by Vance, Ramy
I would have liked to continue my breathing exercises, but the real world has a way of getting in the way of a person doing something so simple. And the real world came crashing in on me in the form of a phone call.
My cell rang and my instinctual reaction was to reach for my bag. My spine did what it always does when bending down. My ribs did not. Their protest was so intense I yelped. Or screamed. Possibly wailed. Not sure—I was too busy hurting.
“Darling, you have to be careful,” she said, leaning over and picking up my bag. She fumbled for my phone, somehow keeping one eye on the road and the other on my bag, and eventually managed to pull it out.
Then she answered it. “Hello?”
A pause.
“Justin, dear! How are you?” she asked in a tone so casual you’d think he hadn’t been duct taped to a chair only an hour earlier.
Another pause—longer this time.
“That’s good to hear. We’re fine. Well, darling is a bit worse for wear, but rest assured—”
“GoneGodDammit!” I yelled and, agony or not, yanked the phone out of my mother’s hand. “Justin,” I said using every little trick I’d ever learned from yogis, gurus, martial artists and athletes to suppress another wail.
“Kat—you OK?”
His voice was soothing, and I forgot my pain for a second. He’s the best drug ever, I thought (in my head, this time). Corny romantic stuff, but true nonetheless.
“I am,” I said. “You?”
“I’m fine—but Kat, we’ve got to call the cops or the FBI or whatever. Those guys are nuts.”
“No cops. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t answer.
Justin answered for me. “Because there’s something you’re hiding and can’t tell me what. Not yet, at least.”
“Yeah,” I said. A tear rolled down my cheek and over the fingers that held the phone. From the pain or from hearing the hurt in his voice, I wasn’t sure. “But I’ll tell you everything as soon as I’m back. Promise.”
Justin didn’t say anything back and I could tell from how he was breathing that he was holding back tears of his own.
“How are the others?” I asked, desperately trying to move the conversation away from this. My ribs hurt—but this was torture.
“They’re fine,” he said. “Egya took the worst of it. He kept goading them with—”
“My wonderful personality!” I heard Egya say from somewhere in the background.
“Yeah,” Justin chuckled. “Mr. Personality here has two black eyes and a swollen lip …”
His voice trailed off. I think the implication of what he was saying hit him as soon as the words came out. Egya had been hurt and hurt bad. Two black eyes meant that his nose was broken, and that wasn’t something that happened without a whole lot of ouch. Justin was probably realizing what Egya had done for him … put the Cherubs’ focus off of him and onto Egya. He must be feeling guilt, weak for not taking the punishment himself.
“This is not your fault,” I said. “If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine.”
“Don’t forget me, darling,” my mother chimed in.
“Oh, I haven’t,” I said through gritted teeth.
Turning my attention back to the phone, I said, “I’m so sorry for my part in this. I swear that when I get back, I’ll tell you everything. Everything. And with those cards finally out on the table, you can decide whether or not you want to keep …” I struggled for the words.
“Being an item?” Justin offered.
I laughed. That was the expression I used the first time we kissed. Him using it now meant that not all was lost.
I nodded, then felt stupid, since we were on the phone. “Being an item.” I paused, thinking of the best way to say what I needed to say next. “Justin, honey,” I started. “Do you mind if I speak with Egya? I really need to—”
“Sure,” he said, in a hurt tone. “Since he’s already seen all the cards on the table.” I heard footsteps and a slammed door, and I winced.
The next voice to come on the line was Egya’s. “Hi, girl,” he said. “How bad is it?”
“Three, maybe four broken ribs. Justin stormed off, didn’t he?”
“Ouch … and yes. But he’ll be fine. Torture can be emotional. Where are you now?”
“On the highway going somewhere my mother needs to be.”
“Where? Deirdre and I can join you! You might need our muscle. Well, her muscle. I’m more of a roadrunner-style fighter. You know—beep, beep—push them off a cliff, that kind of stuff.”
I chuckled. “Thank you, but no. I need you to protect Justin. He’s not equipped.”
“He’s tougher than you think.”
“I know. I just don’t know if Justin and I are tougher than I think.”
There was silence before Egya sighed and said, “That’s not a bad thing, girl. Better to know that now than after you’re barefoot, pregnant and encumbered by cooking utensils.”
“Egya!” I said, and immediately regretted my outburst. I groaned in pain.
“Joke, joke. Well, partially a joke. It’s better that you know he’ll accept you for who you are and forgive you for who you were now. Later might be far more painful.”
Egya was right. I hated it when Egya was right.
“OK,” I said. “Then I guess almost being killed isn’t all bad. It’s forcing me to tell him. Yay for silver linings and all that jazz.”
All that jazz. GoneGodDammit, I’d just let one of my mother’s phrases slip. I could practically hear her smiling at me from the driver’s seat.
“Yay, indeed.”
“Thank you, Egya. For what you did for him. That was very brave.”
“As your mother says, ‘Pish posh and all that jazz.’ ” (Cringe … he’d caught me.) “It wasn’t brave. I need a punch in the nose every now and then. It helps clean my Karmatic slate.”
“Consider yourself squeaky clean,” I said, peering over at my mother. If she was listening to our conversation anymore, she made no indication of it. She was lost in thought again. Something was clearly bothering her. “Egya, I’ve got to go.”
“I know, girl. You do you, we’ll be here doing us.” He paused. “That sounded weird.”
I laughed. “Thanks. Oh and Egya, please tell Deirdre that Captain Excellent, Van Wilder and Hannibal King were an absolutely inspired idea.”
“Huh?”
“She’ll get it,” I said, ending the call. I looked over at my mother; her eyes stared off into the distance. Clearly not optimal for driving.
“Mother, thistle for your thoughts?”
It was something she used to say to me as a child. Of course, being in Scotland, she’d actually give me a thistle with the question, but since I didn’t have one, I gave her knee a light squeeze.
She didn’t respond, either to my word or my touch, and I was beginning to think she wouldn’t when she said, “We need to get you patched up. Oh, and remember when you said you recognized that Divine Cherub hunter’s voice?
“Not his voice,” I said. “But I thought it was from Inverness, from our time.”
She nodded, her eyes finally focusing. “Well, darling, I think you may be right.”
“I’m right, huh?” I said, soaking in the rareness of being right for once. At least in my mother’s eyes. “So you heard it, too?”
“Oh, more than that—I think I know who he is …”
Killers Unsung and Modesty Lost
We drove into a rest spot. The whole drive there, despite my constant nagging, my mother refused to tell me what she knew about these Divine Cherubs, especially the one with the accent. Whatever her reasons, she promised she’d tell me everything she knew after I was patched up.
We walked into a fearsome goliath of modern innovation—the twenty-four-hour mini-mall. It had one of those mega pharmacies with enough supplies to fight the Ebola virus, where she bought gauze, medical tape and a sports bra. Why one store supplied all three, I’ll never know; st
rangely, I missed the days when you had to literally travel to another city just to get certain supplies.
Walking up to the counter, a Mongolian eloko tended the till. He stared ahead with his giant, lower jaw tusks and hairy red cheeks. He looked like a red gorilla, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was only three feet tall, he’d be soul-crushingly frightening. At that size, he was downgraded to just terrifying and possibly a little adorable.
Not exactly the ideal customer-facing service rep, but I guess at this time of night, the only people this store could get to work here were Others. That, or they just liked how cheap Other labor was. As of yet, Other rights hadn’t extended to minimum wage, and so technically you could get away with paying them peanuts. I’m not kidding … the erewan who worked at the corner by 7-Eleven near campus was being paid in bags of peanuts until a bunch of us got him a real salary. The erewan was grateful, but being a three-headed elephant, he ended up blowing most of his salary on peanuts anyway.
The eloko rang us up and tried to give us a human-like smile, which came off more like I want to suck your bone marrow than Have a nice day.
With supplies in hand, we made our way to the bathroom.
“Strip,” my mother said.
“Excuse me?”
“Or at least take off your shirt.”
“What if someone comes in?” I asked, hating the childish twang that came with the question.
“Then someone comes in. At this time of night, they’ll probably assume I’m your John and ask to join in.”
I stared at her. “You’re sick in the head.”
“Your shirt.” She held out her hand.
I unbuttoned my blouse—agony with every unfastened button—and handed it over. As I did, I noted the huge soot-covered foot print on the front of it. It would literally take magic to clean that.
“Oh my, darling …” my mother said, unable to hide her concern.
Hobbling over to the mirror, I looked at my chest. A giant, bruise-colored footprint that matched the one on my blouse set deep in my skin.
“That will take weeks to fade,” she said.
I nodded. Probably the only thing I missed about being a vampire was my ability to heal. OK, not the only thing. I missed my super speed, strength, heightened senses, preternatural memory—
As if reading my mind (and I know all those thoughts were in my head, not spoken aloud this time), my mother said, “I miss being a vampire.” I had expected a question to follow—something like, Do you miss it, too? but my mother just fell silent.
She started to unravel the gauze and finally said, “Your bra?”
I looked at her again. “Excuse me?”
“Darling, we can’t put this stuff over that lacy piece you got on. Aubade Entrevue, by the way?”
I nodded.
“Excellent taste. Justin must be very pleased.”
“Mother,” I said, my cheeks going DEFCON 1.
She smiled at my reaction. “Anywhooo—your bra.”
I didn’t move.
“You can’t put this on yourself.”
I groaned. She was right.
“And I am your mother. It’s not like I haven’t see you … without.”
Again she was right. I started to unclasp, but the pain of moving my arms that way was too much.
“Here, let me do it.” She reached behind me and unclasped me one-handed. All the college guys would have been envious of her skill, I’m sure. “There you go,” she said, gently guiding the straps over my arms.
Once bare, she began to wrap me. Tight. It hurt, but as soon as a half dozen rows were wrapped around me, I started to feel better. It was good not having my ribs bouncing around in my chest, poking things not meant to be poked.
“You know,” she said as she started to apply the medical tape. “You inherited those from your father.” She pointed at my boobs.
“Again—and I feel like I say this a lot—excuse me?”
“Small breasts ran in your father’s family. I had hoped you’d get my girls, but we can’t all be this lucky, I suppose.” She did a little shimmy, which was amplified to a full-on rumble in this tiny room.
“I’m hardly small,” I said as she helped put the sports bra on me. “I’m quite average for this era.”
“You are. But average is so boring, isn’t it? Or doesn’t Justin think so?”
I sighed. “Help me put my blouse back on, Mother. Wouldn’t want people to see how small I am and have you ashamed of your only daughter.”
↔
My mother helped me back to the car and, before I could say anything, closed the door and gestured like she forgot something, jogging back toward the mall.
Alone, I watched my mother make her way back inside and wondered if she really had changed. I wanted it to be true, but was cautious to have too much hope.
But, if I’m being honest … I kind of owe her the benefit of the doubt.
OK, not kind of … I owe her a lot more than that.
↔↔↔
Old Scotland—Several Weeks After Katrina Darling Died
Most of what I remember about being a kid was being really scared. I was fifteen when I died, and even though I had all these vampiric powers, I was still a kid. I didn’t understand that nothing could hurt me. That the only pain I would experience going forward was the wounds my own mind inflicted on me.
I didn’t know just how powerful I was.
In those early days, I drank when I had to, trying to take as few lives as I could (and failing), and I always picked my … ah … food (for lack of a better term, I suppose) from the back alleys and newly released prisoners that the Highlands offered.
That was the kind of vampire I was in the early days. That would soon change, however. I would change—care less, kill more. My mind would harden. So would the place where my soul used to be.
But those transformations would take years.
In those early days, I cried so much that I got used to seeing the world through the prism of my own tears. I wanted to die and didn’t know how. That’s not true—I knew how I died, I just didn’t know how I could die again, in this form. And never come back.
As I wandered the Highlands, contemplating death, I played the circumstances of my infection over and over again. Thanks to my father, I didn’t have a sire vampire to teach me what my powers were or how to use them. There were no books or movies to teach me … there was only legend; and me being so young, my parents had protected me from fearing those that go bump in the night.
So I had to learn everything about my nature on my own. And in my naïveté, a single thought ran through my head.
If I was turned by the bite of a vampire … can I turn another with a bite of my own?
The idea consumed me, my head swimming with the possibility that I could sire other vampires. And as soon as that thought entered my head, it was quickly followed by the tempting thought that I didn’t need to be alone.
In my eagerness to have the family I lost, I decided to test this theory on my mother—partly because I figured she would be easier prey (after all, my father had fought off a vampire on his own), but mostly because I loved my father dearly and the thought of accidently killing him was more than I could bear.
I loved my mother—but she was someone I was willing to lose in my quest not to be alone. And those three words never quite stopped ringing in my head.
Cast … her … out.
↔
I staked out my family’s cabin on the hill, watching my father’s comings and goings. It took a few weeks to assess the pattern, but eventually it became obvious: when he went out riding alone, he would always return in an hour or so; but when he went to the barn and both he and the farm hand went out together—he would be gone for hours. No idea what they did, but I assumed they went to the pub. The farm hand was an unsavory character with a scar over his eye who had been giving me creepy looks for the last few years of my life. As far as I was concerned, I could kill him too, but he wasn’
t the mission.
I waited for a night that both my father and the farm hand left, then made my entrance.
By this point, I was beginning to feel comfortable with my powers and, in my childish arrogance, did not hide my approach. As I drew nearer, I even began singing a song my mother frequently sang to me as a child when she was in a playful mood.
“One, two, three aleerie …”
I approached the cabin.
“Four, five, six aleerie …”
She looked outside and, seeing me, quickly closed the windows. I could hear her boarding up the house. It didn’t bother me.
“Seven, eight, nine aleerie …”
I reached the door and smashed it open with one powerful blow. She was hiding in the corner, a kitchen knife in her hand. I smirked.
“Ten aleerie overball …”
When I was a living child, she tickled me every time the word aleerie was sung.
“One, two, three aleerie …”
I did more than tickle her with that last aleerie. I drained her until just before the moment her heart stopped. Then I withdrew and, holding her in my arms, sung the rest of the song as the vampire virus took hold.
“I saw Mrs. Peerie sittin’ on her bumbaleerie, eatin’ chocolate biscuits …”
↔
Transformations, I came to understand, were instant. Why my transformation took so long, I may never know. I never met my sire, nor understood the conditions of my bite. As far as I know, I’m the only vampire that has ever taken more than a hour to change. There was a chunk of time during the twentieth century in which I became obsessed with interviewing vampires to learn if I was really alone in that respect. I’m pretty sure Ann Rice got her book idea from me.
That night, my mother turned, became a newborn vampire, and left with me. The next day I returned to our cabin and called for my father, offering him the gift of the vampire’s bite as well. Offering him his family back. For eternity.
