Teeth

by Owen, Kelli

  Completely enthralled by watching his own expression, his rhythm increased much sooner than it normally would in his darkened bedroom or the steam of the shower. The excitement of having both visual and physical sensations was almost too much for him to bear, and he felt the pressure building before he was ready for the experience to be finished. The telltale sensation began in his groin and moved through his tightened stomach muscles before spreading to his extremities. He looked down as he slid his other hand forward, cupping it under the tip, intent on watching as he caught his seed.

  He wasn’t expecting the sight waiting for him.

  The friction of his movements and the effects of the open air had caused the blood to begin clotting again. Lumps of blood jelly and sticky patches of drying coagulation were suddenly slickened with self-lubrication, as he quickly ran his hand back down the length of his penis, spreading his semen as he went. The whitish-gray, almost translucent, proof of his excitement smeared with the blood and moistened the clumps and bits, breaking them free of his skin but doing nothing to reconstitute their liquid state. He rubbed the soft chunks along his flesh, and both his mind and body spun into a new level of ecstasy that refused to let his arousal grow flaccid. He continued to stroke himself, desperately trying to cling to the sensation and wishing he had the rest of the blender’s contents in the bathroom with him.

  After several minutes of both physical and mental masturbation, he conceded to the fact he would not be able to climax again and slowly released his grip. He sighed in resignation and slid down to the bathroom floor.

  His excitement finally grew soft, and his mind was as spent as his sex. Henry closed his eyes and listened to his breathing as it returned to normal. He pulled the fallen towel over him to ward off the chill, as he mentally relived the experience. His breathing slowed further as he relaxed in the warm afterglow of the best orgasm he could remember. He leaned against the wall and drifted. Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledged the fact he would no longer be simply, only, consuming the blood. There was so much he could do with it.

  I’m going to need more.

  — SIX —

  “I don’t know, Andrea.” The woman broke her muffin in half and carefully laid it on her plate, the napkin at the edge just so, and held her smart phone over the top of the carefully arranged food. She looked up as her phone clicked the image and softly voiced her concern over her friend’s excitability. The speckling of gray strands was striking against her black hair, but it made her look older than the other two girls.

  “I looked it up, Paula. Have you read it?” Andrea leaned forward in her seat and loomed over her untouched oversized oatmeal cookie—muffins always felt like tiny cakes with no frosting and she didn’t understand the point. Her incredulous stare was meant to will them into seeing it her way. “You realize the things in that document are to protect humans, just as much as to give them rights? They’re dangerous. They needed to be controlled and their population tracked. What other reason would they have done that? And the news…”

  Lynn wiped the cream cheese of her bagel from the corner of her mouth and shook her head. “I’ve got to side with Paula on this. My neighbor is a vam—I mean, lamian—and he’s really really nice. He’s lived in the neighborhood since before we even landed on the moon. He keeps his house and yard neat, and always helps out neighbors if they need—” Her youthful skin and ponytail worn high to mimic teen styles, paired with her innocent expressions and soft voice, made it hard to believe she was the mother of three grown boys. Her figure was much more luck and genetics, than it was exercise—or choosing bagels over muffins—and Andrea resented her for it.

  “That’s just what you see. What they want you to see.” Andrea sat back and sighed.

  The three of them had been going to Ruby’s since they had been teens in school together, back when it had belonged to the namesake’s father and been known as Ollie’s. While they had been friends for almost thirty years, the only thing they had wholeheartedly agreed on in the last several had been at Ruby’s—the name change was unnecessary and the new décor was hideous, but the booths were vastly more comfortable than the previous benches.

  Every Sunday after church, the three of them had a coffee, bakery item of choice, and small talk. Though this week, Andrea purposely steered the conversation to more serious matters. Pressing matters.

  “You know what Father Clark says…” Paula tilted her head slightly as if repeating herself to a child who should know better. “They’re made in God’s image. They are the children of God, just a different flock, and we should be tolerant and loving.”

  “Then why aren’t they mentioned in the Bible? Why aren’t they in any historical texts?”

  “But, they are mentioned in every culture. Literally every single historic culture on the planet wrote about them under different names. We just know now how those accounts were twisted and wrong, villainizing them and turning them into some sort of mythical monster.”

  “But why not the Bible? Why not the only historical text that counts?” Andrea could feel her patience wearing thin as her composure began to unravel.

  “Oh, I know this one.” Lynn sat taller. “There was a show on the History Channel a couple weeks ago talking about the Bible and how there were a lot more texts written that could have been part of it, but there were too many. So apparently the church picked what to include and saved the rest in the basement of the Vatican. They’ve been seen and studied by scholars and other influential people in the church throughout the years, and yes, even some lamian since they became public.”

  “So you’re willing to believe that not only did the church decide which words of God we should know about, but you’re suggesting the vampires were in the books they didn’t include?”

  “Lamians.” Lynn nodded. “We’re supposed to call them lamians.”

  “But—” Andrea’s frustration rose in her chest and began to flush her face. This was not the confirmation she needed. This was not the support she had expected to have. “Don’t you two watch the news? They kill people. They kill people and eat them.”

  “Andie…” Paula only called her the nickname when Andrea was truly upset or desperately needed a giggle.

  Andrea knew this was the former rather than the latter.

  “Don’t. Don’t coddle me. This is serious. We’re being convinced of their innocence, blinded to the truth, by those in power for nefarious reasons. The devil is alive and well, and walking around with civil rights.”

  “Why are you being so judgmental about this? Prejudice is an ugly thing, Andrea.” Lynn reached over and put a hand on Andrea’s.

  “I’m not prejudice. Just… Just concerned…” Her voice trailed off as she watched her friends glance at each other before turning back to her with mirrored expressions of sympathy. A part of her was confused. Her feelings toward vampires weren’t new, weren’t unknown to them. Perhaps I never expressed them so clearly before?

  “You know who you sound like?” Paula widened her eyes as if to suggest the unspoken.

  Andrea blinked at her friend, holding back a glare of resentment, and knew exactly what Paula was talking about. She was insinuating Andrea sounded like Paula’s ex-husband.

  He had become fixated with the evils of the nonhumans—he refused to call them lamians, and no one could complain as long as he didn’t say vampire. He started harassing them in public, everywhere he went. And then he went online, seeking them out whether he knew them or not. He moved from the Internet to the real world, and he started following them. Threatening them. And while he never did anything, he went far enough over the line to freak out Paula. She filed for a divorce and a restraining order the same day. Last Andrea had heard, he’d moved to Springfield. Not far enough, according to Paula.

  “Jesus, Paula. No, I’m not and you know it. I just…” She couldn’t tell them the truth. “I wa
s reading the Treaty, and watching the news, and well, it’s all over Facebook. The atrocities they’ve done and gotten away with? Because we’re supposed to be open and accepting and supportive?” She looked from one to the other. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Not even a little.” Lynn shook her head. “Like I said, my neighbor is really nice. He’d never hurt anyone. And he’s over a hundred years old, you know? So he’s seen some pretty rough times and some of the worst of humanity—living through all those wars and such.”

  “That’s just one of them, though. And again, that’s what he shows you. Did you ever have one in your house? Did any of your boys ever have friends who were… lamian?”

  “I actually don’t know. I never asked their friends. I also never asked if any of them were Jewish.”

  “That’s different, and you know it.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Lynn thinned her lips in a crooked smile of concern filled with a silent condescending tone.

  Paula finished her muffin and put her napkin down. “They really aren’t scary, Andie. They’re just, well… I was going to say human, but you know what I mean.”

  “But they’re not. They’re not human. They’re dangerous. They’re violent. Did you see the news about that murder last week?”

  The other two women looked sideways at each other before shaking their heads in unison toward Andrea.

  “His throat was ripped out. Ripped out.” Her face distorted into an expression of fear, more for her own safety because of her son’s condition than any stranger who happened to fall victim to someone who shared it.

  “Andie, you really don’t have to worry like this. Yes, there are some who are violent. But there are also violent humans. They’ve been in our news and on our streets our whole life, and you never panicked like this.”

  “Sweetie,” Lynn squeezed her friend’s hand, still in her own. “Did something happen?”

  Andrea glanced between them. She could feel the fear brimming behind her eyes, threatening to make her cry. She couldn’t tell them. They couldn’t know. They would shame her into isolation.

  But they had to come to her way of thinking.

  She would need her friends by her side. Would need their comfort.

  She blinked and lowered her gaze.

  “I was attacked…” She whispered, as she began spinning a lie to pave the way to the approval she so desperately needed.

  — SEVEN —

  “So how was school?” Jacqueline put her purse on the floor next to her folding aluminum chair and settled into a crossed-ankle position.

  “School is school. I’m more about this right now.” Tamara dismissed her mother with a frantic wave of her hand and looked around the room, enthralled by the people.

  The meeting, hosted by the Lamplight Foundation, was an informational outreach group for newly toothed lamians, and the small gathering was about as eclectic as Tamara could have imagined. There were people of all color, all races, some whispering in languages she recognized but didn’t understand—two Spanish speaking and at least one Arabic. Their attire seemed to range from casual, if not cheap, to business suits and high-end jewelry. Even their level of comfort spread across an invisible scale from nonchalant to obviously nervous.

  Tamara smiled. It’s like the doctor’s office—everyone goes.

  “What?” She turned to her mother, believing she’d spoken.

  “I didn’t say anything.” Jacqueline spoke over the edge of her Styrofoam cup before sipping the steaming coffee procured from the back of the room.

  “Are you nervous? You seem nervous.” Tamara half-smirked at the idea of her mother being unsettled by anything.

  “No, honey.” Jacqueline didn’t meet her eyes and Tamara felt a funny tickle behind her ears.

  Mom’s nervous.

  A tall black man in a well-fitted suit, followed closely by a young woman in a simple blue dress, walked up the aisle toward the front of the room. Tamara saw him touch several shoulders on his way, the recipients of his affection smiled up at him in response. The pair got to the front of the room and turned back at the audience. Rather than standing, they both sat in aluminum chairs like the rest of the crowd. The girl was obviously more comfortable. The man appeared stiff, as if he would have preferred to stand.

  “Welcome everyone.” The man spoke and his voice flowed like music, smooth and perfectly toned to calm anyone who may be anxious. It reminded Tamara of the old storyteller at the library when she was young. His voice had always been able to make her stop fidgeting and pay attention. This one was even more effective, as it soothed as well as calmed. Tamara felt the apprehension in the room dissipate.

  The young woman was more welcoming than soothing, and smiled widely as she moved her eyes across the gathering of faces. She took the time to pause on each and every person in attendance. She held Tamara’s eyes for just a moment longer than the rest and subtly nodded to her.

  Does she know I’m new at this?

  “We have several new faces tonight.” The man spoke with a tone of authority and knowledge. “Though I can tell by your ages, only one of you is new to your reality.” He too paused, his roaming gaze focused on Tamara.

  Oh my God, he’s talking about me. Inside, she feared everyone turning and looking at her, but his calm demeanor buried the worry, and instead she met his eyes and smiled.

  “Because of the diversity tonight, I’ll do a brief overview and then we’ll open up to questions.” He smiled knowingly. “You have very different levels of information in attendance.”

  Yeah, like nothing. I know nothing. Tamara nodded, as she rated her knowledge against the rest of the room.

  “Yes, yes. So let’s start.” He winked at her and Tamara slumped slightly in her seat. Is he reading my mind?

  “My name is Maximilian, though I’m currently being convinced to let you call me Max.” He grimaced snidely at the girl next to him.

  While Tamara was aware of mixed relationships and adoptions, which often left a child looking nothing like their parent, these two seemed to be something different. The girl’s strikingly pale hair and creamy skin tone led Tamara to believe they were colleagues at best. Maybe a student or secretary or something, she guessed.

  “I am the current head of the local chapter for the Lamplight Foundation, commonly and incorrectly referred to as the Lamian Library. We have been absorbed by and become part of the Worldwide Lamian Council. While they concern themselves with the laws and rights of our kind, the librarians have kept our history throughout the ages, recording events as they happen for future generations. We’ve been doing so in written form since our lamps consisted of nothing more than a burning clump of moss soaked in animal fat, thus the name of our foundation. And this is Victoria, my apprentice.”

  It’s like he’s talking directly to me. Tamara furrowed her brows and swallowed over the lump of discomfort forming in her throat.

  “The Council, as an organized collective who could share, pass, and otherwise connect these records, started many centuries ago. Long before my time. Long before my grandfather’s grandfather. Before Bram Stoker, or the witch-hunts, before Vlad the Impaler, and before the Crusades. As man traveled and explored, so too did the lamian, and they shared their knowledge and history. As far as what we are and where we came from, it has been passed down to me that the tale of Lilith isn’t all that far from the truth, minus the preposterous of course.”

  He paused and smiled with his eyes rather than his mouth.

  Victoria interjected. “I see there are questions there. We have literature, which goes into all of this with more details, available at the back of the room and on our website.”

  Max continued as if she hadn’t broken his train of thought. “Our own scientists believe modern humans and lamians quite possibly evolved at the same time. Almost the same creature. But
one little gene makes all the difference between Homo sapiens and Homo hematophians, and would separate us for thousands of years. Our kind was regarded as everything from demons to witches to aliens before it was finally settled on to call us the V-word, in its many forms, spellings and meanings. And please don’t use it. It’s been worn out in literature and abused by Hollywood. It’s a derogatory xenonym to those of us who understand the truth. To those of us who are the truth.”

  “We are lamian, as they are human. Both are people—living, breathing mortals with intelligence and a shared style of understanding and communication.” Victoria spoke like a schoolteacher in what appeared to be an almost rehearsed commentary, and Tamara wondered how many times they’d given the speech.

  The young woman continued. “You’ve heard the term lamian, but to explain it, you simply need to understand that much like the Latin humanus twisted through history to become human—slang for Homo sapiens—lamia is the scientifically and socially morphed acceptable slang for our kind, Latin lamia, or the Homo hematophians.”

  Victoria smiled and adjusted her hands folded in her lap. “So, we’re obviously real. We’ve been around a long time. And yes, your teeth are a thing. Scientists believe now pure lamians, far back in the history books, were born with these teeth—perhaps longer and sharper—and only those of mixed blood initially appeared human. The gene itself went into hiding so to say, and became rare. But if triggered, then the teeth would follow. The teeth made tearing meat and getting to those necessary proteins and amino acids much easier than the flatter teeth used for grains, which our bodies no longer needed. So yes, we’re real. The teeth are real. The need for something that happens to be found in rare meat and blood is indeed real. But fiction and fable got one thing horribly wrong—you didn’t die.”

  “No, you didn’t. None of you, none of us, ever returned from the dead. And you are not part of any undead society, culture, or otherwise. Sure the tales of those coming back from the dead have some merit, and likely began an unreasonable fear that was blended into our true existence, but not because we are or were lamian. Ancient man didn’t have the grasp on science we do now. As recently in the history books as the American Revolution, we buried those presumed dead because we didn’t understand comas, and hadn’t discovered and studied the Lazarus syndrome yet. That doesn’t mean they came back from the dead—it means they were never truly dead to begin with.”