Best New Vampire Tales (Vol.1)

by Laimo, Michael; Newman, James; Hults, Matt; Webb, Don; Meikle, William; Wilson, David Niall; Everson, John; Waggoner, Tim; Daley, James Roy

  A Sunset So Glorious

  RYCKE FOREMAN

  The djinn thought that Herman’s first wish was a valid one:

  “I wish I was very handsome. Appealing to women, you know.” He said this in his funny little voice while bright red blossoms bloomed over his cheeks. “Sexy, you know. Irresistible. Sleek, even.”

  “Very well, Master,” said the djinn. With the wave of one mighty hand, a new man emerged––a man who would no longer be know as Herman (oh no––that name was so inadequate for the proud new gentleman now standing before the djinn), but possibly Arman or Armond. Indeed, the Herman who had brushed his sleeve up against the lamp was gone; rips from his now insufficient suit resounded throughout the room as his biceps, triceps, and gluteus expanded. No more horn-rimmed glasses that distorted his once sheepish, watchful eyes; his meager, rounded jaw was now square and sharp. Herman (or rather, Armond) no longer slouched, but held his shoulders square and erect, his spine stiff––he seemed to have grown a full five or six inches.

  The man turned, glancing into a nearby mirror. Herman would have gasped and exclaimed “Dear me!” but Armond simply studied his new face, held fast his own magnetic-blue eyes while fluffing his already perfect hair. He smirked. “You really are a genie, then, aren’t you?” he asked, admiring the newly acquired potency to his voice.

  “A djinn, actually.”

  “But you can make magic––I mean, truly perform it.”

  “Certainly, Master. Did I not state that clearly enough to begin with?”

  “Well yes, but of course I thought you meant party tricks or something. Pulling rabbits out of hats, that sort of rubbish.”

  The mighty creature smiled, thinking in an ancient, long-dead language: In what form now comes your greed? The djinn knew he had but a moment to wait.

  Armond returned his gaze to the mirror, seeming to stun even himself for a moment. “My God … ” He looked deep into the mesmerizing orbs. “No … I don’t think being an accountant will do anymore. Not for this face, this body––no. This is a temple that must be worshipped by the world. It’s simply too beautiful not to, but … but is this the face of a movie star? An athlete? Or the start of a political dynasty?” The man paused, as if savoring the aroma of a juicy T-bone steak.

  “I want power,” Armond said firmly, with a dark sneer that somehow complemented his radiance and added luster to his newfound beauty. “True Power. Nothing so trivial as a hick oil tycoon or even the Presidency. No––I want the real thing, the power to hypnotize, mesmerize, influence and maintain control upon the nations. I will leave my mark and they will feed me with their undying devotion … ” Armond trailed off momentarily; the wish granter wasn’t sure if the man was lost in the depths of his own eyes or the fantasy.

  “Is that your second wish?” the djinn prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “State it as a wish, if you please.”

  “Very well, then. You heard what I just said, so grant it now, for that is how I wish.”

  “Yes, Master. Your wish is my––”

  “And I know what my third wish is to be, as well.” A maniacal grin slashed across his perfect features “I want immortality, too. I wish it––now grant it.”

  The floating dastard nodded solemnly, preparing to gift his nine hundred ninety-nine thousandth, nine hundred and ninety-eighth and ninth wishes; the final two any bound servant was required to grant. The last––and mightiest––was reserved for the wishmaster himself. But first:

  “May I ask of you a few questions, my Master?”

  “If it’s quick,” the man snapped.

  “Do you subscribe to a particular religious faith?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have an affinity for Italian meals?”

  “No. When I was … him … I suffered quite severely from indigestion.”

  “Do you participate in many outdoor activities––day hikes, swimming, sunning yourself at the beach?”

  An eye-roll was enough for the djinn.

  “Do you have an aversion to blood?”

  Armond was growing impatient. “He might have, but I am quite confident in my own capabilities.”

  “Very well, Master. And now, a final caveat: There are few beings in any realm that possess true immortality, and only One allowed to grant it. However, I can bestow eternal life … within certain limitations––

  “What sort of limitations?”

  “Based on your answers, nothing too difficult to avoid.” Save for one, perhaps, the djinn thought.

  “Fine, fine. Just get on with it.”

  “Your wish is my command.” As the djinn finished bringing Armond’s wishes to pass, he quickly granted himself the millionth wish. His legs––until now merely a funnel-shaped mist––materialized beneath him, much the same way as the rest of his new life was entering the world far beyond these walls. He exercised his restored limbs with a deep knee bend. Surprisingly, they weren’t too stiff either, given the passing of so many millennia. Joints popping loudly as he stood, the former djinn (soon to be Kamal al-Mas’ud ibn Khaldun aal-Filistenni again, once he got on with his new life) made hastily for the door.

  Behind him, Armond growled, “Wait a minute! What’s happening? I can’t see myself.” Armond was looking desperately into the mirror; it revealed a room full of everything that should be there––except him. “Where is my reflection?”

  Soon-to-be-Kamal didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he threw the front door wide, gazing breathlessly upon a sunset so glorious. Its golden rays were warm and exquisite, seeming to gently sizzle his tender new flesh.

  The sizzle of the vampire’s flesh was much louder and more dramatic, popping and crackling and fizzing in a frenzied stutter, Armond’s scream lingering even after he’d been reduced to fluttering ashes.

  Kamal shot one last glance at the smoldering remains littered before the looking glass, then he shut the door. He took another moment to again admire the fiery gloaming before he turned, ready to give his new legs a run for the money.

  The Verbpire

  FREDRICK OBERMEYER

  I’d like to think that feeding off other people’s verbs is at worst a victimless crime, but there are people who feel otherwise. Diana Freswelth was one of them and thanks to her I nearly died.

  Until the night when I tried to feed on her verbs, it had been bliss. We hit it off in London and from there traveled around the world to cities far and wide.

  After five weeks of pleasure, we settled down together in Seattle and I continued to go on in secret for months after, consuming my daily requirement of verb forms with languages ranging from English to Spanish to Arabic. Sometimes I’d even sample the occasion adverb, but most of the time they were bloated and left me with a lot of gas.

  Life was good and since people often had a surplus of verbs in them, I had plenty to eat. And unlike regular bloodsucking vampires, I never left a wake of dried out corpses after me. Just some people who couldn’t speak verbs for a few days.

  Now tell me, is that such a crime?

  But I still shudder at her reaction the night I told her that I was a verbpire. We had just come back to her apartment after dinner. She had put some Frank Sinatra on the CD player and I leaned back and relaxed as I listened to “Strangers in the Night.”

  Diana fixed up two fingers of whiskey sour, gave me one and sat down on the couch next to me. We clinked our glasses together and then drank.

  Afterwards, she slid closer. I took her in my arms.

  “I love you, Larry,” Diana said.

  “I love you too.” I kissed her on the cheek, sighing as I tasted the edge of her first person verb. The word “love” is perfectly concise and put in its best verb form. “I love” is probably the most delicious verb ever made. I wanted to suck even more I loves out of her. But I held back. I had to tell her who and what I was.

  “Shall we … ”

  “Yes, but first I need to tell you something,” I said.

  “
It’s not that you’re really gay or that you have genital warts, is it?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just … ” My voice trailed off and my stomach rumbled. I wanted to taste her verbs so bad it made me ache, even though I had consumed a maitre d’s worth of conjugated verbs back at the restaurant during a supposed cigarette break.

  “What? Spit it out.”

  “I’m a verbpire,” I said.

  “A what?” Diana blinked and stared at me as if I had just started babbling incoherently.

  “A verbpire.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A vampire that thrives on verbs to stay alive and live forever.” I licked my lips, feeling hungry at using up so many verbs.

  Diana looked at me for a moment. Her lips trembled. Then she broke out laughing and my heart dropped into my shoe.

  “Verbpire, that’s a good one.” She snorted and laughed so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks. “Honestly, where do you make up this stuff? I know you’re a writer, but—”

  “But I’m telling you, it’s true. I really am a verbpire.”

  “I think you need to loosen up a little. Have another drink.”

  She reached over for the whiskey bottle, but I grabbed her hand and said, “No, I’m being serious here.” I let go of her arm and she lowered it. “Before we get any deeper into this relationship, I want to be open and honest with you. And I want us to have no secrets between us. Normally I wouldn’t have told you, but you’re the first person I’ve met in a long time that I feel I can be totally open and honest with.”

  Confusion tightened her normally smooth face and she stared at me for a moment.

  “I agree that we shouldn’t keep secrets,” Diana said. “But what you have just told me doesn’t sound like a secret.”

  “Then what does it sound like?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You need proof?”

  “That might be nice.”

  “But I don’t want to make you verbless.”

  “Shall I bear my neck for you instead?” She tilted her head, exposed her neck and laughed again.

  “Knock it off.” I waved my hand.

  “I’m serious. If you really are this thing, then prove it. Take my verbs away from me.”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “No, really, how do you do it? Do you drain them out of my forehead?”

  “Actually I use the lips.”

  “Then do it.”

  “I really ought not to. I already had my fill.”

  “Then why did you bring it up in the first place? Are you trying to spoil the mood?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Show me that you’re telling me the truth.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But just remember you asked for it.”

  I grabbed her shoulders, pulled her right up close to me and pressed my lips hard against her own, forming a tight seal. For a second, she started kissing me.

  Then I began feeding.

  Suddenly the look of pleasure on her face transformed into one of terror. She thrashed and tried to pull free, but I held her tight as I sucked all the verbs right out of her voice and her mind. The hunger in the language centers of my brain began to dull as they became satiated.

  Apparently she was multilingual, judging from the influx of English, Romania, Spanish and even some ancient Celtic, Welsh, Greek and Sanskrit verbs that flooded into my mind.

  Finally I pulled my lips off hers and she collapsed on the floor, gasping and wheezing.

  “I … not any help,” she snapped at me. Then suddenly it hit her. The look I’ve seen thousands of times before.

  She blinked, then glared at me with cold, hateful eyes.

  “ … speak … I … no verbs.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  “Bastard! You … my verbs.”

  “I said it was the truth.”

  “I … you. I … I … ” She bit her lip and I could see her struggling to form a single word, just one verb phrase. But she couldn’t do it.

  “Look, it’s only temporary,” I said. “In a few days, you’ll regain your verbs. It’s like blood cells. You lose some, but you’ll grow more back.”

  “I … you. I … you.”

  “Easy now.”

  “I … a secret of my own.”

  “Let me guess. You’re a nounpire and to seek revenge you’re going to drain all of my nouns from me.”

  “No. I … another idea. You … for what you … I … a witch.”

  “You mean like Samantha like on Bewitched?”

  “Not that kind of witch. I … more powerful than her. And I … you a curse.”

  “A curse?” I blinked. “Don’t you need verbs to cast curses?”

  She shook her head, then turned and spat on me. The spittle hit my shirt and burned like acid. I screamed and stumbled back off the couch.

  “A curse. Starvation. The only food for you … second person singular English verbs in the subjunctive mood, past tense.”

  My heart sank.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Can’t we discuss this?”

  “No. Now out! Before I … you.”

  “Diana, please. You told me to prove it. I was just doing what you said.”

  “OUT!”

  I sighed, knowing that I couldn’t make any head. I turned and left her apartment, listening to Sinatra’s “Strangers in the Night” on the way out.

  * * *

  Alone on the streets, I tried to take solace in the only thing I could. Verbs. I found a young man walking alone on the street that night and used a tongue twister on him. In the movies, Dracula hypnotizes his victims with his voice and that penetrating gaze.

  On the other hand, I often use tongue twisters to catch them off guard and then drain them before they even know what hit them. But this time I found that it was almost impossible to feed. For a while after, I thought that she was just angry at me and had spat some random words. But when I tried to drain some verbs out of the man, all I kept getting was a rare “You had gone” and “You wouldn’t have happened … ”

  One might think that I could feed on the second person subjunctive mood and still live at least reasonably well. But out of all three moods, subjunctive was the rarest in English and the least nutritious and satisfying. It’s like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet and only being allowed a few scraps of old lettuce instead of steaks and chowders and the rest of the salad bar. Sure, you can eat it, but it won’t fill you up and sooner or later you’ll have to go back looking for more.

  Finally I let the man go.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the man said. He swung his fist at me and I barely managed to dodge it.

  I turned and ran down an alleyway. He chased me for a block, but I managed to lose him behind a group of garbage crates. Once he was gone, I emerged and found an old Chinese lady.

  The same thing happened, though.

  In fact, I probably could have gone through more than half the population of Seattle and still not had enough verbs to live on for more than a day or two.

  Despondent, I continued to roam the streets.

  Why she couldn’t have at least given me indicative or imperative mood? I wondered. Or at the very least the present tense for the subjunctive mood along with the past and all persons?

  I needed to find some way to regain my ability to consume other verbs. Otherwise I might literally starve to death, no matter how much normal food I might eat. I even thought about taking a flight over to Great Britain, where at least they had impeccable grammar. But it wouldn’t matter. Too many young English speaking people shunned the subjunctive mood for “may” and “should” and “might.” Seeing that, I might as well have ended it right there. But being as stubborn as I was, I knew that there had to be some way that I could get rid of or at least allay Diana’s curse.

  I had one place left I could turn to.

  * * *

  Percy Dalvinger lived in a small apartment right next to o
ne of the local coffee bars that seemed to cover every other square inch of Seattle. I hurried down there, ran up to his apartment on the third floor and rang the doorbell.

  After two more tries, he answered. In the background a pot of tea whistled. He stood there, four foot five, the wrinkles on his craggy old face shaped like old English script, his lips as black as shoe polish.

  Most shapescripters liked to remain in their print form as often as possible, morphing from book to book when the mood suited them or when the current paper where they resided was in danger of being lost. But Percy was unique in that he enjoyed his human form as much as he did his print form. Especially when he wrote himself out of his own stodgy books on English grammar.

  “Lawrence?” Percy said in his Welsh accent.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said.

  “It is I, you mean.”

  “Yes, it is I.”

  “Why have you come here?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “A witch named Diana. She put a curse on me.”

  “A curse.” He laughed. “Why on Earth would she do that for?”

  “Because I showed her what I really was.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would do it.” He nodded for me to come inside, then closed the door.

  “Right. Come in, sit down. Would you like a spot of ink tea?”

  “No, thank you.” I sat down in one of his sumptuous leather chairs in the living room. He had several bots of inks lying open on a chess table. He took one and swallowed it down like a shot glass full of vodka as he went into the kitchen.

  Shapescripters always needed their daily dose of outside ink to keep their part human/part living ink forms stable. He shut the kettle off, made his ink tea and then came back and sat across from me.

  “So, this curse … might you tell me what it consists of?” Percy said.

  “I can only consume English verbs that are in the subjunctive mood, second person singular, past tense,” I said.

  “Sounds dodgy.” He sipped his ink tea. “And the problem is?”