BloodlustBundle

by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor

  A pair of eyes was watching them. Red, glowing. Bobbing as a slight buzzing sound filled the darkness, mingling with the moaning wind.

  Sweet Jesus, she couldn’t move.

  Another male scream rent the air, but it was closer this time. It came from down the hall. A female yelled the name “Mihas!”

  Mr. Vladislav?

  Then a shatter, glass breaking. An inhuman screech that yanked Camille to her feet, trapping her breath in her chest.

  More from a jerk of terror than anything else, she flicked the flashlight switch.

  The same monstrous yowl filled their own room as the thing in their doorway was revealed.

  Moon-white skin. Shredded nightdress. Long, wild dark hair. Claws. Fangs.

  And the eyes.

  Camille dived toward Griff, covering him, sending them both crashing against the wall. The useless lamp smashed against the rug-covered floor planks. She wanted to get him out of here…to do something…anything.

  “The hell?” Griff said in her ear.

  But he barely had the words out when the thing zipped forward, bare feet never touching the ground as it winged to him.

  Drawing on instinct, Camille thrust out her leg, kickboxing style. Once. Again. Each time, the thing darted away.

  Too fast. While Camille helplessly stood in front of her boyfriend, unarmed except for her balled fists, the vampire hovered two feet away. Then something long and slimy—her tongue?—shot out of her mouth and past Camille so quickly that she doubted she’d seen anything at all.

  Behind her, Griff’s body crumpled into hers with a pained cry.

  Crying out in terror and rage, Camille launched toward the vampire, nails bared.

  Get away from him.

  But with one swoop of her arm, the female casually knocked Camille over the bed and into the opposite wall.

  Her shoulder slammed against wood, numbing skin and muscle. The world swam and she throbbed all over. Still, she struggled to sit up.

  This isn’t really happening.

  There were no such things as vampires.

  From down the hall, Camille heard more screams, more crashes and devastation. But all that existed for her right now was this horror.

  As the vampire floated before Griff, her body seemingly suspended in water, the moon turned its face away from the clouds. Light filtered through the window, shining on him.

  Confused, he was leaning on the nightstand, looking toward Camille, eyes bleary. Dimming.

  Have to get to him, have to…

  She swayed to her feet, and he reached out to her.

  “No…” She scrambled over the bed, not knowing exactly what she was going to do, but she was going to save him, make the life come back into his gaze.

  The vampire flashed her fangs at Camille, hissing.

  “No, you back off,” Camille said, her voice unrecognizable, low and garbled. Even though her body was wailing in agony, she crawled toward Griff, holding her hand out to him.

  Their fingers brushed.

  They’re real, his gaze was saying.

  Then he hunched forward, eyes rolling back in his head as he fell into the waiting arms of the vampire.

  Camille’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, the victorious screech of the creature shattered her heart. In a blur, the vampire bundled Griff over her shoulder, shooting out the doorway.

  Leaving Camille grasping air.

  Motionless, she thought. Can’t move.

  Griff…?

  Had it really happened? Maybe she was going to wake up any second to find him next to her. That was it.

  Numb with shock and the sharp anguish of her pulsing shoulder, she ran her hand over the warm indentation where he’d been sleeping only minutes ago.

  A woman’s agitated voice shook her to reality. “Ms. Howard?”

  Camille startled back to all the screeches, all the downstairs chaos. Flora Vladislav and Ms. Godea were standing in her doorway with lanterns. The older woman’s light was shaking, making the tin of the cover rattle. Even the usually unruffled Ms. Godea was wide-eyed.

  “They have Mr. Vladislav,” his wife said, voice wavering. “It’s taken him outside already.”

  “They are waiting for the rest of the tribe to choose their males,” Ms. Godea added.

  A refusal to interfere? It almost seemed ritualistic, thought Camille. The realization came from the one single brain cell that was still functioning.

  But…Ritual. Tradition. If the creatures weren’t helping each other, that was to Camille’s advantage.

  Her hope kicked into high gear. According to the legends she’d heard, the strigoiaca didn’t kill the men immediately.

  So Griff was still alive.

  She’d be damned if she let him die like her parents.

  Without another wasted second, Camille sprang off the bed, darted toward the window, threw it open. Wind and a mist of rain blasted against her, but she didn’t care.

  Never looking back, she hopped onto the porch roof, running to the edge, surveying the landscape.

  There, by the edge of a neighboring forest, three vampires were holding their quarry and waiting for the other two. She recognized Griff instantly, crumpled over the shoulder of the vampire with the long black hair. Mihas Vladislav and Andrei Bartha were the other victims.

  She knew what she had to do. Spying a drainpipe, she leaped, grabbed on to it, ignoring the slicing pain of her shoulder wound. She slid downward, splashing into the mud with a jarring thump.

  Even though the breath got knocked out of her, she was on her feet in the next instant, mud soaked and breathless, seeing nothing but Griff in that creature’s grasp.

  But that’s when someone ran out of the inn, bowling her over. She went face first into the mud, sputtering as a pair of hands encased her ankles.

  She kicked, trying to free herself.

  Got to get Griff.

  Her captor wailed, and Camille flipped to her back, still kicking at hands that wouldn’t let go.

  “Stop!” It was Petar Vladislav, lying on his stomach, blood caked on one side of his head. “Ms. Camille!”

  Petar, the guy who’d summoned the vampires.

  “Let go,” she yelled.

  He gaped at her and shook his head frantically.

  Camille was about to jerk one of her legs out of his grip and kick him in the face when they were both whipped toward the inn, sliding through the mud, banging up the stairs, their heads and bodies getting hammered, bruised, on every step. At some point, Petar let go of her, and they slid on the floorboards, parallel to each other.

  When she finally skidded to a stop, Camille opened her eyes. Lantern light flooded her new location. Liquor bottles, glass cases and a mahogany bar rose above her.

  Using that bar, Camille levered herself to her feet, gasping at her stinging, pulsating wounds.

  But before she could steady her nerves, another vampire zoomed in front of her, on the other side of the bar, hovering in midair, keeping a quaking Camille from running back outside to Griff. This creature had short brown hair and was garbed in what was once a colorful wool dress.

  She flashed her fangs at Camille as Petar fumbled under the bar for matches, then lit fire to one.

  Wasting no time, Camille grasped a whiskey bottle and smashed it against the wood. Then she took up a boxing stance and brandished her own jagged weapon.

  Just zap out that tongue, she thought.

  But the vampire was busy watching Petar, who’d set fire to a bouquet of napkins he’d scrounged from under the bar. The flames kept the creature at a temporary distance.

  Why wasn’t it using that stinger on Camille?

  Behind the vampire, across the room, a large group of village women was attacking another beast with torches and the sharp legs of broken chairs. In a split second of consciousness, Camilla noticed they weren’t getting the tongue treatment, either. But the vampire was still stronger than a Texas tornado.

  As a matter of fact, one wo
man went spinning through the air as the creature tossed her out of the way to get access to a male cowering against the wall. As the rest of the women threatened the beast with fire, Camille ducked, avoiding the flying victim. The villager crash-landed next to Camille, shattering the glass casings, her arm breaking off from the impact, her neck snapping to a grotesque angle.

  A horrified gasp racked Camille as she shielded herself from flying debris and blasting blood. But she recovered quickly, standing, waving the broken bottle at her own menacing vampire. The one who only wanted to take Petar and be on her way.

  Part of her wanted to leave the mouthy student to his own devices because he deserved it. Griff didn’t. But part of her couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in her to kill, even indirectly.

  At her feet, Petar whimpered as his napkins were consumed, burning down to his stubborn fingertips.

  As she looked up from him, something sharp caught her eye. A blade.

  One of Mihas Vladislav’s medieval weapons.

  Forget a sharp whiskey bottle.

  Yet…God. She couldn’t be like the person who’d murdered her mom and dad.

  But could you actually “kill” a vampire if she was undead?

  As the beast jetted about, keeping Petar in her sights, Camille grabbed a small handheld ax, dropped the bottle, then gripped a larger, heavy battle-ax.

  “Petar,” she said, her pained shoulder causing her to scoot the heftier weapon to the floor near him with her foot, “use this.”

  She hoped he could do the killing for them both.

  Now. Time to attract this thing’s attention, if they were going to get out of this alive. She made a sudden movement, and the vampire locked on to her. Wordlessly, Petar grabbed the ax, just as his napkin fire burned out.

  The vampire saw Petar’s flame disappear. Now that the fire was gone, she darted her tongue at him.

  But Camille was swinging her ax before the vampire had even started.

  As the stinger emerged, whip quick, Camille cried out in fury, in utter fear, using all her strength to cut into the creature’s tongue, nailing it to the bar.

  The disembodied pink appendage wiggled through the air, landing on the floor squirming.

  Immediately, the vampire turned toward Camille, red eyes wide, blood gushing from her mouth. She didn’t seem to understand what had just happened.

  But after a lightbulb moment, she hunched, face shriveled in a frantic hiss.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh…

  Camille fought the urge to run, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Flying forward, the beast bared those fangs. Gasping, Camille ducked, avoiding most of the spraying blood, taking extra care not to allow any into her mouth just in case it carried toxins or something even more damaging. The tales said that only the exchange of blood would create another vampire, and she had to beware of that.

  “Petar!” she yelled, voice choked. “Do it!”

  Nothing was happening from his end.

  Damn it!

  Wanting to scare it off without actually killing it, Camille swung her small ax, desperate to defend herself. Then, as the vampire struck forward in a death blow, aiming her claws at her foe’s throat, Camille finally let go of her fear.

  There was no other choice.

  In a mindless explosion of adrenaline, she drew the weapon way back, holding her breath. Swung it forward. The blade cut into the vampire’s throat and stayed embedded there, spurting more blood, bathing the mud from Camille’s skin.

  “Dammit, Petar! Do it! Now!”

  The vampire flailed, gurgling, swiping at a panting Camille with her claws while holding her own neck with the other hand. Camille struggled to evade the creature, but it was too strong and quick, even wounded.

  Phu-whump. She slapped a palm against Camille’s forehead, pinning her to the wall, liquor bottles falling from the shelf, breaking.

  Fangs gleamed as the vampire opened her mouth.

  Death, thought Camille, heart exploding in her chest. This is death.

  She felt to her right, hand closing around the grip of another weapon. It might’ve been a knife.

  Whatever it was, she flailed forward, instinct ruling her actions, defending herself so she could stay alive.

  In reaction, the vampire blindly rushed straight at the blade.

  And found herself impaled on Camille’s weapon.

  Panicked, Camille grunted, pushing the vampire away from her, back onto the bar. With a shock, she saw that the long blade had speared through her body, stapling the female to the wood.

  A fountain of blood burbled from her chest, and she sighed, clutching the knife. A bitter sting closed Camille’s throat, as she stood there, quaking.

  The vampire jerked twice, then moaned pitifully, blinking up at her opponent.

  Unchecked, an angry tear slipped down Camille’s cheek, slicing through mud. Blood.

  As they stared at each other, the vampire took one last breath, then started screeching, the varied tenor growing in volume and desperation. A death alarm.

  Screeeeeee—

  The whoosh of a blade blurred past her sight. Petar and his battle-ax, chopping off the wail. The head.

  It rolled over the mahogany, stopping to face Camille, mouth locked in that death scream, eyes sightless, but still watching her.

  Always watching.

  “Thank you,” Camille said through clenched teeth. Petar seemed so proud of himself.

  That didn’t last long. There was a long screech across the room as the other vampire, still battling the village women, turned toward her fallen comrade.

  The creature threw back her head. Screeeeeeech! The same death alarm, uninterrupted this time.

  The sound tore Camille apart, releasing more terror into her bloodstream. Bullet-like, the vampire zipped over to one of the fighting women—Ecaterina, the girl Camille had interviewed. But instead of trying to get to the man again, she captured the girl, flew away from the other women to a lone corner, then bit into Ecaterina’s neck. The teen dropped her stake, jaw slack as she passed out. The vampire lifted her head, mouth ringed with crimson, then deposited the slumped teen on her shoulder.

  No! Camille thought. They couldn’t get away with taking Ecaterina, too.

  The fighting villagers, including Flora Vladislav and Ms. Godea, were exhausted, but they did their best to recapture their neighbor. They threw plates, rushed forward with their torches as Camille ran around the bar, toward the chaos.

  Since the villagers hadn’t expected the attack on Ecaterina, they scattered, going after the limp teenager, leaving their male exposed. Ecaterina’s vampire took advantage of this, zinged over, stunned the man, then cradled him over the other shoulder while flying toward the door.

  Hovering there—God help them—was the rest of the tribe. The three who’d been waiting near the woods.

  Camille froze in her tracks, chilled by the sight. Then, still carrying their own males, they swarmed Petar, stunning him, spiriting him away, before Camille could even gather her energy and get back to that side of the room.

  As they whizzed out the door, their prey carried like limp sacks of grain, Camille caught sight of Griff, his arms flapping against his vampire’s back.

  “No…No!”

  She chased them outside, where the moon shone over wood houses and mud-swirled streets. Tripping down the steps, she tried to keep him in view, but they’d already disappeared into the woods.

  Dammit, she could still catch them if she tried.

  The sobs came, hard and fast, as she stumbled, not giving up. So tired, so wounded. Exhausted, Camille’s bare foot caught in the mud, and she pitched forward, face first in a thick puddle.

  “I’m coming,” she said, choking on wet dirt.

  Then she began to crawl.

  There was still a chance.

  A hand grasped the back of her long john shirt, the soaked material slurping off her back.

  “They are gone,” said Ms. Godea’s weary voice. “Even if y
ou were fast enough, you would die.”

  Camille glanced up to see the translator, blood spattered, hair spiking out of its chignon.

  “Not such fiction, after all.” Ms. Godea helped Camille up, fear still painting her gaze.

  Impossible to stand, knees just now starting to give out, wounded shoulder and spent adrenaline clouding vision…

  This couldn’t have really happened, she thought.

  “They took him,” Camille whispered. The words echoed, dreamlike, trapped in another dimension.

  Quietly, Ms. Godea started sobbing. “The tales—the ones you and I did not believe—say that they will feed on him, but he will not die. Not yet.”

  Camille was still too stunned to feel anything. “So how can I find him?” Her words quavered, ran together.

  Shouts from the inn interrupted them. Families and wives were tearing at their clothes, weeping. Already they were arguing about hiring a rescuer by pooling their meager funds. But some villagers—no doubt the ones who hadn’t lost a son or husband—pointed out that these males were sacrifices. Going after them would only bring further destruction to the village.

  Leave the strigoiaca to their tradition, they said.

  Never, Camille thought.

  “Ms. Godea, tell them I’ll pay for their hunters. Weapons. Tools. Anything.”

  “I will.” The woman’s tears waned. “I would also introduce you to a woman, if you please. Dr. Grasu at the university.”

  “I don’t need another therapist.”

  “No. She is…” Ms. Godea paused. “Knowledgeable about nosferatu. She has studied vampirism for years and will be able to recommend solutions. Offer explanations.”

  “Like…?” Camille still couldn’t think straight. Her heartbeat was confusing her.

  “Something more than the brute force that failed us tonight. Something more useful than superstition.”

  God. She was right. They needed more than the weapons Camille had accidentally stumbled over. So much more.

  Vampires. Even though she’d seen them, she couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it.

  “What are you saying?” Her body was cold.

  So cold.

  “Dr. Grasu will help you. We can bring the dead vampire’s body for study and…who knows after that?”