by Grace Draven
I don’t have many cousins left now, but I still receive a few bottles every year that I keep in the pantry for medicinal purposes. Pălincă has a kick like a mule, and a tumbler full will leave you with a well-earned headache that lasts from sun up to sundown the next day. That’s how I felt when I came to on my own front porch, covered from head to foot with a woolen greatcoat that reeked of the grave. A nasty taste like a rusty nails furred my tongue and the painful swelling on the back of my head was tender to the touch. A quick check revealed no spongy give in the bone beneath–no thanks to young Mr. Ferdline and his overzealous coshing. I cursed his duplicity, though he likely couldn’t help it any more than a mouse could help being hypnotized by a snake. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t settle his hash eventually, if time and circumstance allowed.
But mulling over the sordid details wasn’t a luxury I had at the moment. My opponents had countered my move and made one of their own, and now all they had to do was wait. I didn’t need to wonder what would come next, just like I didn’t need to look in a mirror to know there’d be two small bruises on the side of my throat.
By my reckoning it was late afternoon, though it was hard to tell with all the smoke. The air was thick with it and the sky was an ashy yellow. I sat up and pushed the greatcoat off, though every muscle in my body upped and howled. No fewer than three firetrucks were parked on Mulberry Street, with men running here and there with hoses and the neighbors gathered at a safe distance.
Mrs. Singh’s house still stood. The side porch was a soot blackened ruin and a great column of smoke rose from the back, but the frame of it was intact and the front looked almost untouched, except for all the shattered glass and water damage. I shoved the greatcoat to one side and cradled my head in my hands. My hearing’s always been good, but now it seemed like even the low throb of the truck engines would split my skull in two. I could even hear the murmuring of bystanders from down the road as they craned their necks for a better look. The mail carrier called it in, they said. A good thing too, or the whole heap would’ve gone up like kindling, the way old houses do.
I’d failed. But as my grandfather always said, just because you lose the battle doesn’t mean you’ve lost the war.
First, I burned the greatcoat. It was a small thing, but dousing it with a little kerosene and watching it go up did my heart a world of good. Then I went to the garden. The best time to gather herbs is in the morning, just after the dew has gone but before the sun is high. All the essences of the plant are strongest then, before they’re dissipated by the afternoon heat. Harvesting herbs that late in the day wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t have much choice. Already the sun was dropping fast in the sky and the pines cast long shadows over the grass. I only had a few more hours until twilight, when I expected my gentleman caller to return.
There’s a little secret to my iced tea. I use the same tea bags as everyone else, but I add a pinch of baking soda and steep it with herbs from the garden. The flavor is whatever I fancy. Some days it’s chamomile and honey, other times it’s mint with a few slices of ginger crushed with the flat of a knife. Today I wanted something a little different. I cut handfuls of fresh mint and lemon balm and all the borage blossoms I could find. Then I put on a pair of rubber gloves and went out to the weedy patch by the old spring house, because this time I needed all the flavors of my garden both tame and wild.
Swatting aside stinging nettles, I gathered it all: leaf, stem and root. A select few were crushed in an old mortar and pestle I keep out in the shed, then boiled and strained through fine muslin. There was no secret family recipe for this, just knowledge passed down through the generations that would die with me if I wasn’t careful. I took precautions, of course. I’d had all the activated charcoal capsules and pink bismuth I could stomach, and there was ipecac and mustard water for after.
On a small table outside on the porch, I spread out one of my grandmother’s company tablecloths, one my cousins had sent with fine silk embroidery and edged with handmade lace. I laid out a small feast: a wedge of aged cheddar and a bowl of softer farmer’s cheese mixed with chopped thyme and chives from my garden. There was a dish of my bread and butter pickles, a loaf of dark rye and Amish butter. I even cut a few slices of fruitcake, one with currants and walnuts that had been fed with rum for weeks in a cool pantry. And of course, a glass pitcher of my iced tea. My gentleman caller would find a warm welcome when he appeared in the twilight. I’d invite him in—only to the front porch, mind. The fire trucks and gawkers had gone, but I didn’t need any gossip about visitors, not at my age. I didn’t know if his kind ate or drank. I didn’t know if the same herbs that would stop a human heart would stop a vampire’s. Perhaps the best I could hope for was to slow him down.
The sun dropped below the horizon, and like a conjured demon he was there, an angular shadow in a trilby hat standing in front of my house. I rose, leaning heavily upon the cane as if I’d done so every day of my life. I nodded at the chair opposite mine. It was a grudging invitation, but it was enough. Before I could draw another breath, my gentleman caller was up the porch steps and seated gracefully at the table, hat resting upon one knee. At close range, he was still an uncanny mix of human and animal. He sat like a lord, back straight as a rod and suit immaculately tailored. But his hands were long and white as bleached bone, prominent knuckles and nails like talons. His mouth was an unnatural shade of red and his teeth just a shade too long. And his eyes, solid black and pupil-less… If the eyes are windows to the soul, then it was clear this creature had none. But when he spoke, it was fine and cultured, with just a hint of an accent as familiar to me as my own.
He inclined his head a fraction. “Madam, you do me a great honor.”
I poured two glasses of iced tea and took a sip of mine. After a short hesitation, he did the same. Everything I did, he repeated as though he could only be human by mimicry. When he moved, a scent like damp wool and rot rose from his clothing.
“It’s time we spoke,” he said at last. “Our kind have been warring since time immemorial. It need not be this way forever.”
I spread farmer’s cheese on a thick slice of rye and took a bite. It tasted like mud in my mouth. I pretended to take another sip of tea. I thought it was a shame that my guest likely couldn’t taste it. Cool mint and a tang of lemon, like summer in a glass. “I’m listening.”
“It was not our intention to encroach upon your territory. Younger, more foolish heads made that decision, and they have paid the price for their lapse of judgment. Those of us who are older and wiser would rectify matters. I would propose a truce between us.”
It was a turn of events and no mistake. I raised the glass to my lips. “Go on.”
My caller spoke of many things and made many offers. A cease fire between them and me. Boundaries drawn, dividing up Mulberry Street and my town the way a butcher breaks down a pig into chops and spare ribs. He had a nice voice, velvety and resonant like a fine-tuned instrument. If you closed your eyes and ignored everything else, that voice could smooth over all the wrinkles of doubt you ever had until it was like they’d never existed. It could sell you snake oil for medicine. I didn’t close my eyes.
He leaned in confidentially, as though we were already allies. “You have us at a disadvantage. Our numbers are few…”
And weaker now, I thought. The damage to Mrs. Singh’s house hadn’t been for nothing, and that eased my heart a little. I hoped he would get to the point soon, for I had a thirst, one that grew with every passing hour. Patience, patience, I could hear my Great Aunt Ilena crooning. All good things come to those who wait.
“My children lack direction. The younger ones are rebellious, but they require only strong leadership.” Mine, were the words left unspoken. He drew the tip of one curved nail across the tabletop, and the sound of it snagging the silk threads pained my ears.
“Older, wiser heads are needed to keep any organization in line,” I said agreeably. “Don’t see what that has to do with me.”
My
visitor smiled, or at least, he meant to. “Ah, well. Perhaps assisted by your capable hands…”
There it was. I hadn’t made the personal acquaintance of many vampires, but I knew the wheedling ways of gentleman callers all too well. I pushed away my plate with most of the food on it uneaten. “Given my new circumstances, I will consider it.” I raised my glass to him. “To exploring new alliances?”
I hadn’t turned on the porch light as the evening went on, but it wasn’t true night yet. Twilight painted the sky in streaks of rose and lavender, and there was still light enough to see that my visitor’s crimson mouth had gone a little paler. When he picked up his glass, there was a lethargy in his movement, a slight tremor that hadn’t been there before.
Tucked beside the cushion of my lounge chair was a sharp wooden stake and a single half-brick to hammer it in. My great uncle’s cane leaned up against my knee, and the blade inside had been oiled and polished until it gleamed. The ivory handle was cool and smooth, and with it my hands felt very capable, indeed.
My visitor drained his glass. “To new alliances.”
He stood, swaying a little on his feet and frowning at the sensation. Beneath the cover of the table, I slid the blade from its sheath and stretched out my hand. Old habits die hard, and old world habits are the hardest to shake; my visitor took my hand in a courtly gesture, bending slightly at the waist.
It was all the opportunity I’d get.
Snatching my hand from his grasp no doubt startled him for its lack of courtesy. Seizing him by his musty lapels was even less courteous, but I reckon the two feet of forged steel I drove through his chest was the unkindest cut of all.
My grandmother always said the quickest way to a man’s heart is between the third and fourth rib. She never said what came after, though.
Unlike good, old-fashioned arson, a staking is intimate. Maybe too intimate, and not for the fastidious. The vampire’s face was like old candle wax and his bony hands scrabbled furiously at my apron front like a rat caught in a trap. His fine suit tore down the front like wet newspaper, the fabric already rotting to pieces. I didn’t care to glance at what was beneath, but I smell it–the stench of decay and cold places. My guest reeked of the crypt. It was enough to make a body gag, but I don’t deny there was a measure of satisfaction in it, too. I’d ended it… or very nearly. There was one more thing left to do.
Reader, I decapitated him.
With a properly sharp knife and a grasp of basic human anatomy, it’s not as difficult as you’d think but still a messy procedure. When the last bit of sinew was severed, the body split like a bag of flour bursting at the seams, spilling out a river of corpse dust. I sifted it through my fingers, and it was fine, like wood ash. I swept up every particle and put it out with the garbage, and then I cleaned my great uncle's sword cane until I could see my face in the mirror-bright steel.
Inside the kitchen, I poured the rest of the iced tea down the sink and washed the pitcher and glasses twice over with hot, soapy water. I got myself a tall glass of milk and ate the fruit cake without tasting it. This was victory, but it didn’t quite seem like one. I supposed I knew now what Great Uncle Mattei felt like all those years ago, mashing up his piece of apple pie in that diner and letting his coffee grow cold. I didn’t feel sad or sick, though my back ached from scrubbing the porch and I suspected my knees wouldn’t be worth much tomorrow morning. But on the inside, I didn’t feel any different at all, and that alarmed me.
It wasn’t over, of course. It never was, with them. That was the nature of the beast: as many as you kill, there are always more. I knew that as well as anybody, since the past generations of my family had occasionally contributed to their ranks–or so says the family lore. Not me, though. I took a bite of bread and butter pickle. It was sharp and sweet and garlicky, the way I’d always liked them. Day after tomorrow when my back was rested, there was a lot to do. The cherry tomatoes wouldn't pick themselves and it'd be a waste to let them rot on the vine. That summer squash would taste a treat roasted, and I had plans for a big pot of potato leek soup. And maybe there was time yet to can one more batch of bread and butter pickles. But before that, there was the pesky matter of a nest of fledgling vampires and a treacherous mail carrier. Pawn or not, young Max had to be dealt with–monsters are dangerous enough on their own without human agents. Family lore was clear on that detail, too.
Could be the vampire's death alone will be my cure. Could be I’ll have to dig through the burned timbers of Mrs. Singh’s house with a stake in one hand and a shovel in the other, looking for clumps of grave dirt to eat. Either way, I’ll have my revenge… in this world or the next.
About Aria M. Jones
Aria M. Jones is an incurable bookworm and daydreamer who can't resist a good story. When she's not writing about man-eating pianos or vampires, she enjoys cooking, cross-stitching and prowling the occasional graveyard. Aria lives in a small town somewhere in Ohio with her husband and a pile of books that might one day collapse and bury her alive.
Connect with Aria M. Jones at her Facebook page.
VOICE OF THE KNIFE
by Mel Sterling
Biologist Charles Napier doesn’t mind getting lost in a Florida swamp—it’s part of a scientist’s job. Logic and training will get him out safely. Except lurking in this swamp, there’s a monster Napier's science can't explain...a lonely, exquisite, desperate monster.
In memory of Barbara, who taught me to read maps and field guides. Thank you, Mom.
VOICE OF THE KNIFE
“They filmed that movie ‘Frogs’ over yonder, acrost the bay.”
Charles Napier looked at the man behind the marina’s cash register. “I don’t know it,” he said.
“You was probably not even borned yet. 1970-something. Want a life jacket to go with that canoe?”
“Coast Guard says I ought to, right?”
“Yeah, but ain’t no Coast Guard up these waters. Game warden, maybe. You ain’t huntin’, right?”
“Only with these.” Napier held up his binoculars, safe and secure in their case. His go-bag and dry sack, with two days’ worth of food and water, a hammock to keep him off the ground and out of reach of bugs, and a tarp to shed rain, sat next to him on the floor.
The man snorted into his white mustache. “Audubon Society feller?”
“Florida state biologist. But yes, I do belong to the Society. It’s a good organization.”
“What you lookin’ for?”
Napier leaned his elbow on the counter and looked furtively around the shed built on the marina dock that extended into Jolly Bay, as if he were about to share a confidence. “Ivory-billed woodpecker. Rumor has it the bird isn’t really extinct, and it’s been sighted here in the Panhandle, up in some of this swampy wilderness where the paper companies haven’t logged in decades.”
The man turned and lifted two paddles out of the trash barrel bouquet behind the register, and laid them across the counter. “Bird watchin’. My wife does that. Mostly she’s watchin’ the neighbors.”
“There’s only me in the canoe, I don’t need two paddles.”
“Ain’t sendin’ you out with just the one. What if a gator bites off your blade? Then where’ll you be? Kickin’ your feet behind the canoe like you was an outboard motor.”
“A gator. Bite off the end of my paddle.” Napier grinned. Maybe he’d get a woodpecker tip out of the old fart after all.
“I’m tellin’ you, you’d be better off crossin’ the bridge to Destin, hole up in a motel on the beach, rent you that ‘Frogs’ movie. Learn what you’re up against out here.” The old man’s grin was cheery and foul and dark with gaps where teeth might have been, a decade ago.
“I’m just canoeing up the main channel a few miles, see what there is to see. Look for habitat, maybe some signs the birds are around. Maybe nothing. But I’ll enjoy it.”
“Uh huh. Two paddles, like I said. Chargin’ you for both, though.” Another grin.
“Fine with me. Yo
u hear any of those rumors about the woodpeckers?”
“They’s always rumors. In that movie, them frogs was pretty i-rate about what folks’d done to their hab-i-tat, like you call it. They done ate the bad guy. Seems like they had help from a gator, maybe a snake or two.” He gazed out the open shed door to where pleasure boats rocked gently in the calm water of Jolly Bay. “I might be rememberin’ wrong, they mighta smothered that guy with all their slimy bellies. But that Joan Van Ark, she sure was somethin’. I’d let her smother me, anytime.”
The old man eyed Napier’s torso and turned back to the wall, where rods supported whole squadrons of life jackets in eye-burning colors. He reached one down. “Buckle that on for me, so I can see it fits.”
Napier obeyed, and the old man nodded. The cash register growled and buzzed, and Napier surrendered his credit card in return for a carbon invoice.
The old man’s nicotine-stained thumbnail scratched down the column of figures. “This here is the deposit on the boat. You get it back when you bring back the boat. This here is your two paddles, and this here your lifejacket. And this here’s the rental fee, forty-eight hours, startin’ now.” His eyes, whites yellowed like old piano keys, swept up to meet Napier’s. “I’m givin’ you my best river canoe. Wood, so’s it’s quiet.” He peered at Napier. “And hear me, boy.”
The old man reached under the counter and Napier’s heart lurched. Gun? Hammer? Louisville Slugger? Old training died hard, and his grip shifted on the binocs case. In a pinch, the good strong nylon strap would let him swing the heavy case like a flail. Better yet, the blade of the paddle set at the old man’s throat—a simple push would do it, and keep him out of striking reach unless what came up was a gun.
