by Owen, Kelli
Also by Kelli Owen
— NOVELS —
Teeth
Floaters
Live Specimens
White Picket Prisons
Six Days
— NOVELLAS —
Forgotten
The Hatch
Wilted Lilies
Deceiver
Grave Wax
Buried Memories
Survivor’s Guilt
Crossroads
The Neighborhood
Waiting Out Winter
— OTHER —
Black Bubbles (collection)
Atrocious Alphabet (coloring book)
Left for Dead/Fall from Grace (chapbook)
TEETH
Kelli Owen
Gypsy Press
Copyright © 2018 Kelli Owen
Copyediting & Layout copyright © Gypsy Press
Cover artwork pieces via Dreamstine.com | ©Zegers06 and ©Irontrybex
Cover design © Gypsy Press
This is a work of fiction—names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, without express written permission from Kelli Owen.
www.kelliowen.com
For the children of the night,
and the music they make.
Acknowledgments: Thank you to my wonderful daughter Amanda for listening to me rant for hours on end while I worked through various plot lines, themes, details, and dead ends. To my pre-readers of doom: Ron Dickie, Tod Clark, Dave Thomas, and Amy Vause. To Bob Ford, and his mother, since it’s mostly their fault this particular monster was chosen—still waiting for your werewolves. To the friends and followers who volunteered their names. And of course, thanks Bram.
“We gladly feast on those
who would subdue us.”
~ Addams Family credo
“The world seems full of good men,
even if there are monsters in it.”
~ Bram Stoker, Dracula
— PROLOGUE —
The tall, skinny man sat and flipped his armchair lever in a smooth, practiced motion—the footrest slamming upward to meet his feet. He pushed the button on the remote, and the television came blaring to life—the volume unexplainable in the otherwise quiet house. He reached up and gathered his shoulder-length hair into a low pony, expertly hooking the rubber band from his wrist around the loose strands.
A dog barked several houses over—a quick yip to greet a wandering cat, or an awareness of his presence. The couple across the street could be heard talking in excited tones through their open windows, whether they were arguing or naturally loud was unclear. The figure blocked out them and the dog, along with the distant sounds of sparse traffic on Main Street.
Looking through a gap in the curtains partially covering the window of the back door, he watched the skinny man’s actions. The long narrow home made it easy to survey the layout, and was partially why it was chosen. The inside was as desolate and depressing as the neighborhood around it. The walls were bare of portraits, the garbage was full of empty tequila bottles and paper plates, and the table was stacked with job applications and unemployment stubs. He had no family, no friends, no job, no life. He had no business left unfinished.
No one will miss this one.
The man reached into the crumpled McDonald’s bag and pulled a Big Mac free. The peace symbol tattooed on his inner wrist was briefly visible and completed the hippie persona the figure had perceived. The man expertly flicked the top of the cardboard container open, as canned laughter from the television faded into a commercial for Andy’s Auto, the local car dealership. He lifted the burger’s bun and pulled two pickles free, apparently believing it was easier to remove them than to request a special order.
As the television switched over to an obnoxiously loud commercial for American Idol, the figure opened the back door. The telltale creak a tenant may recognize was easily overpowered by the bad vocals in the living room.
The figure loved small-town mentality and wondered how long it would be before they began locking their doors, leaving outside lights on, and closing their curtains. Until then, he’d have free reign and he was going to enjoy it. Slipping into the house, he slinked across the cracked kitchen linoleum. The figure snuck up behind the man as he took the first bite from the heat lamp preserved sandwich.
The figure’s motions sped up as he approached and he pierced the unsuspecting man’s neck before the hippie had time to react. The man’s eyes shot wide open as his blood poured from the wound in his jugular. The slickness squirted with an initial burst of pressure, pumped from a still-beating heart, before the fountain waned to a steady flow down the front of a dirty Dave Matthews t-shirt.
The figure quickly collected the spilling blood and watched the dying man with fascination.
Terror held the hippie motionless—his hand still in midair, but his sandwich fallen apart in his lap. His eyes widened as his fingers flicked briefly and moved sporadically, gesturing frantically toward his neck. Before he could wrap his hand around the wound or somehow apply enough pressure to stop the hemorrhaging, he began choking and spitting up flecks of blood.
He gasped and the figure knew whatever blood wasn’t coming out of the wound was rushing toward the man’s lungs. The man sputtered and seized briefly, before the will and fight faded in his eyes—much sooner than expected. Unblinking fear held is eyes open wide as their spark faded, and slowly the shine was replaced with a wordless matte plea. The man’s lips were partially open, as if to speak, or robotically chew the bite still in his mouth.
A cruel smile spread across the figure’s lips.
Vampires had stepped from the shadows almost fifty years ago and the world at large had renamed them, and welcomed them. Some wanted to be them. Others refused to accept them. After three decades of fear and confusion, a treaty was supposed to make everyone complacent neighbors—a new term for them, a clean slate for their history.
But technology gave voice to everyone with an Internet connection and social media caused havoc. Laws were suggested almost daily to force tolerance. Libel suits were being filed against historical belief and folklore. Prejudices were alive and well, and as real as the vampires. The lamians. The humans were torn between over-eager liberal acceptance and stoic intolerance bred by ignorance and fear. The vampires continued to claim they shouldn’t be judged as a whole. It was upheaval and protests, banding together in song, and social warriors shaking fists at proclaimed indignities they’d chosen to fight for even though they weren’t asked.
The figure found it all disgusting. All of it.
Vampires should have remained a secret. The humans should have remained afraid of the dark. And here, in the muddy waters of change, the figure knew he would wallow in their mistakes as he explored the taste of their deaths. He shut his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of blood as it washed over the room.
The life from victim number three succumbed as the slow trickle came to a stop, and the figure stood. He left the television on and the back door open. Stepping into the cool night air, he felt a chill on his skin where the blood had spattered. He whistled through his teeth, hoping to attract the barking dog. Let the animals feast on the meat he’d left behind. He had what he needed.
He’d taken th
e blood.
— ONE —
“Let’s start with what you think you know?” Jacqueline took a sip of her coffee and put the cup down on the kitchen table. She folded her hands in motherly patience.
Tamara shrugged at the question. I’m barely awake enough for school by eight o’clock, and Mom wants to have a serious conversation before seven?
“I don’t know. What I’ve seen on television or heard in school, I guess. You know they do a whole lamian awareness day every year, right? Every. Year.”
Jacqueline raised an eyebrow at her daughter’s obstinate response.
“Sorry.” Tamara knew the look and reworded her answer. “That Hollywood is wrong—mostly. And we’re not monsters.” She used air quotes on the word monsters, and sarcastically parroted information she’d been told too many times by too many teachers. “How about… we’re a freaking living myth? Like unicorns.” She smirked and put her hand to her forehead, sticking a finger out to represent the creature’s horn. The glint in her hazel eyes was given extra shine as she stifled a yawn.
“They were—We were—never a myth.” Jacqueline reached for a notebook Tamara hadn’t even noticed, and slid it across the table, flipping it open as it slid to a stop between them. “Now come on, be serious.”
“Fine. Sorry. I just didn’t know we were doing this this morning.” Tamara rubbed her eyes. “Whatcha got?”
“I’ve done a lot of research since your teeth came loose. Dad’s side had nothing. His 23andMe finally came back and it showed absolutely nothing. Not even a trace. When mine came back… well, you know how that went down with your grandparents.” She paused, a flash of anger washed across her expression.
Tamara knew the glare wasn’t aimed at her, but rather the grandparents who’d been uninvited to Christmas this year. Her mother’s eyes, the same striking hazel as her own, seemed to drift off to something distant but returned in a blink and focused on Tamara.
“I’ll never lie to you like they lied to me. I would never hide from you what you are. And we’ll figure out together what that actually means. What this means.”
“So, your tests… You’re English, not Irish, and almost full-blood lamian?” Tamara had always loved her mother’s naturally streaked hair—shiny brown with chunks of blonde, making it seem sun-kissed even in the dead of winter—but now she attributed those traits to her newfound bloodline, and Tamara was bummed about it. While she’d inherited her mother’s teeth, she had her dad’s bright red Irish hair. She usually put it in a perfectly planned messy bun, or a high pony, sometimes even double braids—anything to disguise it. Any style that would hide the fact it was the same long, lifeless red hair she had been teased for in elementary school when the older, meaner kids had referred to her as The Little Drowning Mermaid.
“Who finds out they’re adopted after forty?” The sarcasm in the older woman’s voice was almost playful, and Tamara knew she was mimicking her earlier snark. “Not telling me was bad enough, but then to find out the rest? The orthodontist? Braces I never needed. And then surgery, under the guise of jaw reconstruction, to remove my teeth before they could come in. Before the truth could come out. Can you even imagine?” Jacqueline gazed off into the distance for a moment, “I never thought their horrible close-minded attitude could be turned against me. Then again, I thought I was their child.”
Tamara watched disgust and pain swirl in her mother’s expression. She hated seeing her upset. “So do you need those pills then?” Tamara knew she’d be late for school if she didn’t pull her mother back from the angry wallowing and get her on topic. She indicated the prescription bottle nestled among vitamins and headache medicine on the microwave.
“I guess I don’t. I was never suffering from any rare anemia.” Jacqueline shook her head and returned her attention to Tamara. “I mean, they worked for their true intentions. But from what I’ve gathered, I don’t need a pill. I just have to adjust my diet. Our diet. I’ll ask Dr. Hammond.”
“Hammond?”
“Oh yeah. We won’t be seeing the old family doctor or dentist anymore. Not after years of lying to me because they’re old pals of my parents. We have a new doctor, and I’ve made an appointment for both of us.”
“So what’s that then?” Tamara pointed to the notebook, seeing her mother’s handwriting on the open page.
“My notes. What I’ve learned so far. I wanted to be ready before the school year started, to arm you before the other kids reacted. Sorry it took me over a month. And sorry about Brenna.”
“No big. She was always a bitch anyway.”
“Tam—” Her mother scolded her with words, but Tamara knew there was no sincerity in it, only habit.
“What? You know it’s true. I’m more upset about Madison, and maybe Amber.”
“Well, we’ll learn what we can and maybe you can talk to them. Fix the damage Brenna did.” She glanced down at the notebook. “Anyway, I only knew what they taught me in school—almost twenty years ago—and what’s on the news. Neither of which is truly unbiased.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head ever so slightly at what she’d often voiced as nonsense news. “Try not to believe everything you hear, okay? Double-check in a couple different places to be sure.”
Tamara nodded and leaned forward. Her curiosity overpowered her desire to be snarky and her expression changed to solemn attention.
“For instance, we aren’t a living myth, because we were never actually a myth. We were real. Always. As far back as documented humans, maybe further according to some sources. But we were turned into a legend and then myth by the superstitious, before we had science to explain things. Kind of how they used to bury people alive because they didn’t understand comas. The first scared humans cast the lamians out of their homes and lands, and forbid them from returning under the threat of death. The lamians society continued, just in secrecy.”
“Why don’t they teach all that?”
“Because history is dictated by those who write the books.” Jacqueline smiled.
“Well what else don’t I know? I mean, I know I don’t have to drink blood. I…” Tamara paused and blinked several times at her mom, “I don’t, right? We don’t have to drink blood, do we? Isn’t that what the pills were for?”
“Yes and no, either those or diet. The pills were an amino acid replacement, which is easier than controlling the levels with diet for those who don’t pay attention to what they’re eating. We don’t all eat healthy as humans, why would lamians be any different. But the pills are like how some people with diabetes can control it with their food choices, but others need a shot or a pill.”
Tamara nodded again, following along and finding she was actually interested. “Oh, okay. So I’ll get pills? No. You said, no.”
“I said, we would talk to the doctor and go from there. It may be easier, but I’ve always hated being dependent on a pill, and if we can balance our needs with diet, I’d rather go that route. Or at least learn how, in case we’re ever without the pills.”
“What else did you find? I mean, that they don’t tell us?”
“Actually, I found a… well… it’s not a support group. Not really. But you could call it that. It’s part of the Lamian Council who helped create the Stoker Treaty. You know all about the Treaty, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Tamara waved her hands to indicate no big deal. “An internationally recognized set of civil laws sanctioned by the UN and all its members. Guess what’s on the Social Studies syllabus, Mom? Every. Year.” She rattled off the definition in monotone, no longer hearing the recited words that had been pounded into her head.
“Don’t knock it kid. You need to know your rights, so you know when they’re being violated.” She looked at her daughter disapprovingly and Tamara could almost hear the unspoken tsk.
“I suppose. Fang-haters and all.” She acquiesced with a nod and rolled h
er eyes. “So this support group that’s not a support group?”
“They were hidden, but they’ve always known what they are and have documented their full history. They’ve opened their doors to a weekly meeting of sorts. Somewhere those with loose teeth, or new teeth, or even just DNA results, can go and ask questions and get comfortable with the truths rather than the hearsay. So it’s like a support group.”
“When does that start? Can we go?”
“Oh I think it’s imperative we go. But it’s not new. Evidently, they’ve been holding these meetings for almost twenty years—since the Treaty.”
“Cool. So there’s like really old vampires there?”
“Lamians. Don’t call them vampires, hon. You know better. That’s ignorant and derogatory. You’d never call your friend Brenna a nig—”
“She’s not my friend anymore. But no. I wouldn’t. Not even now. Not her or any other black person. It’s a gross word.”
“So is vampire.”
Tamara nodded and put her hands up, palms out to her mother in a surrendering apology.
“What actually happened with you and Brenna?” Jacqueline narrowed her eyes, and Tamara knew her mother was questioning a friendship started in kindergarten.
“These.” Tamara curled a lip and tapped her new eyetooth. She ran her finger down the length and felt the tip. “They’re not even sharp, are they?”
“They don’t seem to be, but maybe that changes with age, or has diminished with time, like our pinkies getting shorter. I’ve noticed some famous lamians have longer teeth, and some look really sharp.”
“Wait, what? Our pinkies are getting shorter?”
