Blood Lite

by Jim Butcher

  And that's what I was doing the morning after the police found the sixth victim's bones: listening to the news on the radio while I mopped the floor of the lobby.

  I was relieved when Olga Krasny from 8A came in the front door. Olga worked the night shift as a nurse, and from what I heard on the radio, all the serial killer's victims either worked or went to school at night. Each victim except the first had been taken the night after bones from the previous victim were found, which meant another victim would have been taken last night.

  "Hey, Mr. Ahsani," said Olga, "my kitchen faucet has the leaky again."

  If I were a vampire or werewolf, the moment would have been filled with sexual tension. Olga would be a slinky Swedish nurse rather than a stout Ukranian one, and "my kitchen faucet has the leaky" would be a euphemism for passion and desire.

  "I'll come take a look when I finish here," I said. In this case, a leaky faucet was just a leaky faucet. With forty-eight apartments in the building, something was always breaking somewhere. Vampires and werewolves, I was fairly certain, didn't mop floors or fix faucets.

  To my surprise, Olga's kitchen faucet did not, in fact, have "the leaky." But she wasn't trying to seduce me—she was merely wrong about the source of the leak. The water was coming through the wall under the sink from the kitchen of apartment 8B.

  I knocked on the door of 8B and waited for Harvey Tanner to respond. Harvey seemed like a nice, quiet young man—which is always how the neighbors of serial killers inevitably describe them on TV after they are arrested. That didn't mean anything, of course. My neighbors would probably describe me the same way, and I had never killed anyone.

  I knocked a couple more times, but there was still no answer. Under the lease agreement, an ongoing water leak was sufficient reason for me to use my master key and enter without the renter's permission. So I did.

  As I got to the kitchen, I could smell the faint but tasty aroma of rotting human flesh. I might not have enhanced senses like a vampire or werewolf, but my ghoulish nose was pretty good at sniffing out potential food.

  I wondered for a moment if maybe Harvey had died somehow, but then I remembered I had seen him yesterday, and what I smelled was more decayed than would happen in less than twenty-four hours.

  I walked over to the sink and opened the cupboard doors so I could access the water shutoff valve. I turned off the water to stop the leak, and that's when I spotted the scraps on the floor—three strips, each about an inch long and a quarter of an inch wide, slightly rounded, like cheese that had been through a grater. I sniffed at the scraps.

  They were not cheese, but they were quite tasty. Maybe Harvey had accidentally grated bits of himself while cooking dinner, but I had my doubts. Unfortunately, I didn't think about the fact that those scraps might be evidence until after I ate them.

  I burped and considered what to do next. I couldn't call the police without any evidence, so I decided to see if Harvey had any skeletons in his closet. Literally.

  All the apartments in the building have two bedrooms. Harvey lived alone, so I wondered what he used the extra bedroom for. I opened the door.

  The room's windows were covered so that no light came in from outside. I flicked the light switch and was startled to see a young woman, gagged and tied to a folding metal chair, in the middle of the room.

  She swung her head up to look at me, her eyes wild with panic.

  Then someone grabbed me from behind and shoved a chemical-smelling cloth over my mouth and nose.

  One of the more ridiculous myths about ghouls is that we are undead creatures. Just because we hang out around graveyards a lot doesn't mean we're undead. We're merely going where the food is. Would you assume someone was Italian just because he hangs out around a pizza parlor?

  Of course, in this case, the disadvantage of not being undead was that after struggling to breathe, I sank into unconsciousness.

  When I came to, I found myself in the same room, sitting on a chair. A piece of towel had been stuffed into my mouth, held in place by more cloth tied around my head, and I had to work hard to keep myself from gagging on the gag. My wrists were bound tightly together behind the back of the chair, and my feet were tied quite thoroughly to the bottom.

  The young woman was watching me from her chair. It would be hard for me to free myself without showing my true nature, and I was afraid that might freak her out. On the other hand, she had been kidnapped by a serial killer, so how much more freaked-out could she get?

  I want to make it clear that just because I can transform myself into a hyena does not mean I am a "werehyena." We ghouls have a long and proud tradition of being able to morph into hyenas. (You can look that up on Wikipedia, although the article is inaccurate in many other respects.) And unlike lycanthropes, we're not infectious. I really don't understand what the werewolves have to be proud about. Anyone can become a werewolf, just by being bitten by one. Essentially, lycanthropy spreads like rabies. We ghouls, on the other hand, reproduce in the normal human fashion. My family can trace its lineage back to the ancient Persian Empire.

  In all modesty, though, the ability to become a hyena isn't very impressive. It's useful for feeding, because those hyena jaws are strong enough to bite through bone, but hyenas really don't get a lot of respect. Take The Lion King, for example: The hyenas don't even get to be the real villains, merely minions for an evil lion. Thus Hollywood continues to perpetuate the stereotype that carrion eaters are of lower status than predators.

  After a few minutes of struggling with my ropes, I decided that transforming was my only option. I could only hope that if the young woman told anyone about my ability, they would attribute her story to hysteria.

  I shape-shifted into my hyena form. Since it was smaller than my human form, the ropes loosened as I transformed. As soon as I was free, I changed back to human.

  From behind her gag, the young woman made a half-choking cough of incredulity.

  I knelt by her chair and set to work untying her. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of here."

  Before I finished, the door opened. I rose to my feet and turned to find Harvey pointing a gun at me.

  If there was one thing that the PR about vampires and werewolves was not overhyping, it was their magical resistance to harm. I envied that. It wouldn't take a wooden stake through the heart or a silver bullet to kill me: plain old lead bullets would do the trick. I raised my hands in surrender.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Ahsani," Harvey said, "but I couldn't have you running to the police. People might get the wrong impression."

  "People already have the wrong impression," I said. "They're calling you a ghoul when you're actually a serial killer. It's very bad PR for—"

  "I'm a vampire hunter, not a serial killer," said Harvey, still pointing the gun at me.

  "What?" I said.

  He motioned with his gun toward the girl. "Go ahead, check her pulse."

  I put my fingers to her throat. There was no heartbeat, and her skin felt cool to the touch. "You really are a vampire," I said.

  She glared at me. "So what? You're a—"

  I stuffed the gag back into her mouth. "So why haven't you killed her yet?" I said as I backed away from her, which took me closer to Harvey and the door.

  "I don't want the meat to go bad," he said. "It's much better when you slice it off fresh."

  I didn't bother to express my disagreement verbally. There's no accounting for taste.

  "Fortunately," he said, "vampires stay alive a lot longer than humans after you start cutting chunks off them."

  "How do they taste?" I asked.

  He smiled. "Much better than chicken."

  For a moment, as I stood next to Harvey and we both looked at the vampire, I thought he and I could come to a culinary arrangement. I could eat the bones for him, at the very least. I guess the serial killer mentality made him taunt the police by leaving the bones lying around for people to find, but it really wasn't very smart.

  However, before I could say a
nything, he added, "Vampire flesh isn't really human anymore, so it's not like I'm a ghoul."

  Being looked down on by a serial killer was the straw that broke this ghoul's back. In one smooth motion I transformed my head into my hyena form and tore out Harvey's throat.

  Hey, we may not be hunters, but that doesn't mean we're not dangerous when provoked.

  After I untied her, the vampire and I looked down at Harvey's body.

  "I suppose I should call the police or something," I said, "and let them know the serial killer is dead."

  "Are you kidding?" said the vampire. "Let's just leave him and get out of here."

  If I left the body for a few days, sealed up in this room, it would get nice and ripe. And unlike my usual food, it wouldn't taste of formaldehyde. My mouth watered just imagining the meal. "Let's go," I said.

  As we got to the living room, she grabbed my hand and pulled me close. My heart beat faster.

  "I've heard that werewolves are the greatest lovers in the world," she said.

  I was about to express my annoyance at yet another example of good werewolf PR when I realized what she was implying. And despite being so dumb she couldn't tell a hyena from a wolf, she was very good-looking. "Yes," I said as I embraced her. "Yes, we are."

  Where Angels Fear to Tread

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  "From humble beginnings come great things." Zeke Jacob-son rolled his eyes as he read the strip of paper he'd just fished out of his broken fortune cookie. "Well, you can't get more humble than me," he muttered before the phone rang.

  His stomach clenching in dread of the latest complaint, he picked up the receiver and glanced around his pale gray cube walls where he spent an average of fifty hours a week. There were times when he swore he could hear his life ticking away with every swipe of the second hand on the Transformers clock he'd inherited from his older brother. Optimus Prime stared at him from his perch next to Zeke's drab gray monitor.

  "Good afternoon. Taylor Transportation. Claims Division. Zeke speaking. How may I help you?" The worst part of the job ... he sometimes heard those words even in his sleep.

  The irate woman on the other end laid into him over the fact that he'd rejected her dubious claim that their delivery truck had mowed down her mailbox and kept going. If she'd spoken to the driver the way she was speaking to him, she was lucky the driver hadn't mowed her down first.

  Her voice held that high-pitched, nasal quality that went down a man's spine like a shredder. "You're a pathetic idiot if you don't believe your driver did that."

  Zeke didn't speak as she continued shrieking at him.

  And for the glorious honor of being bitched at constantly and the esteemed title of Claims Investigator, he'd given up five years of his life as he went to college, created a debt his great-grandkids would curse him over, and got the holy honor of MBA. More Bullshit Allowed. Unlike his more intelligent counterparts, he'd actually studied and graduated with honors, thinking he'd have a bright future ...

  Yeah, this was his life and he hated every minute of it.

  Well, not every minute. But enough that he dreaded what more wondrous developments the future would hold.

  You know, as a kid, I just didn't see this one coming.

  When he'd dreamed of his future, never once had he seen himself sitting in a cube ten hours a day having people yell at him while he glibly took it for fear of losing his thirty-thousand-a-year salary.

  The highlights of his life? Drinking beer and playing basketball on the weekends with his friends.

  Damn, the woman's right. I am apathetic idiot.

  "Are you even listening to me?" she droned.

  "Yes, ma'am. I understand what you're saying. But

  Where Angels Fear to Tread • 239

  there's no evidence that our driver did that. I have a sworn statement from him that he didn't hit the mailbox."

  "Fuck you, you stupid bastard!"

  "Yes, ma'am. You have a good day, too."

  She slammed the phone down hard enough for it to ring in his ear.

  Zeke sighed before he put his head to his laminated desk and beat it against the cold, granite-look finish. Maybe I'll get a concussion ...

  The phone rang again.

  He lifted his head to glare at Optimus Prime. It was only eleven in the morning. Was it too much to ask for one little brain aneurysm? Just one.

  His stomach churning, he picked the phone up and repeated his work litany.

  "Am I speaking to Ezekiel Malachi Jacobson?"

  Zeke cringed at the name with which his grandfather, a devout Baptist preacher, had cursed him, the only grandson, at birth. God, how he hated hearing all that said at once. It was a name that had gotten his ass kicked on many an occasion at school. It had even caused one college roommate to move out of his dorm room before he arrived.

  "That would be me." God, don't let this be someone I owe money to.

  "My name is Robert West. I'm the attorney for your granduncle Michael Jacobson."

  "Who?"

  "He was your grandfather's youngest brother."

  That was weird. He'd thought all of those relatives were long gone.

  "I'm sad to say that your granduncle passed away a few weeks ago and named me as the executor of his will. Since he wasn't married and didn't have children, he's left everything to you."

  "To me? What about my sister?"

  "He only named you."

  Oooo-kay . . . Zeke listened as the lawyer gave him more details.

  "Can you imagine how lonely he must have been?" ,

  Zeke paused at his sister Mary's question. At five ten, she was only a couple of inches shorter than him. And like him, she had straight black hair and creepy topaz-colored eyes that their grandmother used to call "the devil's gold." He indicated the brass bed behind her that was covered with an old-fashioned quilt. "Yeah. The lawyer said he died in his bed. Three days before anyone found the body."

  She jumped away from the footboard and scowled at him. "Ew! Thanks, Zeke. You're such a sick bastard."

  "Apparently so, since that's all anyone ever says to me."

  She ruffled his hair. "Oh, poor baby. We have to find you a better job one day."

  "Never happen, sis. I sold my soul to the devil for thirty thou a year." Zeke glanced around the room, which was covered in ancient artifacts from Egypt, Persia and other cultures at which he could only guess.

  "What was it Grandpa used to say? 'You may pawn your soul to the devil, but the good Lord will always bail you out'?"

  "Something like that."

  She paused at the desk by the door before she picked something up to look at it. "What's this?"

  Zeke moved to peer over her shoulder. It was a round medallion with what appeared to be an angel and serpent fighting. There was some old-timey script that he couldn't read. "Looks like one of those things from a horror movie that someone uses to summon a demon or something."

  She snorted. " 'Back, Manitou, back.' Do you remember that old movie?"

  "I remember you making me watch it, then telling Mom it had a naked woman in it and getting my ass busted because of it."

  Mary gave him a sheepish grin. "Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything." She handed him the medallion. "Maybe you should chant something over it."

  "O great Manitou, I want another life. Something completely different than this one."

  "Wouldn't it be freaky if the two of us exchanged places? You'd have to go home to my house and make out with Duncan."

  Zeke covered his ears with his hands in mock horror. "Ah gah Eye bleach. Don't put that shit in my head. You're my sister, for Pete's sake. Now I'm going to have to beat your husband the next time I see him for defiling you." He cringed. "I'd rather be at work."

  "Oh, pooh. You always overreact to everything."

  "So not true. Trust me. I live a life where people scream at me on an hourly basis and I take it without raising anything more than an ulcer."

  She pressed the medallion to his ches
t. "One day, your life will change."

  "Yeah." He took the medallion as she walked back toward the living room. "One day I'll also be in a pine box, six feet under." He followed her out of the bedroom and had to admit their granduncle was a weird old man. "The lawyer said Gramps here spent his younger years as an archaeologist and the last few decades as a total recluse."

  Mary nodded as she scanned the bookshelves and tables, which were littered with even more artifacts. "It looks like he spent a lot of time bringing that stuff home. You could probably make a killing on eBay."

  Zeke didn't really hear her as his attention was taken over by an odd coin that was partially covered on the coffee table. Frowning, he walked over to it. Bright and shiny, it looked brand-new and yet the markings on it appeared as ancient as everything else.

  More than that, it actually felt warm to the touch. "What do you think this is?"

  Mary shrugged. "More junk."

  Maybe. Then again, a strange sensation went over him. "You think any of this crap could be possessed?"

  "No. I think you're possessed of the spirit of creepiness. Put that down and let's go get dinner. This place makes me depressed."

  Zeke nodded. He reached out to drop it, but couldn't make himself let go. It was as if the coin somehow called out to him. Whispered to him.

  And before he knew what he was doing, he put it in his pocket and followed Mary out to her car.

  You have been chosen ...

  Zeke looked up from his meat loaf sandwich in the cozy diner they'd found to see Mary chowing down on her burger. "What did you say?"

  She swallowed before she spoke. "Nothing. I'm eating."

  You have been chosen ...

  "You're not funny, Mary. Stop that."

  "Stop what?"

  "Throwing your voice."

  "I'm not throwing my voice, but if you don't stop irritating me, I might be throwing a fry at your head."