Thirst No. 1

by Christopher Pike

  I open the door.

  “Yaksha?” I whisper.

  There is movement at the back of the cold box.

  A strange shape speaks.

  “What flavor would you like, little girl?” Yaksha asks in a tired voice.

  My reaction is a surprise to me. Probably because I feared him for so long, it is difficult for me even to approach him without hesitation—even while seeking him out as an ally. Yet, with his silly question, a wave of warmth sweeps over me. Still, I do not stare too hard at what he has become. I do not want to know, at least not yet.

  “I will get you out of here,” I say. “Give me ten minutes.”

  “You can take fifteen if you need, Sita.”

  I close the compartment door. Only police cars are allowed in and out of the area. Not even the press has gotten through the roadblocks, which is understandable. It is not every day twenty-plus bodies are incinerated in Los Angeles, although, on the other hand, it is not that unusual an occurrence in this part of town.

  My course is clear. I will get myself a police car, maybe a navy blue police cap to cover my blond hair. I walk casually in the direction of the warehouse, when who do I run into but the two cops who stopped me outside the Coliseum: Detective Doughnut and his young prodigy. They blink when they see me, and I have to refrain from laughing. A box of doughnuts is set out on the hood of their black-and-white unit, and they are casually sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. We are still a block from where all the action is going on, relatively isolated from view. The situation appeals to my devilish nature.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” I say.

  They scramble to set down their nourishment. “What are you doing here?” the older cop asks politely. “This is a restricted area.”

  I am bold. “You make this place sound like a nuclear submarine.”

  “We’re serious,” the young one says. “You’d best get out of here quick.”

  I move closer. “I will leave as soon as you give me your car keys.”

  They exchange a smile. The older one nods in my direction. “Haven’t you seen the news? Don’t you know what’s happened here?”

  “Yeah, I heard an atomic bomb went off.” I stick out my hand. “But give me the keys, really. I’m in a big hurry.”

  The young one puts his hand on his nightstick. Like he would really need it with a ninety-eight-pound young woman who looks all of twenty. Of course, he would need a Bradley Tank to stop me. The guy has a phony prep school demeanor, and I peg him for a rich dropout who couldn’t get into law school and so joined the force to annoy Daddy.

  “We’re running out of patience,” Preppy says, acting the tough guy. “Leave immediately or we’re hauling your tight ass in.”

  “My tight ass? What about the rest of me? That sounds like a sexist statement if I ever heard one.” I move within two feet of Preppy and stare him in the eye, trying hard not to burn it out of its socket. “You know I have nothing against good cops, but I can’t stand sexist pigs. They piss me off, and when I get pissed off there’s no stopping me.” I poke the guy in the chest, hard. “You apologize to me right now or I’m going to whip your ass.”

  To my surprise—I could pass, after all, for a high school senior—he pulls his gun on me. Backing off a pace as if shocked, I raise my arms over my head. The older cop takes a tentative step in our direction. He is more experienced; he knows it is always a bad idea to go looking for trouble where trouble does not exist. Yet he does not know that trouble is my middle name.

  “Hey, Gary,” he says. “Leave the girl alone. She’s just flirting with you is all. Put away your gun.”

  Gary does not listen. “She’s got a pretty dirty mouth for a flirt. How do we know she’s not a prostitute? Yeah, that’s right, maybe she is. Maybe we should haul her tight ass in on a charge of soliciting sexual favors for money.”

  “I haven’t offered you any money,” I say.

  That angers Gary. He shakes his gun at my belly. “You get up against that wall and spread your legs.”

  “Gary,” the old cop complains. “Stop it.”

  “Better stop now, Gary,” I warn him. “I can tell you for sure you won’t be able to finish it.”

  Gary grabs me by the arm and throws me against the wall. I let him. When I am upset, I like to hunt. Actually, when I feel any strong emotion, I like to hunt, to drink blood, to kill even. As Gary begins to frisk me, I debate whether to kill him. He is way over the line as he pats down my tight ass. He is not wearing a wedding band; he will not be missed much, except perhaps by his partner, who is soon headed for a heart attack anyway, with his diet of greasy doughnuts and black coffee. Yes, I think as Gary digs into my pockets and discovers my knife, his blood will taste good, and the world can do with one less creep. He holds the weapon up to his partner as if he has found the key to a treasure. In his mind it is that way. Now, because I am a certifiable criminal, he can do what he wants with me, as long as no one is videotaping the proceedings. No wonder the people in this neighborhood riot from time to time.

  “Well, look at what we have here!” Gary exclaims. “Bill, when was the last time you saw a knife like this on a college coed?” He taps me on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. “Who gave this to you, honey? Your pimp?”

  “Actually,” I reply, “I took that knife off the body of a French nobleman who had the audacity to touch my ass without asking my permission.” I slowly turn and catch his eye. “Like you.”

  Officer Bill reaches out and takes the knife away from Officer Gary, who tries to stare me down. He would have more luck staring down an oncoming train. Carefully I allow a little heat to enter my gaze and watch with pleasure as Gary begins to perspire heavily. He still grips his gun but has trouble keeping it steady.

  “You’re under arrest,” he mutters.

  “What is the charge?”

  He swallows. “Carrying a concealed weapon.”

  I ease up on Gary for a moment, glance at Bill. “Are you arresting me as well?”

  He is doubtful. “What are you doing with this kind of knife?”

  “I carry it for protection,” I reply.

  Bill looks at Gary. “Let her go. If I lived around here, I’d carry a knife, too.”

  “Are you forgetting that this is the same girl we ran into outside the Coliseum?” Gary asks, annoyed. “She was there the night of the murders. Now she’s here at the burned-out warehouse.” With his free hand he takes out his handcuffs. “Stick out your hands, please.”

  I do so. “Since you said please.”

  After holstering his gun, Gary slaps on the cuffs. He grabs me by the arm again and pulls me toward the patrol car. “You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to give up that right, anything you say may be used as evidence against you. You have the right to the presence of an attorney, either retained or appointed—”

  “Just a second,” I interrupt as Gary starts to force my head into the rear seat.

  “What is it?” Gary growls.

  I turn my head in Bill’s direction and catch his eye. “I want Bill to sit down and take a nap.”

  “Huh?” Gary says. But Bill does not say anything. Too many doughnuts have made him gullible. Already he is under my spell. I continue to bore into his eyes.

  “I want Bill to sit down and go to sleep,” I say. “Sleep and forget, Bill. You never met me. You don’t know what happened to Gary. He just vanished tonight. It’s not your fault.”

  Bill sits down, closes his eyes like a small boy who has just been tucked in by his mother, then goes to sleep. His snores startle his partner, who quickly takes out his gun again and points it at me. Poor Gary. I know I am no role model for the war against violence, but they should never have let this guy out of the academy with live ammunition.

  “What have you done to him?” he demands.

  I shrug. “What can I do? I’m handcuffed.” To illustrate my helplessness, I hold my chained hands up before his eyes. Then, smiling wickedly, I snap them apart.
When I flex my wrists, the remains of the metal bonds fall to the concrete, clattering like loose change falling from torn pockets. “You know what that French nobleman said before I slit his throat with his own knife?”

  Gary takes a stunned step back. “Don’t move. I’ll shoot.”

  I step toward him. “He said, ‘Don’t come a step closer. I’ll kill you.’ Of course, he didn’t have your advantage. He didn’t have a gun. As a matter of fact, there were no guns in those days.” I pause and my eyes must be so big to him. Bigger than moons that burn with primordial volcanoes. “Do you know what he said as my fingers went around his throat?”

  Gary, trembling, cocks the hammer on his revolver. “You are evil,” he whispers.

  “Close.” Lashing out with my left foot, I kick the gun out of his hand. Much to his dismay it goes skidding down the block. I continue in a sweet voice, “What he said was, ‘You are a witch.’ You see, they believed in witches in those days.” Slowly, deliberately, I reach over and grab my pale white victim by the collar and pull him toward me. “Do you believe in witches, Gary?”

  He is a mask of fear, a bodysuit of twitches. “No,” he mumbles.

  I grin and lick his throat. “Do you believe in vampires?”

  Incredibly he starts to cry. “No.”

  “There, there,” I say as I stroke his head. “You must believe in something scary or you wouldn’t be so upset. Tell me, what kind of monster do you think I am?”

  “Please let me go.”

  I shake my head sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, even though you did say please. Your fellow cops are just around the block. If I let you go, you’ll run to them and tell them that I’m a prostitute who carries a concealed weapon. By the way, that wasn’t a very flattering description. No one has ever paid me for sex, at least not with money.” I choke him a little. “But they have paid me with their blood.”

  His tears are a river. “Oh, God.”

  I nod. “You go right ahead and pray to God. This might surprise you, but I met him once. He probably wouldn’t approve of the torture I’m putting you through, but since he let me live, he must have known I would eventually meet you and kill you. Anyway, since he just killed my lover, I don’t know if I care what he thinks.” I scratch Gary with my thumbnail, and he begins to bleed. The red liquid sinks into his clean starched shirt collar like a line of angry graffiti. Leaning toward his neck, I open my mouth. “I am going to enjoy this,” I mutter.

  He clenches his eyes shut and cries, “I have a girlfriend!”

  I pause. “Gary,” I say patiently. “The line is ‘I have a wife and two children.’ Sometimes I listen to such pleas. Sometimes not. The French nobleman had ten kids, but since he had three wives at the same time, I was not inclined to be lenient.” His blood smells good, especially after my hard day and night, but something holds me at bay. “How long have you known this girl?” I ask.

  “Six months.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  He opens his eyes and peers at me. “Lori.”

  I smile. “Does she believe in vampires?”

  “Lori believes in everything.”

  I have to laugh. “Then you must make such a pair! Listen, Gary, this is your lucky night. I am going to drink some of your blood, just until you pass out, but I promise you that I won’t let you die. How does that sound?”

  He doesn’t exactly relax. I suppose he’s had better offers in his days. “Are you really a vampire?” he asks.

  “Yes. But you don’t want to go telling your fellow cops that. You’ll lose your job—and, maybe your girlfriend, too. Just tell them some punk stole your car when you weren’t watching. That’s what I’m going to do as soon as you black out. Trust me, I need it.” I squeeze him a little just to let him know I am still a strong little bitch. “Does this sound fair?”

  He begins to see he has no choice in the matter. “Will it hurt?”

  “Yes, but it will be a good hurt, Gary.”

  With that I open his veins farther and close my hungry lips over his flesh. I am, after all, in a terrible hurry. But only as I drink do I realize that his having a girlfriend has nothing to do with my letting him live. For the first time in my life the blood does not satisfy me. Just the feel of it in my mouth, the smell of it in my nostrils, revolts me. I do not kill him because I am tired of killing—finally. My prattle with the cops was a diversion for myself. The weight of knowing that I am the only one who can stop Eddie, the pain of my loss—they send sharp stakes into my heart that I cannot pull free. For once I cannot drown my trials in blood as I have drowned so many other difficult times over the centuries. I wish that I were not a vampire, but a normal human being who could take solace in the arms of someone who does not kill to live. My dream haunts me, my soul desire. The red tears return, I no longer want to be different.

  Gary barely starts to moan in pleasure and pain when I release him. As he slumps to the ground, dazed, I reach over and grab his keys and cap and get in the patrol car. My plan is simple. I will put what is left of Yaksha in the car and then slip through the barricade with a tip of my cap and a hard stare at whoever is in charge of security. I will take Yaksha to a lonely spot. There we will talk, of magic perhaps. Of death, certainly.

  TWELVE

  I drive to the sea, not far from where I killed the woman the previous night. On the way there Yaksha rests on the seat beside me, what is left of him—a ruined torso shrouded at the base in an oily canvas sack that protrudes with the steel stakes Eddie has driven into him to keep him in pain. We do not talk. As I loaded him into the patrol car, I tried to pull off this hideous sack and remove the spikes, but he stopped me. He did not want me to see what had become of him. His dark eyes, still beautiful despite everything that has happened, held mine. The words passed unspoken between us. I want you to remember me the way I was. And I prefer to.

  The surf has quieted from the night before. The sea is almost as calm as a lake, and I remember a time Yaksha took me to a huge lake in southern India only a month before we met Krishna. It was at night, naturally. He wanted to show me a treasure he’d found under the water. Yaksha had a special gift for locating precious jewels and gold. He was simply drawn to them: secret caves, buried mines—they grabbed him like a magnet. Yet, when he found these things, he never kept them. It was as if he just wanted to see what beauty the past had left behind for us to discover.

  He told me, however, that this particular lake had a whole city beneath it, and that no one knew. He believed it was over a hundred thousand years old, the last remnant of a great civilization that history had forgotten. Taking me by the hand, he led me into the water. Then we were diving deep. In those days I could go for half an hour without having to take a breath. Yaksha, I think, could last for hours without air. Being vampires, we could see fairly well, even in the dark and murky water. We went down over a hundred feet, and then the city was upon us: pillared halls, marble paths, sculpted fountains, all inlaid with silver and gold, now flooded with so many drops of water that they would never again sparkle in the sun. The city awed me, that it could simply exist completely unknown, so beautiful, so timeless. It also saddened me, for the same reasons.

  Yaksha led me into what must have been a temple. Tall stained-glass windows, many still sound, surrounded the vast interior, which rose step by step in concentric circles, a series of pews that climbed all the way up the wall to a stone ceiling. The temple was unique in that there were no paintings, no statues. I understood that this was a race that worshiped the formless God, and I had to wonder if that was why they went the way they did, into extinction. But as Yaksha floated beside me, there was a joy in his eyes I had never seen before. He came from the abyss, I thought, and maybe it was as if he had finally found his people. Not that they were demons like him, certainly, but they seemed to come from beyond the world. I, too, in that moment felt as if I belonged, and it made me wonder where I had come from. Yaks
ha must have sensed the thoughts in me because he nodded, as if we had accomplished our purpose in coming, and brought me back to the surface. I remember how bright the stars looked as we emerged from that lost city. For some reason, from then on, the stars always shone with a special luster when I was near a large body of water.

  In the present moment the clouds have fled and the stars are bright as I lay him on his back not far from the water, although the light of nearby Los Angeles dims the definition of the Milky Way. How much modern civilization has lost, I think, when they lost the awareness of the billions of stars overhead. Unfortunately, my awareness is also rooted to the earth this night. Eddie has actually sewn the canvas bag covering Yaksha into his flesh. The unseen spikes twitch under the material, or maybe it is the dissected muscles that shake. A wave of nausea passes through me as I think of the torture he has endured. Reaching out, I touch my hand to his still cold forehead.

  “Yaksha,” I say.

  His head rolls to one side. His lustrous dark eyes stare at the water with such longing. I know somehow that, like myself, he thinks of the lost city. That afternoon had been our last intimate moment together, before Krishna came on the scene and put a halt to the spread of the vampires by making Yaksha swear to destroy them all, if he wished to die with Krishna’s grace.

  “Sita,” he says in a weak voice.

  “There must be many hidden cities beneath the ocean.”