Vampires Don't Cry: A Mother's Curse

by Hall, Ian

  I’d finally had enough of the uncertainty of the whole situation. I let the goon get back to the living room, then stuck him with my Bãtranes, nothing fancy, just rapid death.

  Letting him fall behind me, I rushed into the bedroom to see Ramirez slap Finch, sending her sprawling onto the bed. To my surprise, a vampire sat beside the bed, staring into space.

  Quickly assessing the situation, I knew I had to neutralize the vampire first, but I wanted answers too. I jumped to her side. I pierced one blade through her chest straight into her heart, the other ripping past the thin wickerwork, into her back, click inside, turn. Her gasp was her only reaction.

  Then I just pounced across the bed, lifting Ramirez off a prone Theresa, throwing him into the wall. Bottles and broken glass went everywhere, and he fell limp on the floor.

  I shimmied back to visibility. “Are you okay?”

  Finch brushed herself down, and stood up. “I’m fine. But I’m glad you hit quickly. There’s something wrong here, very wrong.” She picked up the champagne bottle and sniffed its remaining contents, then handed it to me. “What do you smell?”

  I placed my nose right over the end of the open bottle. “Oh, so familiar,” I began, then it instantly hit me. “It’s the same stuff that’s in our dart guns!”

  “Yes!” Finch exclaimed. “The yellow velvet plant!”

  I crossed to dead Trixie, and sniffed her lips; sure enough, she smelled of it too. “That’s what she’s on. I wonder why?”

  Finch shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense, why would you keep a comatose vampire?”

  I couldn’t see the sense of it either. “And why would Gerry, the vampire guard, put up with abuse like that?”

  “It seems there’s only one way to find the truth.” Finch picked the man off the floor, and lay him on the bed. “We have to question Ramirez before we kill him.”

  “But that’s not our mission.” I replied, although I could see her reasoning.

  “Our mission changed the moment we found Trixie.” She said calmly. “And Georgie would think the same way. We weren’t trained in this stuff just to be unthinking killers.”

  I nodded. “So how do we question him? Good cops or bad?”

  Finch grinned. “You’re asking if we play sexy, suck his dick cops, or be bad, tearing his fingers off?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Well, he hit me hard, so I’m not sure if he would respond to niceties.”

  We tied him up, spread-eagled on the bed, and doused his face in newly opened champagne until he woke up, shaking his head against the splattered flow of liquid. “What the fuck!”

  I sat on one side, with Finch on the other. “Hi Paul,” I said, “We just thought we’d ask you a few questions.”

  “I know about you!” he hissed at me, then looked at Finch. “I know all about you!” then he stopped, his eyes suddenly calm.

  “Oh, yeah?” I asked, leaning over him, putting my face close to his. “I think you should tell us everything you know. Answer our questions truthfully. You want to talk to us, you really do.”

  Then Finch did the same, man, he looked so confused. He shook his head slightly, then his breathing got more steady.

  “Who told you about us?” Finch asked.

  “Amos,”

  Well that got me by surprise. “How do you know him?”

  “I supply him with cocaine from Cuba and Puerto Rico.”

  I loved this method of questioning.

  Then I tensed. I’d heard a sound outside, and sensed something was definitely not right. “Tear his head off! Now!” I raced to the chair and pulled my knives from Trixie’s body. “Invisible!” I shouted as the sickening sound of Paul’s head leaving his shoulders filled the room. I sheathed my Bãtranes and pulled Trixie’s body onto my shoulder. With a final look across at Paul’s dismembered body, still pumping blood onto the creamy white pillow, I shimmied myself invisible. The feeling of impending doom now fell over me like thick blankets.

  “Where to?” Finch yelled.

  “The safe-house.” I called back. “The one in the pan-handle!” Suddenly, the room filled with sound. Bullets flew through the windows, fluttering through the curtains, making huge holes in the opposite wall. “Make your own way there! Go! Go!”

  With Trixie on my back I sped down the hallway, finding the living room in no lesser state, fresh bullet holes peppered the walls, driving glass and plaster into the air. Ducking low, I reached a large patio door as the first rocket hit the house, the blast behind me sending us out through the window onto the dark lawn beyond. I landed with a jolt which dislodged Trixie from my grip, sending her beyond me into the night.

  Angrily I railed against the approaching darkness, an enveloping cocoon that forced me to lie and sleep. I chanted that I had a mission to do, but my ire proved ineffective.

  In my dream I saw him again, the man with the long dark hair and the piercing blue eyes. The vampire that had drowned me.

  “Do not worry.” His words seemed full of such a promise of safety, a protection afforded to me alone. “You must rise, my sweet, it is not safe here.”

  He wore the same long black coat, seemingly taken from a movie set, for I never seen one of such design in the world I lived in. I longed to slip my body inside the coat and let him envelope me in it, to luxuriate in its rough, unlined interior. Yet I had a mission to perform.

  “Trixie,” I said, straining to lift my head from the grass.

  “I will help with her.” He said, and I felt myself being lifted. In the bedlam of the attack, he calmly ran to the wall, and laid me carefully down.

  Then, to my frustration, he vanished again.

  Through my hazy vision, as I lay a hundred feet from the house, I saw flames raging high in the fiery building, their long tongues searing out of the windows, and lifting high into the night.

  Then he appeared again, and I saw him drop Trixie’s body unceremoniously to the ground.

  “Who in God’s name are you?” I managed.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know.” That smile again. Then he was gone, winked out, running vampire fast.

  I looked around for Finch, but all I could see was the flames to my rear, and the ominous darkness ahead of me where the guns still fired.

  I tried to rise, but found that my left arm would not work, so I felt across the grass for Trixie’s body. Somehow, I knew the answer to some of today’s riddles could be found in her. Somehow I lifted both her and myself upright, and hobbling, I threaded my invisible way past the advancing vampires. Looking back at the dark figures walking towards the burning house, there must have been ten of them on this side.

  Out of the Frying Pan

  Theresa Scholes, February 1959, North of Orlando, Florida

  When Valérie shouted “Go!” and the room erupted with a hail of bullets, I didn’t hold back. Leaving my high heels behind me, I ducked low and scrambled towards the nearest window, throwing myself past a fluttering curtain into the night beyond. Keeping myself flattened to the ground, I made it to the corner of the building, then outward to the looming wall.

  Once over, I retraced my steps back to the car, determined to retrieve my Căluşari roll, and felt relieved to find the car unguarded. I did a quick circle, but found no trace of men or vampires, so I broke the window, and quickly and quietly grabbed my gear.

  Tucking the bundle under my arm, I set off again, mostly east, but keeping my track varied, never working in any one direction, until I reached the main coastal road. Beyond lay some seaside towns, but wanting to put some considerable distance between us, I tracked the road north for another twenty miles, until I stopped at a village near Edgewater to pick up some shoes. I scouted around the back of a dozen houses before I found a pair of anything near suitable. I didn’t need fashion, or even a neat fit, just anything to stop the chafing and battering my feet were taking on the journey. I knew they’d heal, but that didn’t help me that night. Still invisible, sitting on the curb outside putting my new shoes
on, I watched a car pull up, and a nice looking guy, maybe twenty, walked past me into the store; neat, well dressed, he even smelled good. I felt instantly attracted. I watched through the window as he grabbed potato chips, then stood at the counter.

  “Out late tonight, Hank?” the man behind the stand asked.

  “Just finished work, damn thing ran late,” he said, handing over his money.

  “You’ll have to get a good woman to cook for you, stop all this easy food.”

  “Maybe one day.”

  Excellent, I thought. I watched which direction he took out of the driveway, and raced ahead, just far enough to get out of sight, get visible, and walk back to the roadside to thumb a lift.

  He slowed before he even got near me, stopping by my side. Leaning over to wind down his window, he smiled. “Needing a ride?”

  I got inside, grinning, asking his name, telling him my quickly made-up sob story, and he fell for every single word.

  In ten minutes, I stood inside his small house, a hot bath running, and a cold beer in my hand.

  Of course, he probably expected something in return, and I gave him his money’s worth.

  The next morning, leaving Hank sleeping heavily on the bed, my body considerably richer for the nourishment of some fresh blood, I drove his car north to Jacksonville, where I changed it and headed east in the direction of the panhandle. I dumped the second car with ten miles or so to spare, and ran the last part, getting more and more cagey as I got nearer the house.

  On my first visit I had noticed a natural rise to the north, and in darkness made my way to it. Careful to scout my immediate area, I settled in position to watch the property. I even managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, my head resting on my arm in the long grass. When morning came, I lay fully awake, ready for my stake-out.

  There’s one thing about a long lazy lie in the grass; you get time to think.

  I began to piece together the last few days.

  Amos’s attack on the Miami spa had almost taken us out of the picture, then he’d managed to follow us when we questioned the survivors. How had he done that? Then we had the strange situation of Georgie insisting we did the Ramirez mission before we headed north to help get Amos. There was no doubt that Ramirez knew we were coming after him.

  Almost as if he’d resigned himself to be the bait on the hook.

  Ramirez had vampires working for him, I mean, having a vampire slave in the bedroom, and vampire suppressant in a bottle, ready for use against us.

  Then we’d escaped a second conflagration in almost as many days. It didn’t take long to wonder if Georgie’s organization had a leak somewhere.

  Did I have a list of suspects? At the top of any such list I’d have to put Georgie himself at the top, although it didn’t really make much sense. Ivan had known of our training, but again, what would be the point in training us, then killing us. There had to be someone real close to Georgie with access to information, or we were being watched closer than we suspected.

  Or we were being bugged.

  So, laying on my belly, watching the distant house, I went through a list of who I could I trust?

  Valérie? Yes.

  Georgie? Maybe. But why get us trained first?

  Anyone else? No.

  At sundown I crawled from my hiding place, took a run to the coast, found me a lonesome fisherman, and had another little drinkie, not too much, but I’d done a bit of running and that took energy. By the time I returned to the house, dawn had begun to do its thing in the east, a purple glow settling on the whole idyllic scene.

  Nothing, no Valérie, nothing.

  By noon, I’d begun to worry that perhaps Valérie hadn’t gotten away quite as easily as I had. If any of those bullets had hit her, she could have been at the very least captured, I mean, they’d hit us hard twice, and didn’t seem to be holding back. I even gave myself the luxury of feeling guilty for a while. Perhaps I could have been less self-centered, waited around Ramirez’s house a bit longer.

  But then, maybe I’d have gotten hit too.

  Slowly I realized the possibility that my friend was a possible casualty.

  Crap.

  If she had been hit, and therefore would be unable to meet me here, then where lay my next move? North to Amos on my own? No, Georgie had told us to go to the restaurant for further instructions. Or would that be another trap? Should I go back to Ramirez’s house to look for clues as to Valérie’s fate? One thing I knew for certain, I couldn’t camp out here indefinitely.

  At nightfall, and with still no activity at the house, I left.

  Valérie Lidowitz, February 1959, North of Orlando, Florida

  Fear is worse than death itself.

  My arms hurt more than I could remember, one probably twisted and torn in some shocking wound, the other tired and exhausted from carrying Trixie. I walked in a world between reality and dreams, for many times as I stumbled, I swear I felt an arm beside me, pulling me upward, a voice encouraging me.

  Death is but a cheat on the life it replaces.

  But I moved onwards until my faltering feet splashed into cold water. Surprised by the chill, I opened my weary eyes: dark marshland as far as I could see, the low moonlight glinting on the gently rippling water. I considered the dangers: crocodiles, alligators, snakes. I pressed onward, hoping that my wounds would close soon, stopping the trail of blood.

  Life is fleeting, a vision of Heaven.

  Knee deep, then thigh, then chest, the long grass sliding past my face. The footing under me changed from firm ground to cloying mud, but still I kept my pace, one foot in front of the other, the depth lessened and I walked out on a dry patch.

  Heaven is the lie that replaces fear of the unknown.

  I stopped, my burden slowly sliding to the ground, her skin still cold to the touch. I dropped, exhausted, to my knees, and lay beside her, jealous of her lack of consciousness. As I fell asleep, my mother’s words soothed me. I lay my arm over Trixie’s shoulder and succumbed to my weariness.

  As my eyes closed to sleep, I imagined a long black coat being laid over me, my cheek feeling the rough wool inside. A figure in a starched white shirt sat on the grass, staring off into the distance. Long dark hair framed an almost hawkish nose, his full beard looked wispy and youthful. As I closed my eyes, I expected him to disappear again, but he sat, stoic, uncaring for the chill that flowed from the misty water.

  I slept.

  ~ ~ ~

  I felt a movement in front of me, jerking, spasmodic.

  Alert, I sat up.

  The world around me lay out of focus; I was invisible.

  I placed my hand on the shaking unseen form, and shimmered us both back into the realms of reality.

  Trixie shivered, her arms bent at strange angles, her whole body quivering. Then she snapped awake.

  “Puta!” she gasped, her mouth open, taking in a huge gulp of air.

  I swept her hair from her eyes, and she turned her head. “Dónde estoy?”

  “It’s okay,” I said, my Spanish feeling rusty in my aching head. “Está seguro, you’re safe. You’re safe here.”

  She looked around, sitting up slightly. The bloodstained camisole hardly seemed appropriate, but then, I looked like a butcher, my knives sticking out from my Căluşari belt.

  “Where are we?” she asked in a thick Latino accent, her voice drained, her lips dry.

  “We’re far from the house. We escaped last night; someone blew it to pieces.”

  She looked at me like I’d told her we’d just arrived on the moon. Her hand touched my shoulder, her eyes concerned, almost worried. “You were hurt?”

  I looked at my bad arm, the black fabric in tatters, dried blood hung like dark rivulets of melted candlewax on my exposed arm.

  “I’m okay, trust me.”

  “What house?” she stood up quickly, where she swayed a little, her small breasts taut against the thin material. “My parent’s house is gone?”

  My hand steadied her. “Paul
Ramirez’s house. Do you know him?”

  She shook her head, her hands pushing her hair from her forehead, pushing it firmly back, as if ready to make a ponytail. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked.

  She looked down at the silk camisole, as if she’d never seen it before. “Argh!” Instinctively she made to take it off, an expression of disgust bursting over her face. Then she disappeared, instantly reemerging chest deep in the water, a huge wake behind her, splashing around in astonishment. “What happened?’ she railed back at me. “What did I just do?”

  I walked calmly into the water, and grabbed her hand, pulling her reluctant form back to the dry land. I had dealt with a lot of newly-turned vampires before; it had been my main job with Amos for many years. I knew how to bring the realization home without them going all nuts on me.

  “I have a few things to explain.” I said gently, and indicated that we sit on the grass.

  It seems that Trixie, a.k.a. Paulina Huerta, had been snatched from her father’s house in Holguin, Cuba about two months previously, seemingly her last clear memory. The rest seemed hazy to her, but slowly she accepted the bad stuff from her dreams. “He beat me every day.” She cried. I held her tight, partly for solace, partly to stop her running away. Ramirez just needed her to take as much sex, beatings and killing as a man wanted to dish out, and always be alive and ready for more the next day.

  As long as you had the correct drugs to keep her compliant; I wanted to wring Ramirez’s neck all over again and every other bastard responsible for the trade in such a commodity.

  But now I had a problem. I had an inexperienced vampire on my hands. I couldn’t take her with me, and I didn’t have the heart to leave her, that would have been as callous as Ramirez and his cohorts.

  “I need to get us safely out of here,” I looked around, “wherever we are. We need to get some clothes and get you to a place of security.”

  “What about Ramirez?” Paulina asked. “And the men who attacked you? Us?”

  “We have certain advantages…” I began, and led the way into the water, away from the obvious tracks from the night before. I had time on my hands while I got us to Miami, and I had to impart a fair amount of information on the way. We also had some shopping to do; we could hardly go far dressed as we were.