“What man?” Jane asked.
“The one that I . . . had drinks with.” Her voice dropped to a whisper at the end.
“What’s shameful about having drinks?” Jane grew annoyed by Jackie’s religiosity and prudishness. Carlo was an ass; she deserved to enjoy life and if that meant having drinks with someone who didn’t see her as a punching bag, so be it.
“I ran into him on my way home from the store one night. He was charming. I was intrigued by his accent — Jamaican. And he was fine. He talked me into meeting him again the next night. We met for two weeks, when he suggested we have drinks. I was so thrilled to be wanted again, to be seen, I didn’t even notice that I was the only one drinking. Afterward, I knew what would happen. Carlo hadn’t touched me like a woman in months, and he was always drunk anyway. This man had the softest hands. His lips moved like flower petals against my neck. I barely even felt his teeth puncture my skin.”
“You mean?”
“Yes, the only other time that I willingly sinned against God, committing adultery in my marriage, I became this, this evil monster.” Tears flowed freely down Jackie’s face, shimmering like crystals against a background of silken tan. Her amber eyes glowed even brighter from the unshed drops.
Jane hesitated but finally reached out and pulled her into an embrace. They sat quietly in each other’s arms, Jackie’s whispered sobs the only sound in the room.
I’m sorry. It was barely even a thought, more of a feeling. She felt it with each gentle shake of Jackie’s shoulders. This was not an easy life and to have to live it alone, with such regret and self- hatred made it even harder. She perhaps would not have chosen this life for Jackie — she wasn’t sure Jackie could handle it — but had she been granted the choice herself, in spite of the loneliness and the fear of others, for the power to do what she did, to avenge the wrongs done to her and to Ennis, she would choose this life every time. But this woman, this scared, confused and exasperating woman, would never have chosen this life. As she soothingly stroked Jackie’s shuddering back, Jane felt something turning inside of her; it pulled at her and tethered her to the woman she was touching. It was unsettling in its newness.
“You’re not a monster,” Jane cooed.
“I’m evil.” She shook her head on Jane’s shoulder. “I’m evil.” “You’re not evil.” Jane was emphatic. “We are what we are,
but it is not evil. I have lived a long time, and I’ve seen real evil, remember? People who hate because others do not fit within their idea of normal are evil. People who would hunt and hurt those who are different are evil. People who subjugate those they perceive to be weaker, in the name of their perversion of righteousness, they are evil. You look nothing like evil.”
Jackie sat up and looked hard at Jane, her eyes searching. She wanted something, needed something, but Jane still could not read her mind. Giving up, Jane grabbed Jackie’s chin between her manicured hands and pulled her hard to her own face. Although the moment was tender, the kiss was anything but. It was needy, full, and passionate. And, Jane noticed, it was returned.
“What the fu—”
Carlo stood in the open doorway. His face alternated between outrage, confusion, and curiosity.
“Carlo!” Jackie jerked out of Jane’s embrace.
Advancing toward them with his arm poised to strike, Carlo yelled. “You’re just a sneaky little whore.”
“Hit her, and I will kill you.” Jane jumped up in front of Jackie. “I should have knocked your big ass down when I first met you. And you,” he turned back to Jackie, “if I knew you liked girls,
I would have killed you a long time ago.”
“Jackie, I’m sorry but I’m gonna have to put this man out of my misery.” Jane’s fangs were about to drop.
“No! Carlo is my husband. I’ll deal with this.” She walked over toward him.
“Deal with it?” Carlo laughed. “What the hell are you gonna do?”
“Let’s talk this out, Carlo.” Jackie was placating, and it annoyed Jane. She placed a hand on his arm. “It’s not what you think.”
“My wife is kissing another woman. What else could it be?” Jackie started to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
“Stop all that blubbering. The sight of you makes me sick.” He shook her hand off and sneered at her, then Jane.
Everything was quiet, except for the sound of Jackie’s sobs. They wore on Jane’s nerves. How could this woman cry because of this idiot when she had the power to make him cry? He was the one who should be prostrate on the floor, begging for mercy and forgiveness. Annoyance and rage made her hands shake. She glared at Carlo, feeling the anger pool inside of her. Before she could stop it, her fangs ripped through her gums and she hissed.
“What the hell!” Carlo yelled and whipped a Glock 19 from his back waistband. He aimed at Jane and fired three times. One hit her in the shoulder, one broke a window and the other lodged in the wall next to the window.
Slowed by the sudden pain of the bullet, but enraged by his attempt to kill her, Jane lunged at Carlo, aiming for his jugular.
“No!” Jackie rammed into Jane and knocked her down. “I said I would deal with it.”
Just as a stunned Carlo aimed again at Jane on the ground, Jackie struck forward like a cobra and sunk her teeth deep into the light brown flesh of Carlo’s neck, instantly painting it garnet red. His eyes bulged and his body convulsed as in a sweet agony, then it went limp and fell to the ground. Jackie, blood smearing the lower half of her face, stood frozen over his body.
“Jackie? Jackie, are you all right?” Jane jumped up from the ground.
“I’ve never killed anyone before.” Her voice was distant, disconnected.
“You had no choice. He was going to kill us both.” “I can’t believe it.”
Running footsteps scraping rocks and asphalt sounded outside. “We’ve got to get out of here, Jackie. The police heard the shot.
They’re coming in.”
“He was my husband for seventeen years.”
“We’ve got to go, Jackie. Jail is no place for a vampire who will live for an eternity.”
“Now he’s just — gone.”
“Go, Jackie. Go out the back. I’ll stay and clean up.”
Jackie stared at Jane, and for the first time, seemed to understand.
“I’ll meet you at the café.”
Jackie nodded and with one last look at Carlo’s body, seemed to fly through the house and out the back.
It was a sloppy bite — the holes were torn, jagged, and still bleeding because she hadn’t sealed the wound — but it was her first time. However, all they needed was something suspicious like a bite wound to bring unneeded scrutiny Jackie’s way. Jane wasn’t sure if anyone had seen her enter the house, although it was likely,
but they certainly knew Jackie was at home.
She would be blamed for this, scrutinized, and torn apart.
The police, the media, the public—they were all vultures, predators ready to siphon a person’s soul. Jackie, in her naivety, was neither prepared for nor deserving of that.
Jane picked up a pillow and placed it over the bite wound. She then picked up Carlo’s gun and aimed in that direction. It was with great satisfaction that she blew two holes in the side of his neck and shoulder. She smiled, having scratched an itch that had bothered her for some time now.
Just as she wiped her prints off the gun, she heard footsteps stop in the door.
“Drop the gun and hold your hands up. Step away from the body,” a gruff voice barked. It belonged to a slightly built black man in blue.
Jane looked up, the scent of alcohol swirling in Carlo’s rapidly flowing blood intoxicating her just a little. It made her somewhat reckless as she thought of her options. She could rush the policeman and kill him, but maybe still be caught by his partner who was moving around to the back door left open by a long gone Jackie. She could mesmerize them both and just leave, but with Carlo dead and Jackie missing, that still put
the focus back on Jackie. She could surrender and let the chips fall where they may.
She had lived her life, longer than she cared to and Jackie was just starting to live, had just gotten free of her enslaver. Jane could handle this, longed for it, she was surprised to realize. Invigoration cascaded through her like rushing tides and she felt that old hunger again: something, someone to fight for. She was a survivor, but she was a fighter, too, she thought as she slowly bent down and placed the gun on the floor. Nothing cliché about that.
Thirsty For Love
by Vocab
A vampire can’t come inside until he is invited. So you are saying, I can’t blame you, Lost Boy. You crossed over the threshold, and stole blood from the nape of my neck. Pecked hollowing holes and kept sucking me dry to the bitter end. I couldn’t even call you boyfriend. You never did like titles, preferring ambiguous charades. Had me concealed in a coffin, hiding from sun rays, and the clarity that comes with luminous light. We could only be seen together in the cloak of night. I still fight to slay the demons you leave behind. Bats sway suspended, lining my cave of a soul. I have no crucifix or garlic, so, feeble minded, I fold. Hold tight to my holy water, though, hoping to cleanse the places you defiled. If only I had seen your ferocious fangs the first time you smiled. I mean, I was always taught to beware of wolves dressed like sheep. So on full moons, I would count silver bullets to fall asleep. I guess in our case, denial is the counterpart of deception. I should have recognized the clues and drew the connection; between the blood at the scene, and the stake you vehemently drove through my heart. Ironically, you also played the part of Van Helsing as if my bounty was a vendetta… inventing new weapons so that I could be slain. Then you departed as quickly as you came. But I would rather call you, Count Dracula, Baby, then call you by your real name. I am so shamed by the fang marks impetuously imprinted in my skin. Still, the seducing scent of sanguineous attraction is a curse that draws me back in. I now thirst for blood, from the primal hunting games, you taught me so well. I am doomed to roam the earth alone, but it feels like a torrid and tortured hell. So I am a shell of skin…where a woman used to be. My tale will be immortalized for centuries to come, but will you remember me?! Yes, I pale from my lack of iron coupled with emotional anemia. I despise my deficiency!! It’s you who drew true blood and tasted the essence of who I used to be. The moon is calling. I need to drink. My body is weak from craving crimson in imminent urgency. These feelings curdle inside of me. My desire is bloody, Baby, bittersweet. I am a vampire, and I need to drink. It seems I am just as lost as the boy who found me, and left me starving, thirsty for love.
How to Speak to the Bogeyman
by Carole McDonnell
On the 17th of August, as he sat in his study eating vegetable soup with his girlfriend, Kayvon got a frightening call from his friend Michael.
Michael, of course, should not be calling. And Kayvon would’ve thought the call some kind of prank if he had not recognized his friend’s voice. His friend’s terrified voice. For Michael was indeed terrified, his voice so full of fear that Kayvon’s first instinct was to attempt to comfort him. If he could get a word in edgewise. But although Michael was whispering, begging, pleading for help — words streaming out of his mouth a mile a minute — his desperation wasn’t allowing Kayvon to speak.
“Kayvon!” he begged in a desperate whisper. “Kayvon! I know you can get me outta here. I know you can get me outta here.”
He was almost crying. But people did not cry where Michael was. Could not cry.
“Michael?” Kayvon dropped his soup bowl onto his pillow. It was the first and only time fear would make Kayvon drop anything from his hands. His hands trembled, as did his voice as he repeated Michael’s name. “Michael?” he asked again, his voice a whisper. All this prompted his girlfriend Sheilah to frown and to prepare to go into bitch mode. She had been experimenting on that recipe all day.
“Kayvon Jackson!” Sheilah shouted. “I just washed that pillow today. For heaven’s sakes! Don’t you know how to hold a bowl?”
“Kayvon! I got away.” There was elation in Michael’s voice, the kind of desperate elation that anticipated triumph…if help could arrive in time. “I managed to escape them. The one who was guarding me turned his back for a while. And the others weren’t paying any attention to me. So, I managed to get away. They’re slicing up Jiman and gutting him, Kayvon! Slicing him up! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! But I got away. You gotta tell me how to get out of here.”
“Kayvon!” Sheilah shouted again.
But when Kayvon glanced up at her, the look of terror on his face, made her stop in mid-rant. Sheilah stared into her husband’s ashen face, realizing perhaps this was not the time to discuss not appreciating her cooking. “What’s the matter?” she asked, matching her tone to his horrified one. “Someone die? Michael? Someone in an accident?”
“It’s Michael,” Kayvon managed to say, his voice a questioning incredulous whisper.
“Michael who?” Sheilah sat beside him on the bed, wringing her hands.
“Tell me how to get out of here, Kayvon!” Michael shouted again.
Kayvon had known Michael since they were kids. Michael had gone down the wrong path. Drugging. Whoring. Pimping. But compared to the other guys on the block, he wasn’t — hadn’t — been so bad. Funny thing was, although they had stopped hanging out together, Michael had worshiped Kayvon and always came to him whenever he was in trouble. But this wasn’t the kind of trouble anyone could get Michael out of. Michael was dead after all. Kayvon had been to his funeral the day before.
“It’s Michael,” Kayvon told Sheilah. “My friend who died?” Sheilah arced an eyebrow, looked at Kayvon as if he was nuts.
She rolled her eyes. “Seriously! The…”
But again she stopped in mid-rant. Kayvon looked dead serious. “He’s calling you from beyond the grave?” she asked. “I’ve heard of. . .but what’s he saying?”
“He. . .” Kayvon began.
But just then a blood-curdling scream came out of Michael’s mouth.
“They’re here! They found me! Kayvon! No! No! You can’t drag me back! Get away from me! Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! You can’t. Nooo! Kayvon!”
And then the connection closed. Like that.
Kayvon sat like a stone beside his soup-strewn pillow. What had just happened? Sweat poured down his face and down his armpits along his stiff suddenly-numbed fingers and hands. He was silent and for about ten minutes, he could not think. He could only feel sorrow and pity and grief for a friend who had been desperate for help, who had called out to him, and whom he had not been able to help. He burst into tears.
Sheilah sat beside him in worried silence. After a long heart- breaking sob from Kayvon, she said, “That was really Michael?”
Kayvon nodded.
“He called from the other side?” Kayvon nodded.
His wife didn’t immediately answer. Then at last she said, “I’ve heard about this kinda stuff. That sometimes people who have just died will call folks over the telephone. Was that it? Hey, maybe it’s possible. Is that why you’re shaking like that? Or did he call to give you some warning? Oh, no! Oh, my God, is one of our family members gonna die?”
She was getting herself worked up, as she always did whenever she anticipated disaster. “I think Michael called me from hell,” Kayvon said.
“Hell?” Sheilah said. And a new kind of worried look came on her face. “Why do you think it was hell?”
Kayvon buried his face into his hands and shook his head repeatedly. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! This just can’t be true! Is there. . . really a hell?”
All night he could not sleep. He cried and prayed to Jesus, although he had not prayed since he was in his teens. He wept for Michael that night as he had not wept for him at his funeral. He kept seeing Michael being dragged away to his own gutting or torturing for eternity. He could not get the horrible images out of his mind.
Terror is like that. Worry
for our fellow man, especially if that friend is in a desperate state, is like that. So throughout the night, Kayvon’s mind worked on the situation. Michael had called. Michael had been in some kind of torture. Michael had called his only “good” friend for help and Kayvon had not been able to help.
But how had Michael called him? Surely, there was no telephone in hell.
But perhaps. . . Perhaps Michael so desperately wanted to call, and even in hell he’d created a means of communication. Was it possible that even in hell people had desire and the ability to create? Even if it was only the desire to be free from torture. Torture. What kind of torture?
Perhaps the kind of torture that demons dream up. Demons had nothing else to do with their time, and they had more power than their fellow prisoners. Of course, torture was the demons’ only joy. Slicing up and gutting Jiman. Oh, my God! Jiman had died six years before. Jiman hadn’t been so bad either.
By the time morning arrived, he was awash with guilt and feelings of uselessness. Why had he not thought of telling his friend to call on Jesus? Perhaps death wasn’t Michael’s last chance to get to heaven. Why had Kayvon’s mind been so clouded with the finality of hell that he couldn’t think of a way out for his friend? He should’ve asked. Even just asking. After all, why had God allowed the communication if nothing resulted from it?
So, along with the feelings of uselessness was the matter of communication and portals. He rose from his bed pondering portals. Portals between here and there, then and now, past and present and future, spiritual and physical — and the fences that kept them closed off from each other.
Now there is always an outworking of spiritual encounters. When one’s eye is open to some revelation of spiritual reality — especially if it happens in a particularly dramatic or painful manner — there is an aftermath. For Kayvon, it was an obsession with portals.
The obsession began subtly. First, he began to find it impossible to look into mirrors. This was understandable enough. What are mirrors if not reflections and images of the world behind him, a kind of unseen past? Then the notion of the unseen past subsumed into the idea that the mirror itself was a portal. The particulars of how that came about was not something Kayvon could readily understand but he began to understand that mirrors, being a different kind of seeing—could reflect not only the past behind him but unseen things that perhaps lingered at his side.
Sycorax's Daughters Page 9
