Blood Sisters

by Paula Guran

  Oh, sure, it was legal to be a vampire now that the synthetic blood marketed by the Japanese had proven to satisfy the nutritional needs of the undead. But there was more to surviving as a vamp than slugging down TrueBlood or Red Stuff in all-night bars that catered strictly to vamps, like this one. There were pockets of humans who snatched vamps off the streets and drained their blood to sell on the black market.

  There were other cults who simply wanted vamps dead because they’d decided vamps were evil blood-sucking fiends.

  You had to learn discretion.

  Besides various fringe groups of humans, you had to add to the list of vampire haters the Werewolves, whose ongoing feud with the undead occasionally flared into out-and-out war. Thinking of Weres brought Dahlia back to the subject at hand, her friend Taffy’s wedding.

  “Taffy and I nested together for a decade in Mexico,” Dahlia said. “We were quite close. We went through the War of 1812 together; nothing cements a relationship like going through a war. And we’ve nested together at Cedric’s for the past, oh, twenty years?”

  “Where could Taffy have met such a creature?” Glenda asked, fingering the long, long string of pearls that dangled to her waist. Her eyes glinted with relish. This was as much fun as discussing a previously unencountered sexual perversion.

  Dahlia beckoned to the bartender. “Taffy was always … adventurous. She lived with a regular human for ten years, once.”

  Glenda looked pleasurably horrified. “Do you think she’ll wear white?” Glenda asked. “And our bridesmaid dresses … I bet we’ll have pink ruffles.”

  “Why would it be pink ruffles?” Dahlia’s mouth was suddenly pressed in a grim line. Dahlia took her clothes very, very seriously.

  “You know what they say about bridesmaid dresses!” Glenda laughed out loud.

  “I do not,” said Dahlia, her voice cold enough to goose an icicle. “I was turned before there was such a thing as a designated attendant for the bride.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” The younger vampire was shocked. And then delighted at the prospect of introducing her superior friend to the certainty of an unpleasant ordeal. “Then let’s go find a church and watch a wedding. Well, maybe not a church,” she added nervously. Glenda had been a Christian in life, and churches made her mighty twitchy. “Maybe we’ll check out a country club, or find a garden wedding.”

  Glenda actually had a sensible idea, Dahlia decided. It would help to know the worst. And though all the bridesmaids were due at a party in honor of the happy couple, if she and Glenda hurried, they wouldn’t be late.

  “The big mansions on the lakeside,” she suggested. “It’s a June weekend. Isn’t that a prime time for weddings in America?” Dahlia had a vague recollection of seeing bridal magazines on the shelves at newspaper kiosks when she’d been buying her monthly copy of Fang.

  “That’s a keen idea. Let’s go!” Glenda was eager. The worst enemy of a vampire was ennui. Any new diversion was worth its weight in gold.

  Since they were both gifted with flight (not all vampires possessed this skill), the two were able to reach the most imposing mansions in the city quickly. Glenda and Dahlia hovered over them to detect an outside celebration that might prove to be a wedding. At the VanTreeve place, they struck nuptial pay dirt. Tiffany VanTreeve was marrying Brendan Blaine Buffington that very night. The two vamps landed unobtrusively behind a tent set up on the grounds.

  Dahlia eyed the scene critically, taking mental notes. The vampire sheriff of her area in the city of Rhodes, Cedric Deeming, was worried about giving a proper wedding in such a hurry. Though lazy and lax in many respects, Cedric was a stickler for protocol. He’d urged all the vampires who nested with him to bring home details of modern wedding proceedings.

  Dahlia obediently began making mental notes. Close to the house, there were two long tables loaded with food and a huge cake, though the food was discreetly covered with drapes for the moment. There was a cage full of doves, with an attendant in coveralls. Perhaps these were intended for a ritual sacrifice? There were two phalanxes of white chairs on the lawn, arranged facing a large white dais adorned with banks of pink flowers. A long red carpet ran between the two sections of chairs, right up the steps of the dais, where a minister in a sober black robe stood waiting.

  Note to self: Find some kind of priest. Wasn’t Harry Oakheart some kind of Druid? Maybe he knew a ceremony.

  A string quartet was playing Handel. (Note to self: Find musicians.) Not only were all the seats full, but there was a standing crowd at the back.

  “What a swell spread,” Glenda whispered, eyeing the buffet tables. “I guess the wolves’ll need food. Looks like we’re expected to feed them. The sheriff won’t like that. You know what a tightwad he is. At least Cedric won’t have to provide food for half the guests.” She winked at Dahlia, as if it were very funny that vampires didn’t eat food. “And we’ll need liquor for the Weres, and we’ll need a big stock of blood. Maybe we could nip off the guests?”

  Dahlia looked daggers at Glenda. “Don’t even say it as a joke,” she told the younger vampire. “You know what’ll happen if we even suggest that to a breather. Follow the rules. Only from a willing adult!”

  “Spoilsport,” Glenda muttered.

  “Cedric has already hired a caterer, a man who says he can do the whole thing, flowers and all. Cedric is so cheap, he took the lowest bid. No sit-down dinner, just … finger food.” Even Dahlia could not suppress her smile at the term, and Glenda laughed out loud. A few of the guests turned to see who was so being so boisterous, and Dahlia slammed Glenda in the ribs with a sharp elbow. Everyone else present was being properly solemn. “But we have to do it properly,” Dahlia said, in a whisper inaudible to the humans around her. “We can’t be found wanting. It would shame Taffy, and the nest.”

  Glenda gave it as her opinion that the Weres should be grateful they were even being allowed in Cedric’s mansion. “I’m surprised Cedric will acknowledge the wedding,” she said.

  The music gave a final flourish, and the guests rustled expectantly.

  The two vampires watched the ceremony unfold: Glenda with a sentimental tear or two (tinged red) and Dahlia with fascinated horror. The groom, looking as though he’d been hit over the head with something large, took his place in front of the minister and stared down the strip of red carpet rolling between the two fields of white chairs. His groomsmen lined up on his side of the dais. At a signal that was invisible to Dahlia, who was stretching up on her tiptoes to see, the traditional music began.

  “Here’s the most interesting part,” Glenda whispered.

  One by one, the bridesmaids emerged from the white tent. Some were tall and some were small; some were buxom and some were slim as reeds. But the seven girls were all united in costume. Dahlia, the most elegant and particular of women, closed her eyes in appalled horror.

  All the bridesmaids were wearing matching floor-length lime-green silk sheaths. If you could strip the dress down to its basic essentials, it wouldn’t be too bad, Dahlia thought. But the dresses were accessorized with lace gloves and tiny veiled hats pinned to each lacquered head. Worst of all, there was a gigantic bow perched atop each girlish butt. The waggle of each passing lime-green rear end made Dahlia feel like weeping, too, along with some of the female guests—though Dahlia assumed they were crying for a different reason.

  Glenda gave an audible snigger, and Dahlia despaired of ever teaching the girl manners. Dahlia herself was maintaining an appropriately pleasant wedding guest face despite the dreadful possibility that she’d have to wear such a monstrous ensemble. Though the prospect was a blow, Dahlia conscientiously remained to note the entire procedure. She was disappointed when the doves were simply released into the sky at the climax of the ceremony.

  Long after Glenda had lost interest, Dahlia traced all the events of the wedding back to their human director, who was hovering at the rear of the gathering. Though the poor wedding planner was quite busy, Dahlia was ruthless (in a charm
ing way) in getting the answers to several astute questions. She garnered information that made her feel that (if it had been beating at all) her heart would now burst.

  “The groomsmen—those men up there on the husband’s side—they’ll be from among the groom’s friends,” Dahlia said, her hand gripping Glenda’s shoulder.

  “Well, sure, Dally,” Glenda said. “Really, you! Didn’t you know that?”

  Dahlia shook her raven head back and forth. “Werewolves,” she moaned. “They’ll all be Werewolves.”

  “Ewww,” said Glenda. “We’ll have to let one touch us, Dally. Did you see that each bridesmaid took the arm of a groomsman on their way out of the … the … designated wedding area?”

  And for the first time in her long, long life, Dahlia Lynley-Chivers said, “Ewww.”

  To cover her shame, she added quickly, “If you call me Dally again, I’ll tear your throat out.”

  When Dahlia said something like that, it was smart to assume she meant it. Glenda said, “Well, I’m sure not going to any stupid Were party with you now.”

  Dahlia had to back down, something she was unused to doing. “Glenda,” she said stiffly, “neither Cassie nor Fortunata will go, and I was relying on you. It’s your duty as a bridesmaid to attend this party. Taffy said so.”

  “If you think we’ll be greeted with open arms by a bunch of stupid Weres, you can think again, Miss Perfect. Open jaws is what they’ll have.” Glenda disappeared behind the tent to conceal her liftoff, and Dahlia watched her companion disappear. No doubt, Glenda would describe the bridesmaid dresses to any vamp who would listen.

  With her little jaw set grimly, Dahlia Lynley-Chivers made her way to a part of Rhodes she seldom visited. This time, she took a cab. Humans became very upset when they saw her fly, and she was determined to do her best by her friend Taffy. Taffy had been born Taphronia, daughter of Leonidas, centuries ago. She’d been calling herself Taffy for the past forty years. Taffy and her fiancé, Don Swift-foot (of course that was his pack name—his human name was Don Swinton), were celebrating their forthcoming nuptials at a bar in the Werewolf part of town. The whole wedding party would be there; at least, the whole wedding party was supposed to be there. Since the other bridesmaids had dropped the baton, Dahlia feared she’d be the only vampire in attendance. She had a wide range of curses at her disposal since she’d lived so long, and she voiced a few of them on the drive through the city. Luckily, the cabdriver spoke none of the languages she used.

  Dahlia got out of the cab a block away from the bar. This area of Rhodes was a bit run-down, a bit seedy. The sidewalks were crowded, even this late at night, with bar-hopping humans who didn’t realize they were just on the safe side of the moon cycle. Of course, no one who lived in Rhodes realized they were partying in an area that had a high concentration of Werewolves. Humans didn’t know about Werewolves yet. The two-natured had to retain their human faces on their nights out.

  The bar, called Moonshine, was practically buzzing with energy and magic. Any humans who wandered in uninvited developed severe headaches, and went home early, as a rule. Moonshine was closed three nights out of the month.

  Dahlia made sure her cocktail dress was smooth over her hips. Since she was representing her nest, she put on a little lipstick and brushed her rippling hair before she entered the bar. It was marked by a blinking neon sign formed in a white circle—representing the moon, if you had a lot of imagination.

  “Tacky,” Dahlia muttered. She read the notice taped to the door: Closed tonight for private party. Because she was a little anxious about entering a Werewolf-infested bar, she stood a little straighter on her spike heels—which brought her height all the way up to five foot one—held her head proudly, tucked her tiny flat purse under her bare arm, and marched inside, her haughtiest expression fixed on her heart-shaped face.

  A chorus of so-called wolf whistles met her entrance. Of course, in their wolf forms, these guys couldn’t whistle for diddly-squat; but they managed just fine in their human guise. Dahlia pretended to be deaf as she scanned the tiny bar for Taffy.

  Really, you can’t expect any better, she told herself. After all, true Weres were generally guys and gals with a keen interest in motorcycles and monster trucks. All the Weres in this bar were pure Weres, with two full-blooded parents. (Even Taffy wouldn’t expose her friends to mongrels.)

  Dahlia couldn’t spy Taffy among the people, mostly male, crowding the bar, so she began to make her way to the only doorway not marked: Restroom.

  A very tall and very athletically built male stepped in front of her. “Sorry, lady, this bar is closed tonight for a private party.”

  “Yes, I read the sign on the door.”

  “Then you’re pretty slow taking a hint.”

  Dahlia looked up (and up) at the bright blue eyes in the broad face. This Were had thick, curling brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, and he was clean-shaven. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a bit to her surprise, and a tight T-shirt and jeans … the jeans, now that she came to take a look, were pretty damn tight, too. And boots. He had on big boots.

  Dahlia shook herself (mentally, of course). The rude jerk was waiting for her reply. “I am here seeking my friend Taffy,” she said coldly, meeting his eyes squarely.

  They stood stock-still for a long minute.

  “A vamp,” he said, loathing replacing the admiration in his voice. “Damn, I knew we shoulda put some new lightbulbs in this place. Then I woulda noticed how pale you are. What do you want with Taff? You gonna try to talk her out of marrying Don, too?”

  If it was possible to get any stiffer, Dahlia did. “I am going to … actually, what I want with Taffy is none of your business, Were. I require an audience with her.” Dahlia was so rattled by the Were’s anger that she became colder and stiffer and caught herself reverting to former speech patterns.

  “Oh yeah, and we’re supposed to bow and scrape for the little madam?” he said. “You should get that stick out of your ass and behave more like Taffy. She doesn’t act so snooty and superior. After all, what you got on us? We live longer than humans, and we’re stronger than humans, and we can do all kinds of things that humans can’t do.”

  “Excuse me,” Dahlia said frigidly. “I am so not interested.”

  “I’ll show you interested,” the huge monster growled, reaching down as if he was actually going to pick Dahlia up and give her a shake. The next instant, he was looking up at her from the floor and his friends had leaped to their feet, their eyes glowing. Snarls issued from several male throats and one or two female ones.

  “No,” called the man from the floor, just as Dahlia prepared to free her hands for fighting by tucking her tiny evening purse into the gartered top of her hose (a process that distracted the males for a few long seconds), “she’s in the right, guys.”

  “What?” asked a blond man built like a fire hydrant. “You gonna let a vamp get away with putting you on the floor?”

  “Yeah, Richie,” said the man, getting up. “She did it fair and square after I provoked her.”

  The rest of the Weres seemed disconcerted, but they backed away a foot or two. Dahlia felt a mixture of relief and regret. Her fangs had extended as she readied to fight, and she would have enjoyed relieving the tension by ripping off a few limbs.

  “Come on, little highness,” Brown Ponytail said. “I’ll take you to Taffy.”

  She nodded curtly. He turned to lead the way, and she followed right behind him. The crowd parted along the way rather reluctantly.

  “Cold-blooded creep,” said one Were woman. She was built like an Amazon, broad shouldered. Dahlia would have loved to flash out a hand and bury it in the Were’s abdomen, but ladies didn’t do such things—not if they wanted the truce to hold.

  Dahlia was proud of herself when she didn’t meet the woman’s eyes in challenge. Instead, Dahlia kept her gaze focused forward. Which is no hardship, she had to admit to herself, as she examined the curve of the butt moving in front of her. It ce
rtainly was a prime one, packed into the worn Levi’s in a most attractive way

  Dahlia winced, realizing that she’d actually caught herself admiring a Were.

  Her guide stepped aside, and Dahlia was relieved beyond measure to see Taffy sitting in a padded booth behind a round table with Don cuddling close to her right and another Were to her left. Dahlia barely kept her upper lip from drawing back in distaste. It was like seeing a racehorse cavorting with zebras.

  “Dahlia!” shrieked Taffy. Her auburn curls were piled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a halter-top and blue jeans, as far as Dahlia could tell. Oh, really, Dahlia thought, exasperated, remembering the care she’d taken to dress correctly. Taffy looks like a real human. Probably trying to blend in. As if she could.

  “Taffy,” Dahlia said, thrown seriously off track, “can we have a talk?” She didn’t even want to acknowledge Don. He was as redheaded as Taffy, but his hair was short and rough looking, like the coat of a terrier.

  “Hey, beautiful!” Don said expansively.

  Dahlia gave Don a stiff nod of greeting. She was no barbarian.

  Don had a beard, and bright filaments of red stuck out from the neck of his golf shirt. Dahlia shuddered. She was glad to look back at Taffy.

  “You still got that cold bitch thing goin’ on,” Don observed. “Doesn’t she, Todd?”

  “She’s got it down pat,” agreed her guide. “Didn’t even bother to introduce herself.” Dahlia realized, with a pang, that the Were was correct. “She’s a brave little thing, though,” the Were went on. “Knocked me ass-backward.”

  Don grinned approvingly. “People should do that more often, Todd. It seems to soften you up.”

  While Dahlia tried to estimate how long it would take her to kill them all, Taffy was extricating herself from the booth, which seemed to involve a lot of unnecessary brushing against Don, with wriggling and kisses strewn in for good measure. This was the source of many teasing comments and much laughter from the assembled Weres.