Snow Covered Moon

by L M Adams

  I keep walking, almost out of sight of the City Proper wall. Still nothing, but I know they are shadowing my movements. One definitely knows how to move a lot quieter than the other. Still, neither makes a move. Maybe walking on a main road isn’t making it easy enough for them. There’s an alley a few feet away. If a lone girl walking down the alley in the midlands isn’t enough to rouse their courage, they are chicken shit and I’ll just have to go on the offensive. Either way, I want to know who is following me… or more importantly, why?

  The Kindred always bring home the lost. The little voice in my head warns me, but I already know and that’s what I’m afraid of. What if the Kindred has finally caught up with me? Then these steps I take are either my last as a free woman, or my last period. But I have to know, and I have to draw their attention away from Peter; the Kindred will not blink at killing a human to keep our existence secret.

  I slip down the alley and pick up my pace a little. Come on, come find me. It’s pretty clean for an alley. Only a bit of discarded trash. But there are fallen bricks everywhere, and it’s taking too much of my concentration to keep from tripping over them. Luckily, the heavy rains must have sent the rats to ground. Those things are the size of cats and scare the hell out of me.

  My night vision isn’t great but it must be better than theirs. I hear one of them trip on something, probably a brick, not far behind me. They have to be human; there’s no way the Kindred would send someone as blind as me to bring me home or kill me. They would send someone faster, stronger, better. It would only be logical.

  The steps behind me pick up the pace, matching my own, and then a splash as one of them stomps into a puddle. Amateurs. I don’t think they’re even trying to be quiet anymore. Another scuffle, heavy breathing; someone cussing under their breath.

  I hope Peter doesn’t follow us down the alley. This is a stupid idea. I’ve lost control of the situation. The alley spills out onto a real street up ahead. I’m pretty sure they can’t see me; I turn to scan the alley behind me, I can’t see them. More storm clouds must have come in, the bit of moon light that was here a few moments ago is gone now and I’m having a hard time seeing any damn thing. I can call the power I hold to my eyes to help me see better, but it will make them glow purple like a beacon in the night, lighting me up like a sleazy stripper joint neon sign. I dodge into one of the abandoned back yards. Time to go on the offensive, there’s no other option.

  Grass as high as my knees covers the yard. I stoop down behind an overgrown bush and take off my messenger bag. This is a good of a place as any to make a stand. I just hope no rats come out to say hello. I hate rats.

  I sniff again, still human. I hold my breath as their boots pass right in front of me. The one on the left is big, standing at least six five, probably the better part of three hundred pounds. Why does it have to be all muscle? The one on the right is still tall, although, his slight frame next to the larger man seems to make him look gaunt. Surprisingly the larger fellow is the one that’s been light on his feet. Like he practiced being quiet since he was so large. I don’t see weapons in either of their hands. Doesn’t mean they don’t have them. I pull my own nine inches of don’t-fuck-with-me out its thigh sheath, slowly, quietly. Taking another breath, I step back out into the alley. The smaller man must have heard me. Or felt something. He pauses and turns.

  “Looking for me boys?” I ask snidely.

  At that, the larger man turns as well. The big one on the left shifts his weight to his front leg like he wants to charge forward and overwhelm me. The right one slips a wicked looking blade from his jacket. I guess it’s going to be a fight. Blood lust thrums through my veins at a heady pace. Heart thumping, not from fright, but adrenaline, blood lust, anticipation; my nerves are on end, synapses crackling and firing. This is what I don’t feel sparing and exercising: the heady edge of danger and knowing I’m the dangerous one.

  “I don’t suppose you would like to tell me why you’re following me before we get to business?” I shift my left leg back, spreading my weight evenly.

  I’m about to kick some ass, glad I have on my favorite pair of chunky soled black boots. The silver buckles come up to the top of the ankle-high boots keeping me perfectly supported. Not good to run in, but I bet they hurt when I’m kicking someone’s face in. Yeah, they’re ass kicking boots, better believe it.

  “Can’t say, bitch, but if you let me have a go, I won’t let my partner here fuck you up… too badly.” The smaller man leers towards me. The big one grins. It’s the kind of smile that lets me know he killed puppies when he was a kid.

  I’m standing here in a fighting stance with a blade in my hand, and he wants to fuck me? Why does no one take me seriously?

  “That’s not going to happen, so let’s dance.” I reverse the grip on my blade so the blade runs along my forearm, sharp edge out, of course. I don’t want to poke. I want to slice. I want to cut them shallow, a thousand times. And as they lay on the ground wet with their blood, I’ll grant them death. I’ve always been a kind and generous Mistress.

  They both move towards me together. If the big one lands a punch it could knock me out. My new life mission is to never let those meaty fists make contact. I run forward jumping and kicking out with both feet into the big one’s chest. He doesn’t even budge. I feel the shock vibrate through my legs, chunky boots or not. I twist and roll regaining my feet in a sweet ass move. Tumbling is a lost art. The big one laughs and then drops. Left in his place stands Peter with a brick in his hand. Where the fuck had he come from? The brick is bloody.

  The smaller one sees his buddy lying on the ground, looks at Peter and then does the dumb thing, running towards me thinking I’m the easy prey. Well, my last move must’ve not instilled the proper amount of fear. He makes a move to grab me. I easily dodge under his arm and turn, coming back to my full height beside him. I really want to stick him with the pointy end, but instead, I thunk him on his right temple hard with the pommel of my knife. His body collapses; I easily side step, letting his head bang against a brick on the ground, adding insult to injury.

  Ok, this fight was a little less fulfilling than I thought it would be. I’m pretty sure Peter knows I’ve killed before but it doesn’t mean I want to do it in front of him.

  “Fuck, Jae, what were you thinking coming down a dark alley? Trying to invite Jack the Ripper to your Prom?” Peter asks as he reaches down to check the big one’s pocket. Coming up with nothing, he moves to the second one.

  “They weren’t making a move, and I was tired of waiting. I figured a dark alley would be too much for them to resist,” I grin at him, sliding my knife back into my thigh sheath. I guess the second one doesn’t have anything else on him either. Peter straightens from his bent position empty handed.

  “Do you want me to call it in? Press charges? I’d like to scan their wrist find out who they are. But it will make a log of it and I’m assuming you don’t want that kind of attention?” He asks, going back to check the big one’s pulse. He’s out cold. Guess he doesn’t have a thick skull, or Peter hit him pretty hard. I hope it’s because Peter hit him pretty hard.

  ID chips from the VRB, or Vital Records Bureau, are in everyone’s wrists. You can go nowhere, buy nothing, without one. You quite literally don’t exist without it. Short wave radio frequency chips are embedded in the left wrist at birth or for the Kindred if and when we choose to come earth side. Every bit of what you are or have ever been stays on them.

  I have my own, although, I’d had it reprogrammed since I’m on the run. My own chip reads Janice Smith, a nice normal, human name; I still make everyone call me Jae for short. Even Peter doesn’t know my real name. I hate lying to him, but the truth would kill him, literally.

  “No, I don’t want to explain why I was here and I know you probably don’t either. I think they’ve learned their lesson, Officer Robinson,” I say smiling at him. He only shakes his head standing up.

  “Let’s go then, my car is a block over…”

/>   I interrupt him. “Hold on, so here I am defending my life and you go to get your car? And change your clothes!?” I say with outrage seeing he’s changed out of his fatigue pants into some blue jeans. The army boots have been switched out for biker boots. I like the boots.

  He only laughs. “Yeah, defending your life? The only reason that they’re even alive is because I’m here, so don’t give me that shit. I’m defending their lives if anything.” I didn’t see a point with arguing the truth so I go to collect my bag from the abandoned yard instead. It’s true; I would have killed them both and done the world a favor, maybe even enjoyed it a little. Bat shit crazy.

  “Let’s go find your friend, O protector of the weak, defender of public safety,” I say, laughing.

  Chapter Two

  The prettiest people do the ugliest things – Kanye West “All Falls Down”

  I watch as Peter grabs his leather jacket from the back seat of his cherry red 1971 Dodge Challenger. Two door man car, by far. He loves it to pieces. It was his dad’s car. Peter’s mom had hidden it from him, thinking he’d sell it to pay for her medical care, which he would have. To give him a piece of his father, she’d waited until she was in the clear and given it to him then. It isn’t the fanciest car in the world, but his father had rebuilt it, engine and all, and there is no way in her mind that anyone but Peter should drive it, even if making that wish come true could have killed her.

  It’s a gleam of the absurd with its cherry red paint smack in the middle of the midlands. The red paint was courtesy of one Peter Robinson; his father had tried to at least make it blend in with a matte finished black. Even still, I don’t think anyone would steal it. It has an AM/FM radio and a cassette player in it for goddesses’ sake, no port for a tablet. And the only thing on radio broadcasts these days are uber religious end of the world types, spewing their predictions of fire and brimstone to any that will listen. But the car is a classic; any American-made cars still on the road is a classic, in my opinion, the parts so hard to find post-com.

  The American automobile industry had been one of the first things to collapse when the world fell apart. I know he has a thing for American made classic cars and even I have to appreciate the smooth lines, and pure muscle of the engine. Not the most expensive car I’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t matter to him. After all, the car, for its age, is fast, and it sounds fast. It has a real combustion engine that takes unleaded fuel and everything.

  “So where are we going?” I finally ask getting in the car beside him. I look over to Peter. His hands are gripping the steering wheel tightly.

  “The Secret. Johnson has a girlfriend that just started working there. He didn’t take it well finding that out.” He looks over to me, wetting his lips a little.

  He’s probably worried I’ll back out because The Secret is a strip joint and whorehouse, like I’d have a problem with that. Being a succubus, a creator and drinker of lust, usually I wouldn’t. Hell, this would be the beginnings of an awesome night even if Vampires didn’t own the place, and I wasn’t a hungry succubus. But with those two facts, this probably won’t end well. Yet a promise is a promise, is a promise.

  “I’m going to need a shot to go with that beer.” I let my lips curl up into a small smile. No need to worry the human. I guess Johnson doesn’t like that his girl is taking it off for everyone to see, and maybe for a few credits more giving anyone a ride.

  Peter laughs, “Have I ever told you, you’re an awesome chica, Jae.”

  “All the time Peter, all the time.”

  The Secret is an upscale place by Fringe standards, even by City Proper standards. The three-story houses on either side also are part of the establishment but are reserved for ‘private sessions’ where men and women employed and screened by the owner sell their wares in a somewhat safe environment. Actually, The Secret is the best place you could go if a little sex with no attachments is what you are looking for. Only the best work here. Even the bouncers are delicious. Not all of the people that strip are also ‘escorts.’ There are a few that will show it all, but won’t go all the way. Sure they don’t make as much money, but everyone’s morals come at different prices, another truth I’ve learned the hard way. I find my morals to be pretty cheap these days.

  Every window in the three-story buildings has shutters and heavy black drapes so not a bit of sunlight would get in if they did not wish it so. Being vampires, they did not wish it so. The older the vampire, the more magic they can pull from the Moon and withstand the sun. Still, it’s not their natural habitat. Vampires are creatures of the night, of the Moon. The younger vampires can’t stand the sun at all and will burst into piles of ash if exposed.

  There isn’t a line in front of the building; anyone wanting this kind of entertainment is more than likely already inside. Marble steps lead up to heavy wood double doors that gleam in the moonlight. A single light illuminates the golden plaque above the door and highlights ‘The Secret’ written in bloody red cursive letters.

  I’ve been here before, when I can’t ignore the call any longer, or want to torture myself a little more. My succubus can only go so long without fulfillment and I haven’t been with anyone in a very long time. I come here some nights to watch, soak in the lust in the air and try to ease the ache. It always just makes it hurt worse.

  My first visit was to announce my presence the Blood Mistress who owns the club and is also the ruling vampire for miles around. As a daemon, I figured it would be best to make myself known to the major players in the area. Letting everyone know I’m not here on a hunt, I’ve left the Kindred and just want to be left alone.

  Lucky for me, supernaturals hold no love for the Kindred; they barely tolerate us. Like prisoners that tolerate the snide jailor, rancor and hatred hidden under a thin veneer of tolerance because no other option exists. I gamble on that being enough to keep anyone from going out of their way to report me to the Kindred. So far so good.

  The Secret, surprise, surprise, is a Vampire Lair. Madame Valentine, which I’m sure isn’t her actual name, is a pure blood vamp. She rules these buildings and her clutch, the name given to a group of vampires, with an iron grip. She’s not the most powerful of her kind I’ve ever met. But like calls to like and full blood vampire and a vampire-succubus mix makes for one hell of a party. I try to stay far, far away, but every now and again my will weakens and I come, find a seat at the bar, and nurse a drink. Trying not to hate myself and failing miserably at the task.

  It’s one of the more popular places in the Fringe, most of the rich youngbloods from the city flock to it. Being in the Fringes and in a whorehouse, you can’t get any more dangerous. Well, yes you can, but then they don’t know those private rooms will cost you more than a few hundred bucks. You also pay with a pint or two of the red stuff. Most blame it on too much partying. After an epic hangover, in a day or two, they are right as rain, never knowing they’ve been someone’s blood whore. Vampires don’t need as much blood as one would think and so causing the death of their prey isn’t necessary.

  Vampires can eat food and drink if they want to. Their body processes it as it would within a human. I’ve never understood why humans believe just because someone is a vampire, their stomach doesn’t work, or they can’t eat. A body, whether human or vampire, is still biological in nature, and bringing with it the nasty bodily processes we all love to hate, including needing to take a piss when there’s no bathroom around.

  Vampires don’t need the food to survive, but most still enjoy it, especially alcohol. The liquor does something to quiet the blood lust, a vampire once told me. Maybe that’s why I’ve taken such a like to vodka. At least it sounds much better than admitting I’m probably becoming an alcoholic.

  No matter what, however, sooner or later the blood calls to them and they can’t go without it. Most never even try. I doubt it occurs to a tiger to go vegetarian either; you are what you are. The blood is how vampires replenish their Chi. Blood out of bags and substitutes for plasma don’t wor
k. The taking of blood – the taking of energy from another’s Chi – that’s what the blood is to them. It is power. Animals work for the truly desperate, but in no way can they survive off it for a long period of time. They will always need the good stuff.

  I can feed and replenish my own Chi as a vampire, but I never have. No real reason other than the thought of sucking someone’s neck is disgusting, which furthers the conundrum that is me. I’m a half succubus, I should like sucking on body parts, and I do, just not with blood gushing out said body parts. Ew.

  I glance over to Peter to take in his reaction. The lack of one lets me know he’s been here more than once. Glad we never crossed paths while on our separate midnight excursions.

  The bouncer at the door is a low level vamp, a crow, human turned vampire, not a born and bred pure blood. He waves us past, slightly nodding his head. Yeah well, I know he’s letting the Madame know I’m here. This is going to get interesting. This little game she and I play every time I’m here… it’s getting harder and harder for me to say no.

  Lush black carpet gives easily under my ass kicking boots. I feel a pang of misgiving stomping on obviously expensive carpet with boots I make sure not to walk around my own house in. I try to not look too closely to the weird abstract art adorning the black painted walls. I’m sure they were spelled. Magic can easily be contained in inanimate objects. Things that were once alive are best like wood, or paints made from flowers, that you may have a portrait made from and hang in a hallway to bewitch your customers. But the strong, high level magic spells have to be contained in gems or precious metals. Which make them innately, horribly expensive; finding someone with enough power to cast and bond the spell to a gem or a metal isn’t easy either.