The Fertile Vampire

by Ranney, Karen

  “Nothing special,” I said.

  I have often wished, but never more so than now, to have some degree of talent in something. I wanted literary skill beyond the rather sappy poetry I wrote as a college freshman. I yearned for the talent to paint, to sketch a sunset, or preserve the exact moment of a rose between bud and blossom.

  If I had that, I could have claimed it at the moment, labeled myself as something more than who I was now. Oh, I’m an artist, I’d say, looking both proud and modest. Or I’m a photographer, perhaps you’ve heard of me?

  But I couldn’t. I was just me. Marcie Montgomery, former commercial claims adjuster, part-time vampire, Dirugu or something. Only the “something” was a big fat blank line to be filled in when I figured out what it was.

  “Nothing special,” I repeated.

  "I disagree," he said, his voice low and intent. "I think you're someone very special."

  His eyes seemed to twinkle as he stared at me, his smile deepening. I glanced away, willing my libido to be obedient for once. I didn’t need to be attracted to Dan.

  He reached out, resting his hand on my bare arm. If it had been a month ago I wouldn’t have noticed. But I hadn’t felt the touch of a mortal for weeks.

  I looked at his hand. When he moved it, I wanted to call it back, feel the warmth of his skin, hold his fingers with mine.

  “Tell me, Marcie,” he said.

  He pronounced my name like a secret word, something soft and beckoning. Did he expect me to betray all my secrets because he was good looking and I was lonely?

  I’d learned from my experience with Doug. I wasn’t giving my trust blindly to anyone. Besides, Dan worked for Il Duce and it was my experience that loyalty often went to the one from whom the paychecks flowed.

  I stared down at the table, noting the cracks on the white painted surface. Some people called it urban chic. I wasn’t fond of making new things look old. Or of buying jeans with holes in them. If something was new, it was new. If it was old, it was old.

  Dan took a sip of his coffee while I mustered the courage to do what I had to do.

  You won’t tell anyone.

  I felt bad inserting a thought into his mind, but I had no choice.

  You won’t tell anyone what you’ve seen. You’ll never speak of this morning to anyone.

  He took another sip.

  You have to leave now.

  Dan sat back, one hand draped on his leg, the other resting on the tabletop. He smiled at me, but he didn’t stand up and walk toward the door.

  Hand me the salt.

  His hand stayed motionless on the table.

  I know Il Duce had heard me. So had Eagle Lady. She hadn’t wanted to tell me what she knew, but she had, which meant I had some power to compel others. Did the ability only extend to vampires?

  No, the cab driver hadn’t been a vampire and I’d sent him a thought.

  “What are you?” I asked, clasping my hands together on my lap.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not a vampire, but you might be something else. Werewolf? Elf? Sprite?”

  He laughed, the sound foreign in my small kitchen.

  Standing, he looked down at me. “I’ve got a choice,” he said. “I can call Maddock and tell him I need someone else to spell me, or I can go home and sleep, then meet you here tonight. It’s up to you.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded. “If you promise to stay here, I’ll go home and sleep.”

  “In other words, am I going to test this new-found ability of mine? Go sunbathing? Take a walk in the park?”

  He nodded again.

  “I’m too tired to do anything but sleep right now.”

  “Promise?”

  I nodded and stood. “Are you going to tell him?”

  “No. I don’t think it’s something he needs to know.”

  His comment surprised me. The instant relief I felt didn’t.

  When had I started distrusting Il Duce? I wasn’t sure, but I think it had something to do with his admitting he’d been intrigued by me from the first.

  One thing was certain: my worth to Niccolo Maddock was in what I had the potential to do. The more I could do, the more valuable I was. The more valuable I was, the more he would try to control me. Being a mentor was one thing, but I had the feeling he would be a jailer, too.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  His smile lightened something inside. We were two people who weren’t quite people anymore. I didn’t know what I was, just as I suspected he didn’t want me to know what he was.

  I could live with that - for the moment.

  “I’ll be here at seven,” he said and made his way to the front of the house.

  I followed him, watching as he got into his truck.

  Did I trust him? I had to. I’d know, by tonight, if I was wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  As tender as a mother’s heart

  I closed the door and leaned my back against it, staring into the living room and down the hall. My townhouse was shrouded in darkness, the blackout curtains turning my home into a coffin of sorts.

  I wanted to open the curtains, banish the darkness, test myself in a new bright world, but standing for a few minutes in a garden touched by dawn was different from being bathed by the blazing morning sunlight. I wasn’t feeling brave enough to test the limits of my power.

  Because I was hungry I didn’t retreat to my bedroom. I returned to the kitchen and made myself some raisin bread toast.

  I am not an epicure, but I do know what I like.

  I ate it with my back to the sink, wondering why I was suddenly feeling so unnerved now. I’d rarely been bothered by living alone but something was niggling at me, a sense something wasn’t right, just slightly off.

  When the refrigerator cycled on I jumped.

  After finishing my toast, I put the plate in the dishwasher and forced myself to leave the kitchen.

  I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to ward off a sudden chill. I opened the coat closet, half expecting something furry to burst out of the closet, arms raised, claws extended, screaming, “Boo!”

  All I saw were a few jackets, a long winter coat too big for me, but too warm to give away - perfect for those rare cold winter days in San Antonio. A tennis racket resting against the wall stood as mute testimony to my lack of exercise - or fun. I ignored the vacuum as I had for two weeks.

  I closed the door, moving down the hall. I felt uncomfortable in a way I hadn’t before, enough that I checked all the downstairs rooms.

  I climbed the stairs slowly, looking behind me a couple of times. The feeling I was being watched was more than mildly uncomfortable. I was getting a major case of the heebie jeebies.

  The school bus stopped outside, the squeal of brakes oddly reassuring.

  I made it to my bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me. I turned the lock in the center of the knob, something I never did. Normally, locks made me feel like I was being trapped in a room. This morning In was locking whatever bothered me outside.

  Unless, of course, it was inhuman, paranormal, or just weird.

  What kind of protection did vampires have?

  Sitting on my bed, I wiggled to sit with my back against the headboard, wrapping my legs around my knees, staring at my closed door.

  What had spooked me? I mean, other than someone trying to run me down and shooting my car all to hell? Oh, and possibly being a Dirugu, and certainly having abilities that would interest the vampires a little too much.

  When had I started to think of them as a separate group, something not related to me? Had it been from the beginning, when I realized I didn’t have to drink garlic scented blood? Or when I ordered Sweet & Sour Chicken from the Chinese delivery service and added a piece of turtle cheesecake because I was hungry?

  Or had it been when I stretched out my mind and could call a Master vampire to me?

  I wasn’t normal. Someone wanted to make sure I didn’t continue my
abnormal existence. Killers to the right of me, vampires to the left. Here I was, stuck in the middle with me. It didn’t rhyme, but it was a catchy tune.

  I slept in my clothes, on top of the covers. It was a rule I had, one that probably made no sense to anyone else. If I had showered and had my jammies on I’d crawl beneath the covers. All other circumstances called for me to sleep on top of my embroidered bedspread with a light comforter.

  The idea of being naked and vulnerable in a shower didn’t interest me this morning.

  Did vampires have the ability to become invisible? None of the brochures had mentioned that. What about the other Brethren?

  Was someone in my house, watching me?

  I was getting tired of having all these questions with no answers.

  Most of the time when I hit my bed I only had a second or two of coherence before being dragged down into a sotted vampire slumber.

  Tonight - this morning - I was finding it difficult to sleep when I should have been exhausted. I stared into the blackout curtain created darkness, seeing shapes I’d never before noticed. My dresser seemed to be a hulking creature ready to spring at me. The chaise in the corner became a sinuous, lithe monster with elongated teeth and glowing red eyes.

  Sleep, when it finally came, was filled with dreams of me walking alone on a burnt orange landscape, nothing in view but the undulating Tang colored sand. No matter how much I shouted for someone, no one ever came.

  I awoke with a feeling of heaviness in my chest as if I were holding back a reservoir of tears.

  I turned on my back, stared up at the ceiling and listened. All I could hear was the motor from the alarm clock. Outside a car pulled into a parking spot. Alice from next door - eight years old and already opinionated - called out to her brother to stop being a silly. His trucks were not allowed in her dollhouse.

  I turned my head to see the alarm clock. Seven thirteen.

  No vampires sat at the end of my bed. No contingent from Il Duce sat waiting patiently for me to wake. Il Duce wasn’t here. No Master of all he surveys standing on my doorstep demanding I tell him what had transpired, which meant Dan hadn’t told anyone I could walk in the sun.

  I did my morning/night thing, took a shower and got dressed. I spent some time with my makeup given my plans for the evening. I normally went without anything but a pale pink lipstick. Tonight, I went whole hog and did mineral foundation, mascara and a little blush. I brushed my hair until it curled, the ends brushing my shoulders.

  Instead of a t-shirt and jeans, I wore a dark blue pantsuit with a frilly pink camisole beneath the jacket. Jewelry consisted of pink and blue earrings and my Minnie Mouse wrist watch.

  After studying myself in the mirror, I decided I looked as good as I ever had, which wasn’t that bad. Heck, if I used my new mind powers, maybe I could talk people into thinking I was a knockout.

  I went downstairs and peeked out the front door to find Dan had returned. The headlights blinked once.

  I went out to his truck, walking up to the driver's side. "I'm going to the library," I said. "I have a blue rental car."

  For some reason I wanted to make it easy for him to follow me.

  "Let me take you."

  I considered the offer all of ten seconds. "Okay, give me a minute."

  I returned to the kitchen where I grabbed the raisin bread, made two more slices of toast, slathered them with butter and wrapped them in a paper towel.

  Grabbing my purse, I made it out the door, locking it behind me.

  “Make any for me?” Dan asked, holding the toast so I could haul myself into position.

  Once I climbed into the cab I took my toast from him and gave him a frown in return.

  “You can have one,” I said.

  He smiled, shook his head, forever endearing himself to me by saying, “It’s raisin bread toast,” he said. “You’d probably stake me if I took one.”

  “You didn’t tell Il Duce,” I said. “That’s worthy of one piece of toast.”

  He grinned, reached out and took the proffered toast.

  I gave Dan directions, finished my toast and shared the paper towel with him.

  He pulled into the parking lot of the Abigail Ponder Branch Library, a few blocks from my mother’s house.

  I slid out of the truck, grabbed my purse, promising to be back in ten minutes or less. To my relief, he didn’t ask what research I was doing. I wasn’t here to look something up; I was here to see someone.

  As a kid, I’d haunted the library, finding an escape in a world of books. In a book I was no longer the shy, too tall, skinny girl with plain brown hair and a bad perm. My mother was no longer a flower child addicted to men.

  I could be anyone I wanted to be as long as I obeyed the rules, brought my books back on time and didn’t annoy the librarian.

  No stern faced librarian here with finger pressed to lips and eyes narrowed in irritation. The woman behind the desk was middle aged and smiling, her hair a wild mass of light brown labradoodle curls.

  The floor plan was open, the space noisier than I expected, certainly not the sepulchral silence of my childhood haven. On this Thursday evening the library was filled.

  Color was everywhere from the green and blue blinds on the windows to the primary color chairs and tables. Large red, green, and blue cushions adorned the floor, two of them occupied by children sitting cross-legged with a book on their laps.

  The bookshelves were short enough you could pop up from bending down to get a book and find yourself face to face with another reader. Behind me were the librarian’s stations, more shelves and a series of meeting rooms.

  I turned to stand in front of a section of books on sports. I liked the San Antonio Spurs because basketball was a game I could understand. I never figured out the lure of baseball. And football? I would occasionally check out the scores and a few of the players’ names so I could sound like I was interested to my male co-workers. In all honesty? I didn’t get football and I didn’t care.

  My attention was caught by the whirr of the wall mounted clock over the wall dominated by a portrait of Abigail Ponder. I wandered closer to check, reading she was a former mayor of San Antonio.

  When a group disbanded I took an empty chair where I could watch the door bearing the Al-Anon sign. They should call it Fang-Anon. Closing my eyes, I stretched my senses outward. I wondered if I could compel my mother to come to me. Whatever talent I possessed hadn’t worked on Dan.

  The curious buzzing started in the back of my neck, reaching around on both sides to meet at the bridge of my nose. My eyes flew open and I searched the crowd of readers.

  Nonnie wasn’t here.

  But my mother was, standing in the open door of the meeting room glaring at me.

  My mother, or Demi as she preferred to be called, was a beautiful woman. Her hair was thickly black, her eyes a bright sky blue. She had petite features in a heart shaped face. She was short and tiny, delicate and doll like, so different from me that when I was a child I repeatedly asked her if I was adopted.

  She’d only given me a look, one I interpreted to mean she wouldn’t have bothered with me if I’d been someone else’s child.

  Tonight she was wearing her signature after six lipstick. Even if I didn’t have a watch or couldn’t see the passage of the day, I’d know what time it was by the color of Demi’s lips. Pink Plunge began the morning, to be replaced by Poppy Passion at noon. Night brought out Love’s Lusty Pink.

  Her dress was dark burgundy, a color favoring her. The white collar accentuated the shape of her face, making her look at least a dozen years younger.

  My mother was a hard act to follow, especially since I tended toward statuesque, not doll-like. I was tall and buxom; my face was oval, not heart-shaped. My eyes were simply blue; they weren’t an odd shade that drew people’s attention. Nor did I have a faint, breathy voice always reminding me of clips I’d seen of Marilyn Monroe.

  She came to stand in front of me.

  “What are you
doing here?” she asked, daggers in her gaze.

  I worried about my mother’s overly emotional nature. She had to stop being so emotive. One day, she’d run dry.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I said, standing. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she said. “You’re dead.”

  Funny, Paul had seemed alive enough from the sounds coming from their bedroom.

  I walked across the room to a table set aside from the general pandemonium. I didn’t bother to glance back at her; if she was coming, she’d come. Nor did I command her in my thoughts yet. I needed information from my mother and I wanted the truth. I wasn’t above using my mind meld techniques if she didn’t start talking.

  I sat, my purse in my lap, feeling like I needed something to shield me from my mother.

  When she approached the table, I put my purse on the floor. Before she sat, I looked up at her.

  “What is Nonnie?” I asked. “Does she have some power?”

  I had expected several reactions from my mother: insult at the question, disbelief I had the nerve to ask such a thing. Maybe I even expected her to laugh.

  Instead, she turned as white as her collar and dropped into the chair beside me.

  “What did she do now?”

  No, I hadn’t expected that response.

  “When I was a little girl, she used to lock the back bedroom,” I said. “I was never allowed in there. But I saw it one day. It was empty, just a wooden floor and blacked out windows.”

  She didn’t speak, but her gaze didn’t move from mine.

  “She has a card club who comes to her house once a week,” I went on. “But they never came when I was staying there. How many women are in her card club, Mother?”

  She frowned at me. If she had her way, I’d call her Demi.

  “Twelve,” she said.

  “She’s always growing herbs, more than she needs to cook.”

  One of my mother’s hands rested on the table, fingers drawn up, knuckles pronounced. You can tell a woman’s age best from her hands. My mother’s hands looked much older than her face.

  “She gives you something, doesn’t she? Something to make you look younger?”