Corrupting Alicia

by Tsoukalas, Evan

  But enough of that. Being immortal does not stop me from getting the creeps by talking about things that can kill me for good. Do not, however, mistake that for fear. Knowledge is power, even for mortals, but I haven’t and won’t tell you anything that could put any of us in any danger. I know this mostly because you will not believe this story, which is probably for the best. As Verbal Kint said, “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he didn’t exist.”

  I say if the Devil was real, he wouldn’t have had all that difficult a job because most mortals are really good at convincing themselves of whatever they want to believe.

  Revenants aren’t too bad at it, either.

  I have fangs that I can retract at will. It took a while to get used to them, and I shredded my lips a few times before I adapted. My fingernails are the same length they were when I was Converted, which isn’t all that long because I bit them constantly.

  Apparently, revenant Blood has no convention to support certain mortal functions on a daily basis. During the Conversion, the Blood takes a "snapshot" of the host body, and after that, it only performs certain functions to restore the body back to balance after some sort of deviation. For instance, if I were to tear the nail off my index finger, the Blood would work to restore the nail exactly as the snapshot dictates. Hair growth falls into this category as well, though I don’t have any because I used to shave my head bald.

  Thank God I shaved my head on the morning of my Conversion, because stubble annoys me and shaving my head several times a day would annoy me more.

  I have a theory on the purpose of the snapshot, though I’m certainly no expert. An affinity for computers helps me understand the need for specifications that remain constant over time. By removing the necessity of adapting to a constantly changing environment, the Blood can focus on more important matters. Like viruses and bacteria, the Blood has its “sweet spot,” an environment that promotes maximum growth and optimal efficiency, and it works diligently to maintain that environment. That's not to say that the Blood is technically a virus of some kind, but it's easier to understand when thought of in those terms.

  Then again, it might perfectly fit the mortal definition of a virus.

  I have a goatee, although the hair is less coarse than it used to be and each individual hair is the exact same color, a dark brownish-black that looks like it was mixed with as much scientific precision as the paint at Home Depot. The goatee covers a small scar riding the line of my jaw on the point of my chin from an accidental run-in with a jungle gym when I was four.

  I will always look like I am twenty-nine years old. I was actually twenty-five when I was Converted, but as a mortal, everyone who knew me maintained that I looked older than that. Some said thirty-five, but I prefer to be optimistic...

  My muscles have become more defined, as if the Blood is a mad sculptor crazed with perfection and blessed with a joyously workable medium. On the bright side, at least I am rid of love handles forever... Another part of me that depends on Blood has also grown, which is every man’s dream, but I’ve yet to find a market for vampire porn, so it hasn’t done much for my social life.

  Revenant Blood brings with it some incredible preternatural powers. I can move physical objects with a simple thought and leap tall buildings in a single bound, cape and tights optional. Contrary to popular myth, however, I come in only one shape and size. I can read minds at will, and more importantly, block out unwanted thoughts, too. I can’t bend mortals to my every whim, but I can make powerful mental suggestions that carry a lot of influence. Think hypnosis. Actually, think uber hypnosis.

  Then again, some mortals are so gulli... err... impressionable that I could easily use my Vampire Mind Trick to make one stand naked on the Mass Pike in the dead of winter, whistling "Couldn't Stand the Weather" until he freezes or a truck turns him into road pizza.

  If that reveal isn't freak-out-worthy, try this: without exception, revenants grow stronger with time and experience. Scary thought, but it hardly matters in my case. There are some who have lived centuries (in select cases, millennia) and some that will live for centuries more, but none of them will ever have a shot at the title, or so sayeth some old scrolls in an ancient language that only a handful of revenants can even read.

  It is worth noting that being ancient and unreadable doesn’t necessarily guarantee accuracy and insight beyond a third-grade paper on quantum mechanics. After all, if these ancient beings were so damn smart, why are they extinct and why doesn’t the world still speak their language?

  To date, however, said scrolls are batting 1.000, proving only that exception is an intrinsic part of life.

  But enough about me. I had a healthy ego before my Conversion, and my current status hasn’t made it any easier for me to pass through doorways. I’ll try to keep it on a short leash as I get back to my story.

  ◆◆◆

  I watched as they closed on her, both drawing firearms and holding them tight at their sides. I sensed their heightened anticipation as they moved within striking distance, and I was a breath away from revealing myself when one of them spoke.

  “Alicia,” he said, his voice all gravel and monotone. He was meaty, a fire hydrant with arms, black knit hat covering a block head, stubble of hair visible at the nape of his neck. Instantly recognizing the voice, Alicia gave a startled cry of alarm and whirled around so fast I thought she would stumble, but she recovered valiantly. The chaos in her head came to an abrupt and amazing halt. She recognized the extreme danger of her situation but seemed resigned to it; she had clearly been expecting this confrontation at some point.

  “Marco,” she answered, her voice low. Marco brandished his gun in a completely unnecessary move to frighten her; she needed no assistance in that department. The other one, a squat, repugnant man with greasy black hair secured by a dirty rubber band, slowly screwed a sound suppressor onto the end of his weapon like he was demonstrating the safety features of a commercial aircraft.

  My eyes rolled heavenward, and I almost sighed at their ridiculousness. In the back of my throat, I could taste a hint of the terror I would induce during my upcoming clinic on true power, which nearly always has the side-effect of scaring the bejeezabells out of pretty much everyone.

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Alicia,” Marco said slowly, shaking his weapon at her matter-of-factly, as if it were some other, less-deadly object.

  “I’m not going back,” Alicia bit out. Her face was weary, but her eyes burned with hatred, glittering with some internal light in the dim and abysmal alley.

  “Ohh, you’re goin’ back, Alicia. Just not alive.” Marco shrugged, and though his voice was casual, his body posture was shivering with barely contained excitement. “There’s only one way out. You know that.”

  Alicia chewed on her lip, drawing blood. The scent of it flooded the alley, and I almost sighed. It would have taken either a crowbar or a supreme effort of will to tear my eyes away from her lips; luckily, I possess the latter. “Marco, do me a favor.” Alicia paused, as if waiting for Marco to answer. He did not. “Shut up and shoot me already. I’m fucking sick of listening to you.”

  If I hadn’t been so angry, so lustful for her blood, I might have laughed out loud. She was so refreshing that there was no way to avoid falling in love with her.

  If you’re anything like I was, then you could never quite suspend your disbelief when Hollywood or storybook vampires fell in love with mortals, and you have now either lost interest in this story or are wondering if I am some kind of lunatic vampire.

  The latter is more appropriate, and I’ll let you in on two vital secrets that take most of my kind centuries to learn: we are all lunatics, and we all fall in love with mortals. It’s almost vampiric nature. Mortals have what we want most, what we are denied, and I’m not talking about blood, either. It’s that simple, and only those who understand revenant origins can truly understand the “why” of it.

  Even when I was mortal, I fell in love quick
ly. I believed life was too short to mince words or beat around the bush. Losing my parents taught me that. But, I’m off on a tangent again...

  I could feel Marco’s rage. His body tensed, his back ramrod-straight. His throat issued a harsh, strangled noise, and that was my cue.

  “Can I help you gentlemen with something?” I asked loudly, leaning out of the shadows, hands in my pockets. I must have been the very picture of indolence, one shoulder against the grimy concrete wall so filthy that I could barely make out the graffiti “Fuck off” at eye level, with my left ankle crossed over my right shin, toe on the ground. I apparently did not look very threatening because although both men spun quickly to face me, guns extended at my head, neither fired, and for that, I was grateful.

  Getting shot really sucks, even to the effectively immortal. The sensation is less than enjoyable, and the stench is almost enough to make me lose my dinner, but mostly, bullets have a bad habit of ruining clothing.

  I like my clothes.

  We looked at each other for a very long second. Long enough for Marco to start to speak, decide against it and make up his mind that it was better just to kill me. Long enough for Rubberband to look at Marco for instruction, see Marco’s decision and begin to back it.

  Long enough for me to smile, fangs extended and glinting even in the muted light from a street lamp more than fifteen feet behind me. I made no movement at all, either toward or away from them, and I didn’t even glance at the guns.

  The fangs threw a curve to their fractional intellects, but it took them only a few seconds to dismiss the sight as their eyes playing tricks on them. The rationalization allowed them to leave fear out of the initial equation, which was fine by me. There are few things sweeter than burning down mortal rationalizations.

  Marco’s mind issued the command to pull the trigger, and I was on him before his finger could comply, one hand wrapping around his throat and the other smashing the gun from his hand with a blow that cracked bones. He let out as much of a scream as he could with a partially crushed airway, and I hoisted him a foot off the ground, his thick legs convulsing with effort as he slammed a meaty fist into the side of my face, knuckles cracking as if he had just punched a concrete slab. Out came another sickly, fluid grunt.

  Rubberband shook his head as if to convince himself that this was really happening. He had fired out of reflex, but neglecting to move the muzzle to my new position caused the bullet to fly harmlessly to my right. Before he could right his aim, I reached out somewhat nonchalantly, for a revenant, and gripped his gun hand, all but merging metal and skin as I crushed them both to paste. He screamed in a rather girlish manner, grabbing my wrist in a vain attempt to free himself, but it was steel under his grip, cold and unyielding.

  A mere flick of said wrist sent him headfirst into the wall behind me. The brick wall got the best of that encounter, and Rubberband jerked once before falling at my heels, exiting this world with a sickly whimper and a sound like a sack of shit hitting the ground.

  No, I’ve never actually heard a literal sack of shit fall, but he was a sack of shit, and he fell to the ground, so I figured I could get away with it.

  Alicia's face reflected more surprise than fear, and though a large part of her wanted to take this opportunity to flee, a tiny but powerful part of her subconscious needed to watch Marco and Rubberband meet their fate. She held her breath, hoping that if she was still enough, I might not notice her.

  The odds of that were statistically impossible.

  Marco’s struggles were becoming weaker as unconsciousness beat steadily on the door of his mind, and terror had parachuted in and landed with a sweet THUD, racing throughout his fading senses like wildfire. I allowed myself a fraction of a second to take a deep draught of his fear, and then I tossed him into the opposite wall.

  Wall 2, mortals 0.

  The sweet sound of ribs cracking filled the night, followed by the dull, wet sound made by the back of his head introducing itself to the brick, and then he rebounded, the momentum carrying him to his knees. Another strangled cry tore from his lips, riding atop a wheezing, rattling breath, and I watched it all with a smile, granting myself another moment to enjoy the Brahma bull of terror bucking angrily around his skeletal corral.

  Marco’s blood-rimmed eyes looked back at me with an interesting mixture of disbelief, fear and rage. His face contorted with each choked breath, and his less-damaged hand went to the ground to keep him from pitching forward onto his face. As his splayed fingers hit the pavement, his pinkie touched the slide of his pistol and a surprising clarity suffused his face, the contact bringing a false sense of security that momentarily supplanted the terror. He gripped the pistol, dragging it toward him, and the metal made a grating sound on the pavement until he raised the weapon.

  I sighed as Playtime neared its end. When I reached out for the pistol, however, an idea occurred to me, one last playful moment to be enjoyed. I used my right hand to grip Marco’s hand and my left to grasp the slide of the automatic. One quick jerk, and I was holding the entire slide with a goofy smile, the next copper-jacketed round in the magazine flying into the air and falling to the pavement.

  Marco looked back and forth in complete bewilderment between the lower half of the firearm, which he still held in his hand, and the slide more than a foot away in mine. I brandished the slide like a magic wand, a “What do you think of that?” expression on my face.

  “What the...” he croaked, eyebrows scrunched up in the perfect picture of incredulity, and he died with that ridiculous expression on his face.

  Marco twitched under my grasp for a moment or two before I let him crumple to the ground at my feet. Shock had entrenched itself on Alicia’s face, and her mouth moved without making any sound.

  I waited for her to find her voice. I suppose a gentleman would have helped her out a bit, but as I have probably already demonstrated, I am not a gentleman. Besides, rational thought and I had pretty much parted company by that point. I had been sucked into the all-encompassing world of Alicia, and whatever would develop between us was born in that moment.

  Physically, she was incredibly beautiful. Her fine, dark chestnut hair had just a touch of red in it, falling straight almost to her shoulders where it curled out and upward. Her full, sensuous lips were parted slightly, and I could see the hint of white teeth. Her slate-gray eyes were guarded and almost frosty, set perfectly above high, sculpted cheekbones. The combination was completely alluring, but it hinted that her face possessed as much capacity for cruelty as for passion. And those legs... mmm. Her firm and slender legs were encased in black stockings and showcased by a short, clingy skirt that laughed in the face of the cold, night air.

  Though I noticed it well, her physical beauty fell halfway down the voluminous list of her attractive features. Don’t get me wrong, I like beauty as much as the next guy, and I can perform sexually. However, in the thrall of BloodHunger, sex is usually at the end of a very long list of things to do with a mortal woman. More often than not, the desire for blood overshadows everything, even if I have already drunk my fill for the evening, and for some reason, I find it repulsive and vulgar to fuck and feed.

  I honestly don’t know what my hang-up is, or to be more precise, I probably avoid delving too deeply into it lest I creep myself out. I know many revenants who regularly combine the two, but I don’t; at least, not with mortals. I have done so with an ancient immortal woman on more than one exquisite occasion, and those interludes are possibly the best perk of being me.

  Regardless of personal preference, the only single word that can be used to describe feeding is “rapturous.” Impossible to adequately describe, but I’m going to try anyway.

  It's like an orgasm so powerful that it removes the ability to think and the will to move. So powerful that if it were positioned under the San Andreas fault, it would cause California to slide into the ocean, making people in Nevada and Arizona, not to mention the rest of the country, very happy.

  If you have ne
ver had an orgasm like that, I'm sorry. If you're into men, I can't say I'm surprised; we are so often inept. If you're into women, you may have more than the normal amount of issues.

  It would span minutes (the orgasm, not the sex) and would be accompanied by the supreme satisfaction of the other participant screaming loudly enough to shatter every window in a two-block radius before passing out in ecstasy. The paramedics would have to be flown in to revive him (or her) before he (or she) could be whisked away to the Emergency Room, where he (or she) would spend the next week being fed intravenously as they recovered from exhaustion and dehydration.

  That's about as close as any mortal can get to understanding.

  After that mental image, I would like to put something else on the record. There are many revenants for whom gender no longer has any meaning, but I’m not one of them. I feed without discrimination, but I have no attraction toward males. To me, they are and will always be, just food.

  But again, I’m off topic. I was describing Alicia and not really doing her justice. She had yet to even speak to me, and I was already in over my head with her. There was a quiet strength about her which obstructed my view of reality. Intellectually, I knew that strength was fragile, but for some inexplicable reason, the predator in me had no urge to exploit the weakness.

  I watched her size me and the evolving situation up with a sharply discerning eye that said she had been through many a situation where the rules changed without the slightest warning.

  She looked me up and down, wondering if I was a savior or just another predator a few notches up the food chain from the two littering the ground at our feet. She was leaning toward the latter, and I marveled at the astuteness of the observation until I realized that it was simply her pessimism asserting itself. She could not recall a single savior in her entire life, and a bitter and cynical inner voice pointedly reminded her that the last Savior to set foot on this planet got tortured and then nailed to a couple planks of wood.

  Her life boiled down to a string of predators, each slightly larger than the last, and although I wasn’t any different, I at least had the distinction of representing the end of that cycle as I happen to be the highest member of this planet’s food chain.