Vampires! A Bundle of Bloodsuckers

by Hilburn, Lynda

  In the beginning the most interesting secondary side effect of blood drinking for me was taking in some of the “victim’s” knowledge through the assimilation of fluids. In fact, it rapidly became crucial that I choose my donors wisely, because some kinds of knowledge are more desirable than others. Imagine the difference between the stored information of a common thief or politician versus the abundant wisdom flowing through the veins of a scholar, artist or teacher. But, alas, there is a cloud in this crystalline sky: My unfortunate little “unique ability.”

  I hate to call myself a brain sucker. It just sounds so crude, and it isn’t entirely accurate. I don’t actually suck out the poor sods’ brains along with their blood, but the result is very much the same. I can tell you that it radically changed the game for me. It took me quite a while to shape the gift into something I could control.

  There I was, caught up in the ecstasy of riding a very enthusiastic penis owned by an extraordinarily handsome, intelligent musician, while at the same time drowning in the bliss of feeling my fangs penetrating the fat vein in his neck and the hot liquid flowing over my tongue and down my convulsing throat. Oh, my. I got a little excited there. Excuse me for just one moment. I need to compose myself. Where are the batteries for this thing?

  Okay. That’s better. Where was I?

  Well, that’s when it happened the first time. I had just swallowed my fill. Ordinarily, after enjoying a “meal” fully, I wipe said memory clear of any traces of me or my existence. It isn’t completely necessary to do that, because sometimes the victim in question just wanders off, falls into a normal sleep, and awakens remembering a fabulous dream. Win-win for everyone concerned. But occasionally an addiction takes hold and I become the focus of a continuing longing for a return trip to Nirvana. Now that can get annoying.

  But in the case of my handsome musician, I was just about to clear his memory when I noticed an unusual thing. The lights were on, but no one was home. His body was functioning. He wasn’t dead – I hadn’t drained him – but “he” wasn’t there. Everything that made him a unique human specimen had been sucked into me through one of my multi-faceted orifices. Or something.

  At first I didn’t know the cause. Was it the blood drinking specifically? The sex? The combination?

  So that’s what I mean about the brain sucker label being slightly off. It wasn’t the brain I sucked out. It was the brain’s contents. Apparently, all of them. Well, except for instinctual parts that controlled things like breathing, elimination, sexual arousal, locomotion, etc. Things that were hardwired into the spinal column or which had clone sites in each cell of the body. You know. The basics.

  Now, I’m a vampire, and we have a reputation for being, well, cold-blooded about death and dealing with the remains of our victims. But this development concerned me. It stopped me in my tracks. Why, you ask? Two reasons.

  First, what I discovered immediately was that no amount of memory clearing would keep the Too Extraordinarily Pleasured from following me around, waiting for more. Lobotomized Sex Thralls. Or, to be more clear, Instinctually Aggressive Lobotomized Sex Thralls.

  Well, now that I think of it, I guess I really have created a new category of existence: the Alive Dead or perhaps the Awake Comatose?

  Second, most vampires are solitary practitioners, and while we enjoy being worshipped when it suits our purposes, mostly we go to great lengths to ensure privacy. Having legions of IALSTs following me around simply wouldn’t do. Plus, it was exhausting. Those thralls could be the poster boys for Perpetual Viagra.

  So if I couldn’t clear their memories and they would be relentlessly trailing me in a desperate quest for nightwalker nookie, then I had no choice but to kill them. That just seemed such a waste to me, not to mention how challenging it can be to find adequate disposal space for that many bodies. Vampires are, after all, supposed to be a secret.

  And even if I turned each and every one of them, they’d be more like zombies than vampires, due to the aforementioned absence of substance, personality, and knowledge.

  Sigh.

  Well, I guess if you want to be picky, there is a third reason for concern.

  Using computer verbiage – and, by the way, I’ve also turned into quite the high-tech genius. Did you really think “Bill Gates” was human? He was a computer simulation. Aren’t I brilliant? Anyway, it could be explained this way.

  For centuries, taking in selected bits of wisdom from pre-screened donors had been relatively simple. I’d drink their blood, scratch my sexual itch, and aspects of their knowledge just seemed to flow into my existing storage space, expanding what was already there in an effortless enhancement process. But my new tendency to “upload” astounding amounts of information through – apparently – some quantum shift in the combination of blood and sex, quickly overloaded the systems I had in place, so now I require ever-increasing new outlets into which the wisdom can be assimilated.

  I even take in information when I’m down for the count (which is different from going down on the Count, which I’ll be happy to tell you about in some future entry). It seems I suck wisdom in through cosmic osmosis. Isn’t that just the bomb?

  And while I’m quite sure my inner hard drive won’t get fried, I can’t know that for sure, and it has become another one of life’s little worries. I mean, how much knowledge, wisdom, and intellect can one individual hold? Even me?

  You might be rightfully asking, what happened to create the brain sucker syndrome? Bloody hell if I know. One day it was sex-and-blood, blood-and-sex, you know, business as usual, and the next day it was Night of the Living Dead. If you figure it out, please contact me through my publisher.

  So due to this unexpected “gift,” I’m continually having to be creative, innovative, and entrepreneurial. I’m already materially wealthy beyond comprehension due to the books, music, art, inventions, businesses, goods, and services I’ve created. Not to mention all the money my devotees have provided over the centuries. But you wouldn’t believe how much energy it takes to be fabulous. Perhaps I haven’t impressed upon you that this “need” to create more places for the knowledge to congregate is actually felt by me as a physical thing. A compulsion. A jones.

  And self-discipline never has been one of my strong suits.

  What does self-discipline have to do with it? Let me tell you. My tendency to take both sex and blood from my “volunteers” means they’ll wind up being empty shells, requiring time-consuming disposal. Of course, another option is that I could pass on the sex and only drink their blood, which – I’ll freely admit – doesn’t come naturally to me. Or I could only have sex and not drink blood. Yeah, that’ll happen. And by the way, the idea that older vampires have less need of blood is actually true. There is less need of it. But strangely, what seems to happen is an increased desire for it. Go figure.

  So, have I left out anything before we continue?

  Well, stake me! How could I be so thoughtless? You want to know what I look like. Of course you do. How silly of me to forget. It’s probably been gnawing away at you. Festering. Driving you mad. I did give you that tantalizing hint about my beautiful physical features. So here it is. Enjoy.

  “Monty, our next contestant hails from ancient Britain, back before any of the fossils in your favorite graveyard were born. This Vampire Goddess knows more about Stonehenge than she’s telling, and I hear she was once romantically linked with a famous Druid. She sloughed off this mortal coil at age 26, freezing herself forever in her current young, shapely form. You will note that she has the much-desired slender hourglass figure, and her large, firm breasts always make a wonderful first impression. Her tall, lean body and long legs seem to arouse naughty thoughts in both sexes, so we’ll be watching where your hands are! As was the norm at the time of her death, her thick, black, silky veil of hair is waist-length, with a subtle sheen that could only come from having undergone a magical transformation, and her eyes are a startling amethyst purple. If that wasn’t enough to turn heads – and
expose necks – her face, with her high cheekbones and full, sensuous, wet lips, is breathtaking. And then there’s something about her smile – those cute little sharp canines. Let’s welcome her to our stage . . .”

  Are you breathing heavy? I hope so.

  Chapter 2

  So enough about me. What do you think about me? Sorry. Old joke.

  I have hundreds of hidey-holes. Well, perhaps it’s more accurate to say I have hundreds of pieces of real estate all over the world, and each is equipped with everything I deem necessary to assure a pleasant death coma, a smooth rising and a magnificent unlife.

  But this story is about what happened back in 2009, and at that time I resided in a quaint little town, nestled in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains: Boulder, Colorado. I’d actually discovered this cosmic vortex of ley lines long before it became the trendy, yuppie, New Age, materialistic enclave we all know and love. Now you can’t swing a drained human without hitting some obscenely-wealthy computer nerd or entitled trust-funder. I always said it was just another Aspen in the making, but did they listen to me?

  I tend to enjoy atmospheric environments. What I mean by that is, if there is a stereotypical haunted house or vampire’s castle in a community, I manage to finagle my way into being its proud owner. Mind control certainly saves a lot of time in negotiations. Don’t you agree?

  Boulder has many lovely Victorian homes, but actual creepy mansions are at a premium. After a painstakingly detailed search of the area – which actually consisted of reading the minds of scores of appallingly dull, pot-bellied realtors – I finally unearthed my own slice of Rocky Mountain heaven.

  And unearthed is a good word for it. Perched on top of one of the foothills just inside the city limits, the estate in question is one of the oldest in Boulder County. It had been abandoned for the last one hundred years and legends of ghosts, ritual murders, shapeshifters, creepy crawlies, and other nightmare creatures were plentiful. Trees, exotic plants, and rampant weeds had grown so dense around the main perimeter – the Earth had literally reclaimed the site – that entering the extensive acreage, for anyone who couldn’t travel through thought, was only accomplished by off-road vehicles.

  I did mention that I can travel via thought, didn’t I? Well, if I haven’t, I’m sure it will come up at some point in my story.

  You might well imagine that my Boulder residence is all the rage at Halloween. Strange that the house hadn’t held any legends about bloodsuckers. But I always do enjoy being a pioneer.

  So on that fateful day where our story begins, as the last rays of the sun slid behind the mountains, my eyes opened, I sat up, and immediately knew something was different.

  It was as if there was a blip in the space-time continuum. Or the vibrational soup I’d grown accustomed to swimming in had a new carrot in the pot. Or someone’s soul signature was pulling me. As if a special radio station with a signal that only I could hear had gone on the air.

  And while we’re on the subject, let me clear up another thing right now. Vampires have souls. It is the body that dies. Any respectable metaphysician will tell you that the essence of what we Earth inhabitants are, fundamental and deeper than alive/not alive, is some kind of etheric energy. This energy continues, regardless. It does seem to be the case that each soul – yes, that includes vampires – has its own song and according to legend and myth, each soul is theoretically matched with another soul whose song is similar. We’ve all been bashed over the head with the soul mate thing, so I won’t bore you with that. Besides, the entire topic really is much more complicated and interesting than we usually hear about.

  But back to what I was saying. When I arose, I sensed . . . something.

  It might surprise you to learn that I have a rather obsessively-maintained, post-rising-from-the-dead toilette. I have the ability to simply imagine myself fresh, clean, and dressed in whatever my unlimited imagination chooses to conjure at the moment. But even though I can do that, I have always been a sucker – no pun intended – for a nice, hot shower. I mention this because there are so many unpleasant rumors out there about vampire hygiene. I mean, really. Bad breath? Discolored fangs? Smelling like decomposing flesh? Come on, now. Please. That sounds like a “B” movie.

  Rest assured that this vampire smells and looks springtime fresh. In fact, it is widely reported that my aroma brings to mind the most pleasant smell memory the recipient holds. Indeed, I hear that there is some undefinable something about me that is irresistible.

  At any rate, I spent some time in front of my closet, selecting the perfect ensemble for the evening. I am very glad that midriff-baring fashions have come back into vogue, because I have a spectacular waistline and I just don’t get enough chances to show it off. Not wanting to be subtle, I chose my favorite hip-hugging, tight jeans and a skin-caressing, low-cut lavender top, which accented the purple of my eyes. Plus, for extra ammunition, I added an amethyst drop necklace, which dangled seductively in my ample cleavage.

  So, after completing my shower and the requisite hours of primping in front of the mirror – guess which other vampire myth just went out the window? – and adorning myself in the pre-selected garments, I materialized outside so I could look down on the city from my lofty perch and allow myself to be compelled to the physical location of the new signal that I’d perceived earlier.

  It turns out the signal was beaming from the heart of the city.

  One more little aside about Boulder.

  Years ago the Pearl Street Mall – the trendy, downtown pedestrian shopping area – was filled with charming, funky boutiques, stores, and galleries. Now the Mall is populated with versions of The Gap, Starbucks, and other mundane cookie-cutter franchises. By the way, have you noticed that women’s clothing has been designed to make grown females look like little boys? When did that happen? Oh, well. Even so, I’m sure no one would ever mistake me for an adolescent male.

  So I closed my eyes and thought myself, still in pure energy form, to the source of the signal. And there he was.

  What is it about me and musicians?

  Think of the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen and then elevate him to god status. That’s close to being a good description of this delectable hunk of manhood.

  And, while I hesitate to burst your bubble if you’ve visualized someone with different characteristics than I’m about to describe, I will, of course, do it anyway. You’ll just have to trust that my vampire senses are able to truly appreciate the subtle and apparent shadings of human flesh in a way that is beyond your limited imaginations.

  Picture a funky rock and roll club. Well, perhaps that’s not fair because in most parts of the country a funky rock and roll club might bring to mind biker guys with Harley T-shirts, leather vests, and chains. But in Boulder where you can be arrested for not being young, slender, trendy and beautiful, rock and roll clubs have a completely unique ambiance. Rather bland, actually. But back to picturing the place. Just do the best you can.

  You couldn’t miss the stage. It took up the entire back wall of the establishment. Painted in what used to be called sparkling psychedelic colors, it was decked out with flashing lights of every hue, intensity, and type. Standing dead center stage was Himself. Later to be identified as Niven St. Clair. Even now, my canines elongate at the very mention of his name. He was a vision in tight jeans and a form-hugging shirt which showed off his impressive, well-toned upper chest and arms while it expressed a quote by Albert Einstein.

  Eye candy and a sense of the absurd, as well. Perfect.

  I walked in the door just in time to watch Niven strap on his electric guitar, step close to the microphone, and begin his performance. Standing around him on the stage were various other musicians, but I can’t seem to remember one detail about any of them. Niven simply took up all my attention.

  He was tall. 6’3”, maybe. His athletic-looking, lanky frame had a fluidity that belonged to a dancer or a gymnast – someone who was accustomed to moving. I was mesmerized by the sway of hi
s hips as he lost himself in his music. The sound of his voice transported me directly to my damp-crotch version of vampire heaven. And then there was his hair. A-fucking-mazing. Rich, dark brown tresses that flowed down his back to his waist. Thick and shiny and healthy. Begging to be grabbed as it tumbled down onto me while we had passionate, sweaty sex. Ahem.

  A beautiful face, obviously spawned from a powerful magic spell cast by angels or elves or whoever is in charge of that kind of thing. An almost absurdly gorgeous face. Dazzling sky-blue eyes surrounded by dark lashes.

  I will remember that scene for all eternity.

  But it gets better.

  There was one of those moments that every romance reader hopes for when she cracks the spine on a new book. Eyes meeting across the room. Or in this case, eyes meeting as he looked down from the stage.

  Electricity. No shit.

  Now, I have to tell you that I’ve experienced electricity before, but only with another immortal. Never with a human. That’s what made this situation even more juicy and intriguing. It occurred to me that this succulent tidbit might not be human, but my senses told me absolutely that he was mortal. Mostly. There was that undefinable something extra.

  Niven locked eyes with me and literal sparks flew. I don’t think that any of the other humans in the room noticed the exchange between us, but it was so powerful that it caused him to catch his breath, mid-tune, and take a few seconds to recover.

  He managed to get through the rest of his set without consequence, all the while keeping his attention riveted on me. Our connection became so obvious that people on the dance floor began to look back and forth between Niven and me to see if they could discern what the deal was. I doubt if the real deal became apparent to any of them.

  I should probably mention that my own, natural energy – my sexual aura, if you will – is always the strongest in any room. That means that I usually generate attention whether I focus on it or not. I tend to be an undead pied piper unless I use my potent mental abilities to distract the lemmings from diving into that particular sea. So, it wasn’t only the fireworks between Niven and me that caused the inhabitants of the club to be drawn to our interactions. It was simply me being me.