The pretty blonde dropped her smile, then screamed as she burst into flames and leapt out of the light. Drew ran out into the dark to save her.
22
Being the Chronicles of Abby Normal: Pathetic Nosferatu Noobsicle
Well, except for the murder, Christmas was like a slow drag over broken glass—I now truly know the ennui of passing eternity in total boredom—eating and hurling tofurky all day, stuck with Ronnie and Mom until like six, when Jared came over. His father has a fresh family with little crumb-snatcher stepsisters, so they like forget about him as soon as the squealing and presents start in the morning. He spent the whole day rewatching The Nightmare Before Christmas disc in his room and smoking cloves. His room is totally sacrosanct since he told his ’rents that he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t be masturbating to gay porn if anyone came in. (He’s so lucky sometimes—I could stand on my head and flick the bean right there at the dinner table and my mom would be all, “Honey, Christmas is family time, we should be together” and make me finish in front of everyone.)
So, we like watched The Nightmare Before Christmas disc with Mom and Ronnie until they fell asleep on the couch—then Jared and I drew some really cool tribal tattoos on Ronnie’s shaved head with Magic Marker, but only like in red and black, so they look real.
Then he was all, “We should go get some coffee—my aunt gave me a hundred-dollar Starbucks gift card for Christmas.”
And I hate it when people brag about their Christmas presents, because it’s completely shallow and materialistic. So, I was all, “Yeah, well, I’d love to, but I am now one of the chosen, so I have duties.”
And he was all, “No way, you’re Jewish?”
And I was all, “No, I am nosferatu.”
And he was all, “You are not.”
And I was all, “Remember that sexylicious guy from Walgreens. It was him. Well, actually it’s the Countess who brought me into the sacred circle of sanguinity.”
And he was all, “You didn’t even call me?”
“I’m sorry, Jared, but you are of an inferior species now.”
So he goes, “I know, I totally suck.”
And I know he’s going to go all tragico-emo on me. So I say, “Buy me a Mochaccino and I’ll reveal to you our dark ways and stuff.”
We leave a note saying that Jared has impregnated me and we’re running off together to join a satanic cult, so my mother won’t panic when she wakes up, because she’s totalitarian about leaving notes. Then we head to the SOMA. But apparently, the entire fucking country shuts down on Christmas, slammed under the oppressive iron fist of the baby Jesus, so out of nine Starbucks we try, all are closed.
And Jared is all, “Take me to meet them. I want to be in the dark fold, too.”
And I was all, “No way, loser, your hair is totally flat.” Which it was. He only had the one spike in front, and his sculpting gel had like failed hours ago, so in his PVC raincoat, he kinda looked like a black lacquer coatrack like you see in Chinatown, but that wasn’t why I couldn’t take him to see the Countess and my Dark Lord. I just couldn’t. I knew the Countess would freak out if she saw I was exploiting her exquisite gift to show off for a friend, so I was all, “It’s very secret.” But Jared started to pout and brood at the same time, which he can totally pull off because he practices, so I started to feel like a malodorous soupçon of mashed assholes, as Lautréamont so aptly put it. (Shut up, Lily says it sounds more romantic in French.)
So I let him come, but I told him he had to say outside across the street. But when we came around the corner of the Dark Lord’s block, there was a guy in a yellow tracksuit standing in the middle of the street. Just standing there, with his hood up and his head down, looking like he was going to stand there forever. And he turned really slow in our direction.
Jared was all, “Wanksta rappa,” in my ear, and he giggled that high-pitched little-girl giggle he does sometimes that’s like violence catnip to other guys. (Which is why Jared has to carry a foot-long double-edged dagger in his boot, which he calls his Wolf-fang. Fortunately it doesn’t give him any false confidence and he is still a total puss, but he likes the attention he gets when doormen take it away from him at clubs.)
Anyway, I think my vampyre senses were, like, on edge, because I could just tell that this wasn’t your normal hip hop guy standing in the middle of a deserted street in a three-hundred-dollar tracksuit at midnight on Christmas night, so I grabbed Jared’s arm and pulled him back around the corner.
And I’m all, “Dude. Shields up. Creep. Stealth. Lowest profile.”
So we peek around the corner, totally cloaked this time, and the tracksuit guy is like over by the door of the loft, and someone is coming out. It’s the crusty old drunk guy with the huge shaved cat, and he has his unit out, like he’s going to take a leak, which I could have gone another sixteen years without seeing. And Tracksuit grabs him like he’s a rag doll and pulls his head back by the hair, and bites him on the neck. And when he does, I can see that it’s not a hip hop guy at all, but some crusty white vampyre, his fangs were like visible from space. So the huge cat guy is thrashing and screaming and spraying whiz all over the place and I can hear the huge cat hissing behind the door, and Jared grabs me by my messenger bag and starts pulling me away, down the street. So that’s all I saw.
And Jared was all, “Whoa.”
And I was all, “Yeah.”
And as soon as we got a few blocks away, I pulled out my cell and called the Countess’s cell, but it went right to voice mail. So now we’re at a special midnight showing of The Nightmare Before Christmas at the Metreon, drinking a huge Diet Coke to calm our nerves while we wait for a return call from my vampyre coven. (Jared forgot his inhaler and has been gasping since we saw the attack. It’s so embarrassing. People are like looking, and I’ve moved a couple of seats over so they won’t think I’m giving him a hand job or something.) I am totally overcome with dread and foreboding, and the time passes like a seeping infection on a bad eyebrow piercing. So we wait. I wish we had some pot. More later.
Oh yeah, and Mom got me a green Care Bear for Christmas! I totally love it.
You’re sure this is where you left it?” Jody was looking up and down the Embarcadero. There were no people out on the street—the performers and hustlers were long gone. She could hear the Bay Bridge humming in the distance, a foghorn started to low over in Alameda. A BART train burped out of a tunnel onto the street a block away, headed toward the ballpark, empty. A police cruiser turning out of Market Street strafed them with its headlights before heading past the Ferry Building toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Tommy waved to the cops.
“Yeah. I was right here and my watch went off. He weighed a ton. It would have taken a bunch of guys to move him.”
Jody saw something shining on the bricks near her feet and crouched down to touch the source. Metal filings of some sort. She licked her finger and came up with a coating of yellowish metallic particles on her fingertip. “Unless someone cut it up.”
“Who would do that? Who would cut a statue up and steal the pieces?”
“Doesn’t matter. Maybe thieves, maybe city workers. If someone cut that bronze shell, one of two things happened. If it was daytime, Elijah fried out here in the sun. If it was dark, he’s free.”
“It wasn’t light, was it?”
Jody shook her head. “I’m guessing no.” She saw a light pattern among the bricks a few steps away and crouched down again. There was a fine, grayish powder between the bricks. She pinched some between her fingers and shook her head. “For sure no.”
“What? What is that?”
She brushed her finger off on her jeans and dug into her jacket pocket. “Tommy, remember I told you that you didn’t drink the whore dry because she wouldn’t have been there if you had?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s because when a vampire drains someone—when we drain someone, they turn to a fine gray powder. I can’t explain why, but it looks like that. Feels
like that.” She pointed to the mortar lines between the bricks.
Tommy knelt down and touched the powder, looked up. “How do you know that?”
“You know how I know that?”
“You’ve killed people.”
She shrugged. “Just a couple. And they were sick. Terminal. They were asking for it, sort of.”
“So that’s why you weren’t upset about the hooker?”
She pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket, then held it behind her back and twisted back and forth looking at her feet, like a little girl being interrogated about how Mommy’s lamp got broken. “Are you mad?”
“I’m a little disappointed.”
“Really? I’m really sorry. You would have done the same thing if you’d been there.”
“I’m just disappointed that you didn’t feel that you could trust me.”
“You were having a hard time with your change. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“But it wasn’t sexual or anything, right?”
“Absolutely not. Purely nutritional.” She didn’t think it necessary to tell him about kissing the old man. It would just confuse things.
“Well, I guess it’s okay, then. I guess if you had to.”
He stood and she ran to him and kissed him. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have that off my chest.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Hang on.” She held up a finger and hit the power button on her phone.
“Calling your mom to tell her she was right about your being a tramp?”
“I’m calling the kid.”
“Abby?”
“Yeah. I need to tell her to stay away from our place. Elijah is going to start messing with us like before.”
Jody watched as the little icons on her phone showed that it was searching for a signal. “But she said she wasn’t coming by to night. It’s Christmas.”
“I know she said that, but I think she may come by anyway.”
“Why?”
“Well, she has a thing for me, I think. I bit her last night.”
“You bit Abby?”
“Yeah. I told you, I was hurt. I needed—”
“God, you’re such a blood slut.”
“I knew you’d be mad.”
“Well, it’s Abby, for fuck’s sake. I’m her dark lord.”
“Look, a voice mail.”
Elijah Ben Sapir cast the twitching, pee-spraying alcoholic across the street, where he bounced off the metal garage door of the foundry and back out to the curb, where his head knocked the side mirror off an illegally parked Mazda. Then the vampire walked with exaggerated steps, his arms held out from his sides like a bad stage monster to try to keep the urine-sotted velour fabric of his tracksuit from contacting his skin. Although he had experienced all manner of filth and gore in his eight hundred years, and had, in fact, spent whole days hiding naked under loamy soil to escape the sun, he didn’t remember being quite so put off as he was at being pissed on by his lunch. Perhaps it was that he only had one set of clothes now, and there was no luxurious yacht with a full wardrobe to retire to, or perhaps it was that he had spent the day between two urine-stained mattresses under an unconscious junkie while police searched the hotel around him. He’d just hit his limit, that’s all.
He’d known the desk clerk would give him up to the police, so as soon as he had gone to his room, the vampire had hidden his tracksuit in the corner of the closet, gone to mist, then slipped under the door into the next room and in between the mattress and box springs of a semiconscious junkie. He’d gone back to solid just as sunrise put him out for the day.
At sundown, he was surprised at how elated he was to find the tracksuit still in the closet, after he fed off the junkie (just a sip) and snapped his neck. (Leaving more or less a greeting card to the homicide inspectors who had attacked him with the others at the yacht club.) Now his precious tracksuit was all covered in whiz and he was furious.
He stalked over to where he’d thrown the bum and snatched him up by the ankle. Elijah was not tall by modern standards, but he found that if he held the bum’s ankle high above his head, he could shake him sufficiently to get the job done.
“You’re not even her minion, are you?” Elijah banged the bum’s head against the sidewalk to punctuate his question.
“Please,” said the bum. “My huge cat—”
Thud, thud, thud on the sidewalk. A little shake. Change, a few bills, a lighter, and a bottle of Johnny Walker rained out of the bum’s pockets.
“You’re just her little moo cow, aren’t you? I tasted her on you.”
“There’s a kid,” said the moo cow. “A spooky little girl. She takes care of them.”
“Them?”
Elijah flung the bum against the garage and proceeded to pick up the change and the bills on the sidewalk. The steel door next to the garage door opened and a burly bald man in overalls stepped out on the sidewalk, smacking a lead-tipped tire thumper on his palm. “You motherfuckers making enough noise out here?”
Elijah bared his fangs and hissed at the biker, then leapt to the wall over the garage door and clung there, facedown, above the biker’s head.
The biker looked up at the vampire, down at the prostrate bum, then at the damaged Mazda. “Well, okay then,” he said. “I can see you fellas still have some shit to work out.” He slipped back into the foundry and slammed the door.
Elijah dropped to his feet and headed up the street, not even bothering to stop to snap the moo cow’s neck. How could he have been so stupid? He wasn’t going to terrorize her by killing a food source. He needed to threaten her minion, just as he had with the boy. How could he have known that she’d actually betray him and choose the boy? Turn the boy? It wouldn’t happen again.
Amid all the anger, the hunger, and the excitement at having a purpose, Elijah Ben Sapir felt a twinge of heartache. He had begun this adventure thinking himself the puppet master; now he was all entangled in the strings. Making mistakes.
No worry. He cocked his head and focused. Past the rasping breath of the moo cow, the buildings settling, the Bay Bridge humming, and a thousand hearts beating in the lofts around him, he could hear the retreating steps of the little girl and her friend.
23
Being the Chronicles of Abby Normal: The Hunted
Apparently I am the Hunted, which, I want to note here, I am totally not qualified for. Here I sit, perched in the rafters (I think these things are rafters) of the Oakland Bay Bridge like a crippled night bird, waiting for doom to descend on me in the form of an ancient, undead thing, to wrench the very limbs from my delicate body. So that sucks.
Fortunately I have some sustenance until my Dark Lord and Lady rise from their diurnal slumber to kick some fucking ass. I know I should be eating bugs and spiders and stuff to facilitate my vampyrism, but as a vegetarian, I haven’t developed the hunting skills, so I’ve started with some Gummi Bears I got at the theater. (Supposedly they are made out of beef pectin or extract of horse hooves or something, so I think they make a good transition to the nosferatu diet. And I like biting off their tiny heads.)
Here, high above the City—well, actually, we’re about ten feet above some homeless people who live under the bridge—I feel like the guardian of an ancient tomb, willing to face any attacker to protect my master and mistress, who are wrapped in tarps, lying on the next beam or rafter or what ever.
OMFG, there are fucking pigeons everywhere! Sorry, one just pooped on my notebook. Never mind. Move along. I’m over it. But ewwww!
Jared has gone to his dad’s house in the Noe Valley to get the lawn cart and minivan so we can transport my masters to safety. He left me his dagger, which I’ve only had to brandish once, against a woman who wanted to take the tarp from over my Dark Lord. Then I used it to scrape off my old nail polish, which was totally chipped and stuff from doing minion manual labor.
So, my masters like met up with us outside the Museum of Modern Art and they were all, “Are you okay? Di
d he hurt you?” And they were being all secretive around Jared, like he didn’t know we were vampyres. And I was all, “Just chill, he’s assistant minion.” So they relaxed.
Then Flood pulls this bronze hand out of his bag and he’s all, “Abby, do you know what this is?”
And I was all, “Why yes, Lord Flood,” because I speak obvious as a second language. “It’s a bronze hand, correct?”
So the Countess took the hand from him. “Abby, this is what’s left of the shell of the vampyre who turned me.”
So I’m all, “Begging your pardon and whatnot, Countess, but that’s a statue hand.”
And she’s all, “That’s what I’m saying.” Which is not what the fuck she was saying at all.
So it turns out that the bronze statue that used to be in the loft was actually the vampyre who turned the Countess, and then the Countess turned the vampyre Flood, except he was just Flood then. So the old vampyre, whose name is Elijah, got all PMS and started fucking with the Countess by leaving dead bodies all over town with evidence pointing toward her, and threatening to kill her minion, who was Flood at the time, and it got completely out of hand, with some cops and the geeks from the Safeway blowing up Elijah’s yacht and really pissing him off, and then the Countess pretending to save Elijah when in fact she was extracting his ancient vampyry secrets, and Flood bronzing them both, but letting the Countess out because she is the love of his life and whatnot. So Flood, who is not a mysterious and ancient creature of the night at all, but has been a vampyre like a week longer than I have, took the statue down to the waterfront to drop it in the Bay, so it wouldn’t remind the Countess of her heart being torn asunder by the yearning for two lovers and stuff. But the sun came up and Flood left the statue on the Embarcadero, and when they went back it was gone, and it turns out that Elijah is loose and he was the crusty vampyre in the yellow tracksuit I saw shaking the huge cat guy and he is now stalking me to get back at the Countess for being a duplicitous ho.
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