Vampire's Dilemma

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  She smiled proudly. “I can believe it.”

  He was prouder. “I showed all of them. I did make it. There’s no one better than me at what I do. It was why a European bank hired me to start up an office in New York—because they know I can crack the Big Apple for them. Everyone in the market knows it. The bonuses, the cars, the loft apartment—all mine, and you know what?”

  “Tell me?”

  He shrugged. “It’s all hollow. Who else do I have to prove myself to? Me? I know I’m good. My family? They’re all dead, and from what you tell me, there’s nothing after that to make it worth working thirty years with people I hate. For what? A trophy wife with ambitions to be a rich widow and a place in the Hamptons balanced by the occasional Mass on Sundays.”

  “So you want to become a vampire?” She raised her hand to stroke his cheek, but dropped it when the re-opened wounds started bleeding again. “You’re sure?”

  He looked at them and nodded. “I want to be with you. You make me feel alive, more alive than closing the toughest sale. I like feeling alive and you make me feel alive. You’re more alive than any woman I’ve ever met.”

  Her smile became wry. “And you’ve met a few?”

  His meshed wry and proud to get close to smug. “The number is not small.”

  Which produced the same reaction in her. “And you still want me, a vampire you barely know.”

  He faced her like the chosen fate she was. “I know people, none better. It’s how I work. What they say, how they act, what they do, all of it gives away who they are. You’re the woman I want to be with, and I don’t want to make you watch me die slowly every day we’re together.”

  And Fran met him all the way. “I don’t want to watch that again, either. I can, if you wanted to stay human, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper companion to share the moonlight with.”

  “Moonlight, stars, homicidal twins, the whole nine yards—I want all of it. I want to work this, and I’ve decided I’m gonna be like you—I’m not gonna wear fur.” He grinned. “It’s not my style. You can show me how to do that.”

  “I can.” She looked deeply into his eyes and said softly, “And I will. But the change takes time and care if it is to be done properly.”

  “Done properly is good.”

  “And we should be away from this city before the sun rises and before Carla awakes.” She sighed. “She’ll come looking for us, I know it—the poor child.”

  He shrugged. “I kinda figured that was the position.”

  “I couldn’t kill her.” She sniffed back a tear. “I can’t kill her; she was me once. I’m sorry.”

  Matt stroked her hair. “You wouldn’t be the woman I want to spend eternity with if you could.”

  Fran looked worried. “We’ll have to be other people for maybe a couple of lifetimes, to give her time to cast off his conditioning. Do you think you can deal with that?”

  He felt determined. “I’m gonna be a different person soon, aren’t I?”

  She stroked his cheek with the gentle touch of loss and said simply, “Yes.”

  He committed. “If I’ve got you, I can live with it, or well…you know what I mean.”

  Fran smiled. “I do.”

  Matt couldn’t help taking her wounded hands in his. “And we’re sitting on the roof of a cathedral and, as I doubt the church will change its position on marrying practicing vampires any time this millennium, this might be the closest we get to tying the knot, I do, too.”

  She gripped his hands through the pain. “There’s always Las Vegas.”

  “No way.” He grinned. “You and me, babe, we’re gonna be epic.”

  Fran teased back. “OK, so I can see how the Elvises might detract from that.”

  Matt smirked. “You know it.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And hey, we’ve got eternity to decide on the venue.”

  He snatched a kiss. “The honeymoon should take precedence.”

  She returned it with interest. “I like a man with a firm set of priorities.”

  Matt winked. “Very firm.”

  “We’ll get new passports in Switzerland while we transfer the gold holdings into somewhere only we know the details of. I know a few people.” She tilted her head, pondering, “How does Matteo and Francesca sound?”

  He couldn’t help quirking his lips as the irony that his grandfather would get what he always wanted—his grandson with the Italian spelling of his name. “Sounds good, baby.” Matt’s practical side approved too. “No better place to hide than in plain sight.”

  She tilted her head in thought. “Dantesque…almost, in the poetics.”

  And it made him kiss her again. “Which could be worse.”

  She looked at the fallen statue. “Well maybe not the whole trip through purgatory, damned to hell thing.”

  Matt nodded. “True.”

  Fran stood it upright again. “But we’d be together.”

  He put his arm round her and they walked to the exit from the roof. “Equally true.”

  They had made it halfway down the stairs before she told him, “It’s still poetic.”

  It was back on terra firma and most of the way across the great piazza before he had enough breath to tell her, “And way more romantic than Matt and Fran.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Way more. So you’re not sorry you met me?”

  He knew they had a long night still ahead of them, a very long night he hoped, and a long trip drive to Switzerland even after picking up his passport and his favorite toys from the hotel. But Matt was compelled to stand her there in the spotlights and tell her firmly, “Never.”

  She reached up to him and asked. “You wouldn’t sell me in a heartbeat?”

  He shook his head. “Never. You, my love, are a most definite hold.” Then Matt kissed her like he was never going to stop and after all, why not, they had eternity.

  About Ellie Fleming

  Ellie Fleming is fascinated by the possibilities opened up by the vampire genre to explore people, place and history. She has been writing down her fiction for the last three years, though she has been composing it all her life, and writing works of non-fiction all her professional life. Ellie has lived, worked and travelled widely across the world and finds that experience invaluable in her writing, in taking her characters on journeys both sweeping and specific. She has written a wide range of fiction from broad comedy through action-adventure and romance to tragedy in a variety of fictional worlds. Ellie has been itching to build onto that experience to allow her own characters to live and breathe, so she has decided to do exactly that.

  THEY SHALL TAKE UP SERPENTS, by Elsa Frohman

  “And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.

  “So then after the Lord has spoken unto them, he was received up into heaven, and set on the right hand of God. And they went forth, and preached everywhere, the Lord working with them, and confirming the word with signs following.”

  —Mark 16:17-20

  “Behold, I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over the power of the enemy: and nothing by any means shall hurt you.”

  —Luke 10:19

  Part I: Signs Following

  The walls of the tent snapped in the wind as the storm screamed down from the ridge. Brother Bob Blossom leaned against a tent pole beneath the flickering light of a kerosene lantern and berated himself for not having the boys strike the tent and load it before sundown. He should have known this squall was coming. He’d been traveling these hollers and mountains too long to miss the signs.

  He was still a handsome man. They used to call him baby-faced, and even now, after decades of living harder than he let on, he still looked younger than his 49 years. His belly hung over his belt just a little, and the skin was loos
e under his intensely blue eyes. But those eyes could still mesmerize, and he could still preach and call down hellfire. He could whip up a meeting until half the congregation was speaking in tongues, and he could still stand up in front of a revival talking Jesus, but every mind would be thinking Bob. The women would be wondering if they could meet him later for a little private counseling, and the men would be wishing their women looked at them that way.

  He felt the central pole shudder as the tent fended off each new onslaught from the gale. The wind moaned in tongues no man could understand. Brother Bob listened, looking for some sense in the tirade, but there was nothing there to grasp. The gale was like a woman, berating and nagging, screaming and accusing.

  Times were hard. The collections were leaner each day. Even when he bellowed, “Cast your bread out onto the waters and it will come back tenfold—TENFOLD, brothers and sisters,” he was still getting back a basket of nickels and dimes. The people who came to his revival meetings were hungry. He saw it in their empty eyes, their deeply-lined faces and the gray shade of their skin.

  He listened to the empty howl of the wind wrapping itself around his tent like a great serpent—like one of those anaconda snakes he’d read about. What a grand serpent that would be. He could just imagine the looks he’d get if he brought out a snake that took three men just to hold it up off the ground.

  He giggled. Wouldn’t that just take the rag off the bush—a snake longer than a man is tall and thicker than a man’s leg. That’d loosen up their purse strings, wouldn’t it?

  He knew he should get back to his trailer, but he wasn’t all that steady on his feet, and the thought of stepping out into the wind kept him clinging to a tent pole, unwilling to attempt the walk to his bed. Shouldn’t have drunk that last jar of white lightning, he told himself. Wouldn’t do to have folks see him shit-faced and staggering

  The liquor was still burning in his throat. It was liquid fire—the fire of oblivion, fire that ran down into his belly and rose up to his head to turn memory to ash. When the liquor was good, it burned him and cleansed him and put him out of his misery. Tonight, he could still taste it in the back of his mouth, and truth be told, he wanted more; he could still remember his name, so he wasn’t half drunk enough.

  “And if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them,” he mumbled. But moonshine wasn’t really a deadly thing, was it? Didn’t prove a thing.

  The sound of tearing canvas split the air, and a gust of wind invaded the tent from above. It plucked at Bob’s plain, homespun shirt and ruffled his dark blond hair.

  Another blast of air came in through the tear carrying the scent of approaching rain and despair. The temperature was dropping as the storm ushered in a cold front. Bob shivered and wrapped his arms around himself.

  A peal of thunder rolled down the holler followed by a searing flash of lightning. The tent lit up for a moment, revealing the straw underfoot, the wooden tent poles, the low platform he called his altar, the wood and chicken wire cage that held the snakes, and the sea of wooden folding chairs. In that moment of electrical clarity, he could have sworn the snakes had raised their heads to stare at him. He’d seen their eyes, tiny pinpricks of focused malice, through the wire of the cage. A dagger of fear ran him through, but he shook it off.

  He blinked and shook his head. The moonshine was messing with him, and he knew it. Rattlers, cottonmouths and copperheads—dumb animals—that’s all they were.

  Another crash of thunder and Bob found himself counting off the seconds before the flash. It was coming closer—coming for him. He shook that off as well. The storm was no more intelligent than the snakes. It was just weather. God didn’t send retribution in lightning bolts or angels wielding flaming swords. There was more retribution in the liquid white lightning than the storm.

  The thunder sounded again and this time the flash was all but simultaneous. In the split second of illumination, he saw a figure silhouetted in the entrance of the tent—a man, tall and gaunt, dressed in the same shabby denim and homespun as any of the hard-scrabble farmers Brother Bob preached to every night.

  Brother Bob drew himself up and prepared to hide his inebriated condition as well as he could. He turned to where he’d glimpsed the newcomer.

  “Can I do something for you, brother?” he asked, slurring the words only a little bit.

  There was only silence in reply. Another gust of wind extinguished the lantern, and Brother Bob found himself in the dark.

  “Speak up, friend. The Lord is with you,” Bob called out.

  He waited a moment, hearing only the howl of the wind and snap of the canvas. Then he shrugged. If his visitor was a farmer asking for prayers to make the crop come in this year, or to ease his wife’s childbirth, or make the price of tobacco rise, then he’d have to show himself. If he was some desperate fool come to rob the collection, then he was going to have a sad surprise when he found the tin box.

  Bob started to stumble toward the opening. Time to pack it in, even if he did have to make his way through the wind and rain to get back to his bed. If the farmer wanted to talk to him, let him speak up. Otherwise, Bob was done for the night.

  Bob staggered forward and bumped into a chair, knocking it out of line with the rest in that row with a clatter, and all but falling on his face.

  “Careful,” said a low voice next to his ear.

  Bob straightened up abruptly and looked around. He couldn’t see anything but the dim square that was the entrance of the tent.

  “Where are you?” he called out.

  The reply was silence.

  “Show yourself, brother, or leave me the hell alone!”

  Bob froze in place and tried to separate the sound of the storm outside from the sounds inside the tent.

  “Speak up, brother. The Lord welcomes you to His house. Be a good guest, friend, and answer Him.”

  Bob spun as the stranger, standing behind him, struck a match. The yellow light flared and Bob smelled sulfur. He squinted against the sudden brightness to see the gaunt man relighting the lantern.

  “Well, there you be, brother,” Bob said as affably as he could manage, though his knees were shaking. “Y’all make yourself at home. The Lord welcomes you.”

  The stranger raised an eyebrow. “The Lord or just you?”

  Bob looked at the man with growing suspicion. He was, as the first glimpse had indicated, tall and unnaturally thin. But he wasn’t a grizzled farmer, even if he wore the rough shirt and denim jeans of a tobacco sharecropper. His skin was smooth and pale and the long, narrow fingers of his almost delicate hands were uncalloused. And he spoke with a soft, cultured accent—maybe English—come to think of it. He certainly didn’t talk like the illiterate yokels in these parts. This was a city slicker if Bob had ever seen one. His hair was too long for a man and tied with a black ribbon at the nape of his neck, and his eyes were shaded in deep sockets that hid their intention.

  “The Lord speaks through me, brother,” Bob said carefully.

  “Does he now?”

  The ironic lilt to the stranger’s voice set Bob on edge. This man seemed to be reacting to a joke Bob was missing. All of Bob’s instincts were now telling him that he should back away. There was something dangerous about the stranger, despite his mild tone of voice.

  “What do you want?” Bob demanded, irritation creeping into his voice.

  The stranger reached up and put the lantern back on its hook on the tent pole.

  “I have come for you, Robert Anderson Blossom,” he said with simple finality.

  Part II: In My Name Shall They Cast Out Devils

  Bob quailed to hear his name spoken in a voice that seemed to come from beyond. He took a tentative step back. The stranger’s sonorous voice cut through him like a heated knife through butter.

  “Who are you?” Bob stammered. “I don’t know you. How do you know my name?”

  “You may call me Ezekiel. Not the name I was born with, but that which I have taken.”

  B
ob shook his head. A prophet? The only prophets who walked these hills were snake-oil salesmen. Bob took another step back.

  “Why are you looking for me?”

  “The girl,” Ezekiel replied without emotion.

  “Which?” Bob stammered before he could stop himself.

  An unpleasant smile spread across Ezekiel’s severe features.

  “You don’t remember which of the young girls you’ve debased would have a relative likely to avenge her?”

  Bob shook his head. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Yes, you did. Your tongue betrays you, Robert Anderson Blossom.”

  Bob tried to get a grip on himself. This was nothing more than a brother, father or uncle of some girl back along his trail—nothing supernatural. Divine retribution was no more likely than divine reward. If God was real, He was asleep at the wheel. God had taken no notice of Brother Bob Blossom in times remembered.

  The drink might have him at a disadvantage, but he’d dealt with this sort of thing before. He sized up Ezekiel. The man was tall and had a considerable reach, but he was skinny. Bob was solid. If he could land a punch, this fellow would go down like a house of cards. But even more likely, fifty bucks would make everything right.

  “What do you plan to do about it?” Bob said coldly.

  A bolt of lightning illuminated the tent for an instant, and Bob could have sworn Ezekiel’s eyes glowed red in the shadow of his boney brow. In the brief flash, Bob thought he saw Ezekiel’s mouth split in a feral grin to reveal white teeth, glittering, sharp and jagged. Bob gasped, but when the lantern was all the light in the tent Ezekiel continued to regard him, humorless and grim. I’m seeing things, Bob thought. It must be the moonshine.

  The rain began, tapping against the tent in staccato rhythm and pouring in through the rip in the roof.

  “So,” Bob said, steeling himself, “was it your daughter?”

  “No kin of mine.”

  “You’re a private eye, hired to track me down, then. How much is it going to take? I’m not a rich man, but I have resources.”