Mrs. Dracula: Vampire Anthology

by Logan Keys

  “Poor crippled boy.” The Lady appears from the gloom, but remains in shadow. “I could cure you, you know. Take that away and make you perfect, stronger than you’ve ever been. You’d know no pain or injury and you could live forever. Join us, I can offer you things you’ve never even dreamed of.”

  She moves toward me, her hair changing from black to blonde, then to red and brown. Her skin changes: ebony to white and olive to brown. Her appearance is a kaleidoscope of changing faces.

  “I’ve watched the rise and fall of empires: Pompeii and Egypt and Rome. I heard Mozart play. I’ve dined with Kings and Queens. Shakespeare once read his plays to me. You can have this life. All you have to say is yes.”

  Try as I might to block them out, her words are tempting. What would it be like to be perfect and live forever? To run and do things other people take for granted. To never worry about getting sick or broken.

  “How would that work?” I ask. “You bite me and then I’m one of you?”

  The Lady nods. “Yes and then you can leave this ordinary life behind. Be a god amongst men.”

  I don’t want to be a god. I want to be an ordinary boy. I raise the book to her.

  “Do you know why I can touch this? It’s because it was spelled for people who have good hearts. You don’t have one of those, do you? None of you do. I will never join you. You killed my aunt and threatened to kill my family. You are monstrous and I hope what happened to your sire, happens to you.”

  The Lady’s eyes burn red. She glides toward me, but keeps directly out of the sunlight. “Silly, crippled boy.”

  “At least I’m decent.” Opening the front door, I’m greeted by sunlight and an explosion of sound.

  I scream and throw an arm over my head. It takes a moment to register. Mother is in the courtyard firing her wand at the fleet of Rolls-Royce.

  Tires pop and glass shatters everywhere. She only stops when she sees me. We run toward each other and I’m finally in her arms.

  “My brave, sweet boy.” Tears spill down Mother’s face. “Thank God you’re alive.”

  Father walks over to us and claps a hand on my back. “Good lad. You’re a Gower through and through.”

  The Franciscan monks stand in a somber row with wooden stakes in their hands. I limp over to Father Guardi and hand him the book. “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Grazie.” He nods. “I promise to take good care of it.”

  Eyes are on me. The lady stands in the shadows of the doorway with a smirk on her face. “Until we meet again.” She nods and closes the door on us.

  “Barnaby.” Mother smiles. “Be a dear and wait in the car. Your father and I have a little business to attend to.”

  DAME OF DEATH

  Ava Mallory

  —1—

  When I met death, he wore a Kangol bucket hat and parachute pants. A perfect specimen from his dark mane down to his Chucks. Deliciously dangerous. I should have heeded the warnings, but I don’t regret that I didn’t.

  Three months have passed since I bid my love farewell. Three months of incessant mourning. Weeks of cursing the beast that banished him from this world. A lifetime of moments we’ll never share. They’re why I’m here. This is where the clues have led me. The savage who took my beloved is holed up here, living his life as if nothing ever happened. He may have taken my one and only, but he didn’t remove what will forever remain in my heart: revenge.

  I’ll find him. He’ll meet his fate. One way or another.

  “Bienvenidos a Mexico,” the annoying Pan Am stewardess screeched, adding more insult to the disastrous flight from Maine, or was it Montreal? It doesn’t matter. I’d traveled across the globe to find Diego, or whatever he called himself. This game of cat and mouse had gone on too long. He had to burrow in and settle at some point. Playa del Carmen, Mexico was as good a place as any, I suppose.

  The dingbat stewardess was a distraction I didn’t need. She’ll be my first kill in this new location if she doesn’t shut her pie hole soon.

  “Thank you for flying Pan Am. Enjoy your stay,” she said to every passenger as they departed the flight.

  I avoided eye contact. I’d always been good at that.

  She persisted.

  “Are you here for the Day of the Dead celebrations?” she asked, her southern drawl like a set of fingernails to a chalkboard after a five-hour flight.

  “Yes.”

  Keep it short. No need for further conversation.

  Why isn’t this line moving?

  “I’ve never been myself, but it looks like I’ll be here for a few hours before I head out on the next flight.” Her pearly whites shined in my eyes.

  “Good for you. Have fun,” I said, forcing my body to twinge and turn to avoid another invitation for her to talk to me. I needed time to think, not commiserate with a flighty flight attendant.

  The line inched forward far enough for me to sigh without garnering her attention.

  “Wouldn’t it be fun if we ran into each other in town?” she asked, apparently more interested in me than any of the other passengers.

  Only if I get to kill you.

  “No,” I groaned when it became evident our conversation hadn’t ended.

  She outstretched her arm, her long nails just missing my cheek. A delicious scent permeated from her pores. The smell of her blood tempted me.

  I had to get away. This wouldn’t end well for either of us. She was close to meeting her demise and she didn’t even know it.

  “See you then,” she offered as the crowd of weary passengers moved forward.

  “Let’s hope not,” I whispered under my breath. I have a mission and it doesn’t include you… unless, of course, you were to get in my way.

  The man in front of me turned. “Some people, right?”

  I opened my mouth to answer, but a gash just under his chin caught my attention.

  Blood.

  “We’re moving again,” he said.

  My breath quickened. “Yes, we sure are. Um, did you cut yourself shaving?”

  What a dumb question. Why didn’t I have control over this? Eduardo warned me about the urges. He told me to take it slow. Pacing myself would be the key to my survival in society.

  Perhaps the combination of sorrow and anger had clouded my thinking. Perhaps I wasn’t yet ready to exist in two worlds. Alive and alone in one and dead and utterly lost in the other. Nothing in life had prepared me to be a vampire. Years of crime fiction television programs taught me everything I needed to know about how to find a target, but nothing about how to transition in and out of both realms.

  I didn’t understand the logistics of what happened to Eduardo. Whatever Diego did, resulted in his disappearance. For that, he must pay.

  “Sorry?” he asked, his hand to his chin.

  “You have an injury.” My hand trembled like a leaf in a violent storm as I lifted it to his face. My thirst for blood begged me to quench it.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yeah, I guess, weirdo.”

  Wrong move, buddy. Wrong move.

  —2—

  There, that should tide me over until I find Diego Salvador. Two victims at once. I threw in the stewardess just to prove a point. What a treat! I licked the last trickle of blood off my lips and merged into a crowd of eager new arrivals. No one noticed the male passenger’s sudden disappearance, and it would be hours until someone realized the stewardess had vanished.

  Look like you belong here.

  Smile.

  I hadn’t had occasion to smile often since my life was torn to shreds. I had to fake it until I couldn’t any longer, assuming identities of unsuspecting citizens as I traveled the globe. I knew better than to leave a trail for authorities to follow.

  Up ahead, a line of uniformed officers searched bags. Thank goodness, the stewardess had packed lightly.

  “Can I see some ID?” a customs officer urged.

  “Sure. No problem.” I handed him the necessary paperwork and contorted my face to l
ook like a perky Southern belle.

  Why did I have to choose her? We looked nothing alike.

  I made a mental note to only kill women who resembled me.

  He squinted his eyes as he moved the passport and Miss Pan Am’s employee badge closer. “This is you?”

  Melody Samuelson. That’s what the ID said.

  How would Melody answer this question? She wouldn’t because she’s dead.

  “Yes, that’s me. Of course, that’s before my divorce,” I said in my best southern accent. “As soon as he left, I had work done. You know, I needed something to make myself feel better.”

  He locked eyes with me.

  Please, believe me. Don’t all women have crow’s feet and jowls implanted after a divorce?

  After a quick shrug, he said, “Enjoy your stay.” He handed the passport back to me and sent me on my way.

  That was close, I thought as I scanned the crowd for someone who had the same coloring as I did.

  “Taxi?” a short, stout gentleman with a thick accent asked as I stepped out of the terminal.

  “Por favor,” I said. “I’m going to the parade in the city center. Do you know where that is?”

  He chuckled. “Si. Si. Come. I’ll take you.”

  He raced down the road, the car swerving from side to side over cobblestone streets.

  “Slow down,” I cried out. “Despacio!” I had to find Diego soon because I’d already exhausted most of the Spanish I knew.

  The driver turned to me, a dark expression on his face. “From America?”

  Something about the way his beady, little eyes stared back at me made me uncomfortable. “Yes,” I answered. “Do you always drive this fast?”

  He sneered. “All the time.” He turned back around, glanced in the rearview mirror at me and made the sign of the cross.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked.

  He looked in the mirror again. “No reason.”

  —3—

  That’s the thing about blood. No two sips ever tasted the same.

  I slipped out of the taxi and threw money onto the dash.

  No one could ever accuse me of being a thief.

  I glanced at my handiwork. In the dark, he looked like he’d fallen asleep. It would be hours before anyone would notice the bite marks on his neck, but first, they’d have to know to look for them.

  The earth vibrated under my feet. A grumbling of voices filled the air. Chants. Music. Laughter.

  Ah, and so it begins.

  I ducked into a vestibule and slipped out of the flight attendant’s uniform. I cast it aside in a trash heap and pulled on the costume I’d found in the stewardess’s overnight bag.

  Marigold-strewn altars welcomed the cascade of mourners for their annual celebration to honor those ravaged by death. They awaited their return to mingle with the living. Thousands, adorned in full Dia de los Muertos regalia, poured into the streets to join the somber parade. Tears, cheers, foot-tapping corridos, dance, and wailing blended with Mariachi music as the crush of people inched their way into a decaying cemetery.

  Funny how sorrow had a way of equalizing everyone. The mixture of sadness and jubilation invigorated my senses. To walk amongst the throngs of mourners, undetected, hidden under a brilliant plumed hat brought me solace. No one batted an eye. My ability to blend in—anytime, anywhere—afforded me an unending list of unique opportunities. From Hemingway’s Havana to Madrid and back again, Eduardo and I had seen it all as he savored on the most delectable sanguineous bodies on the planet.

  A banner hung above a cantina: Festival la Calaca.

  Skull Festival. Perfect.

  It had been a long time since I had to use this much Spanish.

  “Disculpe,” I said, tapping the shoulder of the woman in front of me.

  She turned, offering a tentative smile. Her eyes widened as she took in my colorful garb. “Ay, Dios.” Her jaw slackened.

  Her walking partner, a small egg-shaped woman caught her before she fell. “Perdon,” she offered. “La Catrina?”

  I hadn’t thought of a new name yet. If she wanted to call me Catrina, that worked. I wouldn’t be here long anyway.

  “Si,” I said. “Do you speak English?”

  The women clung to each other, tears brimming in their eyes.

  “Hello?” I tried.

  A large group formed a circle around me, their eyes wide.

  “What did I do?” I asked.

  “Madre de…” the shorter woman covered her mouth with her hand. “Mira. Mira,” she called. “It’s her.” She pointed to me as others gathered around, their eyes as wide as the full moon in the sky.

  I racked my brain to make sense of their reaction. Mira? What is that? Look? Did she ask them to look at me? Why?

  I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror a man behind me held in his hands.

  “No. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not…” I let my words trail off as I considered my next move.

  The crowd around me broke out in song.

  “You’re here. You’re here,” a man said as he took my hand. “You’re beautiful.”

  “I am?” That was a legitimate question. Compliments were the last thing I expected to receive from people I’d kill if the need arose.

  “You’re La Catrina,” the man explained as he swirled me around to the beat of the music. “This is your celebration.”

  The crowd returned to their positions in the procession, each with a watchful eye on me.

  I decided my best option was to stick to the small English-speaking man. If things went bad, I’d have to remember not to kill him.

  “Why is everyone so excited to see me?” I asked.

  He snickered. “Why wouldn’t they be? All my life, we do the same thing. We celebrate our loved ones and wait for the arrival of the Dama de la Muerte, and finally, you are here. With us!”

  “You think I’m the Dame of Death?”

  He smiled. “Si. Si.”

  I shrugged. That wasn’t part of my plan, but if they wanted to worship me before I exacted my revenge on Diego, so be it. I could live with that.

  “You’ve lived here your whole life?” I asked.

  “Yes. Seventy years, senorita,” he answered.

  I hooked my arm through his. “You would recognize when someone new came into town?”

  He furrowed his brows. “This is Playa del Carmen. Someone new arrives every single day. Who do you want? Is it Padre Valdez?”

  I’d forgotten about the tourists. Of course, new people arrived all the time.

  “A priest?” I asked. “No. The last thing I need is a priest. I need to find a man.” I smiled coyly. “His name is Diego Salvador. I believe he told me he lives here. Do you know him?”

  The man chuckled. “Ay, si. I know him. Diego Salvador is my name, senorita.” He stopped, scanned the crowd. “And his name. And his name. And, see that little one over there? His name is Diego Salvador too.”

  I whispered to my companion, “How many are there?”

  He laughed. “Not many. Fifty, maybe a hundred. Where did you meet your Diego?”

  “Oh, he’s not mine. We’re not together.” How could I explain? It’s not like I could tell him he kidnapped my husband, reinvented himself, and escaped my grasp. What would he think?

  “But you like him? I can tell. Women always get the same look in their eyes.” He lowered his voice. “But La Catrina, how can you have a relationship if you’re—”

  “Dead?” I finished his thought. If memory served me right, the woman he and the others thought I was, died centuries ago. Every year, on Dia de los Muertes, she would appear in a new location to mourn and celebrate with the locals. “He’s not a boyfriend. He’s someone I need to find. I have a message for him.”

  He gasped. “Is he in danger?”

  On any other occasion, it wouldn’t have bothered me to lie. Lies rolled off my tongue like butter on a warm bun, but I liked this man. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to him. “Yes, you could say th
at.”

  He paused before bursting out in laughter. “You’re funny, senorita. Maybe I can help you find him.”

  I nodded. “Maybe you can.”

  We turned back to continue our somber parade. By the time we made it to the cemetery gates, I’d had enough of my long black shawl dress and huge marigold-covered hat. I would have given my left arm to find a pair of Jordache jeans and a hot pink Relax sweat-shirt with matching Jelly shoes. At least, I would have looked normal.

  “Where is home for you?” my companion asked.

  “Everywhere and nowhere,” I answered.

  “Oh. Right. Right. You have been all over the world,” he said.

  He spoke with his hands. I liked that about him. It gave him some authenticity. I also liked that he had fresh scratches on his hands. That meant he wasn’t afraid of hard work.

  “What shall I call you?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the small cuts on his right hand.

  “Diego,” he started. “No. No. Don’t call me that. You can call me Chuy.”

  “As in chew-ee?” I asked. “Is that how you pronounce it?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Yes, that’s good.” He held out his hand for me to take. “Come. Everyone will be delighted to see you.” He called out to the crowd to gather their attention. “It’s La Catrina. She is here.”

  Hundreds of people were already gathered at the cemetery. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the atmosphere. Women cried. Children whimpered. Men fell to their knees in prayer.

  Who knew I had that effect on people? I should have disguised myself as the Dame of Death a long time ago. After all, I was Mrs. Dracula. Legions of people should worship me for all eternity. That is if I ever chose to reveal my true identity.

  I waved to the crowd. “Hola.”

  I’d created a stir. Singing, dancing, loud praying drowned out the beat of the music that had serenaded us from the far west corner of the city.

  “It’s you?” a young girl asked her mother.

  The mother shielded her daughter’s face from my view.

  Since I had their attention and they seemed to fear me, I thought it was a good time to ask them for a favor. I signaled for Chuy to help me. “I’m looking for Diego Salvador.”

  The crowd gasped again.