by Chism, Holly
“There was a vampire on the bench at Walmart,” I said, my voice shaking a little. “Specifically, a hunting vampire. One that wasn’t breathing. On purpose. And he was missing a chunk of flesh out of his left arm.”
I could smell Andi’s sudden spike of terror. “Does that mean what I think it does?” she whispered, throat too tight to do otherwise.
“I think so,” I replied. “Actually, I’m certain of it.”
“Shit.”
What Are They Teaching Kids in Home-Ec?
Andi grabbed my arm after we got the Walmart bags in, just before I went to turn away. “Hey, Meg? You probably shouldn’t be alone, right now,” she said, eyeing me. “You’re still shaking.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, my voice thread. “I don’t think I could focus the way I need to for work, at the moment.”
“I didn’t think so,” Andi said. She pulled the sleeve of frozen hamburger patties out of the freezer. “What do I do with these?” she asked, holding it up.
I rolled my eyes. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t know how to cook a burger?” I asked drily.
“I seriously don’t,” she said, scowling down at the plastic bag.
“Well, first, you’re going to need to take your cast iron skillet we just got and spray it good with non-stick spray,” I said, taking the frozen patties from her. “A good skillet won’t stick if you spray it and preheat it before you drop the food in. And if you get it hot enough that the burger instantly smokes, you can slap a lid on before you turn the heat down, and it’ll taste a lot better than if you made it in stainless steel or nonstick.”
“Huh,” she grunted, eyeing the skillet setting on the counter. “I’m gonna scrub that, first.”
“Don’t use soap,” I cautioned.
“What? But that’s nasty,” she complained.
“It’s already been seasoned. A good rinse with hot water ought to do the trick.” I sighed, shaking my head. Lots of my age-mates hadn’t known how to take care of good cast iron, either. I’d learned from my mom. “If you use soap, you take the seasoning out of the skillet, and you have to redo it. It’s good to do every couple of years, but not needed all the time.”
She made a face. “I’ll trust you, but if I get sick…”
“You won’t,” I said. “This is the way your grandma and great grandma cooked.”
“Are you sure you remember what you’re doing?” she asked, gingerly scalding the skillet out and setting it on the stove. I handed her a roll of paper towels, and gestured for her to dry out the interior. “I mean, you’ve been on a liquid diet for almost as long as I’ve been alive.”
“I remember what I’m doing,” I said drily. “Mama taught me how to do this when I was a tween.”
She gave the skillet a tentative, half second spray that was mostly accelerant. I sighed, took the can, shook the hell out of it, and laid down a solid layer of oil over the skillet. I set the skillet on the burner, then turned the stove on. “Like that. Watch. When the spray goes from white to clear, it’s ready to put the burger patty in. You’re gonna want to salt it before you do that. A good, generous shake.”
She wrestled with the bag, finally getting the top ripped open above the zip-lock zipper, and pulled out a frozen patty. “Salt…where did we put it?” she asked.
“It’s right there next to the stove,” I said, watching the skillet. “I’m still shocked that you didn’t learn this. What did you do in Home Ec?”
“Made cookies,” she said, making a face. “Not terribly useful for anyone except the school’s sports tournaments. And it wasn’t Home Ec—they’d changed the name to ‘Family and Consumer Sciences’ before I’d even started kindergarten. It mostly taught things like running a checking account, how to fill out forms to get employment, how to create a basic budget, and how to sign up for credit cards. How to shop for value. How to find your size in clothes. They didn’t teach cooking at all, other than making massive amounts of cookies for tournaments. Didn’t even teach something as simple as sewing a button back on a shirt. I learned that from my granny.”
“Great,” I groaned. “I’m betting they assumed you had parents to teach you to cook?”
“Nah, they straight-up admitted they didn’t care, and assumed most of us ate fast food crap, or ate microwave only meals, and if we didn’t at home, we would when we left home because that’s what lazy kids from my generation did,” Andi said, bitterness creeping into her artificially cheerful tone.
*
I went into my office when Andi went up to bed. There was a message waiting on my desktop messenger from my new friend.
Have you thought about meeting with me?
I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. So not what I needed tonight. I bounced my head off the back of my padded chair, then replied.
First of all, I still don’t know anything about what is and isn’t normal, how I’ll react to meeting with you, or even what, exactly, you want from me, and why. Hell, I don’t even really know who you are, what you do, or why you want to come here in the first place.
There was an indication that my reply was being read. Then a response.
I bring lawbreakers to justice. I’ve studied you since I came across an indication you existed when I took on your sire’s case. You’ve only broken the laws once or twice, and only through necessity and ignorance. You have nothing to fear from me.
I snorted as I read the message. “Ignorance.” Accurate, but insulting. And then, I read the response again, and realized I had another question to ask.
There are laws? Can you point me to them? I’ve only last night found out that there was more of us than me and the rat bastard, much less enough of us for laws to be necessary.
There was no response for a long while. I shrugged and pulled up another tab, starting to check through my email. There were half a dozen more offers on the booze from the basement. I shrugged, and started looking into an easy way to create a page for the bottles, and decided on more research. I pulled up the markets and read through some analyses from the day before. Then, finally, when I was about to get to work, a reply came through.
You truly know nothing? Your sire taught you nothing at all?
I could almost hear the shocked dismay. I wondered how he’d react to what I was about to drop on him, and decided that it might be fun to be a fly on the wall. Then again, it might not be that much fun.
My sire didn’t intend for me to wake. Before tonight, I hadn’t seen him since he raped and murdered me outside my office Christmas party, twenty-one years ago.
I felt comfortable chatting with this man, more so even than I did with Andi. I doubt I’d have admitted as much as I had so far, otherwise. I thought about it, and decided I wasn’t going to admit anything else without a good look through those laws as I waited for a reply.
How have you survived? There should have been six months teaching you what you would face before you were turned, and help, support, and further education in a coven after you woke. How many have you killed by accident? And how did you avoid notice? I really need to meet with you.
I sighed. Before I could think of responding, another message popped up.
Before tonight? You’ve actually seen him? He’s in your city?
I groaned. Scrubbed both hands over my face, then raked my fingers through my hair, shoving it out of my face. And responded carefully.
I did, and he is. He was at Walmart, hunting, when I went earlier. I didn’t recognize him until I saw the scarring from where I bit him.
I think I need an overview of the laws before I answer any more questions or agree to meet.
There was a wait of a few moments. Then:
Don’t kill indiscriminately.
Don’t draw attention to yourself.
Don’t create blood children without careful thought and input from the intended child, with the child’s full cooperation.
Don’t neglect your blood child once they’ve been brought over.
Those
four laws form the basis of our society. Well, these, and your basic don’t take things that aren’t yours.
I read the laws and considered. I couldn’t recall calling attention to myself, except when I left the morgue, and that was as little as possible. I did not, nor had I ever, killed indiscriminately—only rapists actually using violence, and always (but for the recent exception) without witnesses.
Okay. I already try to do those anyway. Common fucking sense. Except for one.
The indicator that he was typing a reply blinked for a few moments, then his reply popped up.
I know you feed. I know you try not to kill most of the time. The only corpses I can find in your area that were drained were known rapists, and needed to die. What is this “one” you’re referring to?
I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment, then shrugged.
My house needed repairs and remodeling. And I made a friend when I distracted the last violent rapist I encountered.
The reply came rather faster than the response to my last shock-bomb had.
What?
I typed slowly, thinking as I went. Trying to figure out how to tell the story of meeting Andi. I finally muttered a soft fuck it, and wrote.
Back in early October, I was going to go hunting and prevent date rapes at the local frats. Parked my car to go in a bookstore and kill time until the coeds were heading toward blackout, and the boys toward being really easy to influence. Ran across a really bad rape about to happen in an alley, stopped it, the chick got away, and I had a really good, full meal. It was ruled another dealer/user OD, btw. I thought the chick running off would be the end of it, but she came back with a baseball bat before I was done. And didn’t run again. She even helped me go through the dead guy’s pockets for cash (she was trying to make sure I wasn’t leaving evidence behind). I hired her on the spot, and now, my basement is an apartment instead of a hole in the dirt with a closet, I have a storm shelter just past the back door, my downstairs bath has had its floor replaced, and the kitchen is in the process of being remodeled.
A few minutes passed. I switched over to the tab with the market reports and started reading. A soft ding pulled my attention back to the messages.
It sounds like you have found someone who’d make a good vampire in a few years. That kind of courage is…rare.
I nodded to myself. It was something I’d already noted, and was one of the main reasons I’d actually offered her the job. Well, that, and I liked her humor, and she’d really needed the job.
She’s a good friend. And she’s a private investigator, and has been working with the FBI. The rat bastard has made their serial killer list, and he’s started that crap up in my town. My friend is helping me figure out where he is, and they’re trying to find his next nine targets before he does.
I went back to my market research. I didn’t get another message until much later, after I’d dug in and started (and finished) working with my accounts. Just before I’d logged off and shut down to go do some personal chores before bed, I got one last message.
If he’s there, in the town where you are, you need to tell me exactly where that is, and where you are. I have to be there to take him down, and you will need protection. You cannot go against your sire without me there—not should not, cannot. Because he will know exactly what you’re doing, and what you’re planning. He will know everything you do, especially in the same town. You are likely already aware of this. You are likely waking up earlier, and perhaps dreaming his actions before you wake. Tell me where you are. My authority and abilities allow me to stand between you and him so that he can’t access your knowledge.
I sighed. And typed a reply.
We’re in Manhattan, Kansas. I have extra room in my basement apartment for a guest, if you need a secure daytime place. There’s a fire door and two deadbolts between the upstairs and my basement. You cannot hurt Andi, or her FBI friend who figured out what I am and has been tracking me.
His reply came quickly. Quick enough that I was near certain he’d anticipated my requests and had already typed in his response, and only had to send it.
You have my word. I’ll be in Manhattan tomorrow night. Tell me where to meet you.
I groaned. I wanted to log off and go get stuff ready. Dawn approached, and I was getting tired.
I will meet you at Walmart. It’s easiest. I’m headed for bed—what time do I need to meet you?
I waited for a reply, covering a yawn and eyeing the clock. I had, maybe, forty minutes before sunrise.
Call it 4:00 a.m. Come by yourself. I’ll recognize you. You’ll recognize me. It will be instinct. You’re very young, and you’ll want to run. You have to fight the instinct to run. I won’t hurt you.
I frowned as I realized why I’d avoided so many places. It…explained a lot, actually. I groaned as another message popped up.
I’ll bring you some things to make life easier. All you have to do is meet with me, and ignore your instincts. And I’ll stay for a while, and teach you the things you should have learned to start with. I promise I won’t hurt you, and all I want is to help.
I glanced at the clock again, then typed one last reply.
I believe you. I won’t run. I’m looking forward to meeting you. But I am shutting down and going to bed, now. I’ve got some more papers to read that I pulled off Vampire Wikipedia about history and culture.
I received a thumbs up response, then an indication of more typing. The final message suggested I might not want to believe everything I read on Wikipedia, because it was open source, and anyone could change anything at any time, and it wasn’t credible. I shrugged—about what I’d figured—and shut off the program. Stood up and stretched. Then wandered out and downstairs, heading toward bed.
I only barely had time to change into pajamas and brush my fangs before I went to bed for the day.
I Thought This Would Be an Interview, Not a Booty-Call
I woke without dreaming, something of a distinct relief after the last few nights. I was right on time for sunset. I rolled out of bed and decided on a long, hot shower in my personal, luxury walk in shower. It wasn’t what I’d asked for or planned. It was better in absolutely every way: gorgeous, useful, and easy maintenance.
Same for the bathtub. So much better than what I’d had planned.
One of the absolute best parts of the improvements added to my basement was a tankless water heater in the bathroom—it hung right above the toilet, and the vent pipe ran through an old vent in the foundation wall that had gotten built over when the basement was finished out. Instant hot water, as much as I wanted, was a wonder, especially after twenty years of putting up with the increasingly cranky tank water heater that Andi had gotten replaced as soon as she’d moved in. I know I mentioned it before, but I think that was one of my favorite things about the basement: the instant, unlimited hot water. Even moreso than the beautiful bathtub and shower.
So, yes. I tended to spend an indecently long time in the shower. Or the bathtub.
I dressed and gathered up my laundry basket. There was enough for a small load. I preferred small loads—they took less time to put away. I carried it up the steps and flipped the locks on my door. I wandered down the hall, noting as I stepped out into the laundry room that there was an extra car parked in the drive, toward the back of the house. I couldn’t hear Andi downstairs, and figured she was likely up in her office with her friend.
Then I noted a particularly rhythmic sound. One that clearly wasn’t generated by a radio spitting bass. I realized what it was seconds before grunts and squeals joined the rest of it.
She and her FBI buddy must be a little more friendly than I’d assumed. And then I remembered her comments about him snoring, and realized I’d missed the clues. I rolled my eyes and went downstairs to warm up the rest of my bag of blood, and read. For fun, not for education or research. I didn’t have the chance to do that often enough.
About forty minutes later, my novel was interrupted by a timid sounding kn
ock on the basement door. I got up, set my empty mug in the sink, and went up the stairs.
I swallowed my smirk as I noted how embarrassed Andi was: the pink cheeks and red ears gave it away. So did the fidgeting—running her fingertips over her thumbnails—and the refusal to look me in the eye. I gave up the attempt to hide my amusement. “You guys done getting reacquainted?”
Andi went totally incandescent with the blush. “You heard?”
“Heard when I came up to start laundry. With my hearing, it was kinda hard not to,” I agreed.
“Yeah, we’re done for now,” she said faintly. “I’m so sorry! We lost track of time! I didn’t mean for you to be sexiled in your own house!”
“Been a while?” I asked sympathetically.
“Kinda, yeah,” she muttered, looking away. “He’s been my best fuck buddy since we started college, and I haven’t seen him since we graduated, and he got his application accepted by the FBI. And I haven’t trusted anyone else enough to let them into my bed since.”
I patted her shoulder as I eased by her into the main part of the house. “I understand. I have a B.O.B.”
She flinched with her whole body. “I didn’t need to know that,” she whined, her face crinkled with disgust.
I giggled, sadistically enjoying her reactions. “Well, I didn’t need to hear what I heard when I came up to start my laundry, either. But I did.”
