by Unknown
I rolled eyes in unison with Jorgensen. ‘Give me a fucking break,’ he growled. ‘We rolled all the way up here for a fucking chupacabra?’
‘Vamps in the woods,’ said Finn, colouring. It looked like a rash on his fair skin. ‘Dude, don’t quote me. The story’s been around for years. They’re supposed to have all sorts of powers, like making themselves invisible, stuff like that.’
‘Yeah, yeah. This is relevant how?’
‘They kill people by screwing them.’
Shit. Mulder and Scully me and hand me some silver ammo for my piece.
‘You mean they don’t drink blood, they – what? Absorb it?’
‘It’s just a story. I didn’t think it might be true.’
‘But it is true.’
We all spun round to see who else had decided to drop in. It was getting like Grand Central Station in the room. The vamp stared back at us. He was tall and slender, with the shiny black hair of an old-time movie star. I hate it when they do that silent sneak-up-on-you thing.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ snarled Jorgensen. The sheriff put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. She nodded at the vamp.
‘Councilman Harper,’ she said. The vamp smiled, treating us to a glimpse of fang. We don’t deal with them much in our division, it’s mainly Vice. The Families pretty much stopped murdering each other years ago, and of course there are plenty of perfectly law-abiding vamps. I’ve never heard of a vamp cop, though. They tend to stick together, so finding one here was – I was gonna say weird, but I’ve kinda overused that word – so far out there that it was on the way back.
‘Councilman?’ I’m guessing Jorgensen was talking to the sheriff, but it was the vamp who replied.
‘Detective. It is Detective, no?’ His voice was on the high side. Not menacing at all. Not fooling anyone, either. ‘Sheriff Bellini, I apologise for not contacting you sooner. I’ve been away on family business.’ You could hear him emphasizing the lower-case f.
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it,’ the sheriff replied, and went on to introduce us like we weren’t standing in a basement room gathered round a very dead hooker. That stupid song from Transylvania popped into my head. The vampire and the werewolf should be friends… Shit, Martinez, think of a fricking Muppet song or something.
Harper the vamp nodded to us as if he hadn’t noticed we were Weres, or maybe had but was too polite to say so. ‘We had no idea one of the dark brethren had gone rogue.’ Brethren. Who says ‘brethren’? Jeez. ‘Or we would’ve taken steps ourselves.’
Jorgensen huffed out a sharp breath. Never seen the guy at a loss for words before.
‘All the time we thought it was just a story,’ Doc Finn piped up.
Harper smiled wryly. ‘We thought it was better that way. We are not proud of our feral cousins. Until now, we’ve been able to contain them.’ Feral? Regular vamps are bad enough, and why are we only hearing this now?
‘So, Councilman, what’re you gonna do about it?’ asked Bellini. Kudos. Telling them to clean up their own shit. That I like.
‘I will inform you when we have secured the perpetrator,’ Harper said.
‘Excuse me!’ Jorgensen poked a finger at the vamp. ‘Securing the perp is what cops do!’
The vamp was unfazed. Never seen one fazed, to tell you the truth. ‘Unfortunately, Detective, in this case we will have to use techniques that only vampires are capable of.’
‘Such as?’
‘Finding him, first of all.’
‘I saw him,’ I interrupted.
That got almost a faze from Harper. An eyebrow-raise, anyway. ‘Where?’
‘Crime scene. He made off with the vic.’
‘That’s … disturbing.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Jorgensen impatiently. ‘Refining his technique, all serial killers do it.’
You need more than two vics for a serial. But I wasn’t about to point that out. Only found two. Fuck knows how many more there could be. Man, it could get worse.
‘Does this perp have a name, Councilman?’ the sheriff asked.
‘If ferals have names, they don’t share them with us.’
‘So how do you plan on catching him?’ Jorgensen was dangerously close to going ballistic. Harper the vamp either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care.
‘I don’t plan on doing anything more than contacting some friends in the city who are better suited to apprehending this feral than I.’
I wondered how old he was, something I often do with vamps. Talking like an English professor usually puts them around the century mark.
‘Councilman, I sure as fuck hope you aren’t telling me I got a bunch of vampire vigilantes in my city.’
‘Nothing so melodramatic, detective. If you will give me one of your calling cards, I will give my friends your contact number. Your young colleague’s encounter with the feral will also be of great help.’
Wait, what? ‘How’s that?’ The vamp squinted at me.
‘You have… learned how to see the feral. And your assistance will be essential in this weather.’
People used to think that vamps burst into flame in sunlight, but they do get wicked sunburn, like third degree burns. If someone invented vamp factor sunscreen, they’d make a fortune.
Jorgensen was less than pleased. ‘I’m a Were too, dude. You picking a rook over someone who’s been a cop for nine years?’
‘But you have not seen the one we seek.’ He pulled a cell phone from his pocket. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen and ladies, but I have a telephone call to make.’
And that’s how you hand his ass to a NYPD detective with nine years’ experience.
*
So I wound up in a windowless office being briefed by two vamps dressed like Feds – shades, suits, sound systems. Their names were Smith and Jones. Of course they were. I learned how feral vamps got that way, and it was just too freaking disgusting for words.
‘Just as your condition is the second stage of lycanthropy, Officer Martinez, what we call the dark brethren or ferals, have reached the third stage of vampirism.’ That was Jones. He was slightly chubbier than his pal Smith, and his voice a little higher. I nodded helpfully, waiting for the punchline. Pretty sure I wasn’t going to like it.
‘While the majority of vampires never drink human blood,’ Smith continued for him, ‘But any vampire who drinks nothing but human blood is in danger of reaching the third stage, if triggered.’
Nope, pretty sure I don’t want to hear this. Still, I fed them the question. ‘So, what’s the trigger?’
Jones’s mouth twisted. ‘Sexual congress with a human,’ he said brutally, ‘during which the vampire drains his victim’s blood entirely.’
The room came and went briefly. Either barf of suck it up, Martinez. ‘Okay, pretty sure that doesn’t happen very often.’
Smith scowled at me. ‘It does not happen at all, Officer. ‘The ferals in Jefferson County all changed well over a hundred years ago.’
Doesn’t really make the sitch any better. ‘Why can’t humans see them?’ More importantly, why could I … sort of?
‘The ferals are outside their visual spectrum. You, as a Were, can see a little further into the ultraviolet than humans.’ Huh. I only had a glimpse of the thing, and it fucked with my head. Also, freakily fast. I scowled. Jones smiled without flashing fang.
‘Officer Martinez, we appreciate that seeing the feral caused you momentary disorientation. The simplest way to counter that is to drink sangua. Also, you will be pleased to hear, ferals are far more allergic to silver than we are. Just a touch will cause fatal anaphylactic shock. Your superiors will no doubt be willing to authorise you the appropriate ammunition.’
This just gets better and better. I’m supposed to get out of my head on sangua, something I couldn’t afford if I wanted to, then roam the streets spraying silver bullets around? Screw that.
‘My colleague is not suggesting you consume a substantial amount,’ Smith said reassuringly. ‘As you are a Were, ju
st a small quantity of the active ingredient will steady your perception to the required extent.’
Still don’t fancy tracking down a homicidal supervamp without backup.
‘We aren’t asking that you go out alone, Officer Martinez.’ Crap! He read my mind!
Before I could find out what crazy-ass kind of support they had in mind, my cell started ringing. It was the LT.
‘Sorry, guys, I gotta take this.’ I stood up and turned my back on the wannabe-Feeb vamps.
‘Teresa, get your ass in gear. I’m sending you an address where you need to be. We have a situation.’ Crap, I hate that word. It usually means cluster-fuck.
‘Yes boss. What’s happening?’
‘Your super-vamp. I need you here five minutes ago.’
*
What I found were five black-and-whites with their sirens howling parked all over the street between an Irish pub and a parking garage, and a dozen uniforms crouched behind them aiming their weapons at the entrance. Between the sirens and a lot of confused shouting I couldn’t tell what the flying fuck was going on. So I just drew my piece and Groucho-ran to join the LT, who was yelling furiously into his radio.
‘The perp’s holed up in there,’ he told me a moment later, ‘with at least four DBs, one of my officers, and the new ME.’
The bottom fell out of my stomach. ‘Who?’
‘Sal Davies and Doc Riordan. Talk to me, Teresa.’
Fuck. Not Jules. Fuck. I tried to set my thunderstorm thoughts in order. ‘I need silver ammo. The vamps said I can see this feral motherfucker if I have a shot of sangua.’
‘Devon,’ Romescu said, and a uniform I didn’t know handed me a clip. My hands were so sweaty I fumbled and nearly dropped it. My guts were twisting. ‘Sangua, Teresa?’
I told him what the vamps said about visual spectrums. He sighed. ‘The things we do. Devon, get into that bar.’ Turned back to me. ‘Teresa, are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Never surer, LT,’ I lied. Fight or flight was revving me up, and flight would’ve won hands down if it hadn’t been for Jules. Devon handed me a shot glass, and I tossed down the contents. It tasted like pennies and spices, and I felt its buzz straightaway. I blinked, and my sight sharpened, like watching a movie in 3D.
‘Go,’ said Romescu. ‘We’ve got your back.’
My heart was thudding so loud I could hardly hear anything else. The sirens receded into the distance. I felt both slightly drunk and amazingly clear-headed, and even on the dingy ramp I was seeing more colours than I’d ever seen before. My legs felt like spaghetti. I swallowed hard, tasting the coppery remains of the sangua, and tottered downwards. I had to make sure I kept my head still because if I moved too fast my vision went sparky. Steady my perception, my ass.
It was just your garden-variety one-level underground parking. There were concrete pillars and maybe a dozen cars, entry-level Beemers and the odd SUV. It all made for plenty of things to hide behind. I could see the upper half of a beat cop lying very still, and a crap-load of blood.
‘NYPD!’ I shouted. Squeaked. My voice sounded like the fucking Chipmunks. ‘Jules, it’s Taz, where are you?’ No reply. Shit. ‘JULES!’
‘Don’t shoot, Taz!’ She was there, thank fuck, thank God, thank Buddha, thank whatever.
‘Are you okay?’
She appeared from behind one of the pillars, hands in the air. I sighed with relief. She looked more than okay. ‘Don’t shoot,’ she said again. ‘You’ll see why.’
‘Come on, come on, get over here,’ I panted. ‘Guys, hold your fire.’
As soon as she got near enough, I grabbed her arm and pulled her clear. In her place, I saw what I’d glimpsed at the other crime scene, and my breakfast bagel tried to lurch up my throat. Fuck. Some things shouldn’t ever be seen.
With my wacky enhanced vision, the feral vamp, the third-stage critter, looked like a zombie would look if death had gotten creative, and not in a good way. Its flesh was peeling, bruise-coloured and swollen into random grotesque lumps. Its vamp teeth had grown crazily into arcs that penetrated its lower lip, and the fingernails were great curves of talon.
None of that was the worst.
The feral’s eyes, unlike other vamps’, were clear and sad and human, and I realised what the third stage of vampirism was: it was to become human again; and to know the enormity of every single thing the vamp had ever done in its long, long life.
It looked at me, and I met its stare, horrified. ‘Kill me,’ it said indistinctly. ‘Please. I’m sorry. Kill me.’
Suicide by cop isn’t usually a good idea, not least because of the shitload of paperwork it generates, but I pulled the trigger and the silver bullet caught the poor fucker in the chest, and that was that.
You’ll see why. That’s what Jules said. And that meant she had some wolf in her. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or not.
High School Mythical: Asgard
By Christine Morgan
‘Gimme a V!’ yelled Brunhilde.
‘V!’ responded the squad, throwing their arms into the air.
‘Gimme an A!’
‘A!’ Hands triangled together above their heads.
‘Gimme an L!’
‘L!’ One arm straight up, the other straight out to the side.
‘Gimme an H-A-double-L-A!’ Brunhilde’s pom-poms shook a metallic flurry of blood-red and gold in the stadium lights. ‘What’s that spell?’
‘Valhalla!’
‘What’s that spell?’
‘Valhalla! Gooooooo, Vikings!’
Whooping and cheering, the Valkyries launched into an exuberant display of high-kicks, split-jumps, cartwheels and hand-springs. They wore shiny gold breastplates, pleated red and gold mail skirts, and headbands with upswept gold foil wings.
‘And we’re back,’ came a voice over the loudspeakers, Kvasir in the announcer’s booth at the top of the bleachers, ‘for the fourth quarter in this thrilling contest between our own Asgard Vikings and the Midgard Serpents!’
The crowd roared. Pennants flapped. Horns blew. Down by the 50-yard-line, a bunch of shirtless Einherjar body-painted the team colours bumped their muscular chests together, brandishing tankards that sloshed froth into the three rows behind them. Nobody objected. Fans waved homemade banners – GO VIKINGS, I (HEART) YOU SIGURD, STOMP THE SNAKES!
Kvasir went on to wax eloquent about the long-standing rivalry between the two team captains, quarterbacks Thor and Jormungandr. Theirs was a bitter grudge-match going back years, and would probably only end if and when they killed each other.
Over on the Midgard side of the stands, the scene was much the same, though done in dark green and silver, the banners read CRUSH THEM and SERPENTS RULE!, and the fashion statement of choice was big foam snake-heads complete with fangs.
The score was tied. Injured players were regularly carted off the field. They’d be back on their feet the next day and raring to go like nothing had happened. Indulgent blind eyes were turned to the heavy wagering going on. Similar indulgence would be afforded later to the inevitable riots and wild parties.
From the line of scrimmage came loud war-shouts and the thunderous crash of battle. Helmed heads cracked together. Armoured shoulders met like shield-walls. Spittle sprayed and hot breath grunted. The fallen tumbled, groaning, to the torn turf. Ravens wheeled above and wolves skulked, yellow-eyed, in the shadows beyond the goal posts.
Back and forth they went, in violent conflict. Then Thor, with a mighty hammer-blow that he’d named his signature move, drove Jormungandr heavily to the ground. Hrothgar passed to Beowulf, but the Dragon tackled him at the ten.
‘Fumble!’ Kvasir, even amplified, could barely be heard over the tumult. ‘Wiglaf for the recovery … he’s at the five … the two … touchdown! Touch-down, Vikings! That was epic!’
As the spectators went wild, either in celebration or protest, Kvasir started relating the story everyone in the Nine Worlds already knew, about the infamous junior-varsity match when,
after Beowulf tackled Grendel, Grendel’s mother charged onto the field to attack the team. People would be talking about that one for ages.
It proved the surge the Vikings needed. They scored three more times before the end of the game. Wagnerian music burst full-volume from the loudspeakers. Immediate fights broke out, jubilant Asgardians and outraged Midgardians, and others who just always enjoyed any excuse for a good brawl or drunken free-for-all.
Skadi waited a while, giving the evening’s festivities a chance to get fully underway. A purpose far more serious than football had brought her hither from the mountains. Only an errand so grim could, in this season, lure her from the snowy slopes.
She came seeking not revelry, but revenge.
As she waited, she made ready for the upcoming challenge. She girded herself with underwire bra, hoisting high the proud mounds of her bosom. Fine mesh stockings encased her strong legs, and she donned her sexiest, most stylish dress; silver and snug-fitting with a slit up the side. Onto her feet, she buckled absolutely kickass killer heels.
Thus attired, she adorned her lips and eyelids with cosmetics, and brushed out her long locks until her fair hair shone like firelight.
Then she made her way to the best party, where all of the cool kids would be. Held, of course, at the home of Odin, Asgard High’s student body president and all-around Big Man On Campus.
The scene was much as she’d expected. A great bonfire blazed. Vikings and Valkyries frolicked in the pool and the steaming hot tub. The Einherjar guzzled and gorged. There were kegs of beer, vats of mead, jugs of wine. An entire boar turned on a spit, sizzling with grease and dripping with juices.
The house itself had many doors and a roof shingled in gold. From the open doors, and windows, throbbed a heavy, pounding beat.
As Skadi approached the front gate, heels crunching on rainbow-coloured gravel, her gaze caught the glow of a cigarette ember in the shadows of a large ash tree. Glancing that way, she beheld a wicked grin, and felt her curves closely scrutinised from head to toe.
‘Hwaet,’ he said by way of greeting, flicking his hair back from his brow. ‘Skadi, right? Jotunn High skiing champion?’
