by Paula Guran
Well, sometimes I lose it. Like now.
“You want to be like me?!?”
I kick the groveling little turd so hard he flies across the basement floor and collides with the wall. He cries out, but it doesn’t exactly sound like pain.
“You stupid bastard—!” I snarl. “I don’t even want to be like me!”
I tear the mirrored sunglasses away from my eyes, and Rhymer’s face goes pale. My eyes look nothing like his scarlet-tinted contact lenses. There is no white, no corona—merely seas of solid blood boasting vertical slits that open and close, depending on the light. The church basement is very dark, so my pupils are dilated wide—like those of a shark rising from the sunless depths to savage a luckless swimmer.
Rhymer lifts a hand to block out the sight of me as I advance on him, his trembling delight now replaced by genuine, one-hundred-percent monkey-brain fear. For the first time he seems to realize that he is in the presence of a monster.
“Please don’t hurt me, Mistress! Forgive me! Forgive—” For a brief second Rhymer’s hands still flutter in a futile attempt to beg my favor, then scarlet spurts from his neck, not unlike that from a spitting fountain, as his still-beating heart sends a stream of blood to where his brain would normally be. I quickly sidestep the gruesome spray without letting go of his head, which I hold between my hands like a basketball.
Turning away from Rhymer’s still-twitching corpse, I step over the ruins of the antique coffin and its payload. No doubt the dirt had been imported from the Balkans—perhaps Moldavia or even Transylvania. I shake my head in amazement that such old wives tales are still in circulation and given validity by so many. As I head up the stairs, Rhymer’s head tucked under my arm like a trophy, I wonder if Sable and Tanith will make Serge clean up the mess I’ve left behind.
Rhymer isn’t the first vampire wanna-be I’ve run into, but I’ve got to admit he had the best set-up. The Goth chicks wanted the real thing and he gave them what they thought it would be, right down to retrofitting the church with theatrical trapdoors and stage magician flashpots. And they bought into the bullshit because it made them feel special, it made them feel real, and—most importantly—it made them feel alive. Poor stupid bastards. To them it’s all black leather, love bites, and tacky jewelry; where everyone is eternally young and beautiful and no one can ever hurt you again.
Like hell.
As for Rhymer, he wanted the real thing as badly as the Goth chicks. Perhaps even more so. He’d spent his entire life aspiring to monstrosity, hoping his heart-felt mimicry of the damned would eventually turn him into that which he longed to be, or that he would eventually draw the attention of the creatures of the night he worshipped so ardently. As, in the end, it did. I am the real thing all right; big as life and twice as ugly.
But I am hardly the bloodsucking seductress Rhymer had been dreaming of all those years. There was no way he could know that his little trick would not only lure forth not just a vampire—but a vampire-slayer as well.
You see, my unique and unwanted predicament has denied me many things—the ability to age, to love, to feel life quicken within me. And in retaliation against this unwished for transformation, I’ve spent decades denying the monster inside me; trying—however futilely—to turn my back on the horror that dwells in the darkness of my soul. There is one pleasure, and one alone, I indulge in. And that is killing vampires …
And those that would become them.
Dawn is well underway by the time I re-enter the nave. The whitewashed walls are dappled with light dyed blue, green, and red by the stained glass windows. I take a couple of steps backward, then drop-kick Rhymer’s head right through the Lamb-of-God window.
The birds chirp happily away in the trees, greeting the coming day with their morning song, as I push open the wide double doors of the church. A stray dog with matted fur and slats for ribs is already sniffing Rhymer’s ruined head where it has landed in the high weeds. The cur lifts its muzzle and automatically growls, but as I draw closer it flattens its ears and tucks its tail between its legs and quickly scurries off. Dogs are smart. They know what is and isn’t of the natural world—even if humans don’t.
The night was a bust, as far as I’m concerned. When I go out hunting, I prefer bringing down actual game, not faux predators. Still, I wish I could hang around and see the look on the faces of Rhymer’s groupies when they find out what has happened to their “Master.” That’d be good for a chuckle or two.
No one can say I don’t have a sense of humor about these things.
—from the journals of Sonja Blue
LEARNING CURVE
Kelley Armstrong
New York Times #1 bestseller Kelley Armstrong has been telling stories since before she could write. Her earliest written efforts were disastrous: if asked for a story about girls and dolls, her story would—much to her teachers’ dismay—feature undead girls and evil dolls. She grew up and kept writing and now lives in southwest Ontario with a husband and children who do not mind that she continues to spin tales of the supernatural while safely locked away in the basement.
Armstrong is best known for her Otherworld series of urban fantasy (first novel: Bitten, 2001; final, and thirteenth, novel: Thirteen, 2012). In Armstrong’s Otherworld universe, few humans are aware that beings with paranormal powers exist. A female werewolf, witch, half-demon, necromancer, hybrid sorcerer/witch, and a human serve as narrators for the novels; vampires make appearances as supporting characters and are sometimes featured in short stories set in the universe.
Vampire Zoe Takano appears in one book and (so far) three stories. Featured here in “Learning Curve,” Zoe shows she can deal handily with human predators as well as misguided vampire hunters …
“I’m being stalked.”
Rudy, the bartender, stopped scowling at a nearly empty bottle of rye and peered around the dimly lit room.
“No, I wasn’t followed inside,” I said.
“Good, then get out before you are. I don’t need that kind of trouble in here, Zoe.”
I looked around at the patrons, most sitting alone at their tables, most passed out, most drooling.
“Looks to me like that’s exactly the kind of trouble you need. Short of a fire, that’s the only way you’re getting those chairs back.”
“The only chairs I want back are those ones.” He hooked his thumb at a trio of college boys in the corner.
“Oh, but they’re cute,” I said. “Clean, well-groomed… and totally ruining the ambiance you work so hard to provide. Maybe I can sic my stalker on them.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Oh, please. Why do you think I ducked in here? Anyone with the taste to stalk me is not going to set foot past the door.”
He pointed to the exit. I leaned over the counter and snagged a beer bottle.
“Down payment on the job,” I said, nodding to the boys. “Supernaturals?”
He rolled his eyes, as if to say, “What else?” True, Miller’s didn’t attract a lot of humans, but every so often one managed to find the place, though they usually didn’t make it past a first glance inside.
I strolled toward the boys, who were checking me out, whispering like twelve-year-olds. I sat down at the next table. It took all of five seconds for one to slide into the chair beside mine.
“Haven’t I seen you on campus?” he asked.
It was possible. I took courses now and then at the University of Toronto. But I shook my head. “I went to school overseas.” I sipped my beer. “Little place outside Sendai, Japan. Class of 1878.”
He blinked, then found a laugh. “Is that your way of saying you’re too old for me?”
“Definitely too old.” I smiled, fangs extending.
He fell back, chair toppling as he scrambled out of it.
I stood and extended my hand. “Zoe Takano.”
“You’re—you’re—”
“Lonely. And hungry. Think you can help?”
As the kid and
his friends made for the exit, one of the regulars lifted his head from the bar, bleary eyes peering at me.
“Running from Zoe?” he said. “Those boys must be new in town.”
I flipped him off, took my beer to the bar and settled in.
“How about you try that with your stalker instead of hiding out here?” Rudy said.
“That could lead to a confrontation. Better to ignore the problem and hope it resolves itself.”
He snorted and shook his head.
The problem did not resolve itself. Which was fine—I was in the mood for some excitement anyway. It was only the confrontation part I preferred to avoid. Confrontations mean fights. Fights mean releasing a part of me that I’m really happier keeping leashed and muzzled. So I avoid temptation, and if that means getting a reputation as a coward, I’m okay with that.
When I got out of Miller’s, my stalker was waiting. Not surprising, really. We’d been playing this game for almost two weeks.
As I set out, I sharpened my sixth sense, trying to rely on that instead of listening for the sounds of pursuit. I could sense a living being behind me, that faint pulse of awareness that tells me food is nearby. It would be stronger if I was hungry, but this was better practice.
Miller’s exits into an alley—appropriately—so I stuck to the alleys for as long as I could. Eventually, though, they came to an end and I stepped onto the sidewalk. Gravel crunched behind me, booted feet stopping short. I smiled.
I cut across the street and merged with a crowd of college kids heading to a bar. I merge well; even chatted with a cute blond girl for a half-block, and she chatted back, presuming I was part of the group. Then, as we passed a Thai takeout, I excused myself and ducked inside. I zipped through, smiling at the counter guy, ignoring him when he yelled that the washrooms were for paying customers only, and went straight out the back door.
I’d pulled this routine twice before—blend with a crowd and cut through a shop—and my opponent hadn’t caught on yet, which was really rather frustrating. This time, though, as I crept out the back door, a shadow stretched from a side alley. I let the door slam behind me. The shadow jerked back. So the pupil was capable of learning. Excellent. Time for the next lesson.
I scampered along the back alley. Around the next corner. Down a delivery lane. Behind a Dumpster.
Footsteps splashed through a puddle I’d avoided. Muttered curses, cut short. Then silence. I closed my eyes, concentrating on picking up that pulse of life. And there it was, coming closer, closer, passing the Dumpster. Stopping. Realizing the prey must have ducked behind this garbage bin. Gold star.
A too-deliberate pair of boot squeaks headed left, so I ran left. Sure enough, my opponent was circling right. I grabbed the side of the Dumpster and swung onto the closed lid.
“Looking for me?” I said, grinning down.
Hands gripped the top edge, then yanked back, as if expecting me to stomp them. That would hardly be sporting. I backed up, took a running leap and grabbed the fire escape overhead. A perfect gymnast’s swing and I was on it. A minute later, I was swinging again, this time onto the roof. I took off across it without a backward glance. Then I sat on the other side to wait.
I waited. And I waited some more. Finally, I sighed, got to my feet, made my way across the roof, leapt onto the next and began the journey home.
I was peering over the end of a rooftop into a penthouse apartment, eyeing a particularly fine example of an Edo-period sake bottle, when I sensed someone below. I glimpsed a familiar figure in the alley. Hmmm. Lacking experience, but not tenacity. I could work with this.
I leapt onto the next, lower rooftop. Then I saw a second figure in the alley with my stalker. Backup? I took a closer look. Nope, definitely not. We had a teenage girl and a twenty-something guy, and they were definitely not together, given that the guy was sticking to the shadows, creeping along behind the girl.
The girl continued to walk, oblivious. When she paused to adjust her backpack, he started to swoop in. Her head jerked up, as if she’d heard something. He ducked into a doorway.
Yes, you heard footsteps in a dark alley. Time to move your cute little ass and maybe, in future, reconsider the wisdom of strolling through alleys at all.
She peered behind her, then shrugged and continued on. The man waited until she rounded the next corner and slid from his spot. When he reached the corner and peeked around it, I dropped from the fire escape and landed behind him.
He wheeled. He blinked. Then he smiled.
“Thought that might work,” I said. “Forget the little girl. I’m much more fun.”
He whipped out a knife. I slammed my fist into his forearm, smacking it against the brick wall. Reflexively his hand opened, dropping the knife. He dove for it. I kicked it, then I kicked him. My foot caught him under the jaw. He went up. I kicked again. He went down.
I leapt onto his back, pinning him. “Well, that was fast. Kind of embarrassing, huh? I think you need to work out more.”
He tried to buck me off. I sank my fangs into the back of his neck and held on as he got to his feet. He swung backward toward the wall, planning to crush me, I’m sure, but my saliva kicked in before he made it two steps. He teetered, then crashed to the pavement, unconscious.
I knelt to feed. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but only a fool turns down a free meal, and maybe waking up with the mother of all hangovers would teach this guy a stalking lesson he wouldn’t soon forget.
“Die, vampire!”
I spun as the teenage girl raced toward me, wooden stake on a collision course with my heart. I grabbed the stake and yanked it up, flipping the girl onto her back.
“That’s really rude,” I said. “I just saved your ass from a scumbag rapist. Is this how you repay me? Almost ruin my favorite shirt?”
She leapt to her feet and sent the stake on a return trip to my chest. Again, I stopped it. I could have pointed out that it really wouldn’t do anything more than damage my shirt—vampires die by beheading—but I thought it best not to give her any ideas.
She ran at me again. I almost tripped over the unconscious man’s arm. As I tugged him out of the way, she rushed me. I grabbed the stake and threw it aside.
She lifted her hands. Her fingertips lit up, glowing red.
“Ah, fire half-demon,” I said. “Igneus, Aduro, or Exustio?”
“I won’t let you kill him.”
“You don’t know a lot about vampires, do you? Or about being a vampire hunter. First, you really need to work on your dialogue.” “Don’t talk to me, bloodsucker.”
“Bloodsucker? What’s next? Queen of Darkness? Spawn of Satan? You’re running about twenty years behind, sweetie. Where’s the clever quip? The snappy repartee?”
She snarled and charged, burning fingers outstretched. I sidestepped and winced as she stumbled over the fallen man.
“See, that’s why I moved him.”
She spun and came at me again. I grabbed her hand. Her burning fingers sizzled into my skin.
“Fire is useless against a vampire, as you see,” I said. “So your special power doesn’t do you any good, which means you’re going to have to work on your other skills. I’d suggest gymnastics, aikido, and maybe ninjitsu, though it’s hard to find outside Japan these days.”
She wrenched free and backed up, scowling. “You’re mocking me.”
“No, I’m helping you. First piece of advice? Next time, don’t telegraph your attack.”
“Telegraph?”
“Yelling, ‘Die, vampire’ as you attack from behind may add a nice, if outdated, touch, but it gives you away. Next time, just run and stab. Got it?”
She stared at me. I retrieved her stake and handed it over. Then I started walking away.
“Second piece of advice?” I called back. “Stay out of alleys at night. There are a lot worse things than me out here.”
I spun and grabbed the stake just as she was about to stab me in the back.
I smiled. “Much better.
Now get on home. It’s a school night.”
Keeping the stake, I kicked her feet out from under her, then took off. She tried to follow, of course. Tenacious, as I said. But a quick flip onto another fire escape and through an open window left her behind.
I made my way up to the rooftops and headed home, rather pleased with myself. We’d come quite a ways in our two weeks together, and now, having finally made face-to-face contact, I was sure we could speed up the learning curve.
The girl was misguided, but I blamed popular culture for that. She’d eventually learn I wasn’t the worst monster out there, and there were others far more deserving of her enthusiasm.
Even if she chose not to pursue such a profession, the supernatural world is a dangerous place for all of us. Self-defense skills are a must, and if I could help her with that, I would. It’s the responsibility of everyone to prepare our youth for the future. I was happy to do my part.
THE BETTER HALF
Melanie Tem
Melanie Tem’s work has received the Bram Stoker, International Horror Guild, British Fantasy, and World Fantasy awards, and a nomination for the Shirley Jackson Award. She has published numerous short stories, eleven solo novels, two collaborative novels with Nancy Holder, and two collaborative novels and a short story collection with her husband Steve Rasnic Tem. She is also a published poet, an oral storyteller, and a playwright. Solo stories have recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Crimewave, and Interzone, and anthologies such as Black Wings and Darke Fantastique. Her novels The Yellow Wood and Proxy will soon be published ChiZine Publications.
The Tems live in Denver, CO, where Melanie is executive director of a non-profit independent-living organization. They have four children and six grandchildren.
