Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  There was no chance of negotiation.

  She couldn’t win if she fought.

  She’d be damned if she’d flee.

  “Besides …” For all she realized where her strength had to lie, Vicki’s expression held no humanity. “… she owes me for Phil.”

  Celluci had left her a note on the fridge.

  Does this have anything to do with Mac Eisler?

  Vicki stared at it for a moment then scribbled her answer underneath.

  Not anymore.

  It took three weeks to find where the other spent her days. Vicki used old contacts where she could and made new ones where she had to. Any modern Van Helsing could have done the same.

  For the next three weeks, Vicki hired someone to watch the other come and go, giving reinforced instructions to stay in the car with the windows closed and the air conditioning running. Life had an infinite number of variations but one piece of machinery smelled pretty much like any other. It irritated her that she couldn’t sit stakeout herself but the information she needed would’ve kept her out after sunrise.

  “How the hell did you burn your hand?”

  Vicki continued to smear ointment over the blister. Unlike the injuries she’d taken in the alley, this would heal slowly and painfully. “Accident in a tanning salon.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  She picked the roll of gauze up off the counter. “You’re losing your sense of humor, Mike.”

  Celluci snorted and handed her the scissors. “I never had one.”

  “Mike, I wanted to warn you, I won’t be back by sunrise.”

  Celluci turned slowly, the TV dinner he’d just taken from the microwave held in both hands. “What do you mean?”

  She read the fear in his voice and lifted the edge of the tray so that the gravy didn’t pour out and over his shoes. “I mean I’ll be spending the day somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why? Never mind.” He raised a hand as her eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. You’re going after that other vampire, aren’t you? The one Fitzroy told you to leave alone.”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

  “I already know,” he grunted. “I can read you like a book. With large type. And pictures.”

  Vicki pulled the tray from his grip and set it on the counter. “She’s killed two people. Eisler was a scumbag who may have deserved it but the other …”

  “Other?” Celluci exploded. “Jesus H. Christ, Vicki, in case you’ve forgotten, murder’s against the law! Who the hell painted a big vee on your long johns and made you the vampire vigilante?”

  “Don’t you remember?” Vicki snapped. “You were there. I didn’t make this decision, Mike. You and Henry made it for me. You’d just better learn to live with it.” She fought her way back to calm. “Look, you can’t stop her but I can. I know that galls but that’s the way it is.”

  They glared at each other, toe to toe. Finally Celluci looked away.

  “I can’t stop you, can I?” he asked bitterly. “I’m only human after all”

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” Vicki snarled. “You’re quintessentially human. If you want to stop me, you face me and ask me not to go and then you remember it every time you go into a situation that could get your ass shot off.”

  After a long moment, he swallowed, lifted his head, and met her eyes. “Don’t die. I thought I lost you once and I’m not strong enough to go through that again.”

  “Are you asking me not to go?”

  He snorted. “I’m asking you to be careful. Not that you ever listen.”

  She took a step forward and rested her head against his shoulder, wrapping herself in the beating of his heart. “This time, I’m listening.”

  The studios in the converted warehouse on King Street were not supposed to be live-in. A good seventy-five percent of the tenants ignored that. The studio Vicki wanted was at the back on the third floor. The heavy steel door—an obvious upgrade by the occupant—had been secured by the best lock money could buy.

  New senses and old skills got through it in record time.

  Vicki pushed open the door with her foot and began carrying boxes inside. She had a lot to do before dawn.

  “She goes out every night between ten and eleven, then she comes home every morning between four and five. You could set your watch by her.”

  Vicki handed him an envelope.

  He looked inside, thumbed through the money, then grinned up at her. “Pleasure doing business for you. Any time you need my services, you know where to call.”

  “Forget it,” she told him.

  And he did.

  Because she expected her, Vicki knew the moment the other entered the building. The Beast stirred and she tightened her grip on it. To lose control now would be disaster.

  She heard the elevator, then footsteps in the hall.

  “You know I’m in here,” she said silently, “and you know you can take me. Be overconfident, believe I’m a fool and walk right in.”

  “I thought you were smarter than this.” The other stepped into the apartment then casually turned to lock the door. “I told you when I saw you again I’d kill you.”

  Vicki shrugged, the motion masking her fight to remain calm. “Don’t you even want to know why I’m here?”

  “I assume, you’ve come to negotiate.” She raised ivory hands and released thick, black hair from its bindings. “We went past that when you attacked me.” Crossing the room, she preened before a large ornate mirror that dominated one wall of the studio.

  “I attacked you because you murdered Phil.”

  “Was that his name?” The other laughed. The sound had razored edges. “I didn’t bother to ask it.” “Before you murdered him.”

  “Murdered? You are a child. They are prey, we are predators—their deaths are ours if we desire them. You’d have learned that in time.” She turned, the patina of civilization stripped away. “Too bad you haven’t any time left.”

  Vicki snarled but somehow managed to stop herself from attacking. Years of training whispered, Not yet. She had to stay exactly where she was.

  “Oh yes.” The sibilants flayed the air between them. “I almost forgot. You wanted me to ask you why you came. Very well. Why?”

  Given the address and the reason, Celluci could’ve come to the studio during the day and slammed a stake through the other’s heart. The vampire’s strongest protection, would be of no use against him. Mike Celluci believed in vampires.

  “I came,” Vicki told her, “because some things you have to do yourself.”

  The wire ran up the wall, tucked beside the surface-mounted cable of a cheap renovation, and disappeared into the shadows that clung to a ceiling sixteen feet from the floor. The switch had been stapled down beside her foot. A tiny motion, too small to evoke attack, flipped it.

  Vicki had realized from the beginning that there were a number of problems with her plan. The first involved placement. Every living space included an area where the occupant felt secure—a favorite chair, a window …a mirror. The second problem was how to mask what she’d done. While the other would not be able to sense the various bits of wiring and equipment, she’d be fully aware of Vicki’s scent on the wiring and equipment. Only if Vicki remained in the studio, could that smaller trace be lost in the larger.

  The third problem was directly connected with the second. Given that Vicki had to remain, how was she to survive?

  Attached to the ceiling by sheer brute strength, positioned so that they shone directly down into the space in front of the mirror, were a double bank of lights cannibalized from a tanning bed. The sun held a double menace for the vampire—its return to the sky brought complete vulnerability and its rays burned.

  Henry had a round scar on the back of one hand from too close an encounter with the sun. When her burn healed, Vicki would have a matching one from a deliberate encounter with an imitation.


  The other screamed as the lights came on, the sound pure rage and so inhuman that those who heard it would have to deny it for sanity’s sake.

  Vicki dove forward, ripped the heavy brocade off the back of the couch, and burrowed frantically into its depths. Even that instant of light had bathed her skin in flame and she moaned as for a moment the searing pain became all she was. After a time, when it grew no worse, she managed to open her eyes.

  The light couldn’t reach her, but neither could she reach the switch to turn it off. She could see it, three feet away, just beyond the shadow of the couch. She shifted her weight and a line of blister rose across one leg. Biting back a shriek, she curled into a fetal position, realizing her refuge was not entirely secure.

  Okay, genius, now what?

  Moving very, very carefully, Vicki wrapped her hand around the one-by-two that braced the lower edge of the couch. From the tension running along it, she suspected that breaking it off would result in at least a partial collapse of the piece of furniture.

  And if it goes, I very well may go with it.

  And then she heard the sound of something dragging itself across the floor.

  Oh shit! She’s not dead!

  The wood broke, the couch began to fall in on itself, and Vicki, realizing that luck would have a large part to play in her survival, smacked the switch and rolled clear in the same motion.

  The room plunged into darkness.

  Vicki froze as her eyes slowly readjusted to the night. Which was when she finally became conscious of the smell. It had been there all along but her senses had refused to acknowledge it until they had to.

  Sunlight burned.

  Vicki gagged.

  The dragging sound continued.

  The hell with this! She didn’t have time to wait for her eyes to repair the damage they’d obviously taken. She needed to see now. Fortunately, although it hadn’t seemed fortunate at the time, she’d learned to maneuver without sight.

  She threw herself across the room.

  The light switch was where they always were, to the right of the door.

  The thing on the floor pushed itself up on fingerless hands and glared at her out of the blackened ruin of a face. Laboriously it turned, hate radiating off it in palpable waves and began to pull itself towards her again.

  Vicki stepped forward to meet it.

  While the part of her that remembered being human writhed in revulsion, she wrapped her hands around its skull and twisted it in a full circle. The spine snapped. Another full twist and what was left of the head came off in her hands.

  She’d been human for thirty-two years but she’d been fourteen months a vampire.

  “No one hunts in my territory,” she snarled as the other crumbled to dust.

  She limped over to the wall and pulled the plug supplying power to the lights. Later, she’d remove them completely—the whole concept of sunlamps gave her the creeps.

  When she turned, she was facing the mirror.

  The woman who stared out at her through bloodshot eyes, exposed skin blistered and red, was a hunter. Always had been really. The question became, who was she to hunt?

  Vicki smiled. Before the sun drove her to use her inherited sanctuary, she had a few quick phone calls to make. The first to Celluci; she owed him the knowledge that she’d survived the night. The second to Henry for much the same reason.

  The third call would be to the 800 line that covered the classifieds of Toronto’s largest alternative newspaper. This ad was going to be a little different than the one she’d placed upon leaving the force. Back then, she’d been incredibly depressed about leaving a job she loved for a life she saw as only marginally useful. This time, she had no regrets.

  Victory Nelson, Investigator: Otherwordly Crimes a Specialty.

  VAMPIRE KING OF THE GOTH CHICKS:

  A Sonja Blue Story

  Nancy A. Collins

  Nancy A. Collins is currently the writer of Vampirella and co-writer of Red Sonja: Vulture Circle comic series. As mentioned in the introduction to this volume, she’s best known as the creator of punk vampire/vampire slayer Sonja Blue, the protagonist/heroine of a series of novels and short stories that includes Collins’ debut novel, Sunglasses After Dark (1989) and a comic book series. Although the now-influential character may return someday, the last Sonja Blue novel, Darkest Heart, was published in 2002. More recently, Collins has penned three young adult novels, the VAMPS series (2008-2009), and three urban fantasy novels, the Golgotham series (2010-2013).

  Here is a taste of the very badass Sonja Blue…

  The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says lounge. The johns there are always backing up, and the place perpetually stinks of piss. During the week it’s just another neighborhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies, and not a Bukowski amongst them.

  But, because the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea of change come Friday night. The clientele grows younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven’s booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. And there’s still not a Bukowski amongst them.

  This Friday night is no different from any other. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the curb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands. Amidst all the bad Robert Smith haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.

  Normally I don’t bother with joints like this, but I’ve been hearing a persistent rumor that there’s a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such stories. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing more than urban legend—but occasionally there’s something far more sinister going on.

  The interior of The Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I’m somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code. I wave down the bartender, who doesn’t seem to consider it odd I’m sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn’t bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it’s not like I’m going to drink what’s in it.

  Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low down in places like this isn’t that hard. All I’ve got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I’ve developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once—sifting the meaningless ones aside until I find the one I’m looking for. I suspect it’s not unlike how sharks can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from a hundred miles away.

  “—told him he could kiss my ass goodbye—”

  “—really liked their last album—”

  “—bitch acted like I’d done something—”

  “—until next payday? I promise you’ll get it—”

  “—of the undead. He’s the real thing—”

  There. That one.

  I angle my head in the direction of the voice, trying not to look at them directly. There are three, total—one male and two female—locked in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypical Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie, wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily-applied death-pale face powder doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she’s a natural dishwater blonde. Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she’s shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with tattooed mascara shaped like an ankh at the corner of her left eye, which I’v
e learned is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than a tribute to the Egyptian gods. She’s wearing a man’s felt top hat draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.

  The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle. He isn’t wearing a shirt, and his bare, hairless breastbone is visible underneath his leather jacket. He’s roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, and constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-colored hair out of his face. It doesn’t take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat is Tanith, and that the boy is Serge. The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann-style red hair and a nose ring, and goes by the name Shawna.

  Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for signs of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. This piques my interest even further. I move a little closer to where they are standing, so I can filter out the music blaring out of the nearby jukebox.

  Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she’s being goofed on or not. “C’mon—a real vampire?”

  “We told him about you, didn’t we, Serge?” Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elbow for confirmation.

  Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.

  “His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He’s three hundred years old,” Sable adds breathlessly. “And he said he wanted to meet you!”

  Despite her attempts at post-modern chic, Shawna smiles like a flattered schoolgirl. “He really said that?

  I can tell she’s hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won’t take much more work on the trio’s part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats, and then set out after them.