By Blood We Live

by John Joseph Adams

  Of course, that had happened an ocean away, and Dr. Seward hadn't had a gun. But he'd had a needle, and that had done the job for him right proper.

  Quincey stared down at Mrs. Danvers' sewing table. There were needles here, too. Sharp ones, little slivers of metal. But these needles weren't attached to syringes. They weren't like Dr. Seward's needles at all.

  Something pressed against Quincey's stomach. He blinked several times, but he couldn't decide who was standing in front of him. Owens, or Seward, or. . .

  Someone said, "Get out of town, or I'll make you wish you was dead." There was a sharp click. The pressure on Quincey's belly increased, and a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder.

  The hand of Count Dracula. A European nobleman and scientist. Stoker had split him into two characters—a kindly doctor and a hellborn monster. But Quincey knew that the truth was somewhere in between.

  "Start movin', Quince. Otherwise, I'll spill your innards all over the floor."

  The count had only held him. He didn't make idle threats. He didn't use his teeth. He didn't spill a single drop of Quincey's blood. He let Seward do all the work, jabbing Quincey's arm with the needle, day after day, week after week.

  That wasn't how the count handled Lucy, though. He had a special way with Dr. Seward's most combative patient, a method that brought real results. He emptied her bit by bit, draining her blood, and with it the strength that so disturbed Lucy's mother and the independent spirit that so troubled unsuccessful suitors such as Seward and Holmwood. The blind fools had been so happy at first, until they realized that they'd been suckered by another outsider, a Transylvanian bastard with good manners who was much worse than anything that had ever come out of Texas.

  They'd come to him, of course. The stranger with the wild gleam in his eyes. Told him the whole awful tale. Cut him out of the straitjacket with his own bowie, placed the Peacemaker in one hand. A silver crucifix and an iron stake jammed in a cricketing bag filled the other.

  "You make your play, Quince," Owens said. "I'm not goin' to give you forever."

  "Forever is a long time."

  "You ain't listenin' to me, Quince."

  "A moment's courage, and it is done."

  Count Dracula, waiting for him in the ruins of the chapel at Carfax. His fangs gleaming in the dark. . .fangs that could take everything. . .

  The pistol bucked against Quincey's belly. The slug ripped straight through him, shattered the window behind. Blood spilled out of him, running down his leg. Lucy's blood on the count's lips, spilling from her neck as he took and took and took some more. Quincey could see it from the depths of Seward's hell, he could see the garden and the shadows and their love flowing in Lucy's blood. Her strength, her dreams, her spirit. . .

  "This is my town," Owens said, his hand still heavy on Quincey's shoulder. "I took it, and I mean to keep it."

  Quincey opened his mouth. A gout of blood bubbled over his lips. He couldn't find words. Only blood, rushing away, running down his leg, spilling over his lips. It seemed his blood was everywhere, rushing wild, like once-still waters escaping the rubble of a collapsed dam.

  He sagged against Owens. The big man laughed.

  And then the big man screamed.

  Quincey's teeth were at Owens' neck. He ripped through flesh, tore muscle and artery. Blood filled his mouth, and the Peacemaker thundered again and again in his hand, and then Owens was nothing but a leaking mess there in his arms, a husk of a man puddling red, washing away to nothing so fast, spurting red rich blood one second, then stagnant-pool dead the next.

  Quincey's gun was empty. He fumbled for his bowie, arming himself against Owens' compadres.

  There was no need.

  Mrs. Danvers stood over them, a smoking shotgun in her hands.

  Quincey released Owens' corpse. Watched it drop to the floor.

  "Let me get a look at you," Mrs. Danvers said.

  "There ain't no time for that," he said.

  Dracula chuckled. "I can't believe it is you they sent. The American cowboy. The romantic."

  Quincey studied the count's amused grin. Unnatural canines gleamed in the moonlight. In the ruined wasteland of Carfax, Dracula seemed strangely alive.

  "Make your play," Quincey offered.

  Icy laughter rode the shadows. "There is no need for such melodrama, Mr. Morris. I only wanted the blood. Nothing else. And I have taken that."

  "That ain't what Seward says." Quincey squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. "He claims you're after Miss Lucy's soul."

  Again, the laughter. "I am a man of science, Mr. Morris. I accept my condition, and my biological need. Disease, and the transmission of disease, make for interesting study. I am more skeptical concerning the mythology of my kind. Fairy stories bore me. Certainly, powers exist which I cannot explain. But I cannot explain the moon and the stars, yet I know that these things exist because I see them in the night sky. It is the same with my special abilities—they exist, I use them, hence I believe in them. As for the human soul, I cannot see any evidence of such a thing. What I cannot see, I refuse to believe."

  But Quincey could see. He could see Dracula, clearer every second. The narrow outline of his jaw. The eyes burning beneath his heavy brow. The long, thin line of his lips hiding jaws that could gape so wide.

  "You don't want her," Quincey said. "That's what you're saying."

  "I only want a full belly, Mr. Morris. That is the way of it." He stepped forward, his eyes like coals. "I only take the blood. Your kind is different. You want everything. The flesh, the heart, the. . .soul, which of course has a certain tangibility fueled by your belief. You take it all. In comparison, I demand very little—"

  "We take. But we give, too."

  "That is what your kind would have me believe. I have seen little evidence that this is the truth." Red eyes swam in the darkness. "Think about it, Mr. Morris. They have sent you here to kill me. They have told you how evil I am. But who are they—these men who brought me to your Miss Lucy? What do they want?" He did not blink; he only advanced. "Think on it, Mr. Morris. Examine the needs of these men, Seward and Holmwood. Look into your own heart. Examine your needs."

  And now Quincey smiled. "Maybe I ain't as smart as you, Count." He stepped forward. "Maybe you could take a look for me. . .let me know just what you see."

  Their eyes met.

  The vampire stumbled backward. He had looked into Quincey Morris' eyes. Seen a pair of empty green wells. Bottomless green pits. Something was alive there, undying, something that had known pain and hurt, and, very briefly, ecstasy.

  Very suddenly, the vampire realized that he had never known real hunger at all.

  The vampire tried to steady himself, but his voice trembled. "What I can see. . .I believe."

  Quincey Morris did not blink.

  He took the stake from Seward's bag.

  "I want you to know that this ain't something I take lightly," he said.

  FOUR

  He'd drawn a sash around his belly, but it hadn't done much good. His jeans were stiff with blood, and his left boot seemed to be swimming with the stuff. That was his guess, anyway—there wasn't much more than a tingle of feeling in his left foot, and he wasn't going to stoop low and investigate.

  Seeing himself in the mirror was bad enough. His face was so white. Almost like the count's.

  Almost like her face, in death.

  Mrs. Danvers stepped away from the coffin, tucking a pair of scissors into a carpet bag. "I did the best I could," she said.

  "I'm much obliged, ma'am." Quincey leaned against the lip of the box, numb fingers brushing the yellow ribbon that circled Lucy's neck.

  "You can't see them stitches at all," the whiskey-breathed preacher said, and the seamstress cut him off with a glance.

  "You did a fine job, Mrs. Danvers." Quincey tried to smile. "You can go on home now."

  "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to stay."

  "That'll be fine," Quincey said.

  He tur
ned to the preacher, but he didn't look at him. Instead, he stared through the parlor window. Outside, the sky was going to blood red and bruise purple.

  He reached into the box. His fingers were cold, clumsy. Lucy's delicate hand almost seemed warm by comparison.

  Quincey nodded at the preacher. "Let's get on with it."

  The preacher started in. Quincey had heard the words many times. He'd seen people stand up to them, and he'd seen people totter under their weight, and he'd seen plenty who didn't care a damn for them at all.

  But this time it was him hearing those words. Him answering them. And when the preacher got to the part about taking. . .do you take this woman. . .Quincey said, "Right now I just want to give."

  That's what the count couldn't understand, him with all the emotion of a tick. Seward and Holmwood, even Lucy's mother, they weren't much better. But Quincey understood. Now more than ever. He held tight to Lucy's hand.

  "If you've a mind to, you can go ahead and kiss her now," the preacher said.

  Quincey bent low. His lips brushed hers, ever so gently. He caught a faint whiff of Mrs. Murphy's soap, no trace of garlic at all.

  With some effort, he straightened. It seemed some time had passed, because the preacher was gone, and the evening sky was veined with blue-pink streaks.

  The piano player just sat there, his eyes closed tight, his hands fisted in his lap. "You can play it now," Quincey said, and the man got right to it, fingers light and shaky on the keys, voice no more than a whisper:

  "Come and sit by my side if you love me,

  Do not hasten to bid me adieu,

  But remember the Red River Valley,

  And the cowboy who loved you so true."

  Quincey listened to the words, holding Lucy's hand, watching the night. The sky was going black now, blacker every second. There was no blood left in it at all.

  Just like you, you damn fool, he thought.

  He pulled his bowie from its sheath. Seward's words rang in his ears: "One moment's courage, and it is done."

  But Seward hadn't been talking to Quincey when he'd said those words. Those words were for Holmwood. And Quincey had heard them, but he'd been about ten steps short of doing something about them. If he hadn't taken the time to discuss philosophy with Count Dracula, that might have been different. As it was, Holmwood had had plenty of time to use the stake, while Seward had done his business with a scalpel.

  For too many moments, Quincey had watched them, too stunned to move. But when he did move, there was no stopping him.

  He used the bowie, and he left Whitby that night.

  He ran out. He wasn't proud of that. And all the time he was running, he'd thought, So much blood, all spilled for no good reason. Dracula, with the needs of a tick. Holmwood and Seward, who wanted to be masters or nothing at all.

  He ran out. Sure. But he came back. Because he knew that there was more to the blood, more than just the taking.

  One moment's courage. . .

  Quincey stared down at the stake jammed through his beloved's heart, the cold shaft spearing the blue-pink muscle that had thundered at the touch of his fingers. The bowie shook in his hand. The piano man sang:

  "There never could be such a longing,

  In the heart of a poor cowboy's breast,

  As dwells in this heart you are breaking,

  While I wait in my home in the West."

  Outside, the sky was black. Every square in the quilt. No moon tonight.

  Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows.

  Quincey put the bowie to his neck. Lightning flashed, and white spiderwebs of brightness danced on Lucy's flesh. The shadows receded for the briefest moment, then flooded the parlor once more, and Quincey was lost in them. Lost in shadows he'd brought home from Whitby.

  One moment's courage. . .

  He sliced his neck, praying that there was some red left in him. A thin line of blood welled from the wound, overflowing the spot where Lucy had branded him with eager kisses.

  He sagged against the box. Pressed his neck to her lips.

  He dropped the bowie. His hand closed around the stake.

  One moment's courage. . .

  He tore the wooden shaft from her heart, and waited.

  Minutes passed. He closed his eyes. Buried his face in her dark hair. His hands were scorpions, scurrying everywhere, dancing to the music of her tender thighs.

  Her breast did not rise, did not fall. She did not breathe.

  She would never breathe again.

  But her lips parted. Her fangs gleamed. And she drank.

  Together, they welcomed the night.

  FOXTROT AT HIGH NOON

  by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Translated from Russian by Michael M. Naydan and Slava I. Yastremski

  Russian writer Sergei Lukyanenko is the author of the international bestselling vampire novels Night Watch and Day Watch, which were adapted to film by Russian filmmaker Timur Bekmambetov. The third book in the series, Twilight Watch, is currently in production. The fourth and final book in the series, Last Watch, was published in January. He is among the most popular Russian science fiction/fantasy writers, and is the author of several other novels as well, but to date only the Watch books have been translated into English.

  Lukyanenko's short work has appeared in English only once so far, in James and Kathryn Morrow's SFWA European Hall of Fame anthology. That story, like this one, was translated by Michael M. Naydan and Slava I. Yastremski.

  This story appears here for the first time. It tells the story of a lone stranger, in a post-apocalyptic future, coming to a town overrun by lawlessness.

  The town was lost between the mountains and the sea, like a man between the earth and heaven.

  The train moved along the shore all night, and the rattle of the wheels merged with the sound of the surf in a single unending melody. In the freight car, Denis was barely able to sleep. He lay on boards that smelled of hay and horse dung, watching the infrequent flashes of stars through the holes in the slotted roof of the car. There were no horses here—the livestock pens were empty—but a little bit of hay remained, and he raked it under his head. Before going to sleep, Denis had undressed, and now wore only his undershorts. Boots stood beside his feet; jeans, a plaid shirt, and a velvet jacket hung off the side rail of the livestock pen. His left hand rested atop a heavy revolver in a frayed holster.

  The wheels of the train knocked out their song. Denis began to stir, and whispered:

  "The train is rushing—what a beaut,

  The wheels are knocking—tra ta toot toot!"

  —then dozed off for a short time.

  Denis awoke as the car was gripped by the morning chill. He stood, grabbed his weapon, and walked from the end of the car to the caboose platform. In one of the pens, a vagrant lay still and unmoving in the shadows. Denis averted his eyes.

  Daybreak. The door to the train car was open; he had entered the train through it last night. Outside, on the platform, he unhurriedly relieved himself, then sat down, hanging his legs off the side of the car, an endless ladder spreading out beneath him, the rails like twin steel bow strings and the rungs of the cross-ties dark from creosote. If you lay your head back it seemed as if the train were gliding down from the sky itself.

  "The wheels are knocking tra-ta-toot," Denis repeated.

  A quarter of an hour later, when the train had stopped in a small town, Denis stood in the open doors of the freight car finishing a cigarette. The train pulled onto track number one; on track two, a long freight train with tanks and storage containers began to sing and toot and started off in the opposite direction. Denis jumped down without waiting for the train to come to a full stop and teetered, but kept his balance.

  "It's a one-minute stop," said the stationmaster, who was standing by the tracks with a red flag in his hand. He looked suspiciously at the empty car. He was alone on the platform, his uniform—like his face—old and crumpled, his eyes dull and dead.

  "I've already arrived,
" Denis said.

  A gleam of curiosity appeared in the eyes of the stationmaster. He looked over Denis from head to toe, then asked: "Got a pistol?"

  "Revolver."

  "Licensed?"

  "No."

  The locomotive whistled and started to move. The stationmaster rolled up the signal flag and slid it into a tube. He glanced at the departing train.