Evolve: Vampire Stories of the New Undead

by Unknown

  “I heard in my head,” Jane says. “To come. Then I saw a fox.”

  “You saw me.”

  “I saw a fox. In the street. Nobody sees a fox in the street. But then I wanted … to come here. And walk into the forest. This forest … they say this forest is haunted. They say demons walk among the trees.”

  The woman rises, stretching, and cocks her head to the other side. “They are not so very wrong about that.”

  “But you are not afraid?”

  “I am not afraid.”

  “This makes no sense,” says Jane, and she takes another step forward. Now that she is closer to the woman, she can see the jewelled pearls in her hair winking in the weak light.

  “Even the bravest do not care to walk into this forest alone,” says the woman. “And so I call.”

  And now the woman is smiling, and Jane can see that her lips glisten, that her teeth are white and even, glowing as the pearls glow, with a lustre that would sound like a tinkling bell, were there to be a sound at all.

  “There was a time when I searched, when I walked the streets of Chiba. They called me a demon even then.” And she laughs. “I made myself to be a whore.” And now she reaches out a hand, adopting a hungered expression, lips parting slightly, her head bending forward so that her hair falls forward to cover her cheeks. “It is easy enough. I had no need to call except with my body.” And she straightens, haughty and proud once more. “But I tire of the city. As you tire of the city.”

  Jane is aware of something else now — that her heart is thudding very fast in her chest; she feels its frantic, squeezing beat.

  The woman is standing in front of her, touching her face, and Jane lifts her chin to look up into the woman’s eyes. She smells perfume: a woody musk, sweet and threaded with the scent of freesia and white lily.

  “I come here instead,” the woman says. “I was nameless once. Before I was kitsune, I had a name. I remember it — how can a creature forget her own name? The sound of it on my lips is alien to me. Only sounds. Not a true name. But when the hunger took me, and I was scalded by the daylight; I came to think of myself as the fox. And before long, I was the fox. My nature, known only to me.”

  The woman leans forward to whisper in Jane’s ear. “I am the fox demon.”

  Jane’s body is not her own. It will not move. She stands very still, even as her memory recalls the stories. First of the fox, the demons of Japan, the demons that take the soul and feed upon it, and she thinks but it was only a story, stories aren’t true, they never are. Then she is thinking of the forest where … where people come to kill themselves. They walk into the forest. That’s what they say. Even as she is thinking this, the fox woman, the kitsune, has let the kimono fall from her shoulders, and within Jane there is a rising fear, a terror mounting itself as she feels the woman tugging at her jacket, pulling it open.

  “I call for you,” the fox woman breathes. “I possess you, Jane, your soul. Your body. You come to me.”

  She is touching Jane now, first cupping one breast and then the other with cold hands, and Jane cannot move, cannot breathe, can only watch the fox woman bending down, the pearls in her hair glowing all the brighter as she kisses her chest. Within the terror, there is more. Gone is the apartment in Tokyo, the sour smell of Mr. Narita as he tries to brush up against her, the overcast skies and the rain. All of it, gone.

  Her heart beating, she stands in the forest — the sea of black trees where men come to kill themselves, and she knows in her heart that they do not come except as they are called, and she imagines them standing naked in the darkest wood in front of the fox woman, as Jane stands now, bound and unmoving.

  The fox woman lifts her head to gaze at Jane once more, and Jane is filled with longing, and a desire that cannot be her own, must not be her own, and yet…

  And now her arms, freed, are her own again, and she clings to the fox woman, wanting to draw closer to her, wanting to shout with desire and frustration, but only a whimper and a whisper in her throat. “Onegai shimasu,” she whispers, “dakishimetai.” Please. Hold me.

  And the fox woman smiles in triumph. She presses her cold lips to Jane’s, and Jane can feel the fox woman’s hands on her stomach reaching for her. With the pleasure, there is more — so very much more — and again Jane thinks she would shout with desire in a way she has never shouted before, but she is so very tired, so tired … and then there is pain, and now the fox woman is kissing her neck — kissing my neck, not kissing but biting oh I want you to kiss me but not like this oh no not like this but please don’t stop…

  The fox woman lifts her head. Jane can see the blood on her lips, and now, finally now, she can give herself to the desire, for the fox woman has returned desire to her, as she is taking her life from her. “I have you,” she says, and her amber eyes catch the light. “You have come to me.”

  It is in these last moments that she dreams of the prairie winds. I would have liked to feel them just once more, she thinks. Just once more. And she wavers. Then, she slips quietly beneath the surface of the sea of dark trees, dragged down by the weight of the kitsune, the smell of the damp, decaying wood engulfing her, entering her, filling her.

  There is a last, fleeting memory of a bright, wide sky; of racing down the highway in an old pickup truck to catch the sunrise on an endless horizon; of canola and wheat fields nodding under the August sun; of the clean smell of new snow… And then — the stink of rot in the darkness and the whisper of leaves, the fox woman’s mutterings.

  Come back, Jane begs, desperate to hold onto the distant call of the prairie … please, come to me…

  An Ember Amongst the Fallen

  By Colleen Anderson

  Shadows fluttered from the corners as Buer bit in just above the fine lines of the wrist and sucked. Only five swallows. No overindulgence before the dinner party, but that was much later. The blonde male, lightly haired and slim, twitched but held still, his blood warm and slightly tart. Buer avoided the bull’s stare and looked around the pen at the other beasts. He liked to keep the cattle clean and ready to drink at any point.

  Some liked the taste better when the cattle fought but Buer found it made the blood acrid, sour upon the tongue and sometimes it stung going down. He preferred them docile, easy to subdue. The Book of the Fallen expressly forbade cruelty to or treating cattle as more than the meat and blood for which they were bred. Unpredictable, they could turn suddenly. Yet, if it wasn’t for their musky smell and the rhythmic thump of their speedy hearts, they could almost pass as vampirii. It was their gazes that bothered Buer most.

  He shuddered and licked the wound to help it close, then dropped the arm, smelling the tang of oniony sweat. He checked the other stock in the wood planked enclosure, the skylight now closed. The cattle liked sunlight and earthen tones and it was the one area of his condo that was not sleek metallic with black and blue accents. A plump white female steeped with red wine; every half hour a cup of pinot dripped into her bowl. A slimmer male paced in front of his white wine bowl. Buer pulled the list from his pocket and checked the time. He’d have to order the rest of the stock while at work. One calf still needed for the scotch. A fresh brown female raised on grains and exotic spices for the dinner. Oh yes, he had better grab a few rabbits for Jeanine. She was still adhering to her distasteful fad.

  As he rolled down the sleeves of his white shirt, he locked the pen behind him, then looked in the fridge. There was enough cattle feed for later. Some flowers, an extra bottle or two of wine and he’d be set for the party. He pulled on the encompassing coat, the leather gloves, his shades and the wide-brimmed fedora.

  He hated this season. Even with the protective clothing, he often itched at high summer. But it couldn’t be avoided if he wanted to keep his job. Squinting, he hurried into the late afternoon sun and off to the lab.

  Ronobe and Sammael barely noticed when Jeanine arrived, their hands entwined like hibernating snakes. Mystery slithered and slid about them, but Sammael only looked up long
enough to accept the bloodwine that Buer offered.

  Jeanine kissed Buer’s cheek and handed him a bottle. “Hello, my dears. Here, pour me a pure glass.”

  Buer took the bottle as Jeanine turned to Ronobe and Sammael. “Honestly, you two act like you just met. What’s with you?”

  Buer shook his head as he went to the kitchen. The troughs held the white, freckled cow and a pale bull slumped and tethered beside each other on a large Naugahyde pad. He found Arkon drinking white bloodwine from the wrist of the bull. Arkon raised a black, winged eyebrow at Buer and smiled. “Sorry, I just wanted to see what you had on tap.”

  “Riesling from the Alsace region.” Buer held up a bottle of sauvignon blanc. “I could pour you a glass of pure that Jeanine brought, or you could wait twenty while it decants.” He popped the cork onto the mottled grey marble counter and tilted his head at Arkon.

  “No, go ahead and decant it. I’ll take a glass from this one.” Arkon reached for a goblet on the counter and with an elegant, sharp nail punctured a vein in the male’s arm; bloodwine dripped into the glass. The pale skinned bull rolled onto his side, snoring. Arkon licked closed the wound and watched Buer open the enclosure door and hook up the IV to a mesmerized calf in the first cage inside. The calves never liked the alcohol but their smaller bodies distilled it faster.

  Buer checked the main course and the desert. The cow — exuding enough pungent cardamom, cumin and anise that it wafted off her sweating body — was riding the plump male bull. An astoundingly beautiful cow with long coils of honey gold hair stood nearby sipping from her bowl of port and watching wide-eyed. Buer had picked her and the port up as a last minute item to complement dessert. The pen would be well stocked for the next month. He had always found rutting cattle disconcerting but it kept them content. The hominid similarity was evident. Sometimes the Fallen didn’t seem much different from their distant cousins.

  Arkon said over his shoulder, “Do you really think you have a chance with her?”

  Buer started, then turned and shut the door.

  He put a pale hand upon Arkon’s shoulder and walked back with him into the living room done in black with brushed silver and blue trim. “I haven’t been able to forget about her for ten years. I have to try one last time.”

  Arkon just shook his head. “Give it up, my man. There are plenty to choose from. Besides, we’re not meant for lasting relationships.”

  Jeanine, short spiky hair, model-poised in lavender, stood at the window staring into the night. She was as pale as the moon’s face. Buer handed her a glass of pure wine as the buzzer sounded.

  The last guest called out as she entered in a swirl of emerald silk. “I hope you weren’t waiting on me.” Where many of the Fallen were willowy, she was all curves. Petite, with long, straight auburn hair, she had caught Buer’s eye and heart the first time he saw her. They’d spent fifty years together, thirty of them tempestuous, but in the end her restlessness and his timidity had pushed the wedge between them. Like many vampirii, they learned to live with past loves being underfoot. There were always exceptions though.

  Buer smiled and drew Camiel to the kitchen. “Not at all, my dear. We’re just settling in. I’ll bring out the main course soon. White or red?”

  “You should know.” She smiled at him and he punctured the freckled cow’s wrist holding a goblet under the drip. The bloodwine slowly flowed in as Buer asked, “How are you? I haven’t seen you in quite a while.”

  Camiel had opened the door and peeked into the pen. “Oooh, that looks delicious.” She turned back, smoothing the green dress that outlined her exquisite body. “I’m good. Busy. Been flying to Paris and London a lot.”

  Buer had to look away, feeling his desire tighten his scrotum. “That’s good. You still like the job?”

  She shrugged. “So far. I think I’m good for another twenty before I’ll try a new career. Still, I like the benefits of free travel.”

  He handed her the glass. “Go ahead. I’m going to get dinner ready.”

  As Camiel walked into the living room, Buer stepped back to the pen and found the cow sleeping. He unlocked the cage and picked her up. She stirred but didn’t wake. Laying her in the center trough of the table, he took a moment to clip her black hair short so it wouldn’t get into the food. As he walked into the dining room he called, “Dinner’s on.”

  They took their spots around the table, each person sitting into the scooped out spot that allowed close proximity to the hominid. A shallow blue porcelain bowl, with knife, spoon and fork sat beside each plate. Jeanine, so pale her blue veins threaded beneath her skin like lace, hung back, a look of disgust crossing her face.

  Arkon rolled his bright blue eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still on with this nutty thing about not eating hominids.”

  “It’s not a fad, Arkon,” she snapped back. “Can you say there is any difference between one of these and us?”

  Camiel said softly as she sniffed the cow’s arm. “Hmmm, they smell tastier. And it’s brown.”

  Janine sat near the cow’s feet, pulling at her sleeve. “Buer’s wine vessels are as white as you and me.”

  Even Ronobe pulled her gaze from Sammael’s angular face and dark intense eyes. She turned, solemnly saying, “Well, let’s see, my dear. They lead short lives if left to the pasture. They can tolerate daylight. They don’t seem to be able to talk—”

  “That’s not necessarily true. Primate studies have shown that they can be taught rudimentary language, even make some sounds amongst themselves. All primates show an understanding of sign language, and hominids can be taught simple tasks.” She sipped her wine.

  Ronobe laughed. “Until they turn on you. They’re unpredictable.”

  Jeanine’s lips thinned as Buer handed the long curved knife to Arkon. “Would you do the honors?” To Jeanine, he said, “I don’t know, even dogs growl at each other. That doesn’t mean they’re intelligent. Besides, it doesn’t seem right.”

  Arkon stood and the scraping of the chair awakened the cow. She looked around and started to sit. Buer grasped her head between his hands, staring into her wide eyes. She subsided again, looking dazed. He laid her back in the trough and sat between Jeanine and Camiel. The cow stared at the ceiling, mouth slack and open like a roseate flower. “All right,” he said.

  Arkon deftly cut into the jugular. The cow twitched and blood pulsed out of her gaping throat while she thrashed weakly. She gurgled for a few moments as blood threaded into the trough. Arkon had already sliced from belly to ribcage as she shuddered her last. “Preferences? Camiel?”

  “Oooh, how sweet, first choice. I’d like the heart please.” She dipped her finger in the trough and licked some of the blood from her finger. “Delicious.”

  Arkon deftly skewered the heart and put it on her plate. She ladled some blood onto her meat. He continued to cut the delicacies for each person: tongue, liver and eyes for Ronobe and Sammael.

  The fad of the century was to eat meat with the blood, for its nutritive properties, but the lovers immediately played a game of passing an eye back and forth from mouth to mouth, kissing until one of them bit down, filling their mouths with juices as they both laughed. They looked like children with the red smears over their mouths and chins, which they licked away.

  Buer went back to the kitchen and returned with a calmed rabbit. As he handed it to Jeanine, he said to Ronobe and Sammael, “What’s with you two? You’re acting as giddy as kids.”

  Ronobe, her hair a froth of wheaten curls, smiled as she chewed a piece of tongue, wiping at the blood that dribbled from one comer of her mouth. She pointed the fork at Buer and said, “Can’t tell. Well … maybe at dessert.”

  Arkon, sitting across from Jeanine, made a show of eating the brain, smacking his lips and slurping blood noisily, but he spit the meaty bits out, having never been one to follow the current fad of eating flesh. “Hmm, are you sure you wouldn’t want a piece of this? Very tasty. Spicy, hint of sweet. That mangy animal can’t possibly ta
ste good.” Jeanine had broken the neck of the rabbit and delicately scooped only the blood with a teaspoon.

  “I made my choice, Arkon. I’m happy with it. I can’t drink hominids anymore. It’s like eating a crippled cousin.”

  Buer sighed and shook his head as he cut into the thigh. She’d always found causes but had stayed with this the longest. “Next thing you know you’ll be dressing them up in cute little suits and taking them to market with you. It’s unseemly.” Buer sipped the thick, heady bloodwine. It was a good mix, the fine wine and the pedigree of the cow. The bull with the white bloodwine had come from the same ranch.

  Jeanine shook her head, her hair making her look a bit like a sunburst. “Please, Buer, there are limits. Some day, they may evolve into intelligent creatures. They do like to cook their food and use tools, and have been trained to work the fields in the last century. The anthropologists think we may have a common link.”

  “Sure,” white-haired Sammael added, playing with Ronobe’s curls. “If you believe the Book of the Fallen, then God sent Lucifer and his kind here where these hominids already lived, made in his image. But if that’s the case, does God also look like a snake, a cat, an elephant?”

  Jeanine shook her head. “You have to separate myth from scientific fact. Studies in language and primate behavior show similarities between vampirii and other hominids. Besides, God is known as the Great Deceiver.”

  Camiel’s feral smile showed the tips of her fangs as she chewed through another chunk of heart. Of all of them, she took the greatest delight in eating as much meat as blood. “Be careful, my dear. Next thing you know you’ll want to fuck the beasts.”

  Ronobe choked on a mouthful of liver. Silence fell over the table and Buer gulped down the rest of his bloodwine. Even Arkon had stopped chatting, staring wide-eyed at Camiel.

  Jeanine sat as still as an ice sculpture, her spoon in hand as her face suffused with a pink luster. Then she turned toward Camiel and growled. “You have always been a self-indulgent bitch, Camiel, but I never thought you’d stoop to such horrific thoughts. Are you really so base as to not be able to discern the difference between an animal that shows possible forms of communication and intelligence and having to smear it with insinuations of bestiality? You disgust me.”