Outsider

by W. Freedreamer Tinkanesh

  Joy turned to Uta, still licking blood on her lips. The equally mesmerized Uta unbuttoned her shirt, revealing white, small breasts. Joy went for the throat.

  * * * * * * *

  The vampire walked out of the ladies’ room and rediscovered the bar, composed but impatient.

  She stopped abruptly in the middle of her stride. Something, or someone, was watching her. She looked around, scanning the high walls; her eyes detailing the women behind the bar, so focused on their task of the moment, jugulars offered; the patrons, busy with their own desires, deeply ensconced in the privacy of their alcoves. A waitress passed her, carrying an overcrowded tray.

  Joy could definitely feel a presence, something other, something like herself, but more powerful, something deliberately divulging itself, something playing with her. Fingers of fear attempted to tiptoe down her spine, she refused to acknowledge them.

  A quick movement drew her attention to the exit. Her eyes caught the back of a client leaving. Spiky dark hair. The familiar frame of a scarecrow…….

  And just like that, the mocking presence disappeared, leaving Joy to wonder uncomfortably. Maybe it was just a dream, but vampires don't dream.

  * * * * * * *

  Sid didn’t look up from the sheets of paper she was busily covering with words and ideas. She didn’t hear a sound, but she inquired:

  “Did you have a nice dinner?”

  “Not bad,” the vampire answered, her facial expression unreadable. “But I wouldn’t mind some dessert.”

  The writer drew up an eyebrow, still crossing her T’s and dotting her I’s. She felt Joy’s fingers gently tracing the nape of her neck, and liked the sensation.

  INTERLUDE: FLIGHT OF THE GRIFFIN (by courtesy of the author Sid Wasgo)

  “All cats are balloons. All cats are petunias. All cats are mangold-wurzels. All cats are yin enough. All cats guide me.” (Ursula K. Leguin)

  The healer was studying the innards of the dead bird brought by the sulky cat. A bird bigger than the cat. She gently dipped an index finger in the cooling blood and sucked on it, thoughtfully, before smiling lightly. The Davenport was about to be needed; the survival of the Other World would weigh on her shoulders. What was it like, the healer mused, to not have the choice and not know it.

  ** ** ** ** ** ** **

  It was a quiet midnight and the man had been following her since the bottom of Coldharbour Lane, Jo had no doubt about it. She decided to bring the situation to a head and settle it there and then, standing in front of a shop window crammed with second-hand clothes. As sure as rain in London, the well-dressed man (flawless fawn suit and matching tie) addressed her. His request (yes, he was polite) was not even a surprise, she had heard it already a few times in Camberwell and Peckham. Despite her mannish outfits, her leather wear, the self-inflicted scars blatantly lined-up on her forearms, her bleached hair shaved almost too close to the skull, her pierced eyebrow and the deliberately aggressive tattoo on her right upper arm. Men couldn't see what was so obvious to women.

  The man had no girlfriend, was desperate for sex and would pay good money for an intimate moment of her time. She didn't even faze out. She replied with calm and lack of care that, no, she wasn't interested. His insistence left her cold. He eventually gave up and walked away. Jo wasn't judgmental, even if she couldn't understand why men couldn't or wouldn't service themselves.

  She arrived at the house she shared with four like-minded women and noticed a cat dozing on the low wall, soaking the moonlight. It looked like any normal tabby cat, even if it had no collar. So, why would Jo think it otherwise? Because she was schizophrenic. Upon recognition, the cat opened its eyes, stretched lazily its limbs one by one, and eventually gave her its attention. She smiled to its sulkiness. Cats from the Other World were always sulking. She briefly wondered if she needed to take anything for the upcoming trip and discarded the colour-coded tablets prescribed by the psychiatrist. She wasn't even talking to her "voices" anymore, she had had an argument with these invisible people, whoever they were, and they hadn't talked to each other for about a week.

  The cat jumped off the wall with satisfaction and guided her through the invisible gap, the door between their two worlds, an almost unnoticeable ripple in the night air.

  ** ** ** ** ** ** **

  The Davenport was no stranger to the Other World. Her first visit had been totally accidental. She had followed through a "gap" the cat borrowed by a Tigerman because at the time she was responsible for this cat. She didn't know much about the Tigermen. They didn't mingle with other people in the Other World and as far as general knowledge went, they were all male. She had then stayed with the Cat People, who were all female, and made a few friends. In further visits she had met the people with pointed ears, who looked like the Elves portrayed in "The Lord Of The Rings", and simply called themselves the People. They were very androgynous-looking with their hairless faces, long manes and unisex clothing. Empathy being a general phenomenon in the whole of the Other World, communication was generally characterized by a lack of misunderstanding. For example, a general understatement was that cats were at home, everywhere, in every house and with everyone. No one seemed to mind.

  "Anyone I should especially talk to?" Jo asked the cat.

  The cat shrugged carelessly. It had done its part, now it just wanted to lounge in the sun. Typical attitude of a cat in any world. I should know better, Jo thought. Exactly, the cat seemed to reply. Yes, empathy meant that watching your emotional flows would make life easier for everyone. Jo was generally good at it.

  "Here she is, the Davenport, back to the Other World again, and standing, as tall as reality, in the middle of our town."

  Jo turned around to face the speaker, having recognized the mocking tone of the moody healer, and seer, of the People. Alkor's slanted eyes were as dark as dark could be, as dark as her shiny hair that she always kept behind her back, pointed ears poking through the strands. High cheekbones and pale chocolate skin. Her facial expression a permanent challenge. Time and time again, Jo felt the same amazement for the pure features of the People. Standing a pace aside from the healer, was Telmar, who, when necessary, acted as elder. His skin was pale, his hair shone under the sun, his eyes blazed a unique aquamarine and his manners were friendlier.

  "Welcome back to the Other World, Davenport."

  Telmar bore a smile on his lips and seriousness in his eyes. Jo Davenport could sense fate and prophesy weaving in the air.

  ** ** ** ** ** ** **

  They could have sent her to hell with a smile, and she knew it. But she would have gone nonetheless, just for the sheer fun of it. Today they were merely asking her to climb a few mountains and rescue a Griffin, saving the Other World in the process. What was it with this people that they needed her to rescue them, why couldn't they do it themselves? Ah, yes, the portents, the traditions. At least, it was entertaining. Or sort of. Jo didn't mind a challenge every now and then; it sounded to her that this Griffin had a tendency to get into a spot of trouble every couple of centuries, -a definite regular pattern-, requiring immediate rescue. Or the Other World would disintegrate. This time, it was up to the Davenport. The Davenport had listened carefully, heard about the previous heroes who bravely acted according to the prophecies. She eventually inquired:

  "And what became of them?"

  Telmar's smile took a rigid turn; Alkor's eyes kept their usual hint of amusement. She replied with no ripples in her well-guarded emotions:

  "They were never seen again."

  Within the following hour Jo Davenport left their village for the long walk out of the green valley, up the rocky mountains where wild goats would look at her, cocking their heads to one side with curiosity and wolves would keep a stone's throw away, uninterested. Nights were never too cold and days never too hot in the Other World. She would sleep on beds of dry grass, using gigantic rocks as comforting pillows. The many nearby narrow streams of clear water would sing her lullabies.

  The first night she
slept dreamlessly. The second night the Griffin appeared to her in a vision. It had the head, the wings and the majesty of a golden eagle, the body, the tail and the pride of a mighty lion. Its green eyes shone with a compelling quality. The third night she arrived near the cave where the Griffin mournfully laid. She could sense the pulsing waves of distress, radiating with resignation.

  She thoughts the Griffin would have learned by now: it gets stuck somewhere and the People send a human to its rescue. Or was she a willing sacrifice? She had no resentment. She suddenly missed her "voices", these invisible people she used to converse with at great length. Her change of emotions spread around and the distress was replaced by curiosity and intrigue. A dense cloud of bats suddenly flew out of a cave she hadn't noticed in the newly fallen darkness.

  ** ** ** ** ** ** **

  Back at the village of the People, the healer had gone into a trance, and with refrained anxiety, was following the Davenport's every step, envying her calm. In Alkor's spirit vision, the cave was illuminated with light brighter than daylight.

  Jo walked along a dark corridor for a few minutes, never stumbling, senses alert. Alkor wondered if the woman could sense her watching. Jo eventually arrived to a great opening and stopped, just short of falling into a sudden depression. A few feet down, under the open night sky, -she could see the stars twinkling high above-, the Griffin was lying on a bed of dirt, feeling sorry for itself. Grief and sadness pervaded the great cave. The Griffin was crying over the death of her dead lover (the previous hero who had never come back).

  So, this was the big secret of the Other World 's survival, Jo and Alkor thought simultaneously. The Griffin had gone there to die. Again.

  The Griffin looked at Jo, contemplated her thoughtfully for a minute. Her deep sadness slowly washed away. When the woman bore into the Griffin's eyes, she saw pure love. The mighty creature was radiating with pure love. So intensely that it was compelling. With a female quality she couldn't explain. The People had referred to the Griffin as "it" because they didn't know and it didn't matter to them. Eyes growing with tenderness, the fickle Griffin spoke and said softly, almost wishing upon the stars:

  "Will you come and live with me?"

  It was an overwhelming invitation, pervading the climbing walls of the depression, but strangely enough Jo was not feeling totally affected. Yes, if felt very sweet and very compelling, but her heart somehow had other desires. The Davenport wondered how to say no gently. She could sense the Griffin was not used to refusal. Silence and compassion proved eloquent enough. The Griffin was a gentle creature behind the veneer of her fierce looks. She lowered her gaze. They were still surrounded by the powerful emotion.

  "What will you do now? Where will you go?" The Davenport asked.

  The Griffin fidgeted for a minute, drawing circles in the dirt with a front claw, still contemplating a mournful death but not so sure about it anymore, before answering:

  "I guess I could go back to the Mountains of the North, where other griffins live." Thinking this would be as good as any a place to fall into oblivion. Or maybe rekindle the bonding with her own kind. When had she seen another griffin lately? Scribbling some more in the dirt, she added with wistful resignation: "Do you need a lift?"

  And they flew from the south, claiming the blue sky as theirs, gliding effortlessly along the wind streams. Mountains disappeared behind them, and when the valley eventually appeared many feet below, it was high noon. And when they arrived in sight of the village, they saw people looking up at them, waving happily. The Griffin was alive; the Other World had been saved once again.

  The Griffin landed gracefully in the middle of the main square in a midst of cheers and joyful cries. The Griffin was alive, the Other World would go on forever again, and the Davenport was back. For the first time ever, a People's hero had come back from this dangerous rescue mission.

  ** ** ** ** ** ** **

  After the departure of the Griffin, the People started to celebrate: food appeared on the main square, musicians started playing and people radiated with rejoice. The air felt thick with almost palpable happiness. Telmar gave the Davenport a tankard of the local brew. A few cats left the square, shoulders shivering with contempt. Jo looked around, scanned the joyful crowd and found who she was looking for nonchalantly lounging against a wall: Alkor. Her gaze met Jo's with the customary mockery. There was a smile on the healer's face. Not the light smile, but one an inch broader than any Jo had ever seen.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "Common courtesy dictates that we never drain the lifeblood of anyone to whom we've been formally introduced." (Cassandra in "Stolen" by Kelley Armstrong)

  The benefit had already been happening for a few hours by the time Sid's beloved Eliminator stopped outside the noisy pub and Sid killed the engine. Joy freed her black and white mohican from the crash helmet and gracefully dismounted the mechanical beast. Sid pushed her bike round the corner where a few like-minded machines were already gathered.

  The night was still very young even if the sun had set almost more than two hours ago. Sid had insisted on arriving together on the bike. Sometimes she needed to feel in charge. Joy didn't mind; control was never an issue for her.

  Music and the din of a crowd were blasting out the doors. Sid hesitated. Joy grabbed her by a leather-clad shoulder and dragged her across the threshold. Melissa Etheridge hit Sid's eardrums. "If I could have my way, I'd be sleeping in the alley, on a couch, with a friend, and a bottle of gin…….." Sid knew that, if Joy could have her way, she would feed on one of the many dykes crowding the pub. Joy could have her way anyway she likes, but Joy fed before meeting with Sid most of the time now. And it was just as well because, while Sid didn't mind Joy feeding on her menstrual blood, she felt uncomfortable with Joy's seduce-and-feed routine.

  They both started looking around after their obligatory stop at the cash table, where two twenty-something lesbians were smiling all they could at every newcomer. They don't know anything about depression, I envy them, Sid thought, smiling her polite smile, and noticing them noticing Joy in her gothic outfit. Joy snubbed them; the scent of their blood felt wrong.

  On their left, punters looking like they meant business, muscles too thin to bulge as in their fantasy lives, played pool, badly, but were having fun.

  The light was just this shade of almost bright threatening to go dim. Lesbians in couples or groups of four or five, a few rare men ("men as guest"). Sid noticed the cropped tops; the made-up faces; some mini-skirts; some leg-hugging jeans; the masculine-looking dykes –or more exactly trying to look masculine–, staring at her, evaluating her with a frown of their eyebrows. Then, they would look at Joy and their lips would slightly curl up at one corner. Only the women behind the bar looked genuine to Sid. They were there every day; they had nothing to prove.

  A splash of multi-coloured hair flashed in the throng, triggering a smile on Joy's face. The hair was matched with colourful make-up and an array of piercings, and was talking with gothic-trademark, long black hair and striking black eyeliner.

  "I am feeling hungry," Joy declared for Sid's benefit, hunger brightly colouring her voice.

  "I thought you had already fed."

  "Yes, but they look so delicious."

  "Where?" Sid questioned, trying not to sound worried and doing a good job at it. After a contemplative silence dominated by a minor k.d. lang number, she enquired: "Do you ever feed on people you've been introduced to?"

  Joy frowned and eyed Sid up: "No. Kelley Armstrong would call it common courtesy. Haven't you read her werewolf novels?"

  Sid smiled –she had read the reference literature–, grabbed Joy's hand and dragged the frowning vampire through the packed crowd, zeroing on the potential preys.

  "Sid!" The multi-coloured mohican exclaimed while the long, black hair smiled at the newcomer.

  "Hi, there!" Sid hugged Jessie with some usual chitchat:

  "How are you? I haven't seen you for eons. Good to see you, too, Stacee!"

&nb
sp; Stacee, with double E, smiled again at Sid, and then at Joy, who had erased her frown and overwritten it with a social smile, but was now seething inside.

  "Have you met my friend Joy?" Sid smiled, rather pleased with herself, and gestured towards the vampire. Then her hand waved at her friends. "Joy, this is Jessie. If you want a tattoo, she is the woman to trust. And this is Stacee." She wondered if vampires socialized or even had any inclinations to socialize. What was a vampire's life, or unlife, about? Did they have a purpose, or was their destiny to aimlessly wander the planet?

  A guitar strumming swung out of the speakers. Quickly, a voice caught up with it and started riding the rhythm tinged with jazzy echoes and blues undertones. Elizabeth Ashtead was wooing the audience to quietness and attention. Sid wished she had been the one on stage. What was it like again? Her memory, gone rusty with not learning songs anymore, seemed to have lost this relevant information. Sid had retired, and no one knew.

  The song was about trilbies and romance, and the crowd liked it. Sid was watching people and Joy was watching Sid. She had a theory about the writer.