The Vampire Book of the Month Club

by Rusty Fischer

  “Which law didst thou break?” asks another Ancient from the end of the row of seven, his lips barely moving.

  “Our most recent, Your Lordship. I confess to turning a mortal male into one of us.”

  There is no gasp, no sound of shock or outrage, just a quiet murmuring among the pale faces that make up the Council of Ancients. They don’t even look at one another; it appears they’ve been together so long, they no longer need to.

  A clear voice interrupts the murmuring: “May I ask, Reece, what happened to your face?”

  Reece shoots me a look. His scarred eye is still sealed shut by rough, red tissue. “I was attacked, my lord,” he explains through gritted teeth, embarrassment and anger leaking through his otherwise solemn speech.

  “By one of us?” asks the Ancient in the middle, his voice so smooth you could pour it out of a crystal decanter into a waiting rocks glass and serve it to an ambassador at high tea.

  “Unfortunately, no, my lord. By a . . . mortal.”

  The word seems to offend his tongue—and everyone in the room.

  A ripple passes through the Ancients, some mumbling, others looking to their left, their right, as if to confirm that what they’ve heard—a mortal wounded a vampire?—is more than a fairy tale.

  I am offended at their offense, until I remember: I’m no longer mortal, so why should I care?

  The Ancient in the middle looks at me for the first time, his eyes so alive and yellow I can’t look away.

  “By this mortal?” he asks, somewhat surprised, although he sounds more impressed than disappointed.

  “She is, alas, no longer mortal,” Reece says. “But yes, she is the one who attacked me.”

  At this the Ancients smile to themselves, so briefly I wouldn’t have even noticed it if I hadn’t been transfixed by their almost lipless smiles.

  “I see,” says one, no amusement in his hollow voice.

  Beside me, so close I could reach out and push him over—and I’m sorely tempted but for the Big Guy Guardian behind me who’ll shoot me full of holes the instant I flinch—Reece literally trembles in the face of these seven tiny, wizened men.

  “Reece, rise and accept your fate,” says the Ancient in the middle of the group. I wish these guys wore nametags so I could call them something other than the Ancient in the middle.

  Reece stands slowly, as if taking his time will further delay his sentence or, perhaps, prevent it. Eventually he’s at his full height, and even now I am startled by how big he is.

  To think I tussled with a vampire of his stature, of his experience, of his ferocity, and lived to tell the tale impresses me. To think that I wounded him, however insignificantly, blows me away. Take that, you pretty-boy, smooth-talking, code-planting, running-away-from-the-Ancients creep!

  “Reece,” says the Ancient in the middle, “for breaking one of the Sacred Laws, for turning a male into a vampire, we sentence you to . . . a life of scars. You will not be fully cured by the powers of our ancient Healers. Instead you will suffer your fate in silence, never to speak of it nor try to remedy it. Every day, when people look upon your face in horror, when even vampires are shocked and sickened at the mere sight of you, you will be reminded of your transgressions. And you will be humbled by the power of this Council over your fate.”

  “But, my lord,” Reece says, forgetting all former propriety, “how am I to accomplish my work of seducing mortals with . . . with . . . this? Surely you must allow me some comfort from my hideous countenance!” He points to his face, withered and scarred, eye permanently shut and half of his formerly dazzling smile disfigured.

  I see his point.

  Secretly, I smile at his suffering.

  “You should have thought of that, Reece,” one of the Ancients says, “before you broke our Laws.”

  And still he argues, voice getting louder, more indignant with each word. “But it was a crime of passion, a momentary lapse of—”

  “Silence,” screams the Ancient in the middle as he rises effortlessly from his chair and literally sails across the room, his little feet barely touching the floor as he covers the vast space of this gargantuan room blindingly fast.

  He lands in front of Reece with barely a whisper and grabs his neck. His pale hands are soon digging into Reece’s supple flesh with a power that shocks even Reece. “Do you dare to question the authority of the Ancients?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

  Reece flinches, eyes filled with dread, barely able to choke out a gurgled, “N-n-no, my lord,” through the Ancient’s iron grip around his Adam’s apple.

  But the Ancient isn’t through with him yet. Still clutching Reece’s throat, the withered but powerful vampire says, “You are lucky we allow you to exist, Reece. This isn’t your first . . . How did you put it? Oh, yes: lapse of reason. And am I to understand that on top of all the crimes committed on this assignment, when the Guardians found you, you were running away from your appointed meeting with us?

  “For shame, Reece. For shame. Even for you, that news is shocking and disappointing. Perhaps now you will remember why you are being disciplined, in order to avoid further punishment. Permanent punishment. Or have you forgotten, or perhaps chosen to ignore, the power of this Council before which you kneel today?” Then the Ancient releases his grip.

  Reece falls to the ground in a big, pale heap that continues trembling long after his ignoble fall from grace. I glance briefly at his neck, only to see bright red welts in the shape of deep, flaming fingerprints. For some reason—shoot, for many reasons—the sight is supremely satisfying.

  Two Guardians pull him away, the sound of his boots dragging down the endless hallway. The only thing louder is the groan of his disappointment echoing off the high, thick walls.

  When at last the double doors at the end of the hall open and close and silence once again fills the room, the Ancient who strangled Reece looks at me with an expression of curiosity bordering on contempt. I wish he’d fly back across the room where he can lecture me from a safe distance, but instead he comes even closer.

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to scramble deeper and deeper into my chair, to say nothing of leaping up and joining Reece on the other side of those tall chamber doors.

  “What is your name, child?” he asks, stooping until his face is mere inches from mine.

  “Nora Falcon, sir,” I somehow manage to answer.

  He smiles faintly, leans back.

  “Nora,” he says, trying it out for himself. “Nora, you can call me Lord . . . Rothchild.”

  I gasp.

  “You, you mean . . .”

  “Yes, child, that sorry excuse for a vampire is related to me.”

  “Your son?”

  He snorts. “Heavens, no,” he says with a weary shake of his head. “He is my nephew, and that, dear, is the only reason he is still breathing after his many, many mistakes. But you, my dear, have no such luxury.”

  I frown, sitting back in my chair.

  And things were going so well between me and Lord Rothchild.

  The Ancient eyes me hungrily, but no—it’s just my chair. He signals to one of the Guardians behind me, who quickly slides Reece’s vacant chair beneath the old vampire as if it had wheels and an I Break for Bathrooms bumper sticker on the back.

  “That’s better.” He sighs, crossing his emaciated legs like a twig falling over another twig in the forest. “Now, dear, confess to Lord Rothchild your crime. Or should I say crimes?”

  I shake my head and begin helplessly. “It was all a misunderstanding, sir. I mean, my lord. I mean . . . Lord Rothchild.”

  “Indeed.” He sighs. “That is why you are here, Nora: to make us—to make me—understand. Now, do proceed.”

  “I didn’t know I was breaking any laws when I killed a vampire or threatened to reveal the secret location of the conclave or alert the media or refuse to publish my book. I just—”

  Lord Rothchild’s eyes have grown cold and dark. “Ignorance is no excuse, my
dear.”

  I nod, gaze cast humbly at my own lap.

  He sits silently while behind him the six remaining Ancients murmur in agreement.

  “These are very grave offenses, Nora,” he says as they continue to murmur, or perhaps I’m just hearing more echoes tumbling around the high, vast room. “Any one of which would mean certain death, were your circumstances not so . . . peculiar.”

  “Peculiar?”

  “Yes, dear. Despite my nephew’s lack of impulse control, it appears he achieved one thing on this mission.”

  “Mission?”

  “Do you make it a habit of parroting anything that’s being said to you?” His fangs tremble as he surveys me with distaste.

  “No, Lord Rothchild, no. I just . . . This is all so new to me. I wasn’t aware I was the target of any mission.”

  “Dear,” he says, patting my thigh with his clawlike hand, “impetuous as he may be, Reece would never have approached you were his mission not sanctioned by the Council of Ancients.”

  “You mean, then it was . . . you who sent Reece after me?”

  “Of course, dear. Reece is many things, but a self-starter he is not. Like a child, he must be led by the hand. Who do you think was doing all the leading?”

  I smile. “Then you were the one who read all my books?”

  He laughs, a dry sound like paper crumpling under a heavy boot. “Of course, all four of them. I find them very entertaining, if not entirely accurate. We hope that in the future, you will attempt to correct some of those inaccuracies now that you know the truth.”

  “Of course,” I answer too quickly.

  He looks at me suspiciously. “Though it pains me to admit it, Nora, this Council needs you.”

  “But, my lord, anyone can write these books.”

  “Of course they can, dear, but it’s not just the books we need. It’s a keeper of the code. Now that you are one of us, now that you are immortal, we can hand off that particular duty to you. If you are willing, of course.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “What do you think, dear?”

  “I want to help,” I insist, already knowing the answer.

  “You want to live,” he corrects.

  I’m not sure what I am—who I am—constitutes as one of the living, but he has a point. “That too.”

  “Then so it shall be.” He stands with the help of the much younger, but no less scary, Guardians behind him.

  He leans precariously against the back of Reece’s high, velvet-lined chair as he imposes my sentence. “Nora Falcon, kneel before the Ancients and accept your fate.”

  I do, the cold ground hard against my knees, and listen closely as Lord Rothchild decrees, “From this day forward, Nora, you are to be Keeper of the Code. No longer shall you write frivolous books for mortal teens, but instead you shall be our faithful chronicler, accurately describing the life of a young vampire for the thousands of teenage immortals just like yourself. The world of mortals is no longer yours. Your sentence is an eternity of servitude to us, the Council of Ancients, but also to your fellow vampires. Now rise and see about your friends. I have a feeling you will need their assistance in the centuries to come.”

  I stand, face Lord Rothchild, and bow graciously. It’s not as easy as it looks.

  By bowing I am accepting my fate, my future. My sentence.

  I know the biggest part of me is simply accepting the inevitable, trading my willing obedience for survival, but the human part of me—that mortal soul that remains—knows that by pledging to keep, and use, the code for the vampires’ purposes, I am dooming tens of thousands of mortals to their death.

  Still, better to live today and hope to find a way to save all those mortal souls tomorrow, than to refuse and die without even trying.

  Right?

  A part of me is wistful as the Guardians lead me from the great hall, a walk that seems to take many long hours. Another part of me is hopeful that, in this new world, I can play a role to help humans and vampires finally understand each other.

  Maybe it’s naive to think so, but then . . . what else would I have to live for?

  Before the great doors open with a grinding screech, I turn to look at the Ancients once more, but they have already left the room, their chairs as silent and empty as my future feels.

  I turn toward the exit, a Guardian on each side, and face my sentence with a heart as heavy as the doors themselves.

  Chapter 32

  The Healing Room is dark and quiet and staffed by vampires so old and neglected they might as well be zombies. With fangs.

  And doctor’s scrubs.

  And more old-man slippers.

  The Ancients must get a discount at Old Man Slippers “R” Us or something.

  Abby lies lifeless on a marble slab, naked under a thin white sheet that extends from her clavicle to midway down her thighs. Her body is utterly motionless, her skin indistinguishable from the pale marble beneath it. She might as well be in a morgue, and in fact, it feels like she is. Despite all that’s happened, my heart aches at the sight, the utter stillness of one who was once so vibrant.

  We are not alone.

  Her face is getting better as the thin, pallid vampires rub it constantly with a thick balm from silver urns positioned at strategic points alongside her body.

  It smells not too strong or too weak: vaguely medicinal, musky, like the fat of dead animals, not humans.

  “These are the Healers, Nora,” Reece explains patiently, the right side of his face perfectly healed, the left side permanently scarred and as unsightly as any of the ancient vampires dotting this room. “This is their job; this is their specialty. If anyone can bring your friend back from the brink, they can. Though I warn you, it will be a long and arduous process for her. And, of course, for those who love and care about her.”

  I touch Abby’s bare shoulder, and it feels lukewarm. Her eyes flutter open, no longer deep green but endlessly black and haunting, as if what they’ve seen has changed them irrevocably—has changed us all.

  Still kind, though. She smiles, although it obviously hurts to do so.

  One of her Healers starts to interrupt us, and Reece shoots him a look. The Healer acquiesces, bends back down to his work without so much as opening his dry, thin lips.

  The room is filled with an eerie slick sound of thick, musky cream being worked into lukewarm skin, of slow and languid lathering.

  I speak quietly, in honor of the stillness that fills the room. “Abby.”

  Abby croaks, “Nora.”

  “How are you, Abs?” I ask, eager to hide the shock I feel at the sound of her almost masculine voice. One thing Abby’s always been is a girly-girl: heels and helpless giggles and French perfume and more eyeliner than she should wear during the daytime. To hear her sounding like a 360-pound wrestling announcer after a long night of smoking cigarettes and downing shots of whiskey has left me more shaken than I care to share with her. I wonder what her future, our future, will be like on the other side of mortality.

  She shrugs and winces at the pain. Undeterred, she shrugs once more. “We’ll see, Nora. The jury’s still out on how normal I’ll look once we get out of here.”

  “Just be glad we are getting out of here,” I say, still shivering from my encounter with Lord Rothchild.

  “Tell me about it. I’ve got reshoots all next week.”

  “Abby,” I begin, tempted to lecture her about doing too much too soon.

  “Nora, it’s the best thing, for all of us. No matter how I look, no matter how cheesy they may be, the makeup crew on Zombie Diaries is the best. They’ll get me in shape in no time.”

  “It is for the best,” Reece says, and suddenly the mere sound of his voice fills me with an almost uncontrollable rage. “We can’t have a world-famous actress like Abby going missing for too long. Whatever will the tabloids think?”

  His distaste for what Abby does—for what I do—is obvious, but his words are reassuring nonetheless. There is a future
, after all. We are getting out of this place . . . eventually.

  What might happen then is anybody’s guess, but if this experience has taught me anything, it’s to be grateful for small favors—even when vampires are the ones handing them out!

  Abby coughs up a load of phlegm that makes even Reece blanch, and suddenly the Healers shoot me dirty looks backed up by fangs and opaque eyes.

  Reece puts a surprisingly gentle hand on my shoulder and tugs me away with a firmness that, despite our love-hate relationship, is impossible to resist.

  Abby and I share a silent BFF wave with long, wriggling fingers as the Healers turn back to her with a vengeance, fingers dripping with lotion and goo, and I face the other new vampire in the room.

  Wyatt sits in a modern black chair with a hole for his face, like those massage chairs they have in the middle of the mall that no one but pudgy businessmen ever really sit in, and only then to flirt with the pretty girls they always hire to massage their hairy (probably) backs. He’s facing me and smiling mostly, wincing occasionally, as three female Healers (don’t get all excited; they’re twice as ugly as the guy Healers, which I didn’t even think was possible) buff his back with circular loofah sponges slathered in thick white cream.

  “Nora,” he says, his voice sounding energetic. I soon see why.

  His left arm is hooked up to an IV dripping fresh, thick blood.

  Instinctively I lick my lips, protruding now thanks to my dangling fangs as the hunger tingles at the edge of my nervous system.

  “How they hanging?” he grunts as a grody old Healer digs deeper into his back with the palm of her gnarled, clawed hand.

  “Charming as ever,” I say, walking to his side.

  The Healers stop their scrubbing and pour a jug of clear water across his back to wash it dry. There are still scars, but I can see them fading, and they have come a long way from the open, exposed beef-jerky-strips look he was sporting when I shoved him into the backseat of Reece’s Mercedes like a lifeless piece of bloody meat.

  “Feeling OK?” I ask tentatively.

  “Never better,” he bluffs, tilting his head in Abby’s direction. “How’s she doing?”