesmen couldn't believe their eyes. In the darkness, it looked like—
It was. Kart.
But—but Kart was dead. They'd seen the saber-tooth take him.
The Stranger came closer. One of the men lifted a rock, as if to throw it at him, but soon he let the rock drop from his hand. It fell to the ground with a dull thud.
The Stranger continued to approach, and so did Kart.
And then Kart opened his mouth, and in the faint light they saw his teeth—long and pointed, like the Stranger's.
The men were unable to run, unable to move. They seemed transfixed, either by the Stranger's gaze, or by Kart's, both of whom continued to approach.
And soon, in the dark, chill night, the Stranger's fangs fell upon one of the guard's necks, and Kart's fell upon another. . .
 
Eventually, thirteen more skulls were found, all of which had the strange elongated canine teeth, and all of which had their foramen magnums artificially widened. Also found were some mandibles and skull fragments from other individuals—but there was almost no post-cranial material. Someone in dim prehistory had discarded here the decapitated heads of a group of protohumans.
Brancusi sat in Weidenreich's lab late at night, looking at the skulls. He ran his tongue over his own sharp teeth, contemplating. These subhumans doubtless had no concept of mathematics beyond perhaps adding and subtracting on their fingers. How would they possibly know of the problem that plagued the Family, the problem that every one of the Kindred knew to avoid?
If all those who feel the bite of the vampire themselves become vampires when they die, and all of those new vampires also turn those they feed from into vampires, soon, unless care is exercised, the whole population will be undead. A simple geometric progression.
Brancusi had long wondered how far back the Family went. It wasn't like tracing a normal family tree—oh, yes, the lines were bloodlines, but not as passed on from father to son. He knew his own lineage—a servant at Castle Dracula before the Count had taken to living all alone, a servant whose loyalty to his master extended even to letting him drink from his neck.
Brancusi himself had succumbed to pneumonia, not an uncommon ailment in the dank Carpathians. He had no family, and no one mourned his passing.
But soon he rose again—and now he did have Family.
An Englishman and an American had killed the Count, removing his head with a kukri knife and driving a bowie knife through his heart. When news of this reached Brancusi from the gypsies, he traveled back to Transylvania. Dracula's attackers had simply abandoned the coffin, with its native soil and the dust that the Count's body had crumbled into. Brancusi dug a grave on the desolate, wind-swept grounds of the Castle, and placed the Count's coffin within.
 
Eventually, over a long period, the entire tribe had felt the Stranger's bite directly or indirectly.
A few of the tribefolk lost their lives to ravenous bloodthirst, drained dry. Others succumbed to disease or giant cats or falls from cliffs. One even died of old age. But all of them rose again.
And so it came to pass, just as it had for the Stranger all those years before, that the tribe had to look elsewhere to slake its thirst.
But they had not counted on the Others.
 
Weidenreich and Brancusi sat in Weidenreich's lab late at night. Things had been getting very tense—the Japanese occupation was becoming intolerable. "I'm going to return to the States," said Weidenreich. "Andrews at the American Museum is offering me space to continue work on the fossils."
"No," said Brancusi. "No, you can't take the fossils."
Weidenreich's bushy eyebrows climbed up toward his bald pate. "But we can't let them fall into Japanese hands."
"That is true," said Brancusi.
"They belong somewhere safe. Somewhere where they can be studied."
"No," said Brancusi. His red-rimmed gaze fell on Weidenreich in a way it never had before. "No—no one may see these fossils."
"But Andrews is expecting them. He's dying to see them. I've been deliberately vague in my letters to him—I want to be there to see his face when he sees the dentition."
"No one can know about the teeth," said Brancusi.
"But he's expecting the fossils. And I have to publish descriptions of them."
"The teeth must be filed flat."
Weidenreich's eyes went wide. "I can't do that."
"You can, and you will."
"But—"
"You can and you will."
"I—I can, but—"
"No buts."
"No, no, there is a but. Andrews will never be fooled by filed teeth; the structure of teeth varies as you go into them. Andrews will realize at once that the teeth have been reduced from their original size." Weidenreich looked at Brancusi. "I'm sorry, but there's no way to hide the truth."
 
The Others lived in the next valley. They proved tough and resourceful—and they could make fire whenever they needed it. When the tribefolk arrived it became apparent that there was never a time of darkness for the Others. Large fires were constantly burning.
The tribe had to feed, but the Others defended themselves, trying to kill them with rock knives.
But that didn't work. The tribefolk were undeterred.
They tried to kill them with spears.
But that did not work, either. The tribefolk came back.
They tried strangling the attackers with pieces of animal hide.
But that failed, too. The tribefolk returned again.
And finally the Others decided to try everything they could think of simultaneously.
They drove wooden spears into the hearts of the tribefolk.
They used stone knives to carve off the heads of the tribefolk.
And then they jammed spears up into the severed heads, forcing the shafts up through the holes at the bases of the skulls.
The hunters marched far away from their camp, each carrying a spear thrust vertically toward the summer sun, each one crowned by a severed, pointed-toothed head. When, at last, they found a suitable hole in the ground, they dumped the heads in, far, far away from their bodies.
The Others waited for the tribefolk to return.
But they never did.
 
"Do not send the originals," said Brancusi.
"But—"
"The originals are mine, do you understand? I will ensure their safe passage out of China."
It looked for a moment like Weidenreich's will was going to reassert itself, but then his expression grew blank again. "All right."
"I've seen you make casts of bones before."
"With plaster of Paris, yes."
"Make casts of these skulls—and then file the teeth on the casts."
"But—"
"You said Andrews and others would be able to tell if the original fossils were altered. But there's no way they could tell that the casts had been modified, correct?"
"Not if it's done skillfully, I suppose, but—"
"Do it."
"What about the foramen magnums?"
"What would you conclude if you saw fossils with such widened openings?"
"I don't know—possibly that ritual cannibalism had been practiced."
"Ritual?"
"Well, if the only purpose was to get at the brain, so you could eat it, it's easier just to smash the cranium, and—"
"Good. Good. Leave the damage to the skull bases intact. Let your Andrews have that puzzle to keep him occupied."
 
The casts were crated up and sent to the States first. Then Weidenreich himself headed for New York, leaving, he said, instructions for the actual fossils to be shipped aboard the S.S. President Harrison. But the fossils never arrived in America, and Weidenreich, the one man who might have clues to their whereabouts, died shortly thereafter.
Despite the raging war, Brancusi returned to Europe, returned to Transylvania, returned to Castle Dracula.
It took him a while in the darkness of night to find the right spot—the scar left by his earlier digging was just one of many on the desolate landscape. But at last he located it. He prepared a series of smaller holes in the ground, and into each of them he laid one of the grinning skulls. He then covered the holes over with dark soil.
Brancusi hoped never to fall himself, but, if he did, he hoped one of his own converts would do the same thing for him, bringing his remains home to the Family plot.
 
Exsanguinations: A Handbook for the Educated Vampire
by Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu
translated from the Romanian by Catherynne M. Valente
 
Catherynne M. Valente is the critically acclaimed author of The Orphan's Tales, the first volume of which, In the Night Garden, won the Tiptree Award and was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award. She is also the author of the novels The Labyrinth, Yume No Hon: The Book of Dreams, and The Grass-Cutting Sword. Her latest novel, Palimpsest—which she describes as "a baroque meeting of science fiction and fantasy"—was published in February. In May, her first science fiction story, "Golubash, or Wine-Blood-War-Elegy" appeared in my anthology, Federations. 
 
This next piece, translated by Valente, is an excerpt from Exsanguinations: A Handbook for the Educated Vampire, the indispensable tome of vampire legends and lore by noted vampire scholar Anna-Silvia Oppenhagen-Petrescu of the University of Budapest. 
 
Valente originally published this prefatory and press material on her website, annapetrescu.catherynnemvalente.com. It appears here in print for the first time. Look for Exsanguinations at fine purveyors of Demonic Texts throughout Europe and America in October 2009.
 
An Ideal Vampire: Prefatory Notes
Death is such a Victorian conceit.
Death is solemn, it is colorless. The unfortunate maiden is laid in a long bed with a silk scarf at the neck, scented with oils so that her stink does not offend delicate nostrils, her hair brushed to a lustre never achieved in life, skin powdered pale and smooth, lips drawn in obscene red: all to give the appearance of life just snuffed out, so recently that the body has not yet realized it has not merely dozed off in the midst of a pleasant afternoon. Why, her eyelashes never laid so coyly dark upon her cheek! Her color was never so high and fever-flushed! Her teeth never sat so white upon her scarlet lips, her curls never clustered so black around her seraphic face!
In short, all effort has been made to make the poor corpse appear immortal, to dress it as a vampire. After all, it is not a proper funeral if she does not look so fresh that she could leap at any moment from the coffin and affix her teeth to a relative's jugular. It is a fetish, really, the just-dead virgin. As if death were a door from which she must emerge a whore, demoniac, and hungry.
The vampire, on the contrary, is essentially Byronic. It walks in beauty like the night, and through the night, and in it, it is always windswept and brooding, dandified by the accessories of death—the cross, the coffin, the shroud. But these things are merely fashion, no more intrinsic to the vampire self than a widow's peak or a Lugosian laugh. What is necessary is the predatory instinct, and the eternal study of death, since the vampire is its most skilled practitioner. The vampire is not half in love with easeful death, it is easeful death, and it has some small duty to make of death an art, an ecstasy, a philosophy. Else why be a demon? Certainly mortals cannot get away with such pretension. One might casually wonder whether the vampire was a product of the Gothic imagination, or the Gothic imagination was a product of the vampire—if one were predisposed to ponder such questions. The vampire, by its nature, does so. Unable to see itself in a looking-glass, it is the vainest of all creatures, and considers its own nature incessantly. These days, there are night-conferences in Bulgaria and Romania, with endless papers and sample chapters of promised masterpieces. 
Of course, being Byronic, the ideal vampire is male, heroic in his way, a frontiersman braving the wilds of humanity, piling high his carcasses on the plains.
I am not an ideal vampire.
But surely my curls were never so black and shining as the day they lay me in the dirt. I listened to them mumble the old 23rd and counted like sheep the thud-falls of shoveled earth on the lid of what I must assume was a very expensive coffin. Death, as I have said, is Victorian—thus, no family would allow themselves to be seen in public with sub-par funerary rites. 
I will not here indulge in that most vulgar of recent fashions, autobiography. Suffice it to say that I, along with every other vampire since the classical age of our Slavic forefathers, clawed my way out of that very well-appointed coffin and into the inevitably moonlit night. I availed myself, as so many of us do, of the graveyard caretaker as my first victim—how many of us recall the awkwardness of that first exsanguination! It is so much like making love for the first time; one has no clear idea what goes where, but clutches stiffly to whatever seems more or less correct, spraying fluids all over one's best evening clothes and mumbling apologies to the hapless partner, who no doubt experienced none of the crude pleasure one hoards to oneself. Of course, the experience of feeding is hardly the psycho-sexual revelation recent extra-cultural authors have claimed—do you, dear reader, find yourself in involuntary climax when ingesting a plate of pasta and a modest red wine? Certainly not. Yet certain in vogue lady novelists would have their deluded readership believe our own furtive suppers are orgiastic communions of the highest order.
Ah, but I have forgotten the tiresome necessity of all vampiric literature—I have not given my credentials. I ought to simply attach a notice of my parentage to my lapel or my Curriculum Vitae, perhaps even have it notarized like the breeding papers of a half-feeble spaniel. But certainly, without credentials, I can have nothing of importance to say. Very well. 
I was sponsored by a very beguiling old debauch by the name of Ambrose Mosshammer who asked me to stay after his Herodotus seminar for special instruction. I fully expected to be accosted in his windowless eighth floor office—though when I imagined his skeletal hand groping my breasts and tearing my new wool skirt, I did not quite realize that he would simultaneously be whispering the tale of Gyges in my ear and divining the path of my jugular with his tongue before slashing into my throat with his gnarled, ancient teeth. It was certainly not what I had been led to expect young ladies experienced behind the closed doors of the offices of elderly colleagues. (I beg the forgiveness of any vampiric readers, for whom this recitation must be as tedious and gauche as a human reading about the expulsion of the placenta from his mother's womb. But the forms must be followed.)
Ambrose's blood tasted faintly of dust and the glue of book-bindings, as well as a peculiar undertaste of sandalwood and tobacco. It was not unpleasant, but I was rather in a rush to finish the process, once I realized what was afoot. There is no need to dwell in ritual—that sort of decadence can be safely left to Catholicism. He proffered his wrist in a most gentlemanly manner, and I availed myself of the necessary blood. I cannot overstate his professionalism and patience, truly, the old ones have a gravitas the younger generation of fiends cannot match.
I left his office with a rumpled skirt and a torn blouse, carried by his graduate students out to the parking lot, where I could safely be assumed to have been a victim of an over-zealous mugger. A few days later, I had risen from my grave and thusly embarked on my postdoctoral career. 
—Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu
University of Budapest
Night Campus
 
About the Author
Anna-Silvia Oppenhagen-Petrescu was born in 1948 to Danish-Romanian parents, Adrian Petrescu and Marie Oppenhagen. Adrian and Marie had immigrated from the Continent whilst Marie was pregnant to the quiet London suburb of Kensington, where they raised their only daughter in relative tranquility1.
The life of a young scholar is often tediously predictable, and young Anna was educated in the usual single-sex boarding schools before entering the equally homogenous St. Hilda's College, Oxford University. She studied Classics there under the watchful eye of Dr. Ambrose K. Mosshammer, who in her final year of study graciously Converted her in recognition of her great talent2.
Once Anna had graduated, her interest shifted from the roots of human civilization in Ancient Greece to the roots of Vampiric civilization in the Slavic states and Central Europe. Her unromantic and strictly researched work in the field of Proto-History is widely recognized as having been one of the foundations of the field. In 1983, she helped to establish the Order of the Ivory Tooth, an association of literary historians who set out to archive the entirety of the Vampiric Corpus—that is, the sum total of all literature involving Vampires in the West. While this goal is far from complete, the Order is now one of the most highly respected institutions among the Vampiric elite, and its work, and ritual conferences, are watched with great interest.
In the early eighties, while a humble lecturer at the University of the Danube3, Anna was also involved in the Eden Project, a think-tank which aimed to definitively prove or debunk the ever-popular claims of pre-Slavic heritage through Lilith. In recent years, the Edenites have shifted their focus to documenting the Dark Ages of the Classical World and Early Semitic Culture, in which the records of Vampiric activity are so scarce as to be by and large discounted by the academic majority. The "Lilith Question," a now-ubiquitous term coined by Dr. Moira Russell, Anna's partner in Edenism, was never qualitatively answered, and the two disagree on the subject to this day.
In 1986, Anna was hired as a tenure-track professor at the University of Constantinople, where she produced her enormous and definitive critical work, She Drained Me of My Very Marrow: The Female Vampire in History and Literature 4.The success and influence of this work cannot be overestimated, and continues to be the bedrock of Black Feminism5, a movement which has become something of a juggernaut in recent years. In fact, it was largely due to the popularity of this "lay" history that the loose confederation of Night Campuses organized the first of its annual Conferences in Madrid, in 1993. Of course there are many other conferences around the world, and meetings of various Societies, but the general Conference of Shadow-Academia is by far the largest, most prestigious, and well-attended. It is, nowadays, simply referred to as "The Conference6."
Disagreements arose between Anna and the Faculty of Sanguinary History at Constantinople, largely revolving around Anna's involvement with the Edenites and her insistence on encouraging her graduate students to generate texts of their own to counter the horde of human literature on the subject of Vampires7. In 1991, she left Constantinople and took the prestigious Geisslerin Chair at the University of Budapest, where she teaches to this day.
Anna remains unmarried8.
 
____________________________
 
1 It is considered somewhat gauche to reference one's mortal parentage when in polite society. Most modern vampires trace their heritage purely through the line of Conversion, often in the Spanish style, in which case Anna's rather baroque moniker would be Anna-Silvia Oppenhagen-Petrescu y Mosshammer y Chamberlain, etc. Nevertheless, for the sake of the laity, she has chosen to briefly recount the flotsam and jetsam of her pre-Conversion existence here. Those of standing in the Community may feel secure in passing by this piece of historical curiosity.
2 Dr. Mosshammer has kindly agreed to write an introduction to Dr. Petrescu's forthcoming work, Exsanguinations: A Handbook for the Educated Vampire. (University of Csejthe Press, 2005). The apprentice-master relationship between many vampires and the quasi-parental figures who Converted them is well-documented, but Dr. Mosshammer has been particularly supportive, and the editors of this site wish to take this opportunity to publicly thank him.
3 And thus able to take part in such specious feminist activities, as the Danube is well-known as a hotbed of radical thought and shoddy workmanship—even popularly referred to as "The Berkeley of Eastern Europe."
4 University of Darvulia Press, 1987.
5 Black Feminism, a movement which centralizes the role of the female Vampire, the succubus, in Sanguinary History, is somewhat tainted in the view of most historians due to its roots in human scholarship. In the mortal world, second-wave feminism resulted in a great deal of literature—much of which was written by women like Anna who would later be Converted, bringing this rather specialized interest into their Vampiric studies. In addition, many find it ridiculous, in light of the great Vampires of literature being predominantly male, to privilege the role of the female—in essence, placing the role of the Three Sisters over that of Dracula. However, Black Feminists trace their lineage through such actual Vampire personages as Elizabeth Bathory, Clara Geisslerin, Augusta Gordon, and Emily Draper, scoffing at any attempt to drag Dracula into serious discussions of gender in the Community. This remains a controversy which finds Anna and her colleagues at its center, however, it has been suggested that since Anna herself was Converted by a male Vampire, she ought to be more grateful to the masculine animus, and confine herself to more traditional histories.
6 The 2005 Conference will take place July 25-29 in Lodz, Poland, hosted by Plogojiwitz University. Hotels fill up quickly, so reservations are suggested.
7 Much as it was once considered beneath mortal nobility to engage in mercantile activities, it is widely asserted that for Vampires to produce their own quasi-fictional texts is vulgar in the highest degree. To speak for ourselves threatens the exposure of our entire Community, and most agree that the formulation of ridiculous and outlandish stories of bloodletting and cannibalism ought to be left to those mortal authors who find it titillating.
8 Predictably, this has caused a number of rumors to arise as to the orientation of Dr. Petrescu. While the editors of this site feel that such a subject is merely salacious and has no place in a professional biography, or in the parlor rooms of certain aged male Faculty members, they will note, without commentary, that Dr. Petrescu has co-habited with the Italian Edenite scholar Genevra Verzini in Budapest since 1995.
 
University of Csejthe Press
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_______________________________________________________________
CONTACT: Andrei Bogoescu, publicity@csejthepress.com
 
EXSANGUINATIONS
A Handbook For The Educated Vampire
 
by Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu
translated from the Romanian by Catherynne M. Valente
_____________________________________________________________
AN OCTOBER 2009 RELEASE
 
In October 2009, the prestigious University of Csejthe Press will release Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu's long-awaited work, Exsanguinations: A Handbook for the Educated Vampire. This much-discussed volume will contain a distillation of 25 years of research into the Origins, Customs, History, and Literature of the Vampire Community. It will serve both as a primer for the Newly Converted and a convenient desk reference for the experienced Dark Academic. Never before has such a variety of scholarly work been brought together in one place, and readers can look forward to a truly definitive delineation of the Vampire Culture in Dr. Petrescu's trademark simple, elegant prose.
 
Look for Exsanguinations at fine purveyors of Demonic Texts throughout Europe and America in October 2009. 
 
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR EXSANGUINATIONS
"Petrescu has done it! This text will stand for many cycles of Conversion hence. There can be no finer manual for the Vampiric existence than this lovely volume, no more concise and sensitive expression of the postmodern fiend." 
—Genevra Verzini
"Dare I call this the Vampiric Bible? I think I must, for no more inclusive and profound a book has yet been produced in the Community." 
—Adrian Maru
 
To interview Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu, or to request more information about Exsanguinations or any other Csejthe Press titles, contact Csejthe Press publicity director Andrei Bogoescu at publicity@csejthepress.com.

EXSANGUINATIONS
by Anna S. Oppenhagen-Petrescu
(Non-Fiction / 978-1-59780-156-0 / $15.95 / 400 pages)
a Csejthe Press trade paperback / October 2009
to learn more visit www.csejthepress.com

Lucy, In Her Splendor
by Charles Coleman Finlay
 
Charles Coleman Finlay is the author of the novel The Prodigal Troll. Writing as C. C. Finlay, he has a historical fantasy trilogy called Traitor to the Crown just out from Del Rey, consisting of The Patriot Witch, A Spell for the Revolution, and The Demon Redcoat. Finlay's short fiction has appeared in several magazines and anthologies, and has been collected in Wild Things. His novella, "The Political Prisoner," is a finalist for the 2009 Hugo and Nebula awards.
 
Finlay says that the appeal of the vampire is about the seduction of easy, self-gratifying choices, and the prices we pay for our pleasures. "It's about the contradiction that happens when we peer at the darkness within ourselves only to find a light," he said. "I suspect that vampires are a kind of literary Rorschach test, revealing the suppressed secrets of our individual personalities and emotional states. That's why they're such a source of endless fascination."
 
"Lucy, In Her Splendor" is about a couple that owns a bed and breakfast on an island. What happens on the island stays on the island, even when you'd rather have it go away.
 
When they were done, they sat in the plastic lawn chairs by the lake and listened in the dark to waves lapping the sharp white boulders mounded along the shore.
The first moth came fluttering from the direction of the pumphouse. It slapped into Lucy's cheek almost accidentally and startled them both. She raised her hand against it and the moth settled on one white-tipped nail. As she flicked her fingertip, it lifted into the air and hurtled back at her face.
A second and a third moth followed seconds later, followed in time by others until a tiny halo of insects swirled around her short, platinum blonde hair.
"Could be worse," Martin said, trying to wave them off. "Could be mosquitoes."
She smiled at him, shifted her chair closer, and leaned against his shoulder.
"God, Lucy, you're hot," he said.
She laughed, a little sadly, making a warm vibration that resonated in his chest. "I'm glad you still think so."
"No," he said. "Are you sure you haven't turned into a bug lamp. I swear you're hot enough to zap those bugs to ashes."
"You—"
She lifted her hand to slap him, but he caught it and folded her fingers within his own. Her skin was dry, caked with grit. He gave it a little squeeze and looked around, but rows of trees blocked the view of their neighbors. More bugs flew at Lucy's head.
Her voice trembled. "I'm really sick, aren't I?"
"It's just a fever. That's all it is." He placed her hand in his lap, and tried to wave the bugs away. One of the moth's wings buzzed harshly while the stones tapped against each other in the susurration of the waves. "Let's go inside."
"I don't know what I'd do without you," she whispered.
Without saying anything to reassure her, he helped her to her feet, propping her up as they strolled back to the house. When they passed the hand-carved sign that read "Crow's Nest Bed & Breakfast, Little Limestone Island," he flipped the board. 
Sorry, No Vacancy.
 
Her fever burned all night. Martin sat on the edge of the bed, feeding her tablets of aspirin and ice chips.
A single moth had followed them inside the house, tickling Lucy out of her rest until Martin turned on the lamp and the tiny creature flew to rest, panting, on the white shade. He smashed it, leaving a smear of gray dust and wings.
Walking over to the gable window, he gazed out of their attic apartment at the lake. All their life's savings were encompassed by these few acres of land, bounded on one end by the stone jetty covered with zebra-mussel shells and on the other by the apple tree with the bench swing. When insects began collecting at the screen, he stepped away.
Lucy shuddered in her sleep, sucking air through her mouth. Martin bent over and slipped his tongue—briefly—between her teeth. He expected the soursweet taste of sickness, but it wasn't there. 
That only made it worse.
 
In the morning, Martin puttered in the kitchen even though they had no guests, making himself a cappuccino and sitting at the dining room table beside the double-hung windows facing the lake. An ore carrier moved sluggishly away from the island, heading past Put-in-Bay for the Ohio shore.
A tall, silver-haired man in gold pants and shirt—their neighbor, Bill—walked along the shore with a little girl about four or five years old. Martin's heart began to skip. He set his cup down so fast it splashed and ran through the screened-in porch, the door clapping shut behind him. 
Sunrise glinted off the water. He shielded his eyes with his hand as he walked barefoot over the dew-damp grass. "Hey, neighbor!"
"Good morning, Marty," Bill replied. He gestured at the little girl. "This here's our granddaughter, Kelsey. Say hi, darling."
The little girl looked up at Martin. Panic flashed across her eyes, and she spun away from him to look at the lake.
"Hi, Kelsey," Martin said. He noticed the cappuccino running down his arm, and absent-mindedly lifted his wrist to his mouth to lick it off. 
Bill shrugged. "Kids, huh. Folks don't teach 'em any manners these days." He pointed to the pumphouse, a squat block of concrete that sat on the edge of the lake. "When did you block that up?"
"Oh." The farmhouse was over a hundred years old. Before the island built its water supply, the farmers pumped it in directly from the lake. "A couple days ago."
"I thought you were going to turn it into a sauna."
"That's still the plan. But one of our guests was poking around in it after he came back from the winery. Fell and cut his head. Pretty big gash. He didn't need stitches, but we figured—"
"Liability?"
"Yeah."
"That's a shame, people not being responsible." Bill looked up to the porch. "Say, where are your guests? Isn't it about breakfast time?"
"We had to cancel all our reservations," Martin said. He watched Kelsey closely. She poked around the rocks, searching for a way into the pumphouse. "Lucy's been sick."
"Gosh, I'm sorry to hear that. What's wrong?"
"She came down with this fever—"
"Hey, there she is."
Martin turned. Lucy stood outlined in the attic window. The glass caught the sun, casting it in such a way that she was surrounded by a corona of jagged, golden light.
Bill waved to the attic window and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Get well soon, Lucy!"
She returned the greeting.
"You have an awful pretty wife there," Bill said.
Martin frowned. "Some days she's more awful than—"
Kelsey pounded on the side of the pumphouse with a rock. Martin hurried toward her, hand outstretched, stepping carefully in his bare feet across the stones. "Hey, Kelsey, come here. I want to show you something neat."
The little girl looked to her grandfather, who nodded permission.
"Shhh." Martin pressed his forefinger to his lips. With exaggerated tiptoeing, he led her onto their other neighbor's property. It was a small cabin, seldom used. Its lake pump had been more modern, an eight-foot square of concrete that jutted out from the shore like a single tooth in a child's mouth. Algae-slick boulders, driftwood branches, and other debris heaped around it.
The two inched slowly out on the slab until they reached the edge and saw the snakes—a dozen or more of them ranging in length from one to three feet. Their scales glistened black as they sunned themselves on the rocks. 
Kelsey gasped and clung to Martin's leg, pressing her face against his thigh and peeking out. Martin wrapped his hand around the top of her head and pointed out to the water, where a new snake sinuated across the rippled surface toward the shore. It lifted its nose, turning it like a submarine periscope. 
Bill crept up behind them and stomped his foot on the concrete, chuckling as they jumped. The snakes immediately disappeared among the rocks and driftbrush. The snake in the water dived beneath the surface.
Kelsey lifted her head. "Grampa!"
Martin straightened, letting her go. "They're harmless," he said. "Lake Erie water snakes. Endangered."
Bill wrapped his arms around his granddaughter. "Just 'cause they're endangered don't mean they're not dangerous. Tigers are endangered too, but they're still dangerous."
Martin smiled and stepped off the slab. "You come back any time you want to see my snakes now, Kelsey." 
They said goodbye to one another. Martin watched until they were off the property, then went inside and watched out the window to be sure they didn't come back.
 
The setting sun sheened off the windshield, causing Martin to slow the car as he passed the black-clad teenagers strolling down the road, trading cigarettes. A pink-haired boy sneered at Martin and Lucy, shaping his hand into a claw and gouging at them. The other kids laughed.
"Are you sure you feel well enough to do this?" Martin asked Lucy.
She ran her fingertips over her face to smooth the skin. "It's been long enough. We have to get back to normal some time. And I do feel better."
"Good." Martin pulled into the lot of the Limestone Island Winery, tires crunching on the gravel. He jumped out and opened the door for her.
They walked up the steps. The winery sat on the waterfront, within walking distance of the docks. The terrace faced the lake so that's where the tourists gathered. A Jimmy Buffet song started over the speakers, an impromptu singalong shaking the walls as Lucy and Martin went into the pub. 
Martin traded nods with a few locals watching the TVs and waved to the fortyish woman behind the bar. She wore a tight T-shirt, logoed with a bottle of Two Worms Tequila, a picture of a lemon, and the slogan "Suck this."
She waved back as Lucy and Martin took their usual booth in the corner. Then she yelled something into the kitchen, threw the towel over her shoulder, and came to join them.
"God, Lucy," she said, sliding in across the booth. "You're radiant. You look wonderful. You sure you've been sick?"
An enthusiastic chorus of "wasting away again" came through the wall from the terrace outside.
"Hi, Kate," Martin said above the singing.
"I don't look nearly as wonderful as you," Lucy answered, smiling. "Is that a new perm?"
She struck a pose, vamping the hairdo for them. "What do you think, Marty?"
"Looks terrific."
Kate's daughter, Maya, a high school senior, stepped to the kitchen door, looked around, and then carried over a bottle of red wine and three glasses. "Thanks, honey," Kate said. "Now don't serve anyone else. Make Mike do it."
"He hates coming out of the kitchen, Mom."
Kate wagged her finger. "I'm not kidding." As Maya stepped away, Kate snapped the towel at her butt. She twisted around, frowning. Martin winked at her.
"Now don't go making eyes at my daughter, Mr. Marty Van Wyk," Kate said, threatening him with the towel. 
"Here, give me the bottle," he said. "I'll open it."
"What happened to Christie and Boyko?" Lucy asked, looking around. All summer long, Christie had waited tables while Boyko worked the kitchen.
Kate curled her lip dramatically. "The Vulgarians?"
"Bulgarians," Martin corrected.
"You ever notice the way they pawed each other all the time?" Kate asked.
Lucy leaned her head on Martin's shoulder. "They're in love with each other. It's very sweet."
"It was out of control."
The cork popped out of the bottle. Martin poured the dark red liquid into their three glasses. He slid the first one over to Kate. "Why are you talking about them in the past tense?"
"Didn't you hear? Hristina"—Kate pronounced it with the accent—"and Boyko disappeared two weeks ago. Not a word—we were worried! But then someone saw them over at Sandusky Pointe, running the roller coasters at the park. They said the pay was better over there, and they had some other job at night. They're trying to make as much as they can before their green cards expire and they have to go home."
Lucy sipped her wine.
"Everybody disappeared at once," Kate said. "First it was those two, then you, then Pitr. We all suspected—" She dropped her voice and lifted her eyebrows. "—foul play."
Martin swallowed his wine the wrong way and coughed. Pitr was Czech, from some small town with a castle south of Brno; he came over through the same agency that hired the other foreign workers. "Pitr?" he rasped. "He go over to the mainland too?"
"Probably." Kate leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glittering. "Say, did he ever come out to your place to fill that hole of yours?"
Lucy pressed her leg against Martin's. "He wasn't interested in doing any yardwork."
"Who's talking about yardwork?" Kate laughed. "Pitr's not interested in any work, but he's still good for business. God, he's gorgeous! Every woman who came in here wanted him."
Lucy put a hand against her throat. "He has such a lovely, full mouth," she said, just above a whisper.
"Uh-huh," added Kate, who overheard. "And what was his mouth full of? I bet Marty knows." She glanced down at his crotch and winked at him.
"If I did," Martin said, "I certainly wouldn't tell you."
"Oh, pooh! You two are no fun tonight."
Martin dipped his finger in his wine and pressed it against Lucy's forehead. The droplets sizzled. "We're just tired," he said. "And Lucy's not quite as well as we thought."
 
They left the winery, sitting at the island's only traffic light just outside the parking lot. A tiny beetle of some sort, attracted to Lucy, buzzed around the inside of the dark car.
"Oh, that was so awful," she said, trying to chase it away.
Martin reached up and flicked the overhead light on. The beetle flew to it, rested a second, then buzzed back at Lucy. "We've got a little money left. Enough to get away somewhere."
"No, we can't."
"Let's go over to the mainland then. See if we can find a doctor—"
"No! I'll get better."
Martin could see the light getting ready to change, but he waited while a couple trucks full of quarry workers sped through the intersection and parked across the street in front of the Ice Cellar, a rougher bar where locals hung out.
"I suppose it has to get better," he said, turning onto the road that led to the other side of the island and their house.
Lucy swatted at the beetle. "It can't get worse."
 
The next morning she was too weak from the fever to rise from bed. Martin sat in the easy chair by the bed and popped the tape into the VCR. He turned the sound off so he wouldn't disturb her, and hit the play button. 
Despite what Kate thought, Martin only liked to watch. He had been hiding in the closet under the stairs the day Lucy invited Pitr over to do the yardwork. 
The peephole made the picture hazy around the edges. Lucy stepped into the room—the "special" guest bedroom, next to the closet stairs—shook off her robe, and turned around right in front of the camera. Performing for it. Underneath she wore only a black corset, black stockings, high heels. She had rings on her thumbs and fingers, bracelets on her arms.
She looked as gorgeous as Martin had ever seen her, ten years younger than her actual age, timelessly beautiful.
The second figure stepped into view from the left. Pitr. Prettier than Kate's description. Scrumptious. "To die for," Lucy had said. And Martin had agreed. Dark skin, all muscle, pale blond hair, and lips so full they looked as though they would burst like bubbles if you touched them.
Lucy touched Pitr's lips. First with her fingernails. Then with her mouth, as her hands began to undress him. Still performing.
Martin hit pause on the tape. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear their sounds come through the walls. He could still smell the candles that Lucy had burned.
Blankets rustled, a foot bumped against the wall. Lucy tossed, mumbling in her delirium. He stroked her leg once.
Scooting forward to the edge of his seat, he hit the forward button. On the tape, Lucy straddled Pitr, her favorite position, but he grabbed her arms and flipped her over, forcing himself on top of her, roaring as he bulled away between her legs. Neither she nor Martin minded the roughness. Martin had parted his bathrobe and taken his cock in hand by then, watching everything on the little camcorder screen—it was an old camera, one they had used for years.
Lucy, still performing, bit into Pitr's dark, hairless chest. 
Martin liked to see her hurt the other men. But this time something went beyond the normal rough play. Grabbing her arms and pinning them above her head, Pitr slammed into her so hard that she clamped her teeth down, twisting her head as if possessed, until the skin tore. Martin, so intent on his own desire, realized it only when he saw the blood trickling from her mouth. 
He had sat there, then, in the closet, still holding himself loosely, frozen with the thought of viruses; they'd been exposed before and escaped okay—
Pitr pounded away until he groaned and pulled away. Lucy rolled over on her side, spitting out the blood, scrubbing her mouth with the sheets. Pitr stepped back from the bed, out of view of the camera, and spoke to her in some language that didn't sound like Czech to Martin, but something far older, harsher. He slammed the closet door.
Martin snatched up the remote and hit pause.
A full-length mirror hung on the closet door. When Pitr stepped in front of it, there was no sign of his bare flesh, only a vague, indefinite mist.
Rewind, play, pause. Again. Martin watched it over and over, frame by frame, but there was never anything there but the mist. Finally he clicked forward.
Pitr stepped away from the mirror. Lucy leaned back, bare-breasted chest heaving like a B-movie diva. Pitr grew to the height of the room, cackling at her, wiping blood from the wound on his chest with clawed fingers and anointing her like a priest at a baptism. She screamed.
Blankets rustled. "What are you doing?" Lucy asked in a weak, sleepy voice.
"Nothing," Martin said. He hit the eject button. Yanking the tape out of the cassette, he piled it at his feet until the reels were empty. Then he carried it downstairs and burned it all in the fireplace.
 
Martin stood at the kitchen counter, making soup for Lucy when he saw the rat outside on the rocks. It crawled all around the pumphouse, trying to scale the sides. Martin went out to the screened-in porch to watch it.
Finally the rat fell exhausted, lethargic.
Martin went out and picked up a large, flat rock from the herb garden beside the foundation. He crept slowly out to the pumphouse, expecting the rat to bolt away at any minute. But it crouched there, on the concrete base, facing the blank wall. Martin slammed down the rock.
There was a wet crunch as it connected with the concrete pad; blood squirted out one side.
A ferocious tapping, faint but unmistakable, came from inside the pumphouse. Martin cupped his hands to the stone.
"Shut up, Pitr!" he shouted.
Then he went back inside.
 
It was late afternoon before Martin gathered the courage to find a pair of gloves and a shovel. He went back to the pumphouse, and tossed the bloody stone among the other boulders piled up where the waves licked the shore. Then he buried the rat. He covered the bloodstain on the concrete with dirt, and scuffed it in as well as he could with his deck shoes.
When he was done, he cupped his hands to the stone. "How do I make her well again, Pitr?" He leaned his ear to the concrete to hear the answer.
"Let me to come out and I will tell you," the voice croaked, so faint Martin could barely make it out. "She is burning, with the fire. Only I can help her."
"Fuck you, Pitr."
"I am come out and you can do that do." Laughter. Or choking. Martin rather hoped it was choking. "You want young again, Martin?" the voice cracked through the stone. "I can give you the young again."
"Yeah, you and Viagra. Go to hell, Pitr."
Something hard pounded on the inside wall. "You cannot keep me here. You cannot run far enough. When I—"
Martin lifted his ear from the concrete and heard nothing except the sound of the waves and the cries of a few gulls.
The sky was the color of faded jeans. Jet contrails seamed the blue, taking other people to some point far away. Martin walked wearily back to the house.
 
Lucy sat up in bed. The blankets were shoved against the footboard, but she was wrapped in a kimono. The glow inside her lit it up like a Japanese lantern.
"You upset him," she said, her voice cold.
He grabbed his wallet from the dresser, and started changing his clothes. "You know, he was already pissed. Something about being hit on the head while you were su—"
"No, I mean it." Her cold voice shattered with panic like ice in the sun. "He's going to hurt me, Martin. You promised you wouldn't let him hurt me."
"He's not going to hurt you." He pulled on clean pants.
"Where are you going?"
"Into town for a drink."
She grabbed the lamp on the bedside table and shoved it onto the floor. The base cracked. "Are you going to go see Kate? Are you going to go fuck Kate? Is that it, Martin?"
"I don't even like Kate," he said softly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, then pushed her gently onto the bed. "If it makes you any happier, I'll go to the IceHouse. Won't even see her."
"I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean that. It's just—"
"I know." Rising, he took their bank deposit bag from its hiding place and emptied the cash into his pocket. Then he took the rest of their bills and did the same.
She clutched at his sleeve. "You're running away! Omigod, Martin. You're going to catch the ferry and leave me. You can't do that."
"I just need time to think," he said.
He pried her fingers loose and left the house before he lost his nerve.
 
It was after midnight before he returned, driving down the long dirt driveway through the woods to their house. He was drunk. Two other trucks followed his. 
Lucy waited for him on the porch, in the papa-san chair, sitting directly under the one bright light. 
The trucks pulled up and parked beside him. Martin lifted the case of beer off the front seat and carried it over to the picnic table. "I'm going to go get some ice to keep this cold, guys," he shouted over his shoulder, staggering to the porch.
Doors slammed in the dark. "Ain't gonna last that long," a harsh voice said. A can popped open. The others laughed.
Lucy rose and pressed herself against the screen. Insects pinged against it, trying to reach her. Bats screeched through the air, feasting.
"Is that really you, Martin? Who are those men?"
"Just some guys who work, from the quarry," he said, his tongue thick in his mouth. "I ran into down at the Ice Cellar. They're good guys. We had a few, a few beers."
"What are they doing, Martin?"
"Shhh." His forefinger smashed his lips. "They're doing us a l'il favor."
Her nostrils flared. Her mouth flattened out in a ruby O against the screen as she strained to see what they were doing. She took a step toward the door and sank to her knees, too weak to go any further.
A stocky, bearded man walked stiffly over to the porch. "Howdy, Missus Van Wyk," he said, sounding a little more sober than Martin. "Your husband told us 'bout the problem with the water stagnating in the pumphouse, making you sick and all'a that. Well, this ought to take care of it."
"Can' tell you how much I 'preciate this," Martin said.
He grinned and patted a wad of bills in his shirt pocket. "You already did. Just remember, it wasn't us who did it."
As he turned and walked away, Lucy whispered, "What are—"
"It's self the fence," Martin slurred.
The bats veered suddenly from their random feeding and began to swoop and shriek at the quarry men. Martin stepped over, blocked Lucy's view. The bats flew with less purpose. The men finished their work and ran back towards their trucks a hundred and fifty feet away. One of them grabbed the beer.
Lucy scraped at the screen, making it sing, her face a mixture of anguish and hope. "He said we couldn't kill him. He said he could turn into—"
One man shouted something as she spoke, then a second, then the explosion, a sharp blast that was mostly dark, not at all like the movies, followed by the pebbled drum of debris pattering on the lake.
Someone whistled, a note of appreciation.
"That ought about do it," someone said, and the others laughed. They climbed back into their trucks and drove off into the night with their headlights off.
Martin and Lucy leaned against each other, not touching, the screen between them.
 
Nursing a hangover, having hardly slept at all, Martin walked up and down the shore at the first hint of dawn, searching for bones or other pieces of Pitr. He thought the gulls might come for them, the way they sometimes came for dead fish. But the gulls stayed way offshore and he found nothing.
Bill came over at sunrise. The island's sheriff and his only deputy arrived shortly after. Martin, prepared to confess everything, instead heard himself repeating the story about some guest injuring himself, with Bill corroborating. Telling them how they bricked in the pumphouse to be safe. Speculating that maybe there was some kind of gas build-up or something.
The sheriff and his deputy seemed pretty skeptical about that last part. They climbed all over the rocks, examining the pieces. The deputy waded down into the water's edge. The flat rock from the garden stood out among all the water-smoothed boulders. The deputy grabbed it, flipped it over. The rat's blood made a dark stain on the bottom.
Martin's heart stuck in his throat.
"Say, is Lucy feeling any better yet?" Bill asked.
"Her fever broke last night, after almost a week," Martin answered, his voice squeaking.
The deputy let go of the rock. It splashed into the water. "What's that? Mrs. Van Wyk's been sick?" 
Martin explained how sick she'd been, what a strain it had been on him, with no guests, not able to get out of the house. The sheriff and the deputy both liked Mrs. Van Wyk, appreciated the volunteer work she did for the island's Chamber of Commerce.
The sheriff's radio squawked. Some tourist had woken up on his yacht this morning missing his wallet and wanted to report it stolen. The two men left their regards for Lucy and headed back into town. 
The deputy's eyes stared at Martin from the rearview mirror as the car pulled away.
 
Lucy stood by the window, wearing a long dress, a sweater on top of that, with a blanket around her shoulders. A slight breeze ruffled the lace curtains, slowly twisting them. Martin pressed his hand to her forehead. Her temperature felt normal; the glow had dissipated.
"I destroyed the camera," he told her. "And all the other tapes. I patched up the hole beneath the stairs."
"I'll never be warm again, Martin."
"I'll keep you warm." He wrapped his arms around her. 
She turned her back against his touch. "I'll never be beautiful again," she whispered.
"You're lovely." He fastened his lips on the rim of her ear. "You're perfect."
She jerked her head away from his mouth. Outside, a remnant of oily mist layered the surface of the lake, tiny wisps that coalesced, refusing to burn away in the morning sun.
 
For Further Reading
compiled by Ross E. Lockhart
 
What follows is a selected bibliography of vampire fiction. This list focuses primarily on vampires in fantasy, science fiction, and horror novels published within the last thirty years or so, and largely ignores young adult, tie-in (Buffy, Angel, etc.), romance, and erotica titles, although some crossover is inevitable. This list also looks beyond the obvious origins of the vampire genre; if you're not already intimately familiar with John William Polidori's Lord Ruthven (The Vampyre, 1819), Sheridan Le Fanu's Carmilla (Carmilla, 1872), or Bram Stoker's Dracula (Dracula, 1897), then start there. Titles noteworthy for their high literary value are marked with an asterisk. 
 
To learn more about the stories in By Blood We Live, visit the anthology's website at johnjosephadams.com/by-blood-we-live.
Acevedo, Mario
—The Nymphos of Rocky Flats (et seq.)
Aldiss, Brian W.
—Dracula Unbound
Altman, Steven Elliot
—Zen in the Art of Slaying Vampires
Andersson, C. Dean
—I Am Dracula
Armstrong, F. W. 
—Devouring
Armstrong, Kelley
—Bitten (Women of the Otherworld) (et seq.)
Arthur, Keri
—Full Moon Rising (et seq.)
Aycliffe, Jonathan
—The Lost
Baker, Scott
—Ancestral Hungers
—Dhampire
Banks, L. A.
—Minion (The Vampire Huntress Legend) (et seq.)
Barbeau, Adrienne and Michael Scott
—Vampyres of Hollywood
Bellamy, Dodie
—The Letters of Mina Harker
Bennett, Nigel and P. N. Elrod
—His Father's Son
Bergstrom, Elaine
—Shattered Glass (et seq.)
—Mina (as Marie Kiraly)
—Blood to Blood: The Dracula Story (as Marie Kiraly)
Bishop, David
—Operation Vampyr (et seq.)
Bledsoe, Alex
—Blood Groove
Bodner, Hal
—Bite Club
Bradbury, Ray
—From the Dust Returned *
Brand, Rebecca
(see also Charnas, Suzy McKee)
—The Ruby Tear
Briggs, Patricia
—Blood Bound (et seq.)
Brite, Poppy Z.
—Lost Souls
Butcher, Jim
—Storm Front (The Dresden Files) (et seq.)
Butler, Octavia
—Fledgling *
Cacek, P. D.
—Night Players
—Night Prayers
Cecilione, Michael
—Thirst
Charnas, Suzy McKee
(see also Brand, Rebecca)
—Stagestruck Vampires and
Other Phantasms
—The Vampire Tapestry
Clark, Simon
—Vampyrrhic
Clegg, Douglas
—The Priest of Blood (The Vampyricon)
Conner, Michael
—Arkangel
Curtin, Joseph
—Daughters of the Moon
Davidson, MaryJanice
—Undead and Unwed (et seq.)
Dedman, Stephen
—Shadows Bite Del Toro, Guillermo and Chuck Hogan
—The Strain (et seq.)
Dietz, Ulysses G.
—Desmond
Doherty, Robert
—Area 51: Nosferatu
Due, Tananarive
—My Soul to Keep (et seq.)
Elrod, P. N. 
—Quincy Morris, Vampire
—Bloodlist (et seq.)
—Red Death (et seq.)
Farmer, Philip Jose
—Image of the Beast *
Farren, Mick 
—Darklost (et seq.)
Ford, John M.
—Dragon Waiting: A Masque of History
Fox, Andrew
—Fat White Vampire Blues (et seq.)
Friedman, C. S. 
—The Madness Season
—Black Sun Rising (et seq.)
Garton, Ray
—Live Girls
Golden Christopher
—Of Saints and Shadows (et seq.)
Gunn, Derek
—Vampire Apocalypse: A World Torn Asunder (et seq.)
Hambly, Barbara
—Those Who Hunt the Night
—Traveling With the Dead
—Renfield
Hamilton, Laurell K. 
—Guilty Pleasures (Anita Blake Vampire Hunter) (et seq.)
Harris, Charlaine
—Dead Until Dark (Southern Vampire) (et seq.)
Harris, Narrelle M.
—The Opposite of Life
Harrison, Kim
—Dead Witch Walking (The Hollows) (et seq.)
Hawkins, Kerri 
—Blood Legacy: The Novel
Hendee, Barb and J. C. Hendee
—Dhampir (et seq.)
—In Shade and Shadow (et seq.)
Hudson, Charlie
—Already Dead (et seq.)
Huff, Tanya
—Blood Price (et seq.)
Jefferson, Jemiah
—Voice of the Blood 
—Wounds
—Fiend
Jewell, Elizabeth
—Dark Callings: Bloodlines
Jones, Matt R.
—Hollywood Vampires: UnholyWar (et seq.)
Kenyon, Sherrilyn
—Fantasy Lover (Dark Hunter) (et seq.)
Kiernan, Caitlín R.
—The Five of Cups
Killough, Lee
—Blood Hunt (et seq.)
Kilpatrick, Nancy
—Child of the Night (Power of the Blood) (et seq.)
King, Stephen
—'Salem's Lot *
Knight, E. E.
—Way of the Wolf (Vampire Earth) (et seq.)
Kohler, Karen
—Slayer (et seq.)
Kostova, Elizabeth
—The Historian *
Kupfer, Allen C. 
—The Journal of Professor Abraham Van Helsing
Lash, Batton
—The Vampire Brat
Laws, Stephen
—Fear Me
Laymon, Richard
—Bite
—The Traveling Vampire Show
Lee, Tanith
—Dark Dance (Blood Opera) (et seq.)
—Vivia
—Sabella
—The Blood of Roses
Lindqvist, John Ajvide
—Låt Den Rätte Komma In (Let the Right One In) *
Lumley, Brian
—Necroscope (et seq.)
—Vampire World I: Blood Brothers (et seq.)
Lukyanenko, Sergei
—Night Watch (et seq.)
Marks, John
—Fangland
Martin, George R. R. 
—Fevre Dream *
Martinez, A. Lee
—Gil's All Fright Diner
Matheson, Richard
—I Am Legend *
McCammon, Robert
—They Thirst
McKinley, Robin
—Sunshine
McMullen, Sean
—Voyage of the Shadowmoon
—Glass Dragons
Mellick, Carlton, III
—The Faggiest Vampire
Merz, Jon F.
—The Fixer (et seq.)
Meyer, Stephenie
—Twilight (et seq.)
Mitchell, Mary Ann
—Sips of Blood (et seq.)
Moore, Christopher
—Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story (et seq.)
Mosiman, Billie Sue
—Red Moon Rising
—Malachi's Moon
—Craven Moon
Navarro, Yvonne
—AfterAge
Newman, Kim
—Anno Dracula (et seq.)
Powers, Tim
—The Stress of Her Regard (et seq.)*
Pratchett, Terry
—Carpe Jugulum
Resnick, Mike
—Stalking the Vampire
Rice, Anne
—Interview with the Vampire (et seq.) *
Romkey, Michael
—I, Vampire (et seq.)
—The Vampire's Violin
—American Gothic
Rusch, Kristine Kathryn
—Sins of the Blood
Saberhagen, Fred
—The Dracula Tape (et seq.)
Schiefelbein, Michael
—Vampire Vow (et seq.)
Shepard, Lucius
—The Golden
Simmons, Wm. Mark
—One Foot in the Grave
—Dead on My Feet
—Habeas Corpses
Smith-Ready, Jeri
—Wicked Game
Stableford, Brian
—Sherlock Holmes and the Vampires of Eternity
—The Hunger and Ecstasy of Vampires
—The Empire of Fear
—Young Blood
Steakley, John
—Vampire$
Strieber, Whitley
—The Hunger (et seq.) *
Taylor, Karen E.
—Blood Secrets (et seq.)
Thompson, James M.
—Night Blood (et seq.)
Thurlo, David and Aimee Thurlo
—Second Sunrise (et seq.)
Thurman, Rob
—Nightlife
—Moonshine
Waggoner, Tim
—Necropolis
Watts, Peter
—Blindsight
Wellington, David
—13 Bullets
—99 Coffins
—Vampire Zero
—23 Hours
Wilson, Colin
—The Space Vampires
Wilson, F. Paul
—The Keep
—Midnight Mass
Wright, T. M.
—The Last Vampire
Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn
—Hôtel Transylvania (et seq.)
—A Flame in Byzantium (et seq.)
—Out of the House of Life (et seq.)
—The Angry Angel (et seq.)

Acknowledgments
Many thanks to the following:
Jeremy Lassen and Jason Williams at Night Shade Books, for letting me edit all these anthologies and for doing such a kick-ass job publishing them. Also, to Ross Lockhart at Night Shade for all that he does behind-the-scenes, and to Marty Halpern for catching all my tyops.
David Palumbo, for another amazing cover. I fear I'm being spoiled.
Gordon Van Gelder: he gave me my start in the business, so if we were vampires, I guess that would make him my sire or master. Or something. Too bad this editing gig doesn't come with eternal life. On the plus side, it hasn't turned me into a living corpse.
My agent Jenny Rappaport, who exsanguinates me of 15% of my earnings but helps grant me (literary) immortality.
Rebecca McNulty, for helping me sort through tome after tome of vampire fiction and for providing me a highly valuable second opinion when needed.
David Barr Kirtley for helping me kill those header note demons. Visit his website at www.davidbarrkirtley.com and read some of his fabulous stories, why don't you.
Kris Dikeman, Jordan Hamessley, and Jeremiah Tolbert for various kinds of behind-the-scenes assistance.
My mom, for keeping me away from bloodsuckers when I was young. 
All of the other kindly folks who assisted me in some way during the editorial process: Manie Barron, Deborah Beale, Blake Charlton, Mickey Choate, Douglas E. Cohen, Ellen Datlow, Gary A. Emenitove, Jennifer Escott, Amelia Greene, Elizabeth Harding, Merrilee Heifetz, Del Howison, Jay Lake, Paul Lucas, Gail Martin, Henry Morrison, James Morrow, Allison Rich, Irina Roberts, Betty Russo, Bill Schafer, Darrell Schweitzer, Steven Silver, Kevin Standlee, Jonathan Strahan, Charles A. Tan, everyone who dropped suggestions into my vampire fiction database, and to everyone else who helped out in some way that I neglected to mention (and to you folks, I apologize!).
The NYC Geek Posse—consisting of Robert Bland, Christopher M. Cevasco, (Doug Cohen and Jordan Hamessley belong here too, but I thanked them above, and once is enough, isn't it?), Andrea Kail, David Barr Kirtley, and Matt London, among others (i.e., the NYCGP Auxiliary)—for giving me an excuse to come out of my editorial cave once in a while.
The readers and reviewers who loved my other anthologies, making it possible for me to do more.
And last, but certainly not least: a big thanks to all of the authors who appear in this anthology.
 
About The Author

John Joseph Adams is the editor of the anthologies By Blood We Live, Federations, The Living Dead, Seeds of Change, and Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse. Forthcoming work includes the anthologies Brave New Worlds, The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Living Dead 2, The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination, and The Way of the Wizard. He is also the assistant editor at The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. 
He is a columnist for Tor.com and has written reviews for Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, and Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show. His non-fiction has also appeared in: Amazing Stories, The Internet Review of Science Fiction, Locus Magazine, Novel & Short Story Writers Market, Science Fiction Weekly, SCI FI Wire, Shimmer, Strange Horizons, Subterranean Magazine, and Writer's Digest.
He received his Bachelor of Arts degree in English from The University of Central Florida in December 2000. He currently lives in New Jersey. For more information, visit his website at www.johnjosephadams.com.