Books 1–4

by Nancy A. Collins

  A powder-blue spot blossomed on the stage, spilling its light onto the solitary figure of a woman dressed in a classical-length white tutu curled upon the boards. Underneath it she wore a white satin leotard and tights which showcased her dancer’s build. Her feet were laced into blood-red ballet shoes, the ribbons elaborately knotted just below her knees. Her smoke-gray hair was pulled into a soft bun that hung against the nape of her neck like a silken cloud. Her already pale skin was made even more so by a layer of clown-white greasepaint and a generous dusting of talc that covered her face.

  As the music swelled, Nikola languidly raised her head, looking out into the audience. Her eyes were heavily outlined in mascara, like those of an ancient Egyptian princess, and her lips were painted a brilliant scarlet. Her gaze swept across the upturned faces—some vampire, some human—all of them hungry. The doubt and confusion that had filled her head earlier had disappeared: It was time to dance.

  Esher’s eyes narrowed, his features set in extreme concentration, as he watched his bride-to-be rise and go en pointe as if pulled upright by invisible strings. Her grace was what had drawn him to her in the first place, and it never ceased to awe him.

  Moving with the tranquil ease of a jungle cat, Nikola displayed to her audience the shunts embedded in her arms. As she swayed to the music, she slowly opened the valves. Several of the vampires gasped in excitement as the smell of her blood filled the air. As the rhythms intensified, so did her movements, as her glissades gave way to pirouettes, arabesques, and grand jetes that carried her across the stage like a young gazelle, her blood flying in crimson arcs onto the stage and splashing into the crowd.

  While the Pointers in the audience grimaced in disgust, the vampires gathered at the edge of the stage, their wine-dark eyes gleaming in anticipation. For creatures decades, if not centuries, removed from human sexuality, this was the ultimate in erotic dance. Those lucky enough to be spattered with her blood moaned and swooned in ecstasy as they licked the precious fluid from their fingers.

  Nikola spun across the stage like a dervish as the music neared its climax. As she came out of her final pirouette, she stumbled and nearly lost her footing. Her pristine tutu and tights were stained so bright a red it was impossible to see where the blood ended and her shoes began. She collapsed onto the stage, her bosom heaving as she gasped for air. The smell of fresh blood was overpowering, and Esher felt himself grow excited. So did other members of the audience, one of which—a vampire dressed in a plaid shirt and backward baseball cap—jumped onto the runway, eager to slake his bloodlust. There was a collective gasp from the audience as the unruly vampire moved toward Nikola, who remained slumped, semi-conscious, on the runway.

  With a simple bound, Esher launched himself from the balcony, sailing over the upturned faces of the crowd below. He landed, boots first, in the middle of the other vampire’s back, snapping his spine like a stalk of celery. The lust-mad vampire crumpled like a paper doll, no longer able to move. As Esher scooped Nikola into his arms, he delivered a dismissive kick to the now-paralyzed vampire at his feet.

  “Toss this fool into an alley,” the vampire lord snarled, “where he can slowly starve to death, feeding only whatever is stupid enough to come within his reach. Let that be a warning to all of you: the woman is mine!”

  “Yes, milord!” Decima replied. She curtly motioned to a couple of nearby Pointers, who dragged the crippled vampire out of the club by his now-useless legs.

  Satisfied that his will had been done, Esher left the stage, Nikola’s blood-stained body cradled against his chest, her face as still and perfect as a porcelain doll.

  Chapter Five

  Father Eamon looked up from his prayers upon hearing the screams. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to gauge their distance and direction. Sound had a tendency to echo inside St. Everild, and even after all these years he had yet to develop the ability to pinpoint the exact location of the noises that filtered in from the street. Light cast from the flickering votive candles made the shadows surrounding the plaster saints pulse and shudder. His knees groaned as he rose from the prayer rail, his rosary swinging from his fingers like a carpenter’s plumb. Hardly a midnight went by without Mass being disrupted by screams or gunfire from outside. Then again, since he kept the doors to the sanctuary barricaded, what difference did it make where the screams were coming from? The archdiocese certainly didn’t care, seeing how it had desanctified St. Everild some time ago. Actually, ‘expunged’ was closer to the truth. St. Everild and its surrounding parish had been erased from all official church records. And yet, it continued to exist as a ghostly rumor amongst the seminaries as a sort of ecclesiastical urban legend. Father Eamon had first heard tell of the so-called “church of the damned”, whispered in the tone of voice normally reserved for campfire ghost stories, while attending the seminary. Little did he know at the time that one day he would actively seek it out and claim the parish as his own.

  The priest grimaced as the rheumatism sent off a sharp jolt of pain in his right knee. Sleeping on a pile of rags in an unheated room with a leaky roof was hardly the best thing for his condition, but he had no desire to live elsewhere. As he hobbled down the aisle, he glanced at the line of heavy wooden pews knocked over like so many dominoes and made a mental note to right them and see that the hymnals scattered across the floor were properly dusted and put back in place. Just because St. Everild had been forsaken by the Church did not mean it had been forgotten by God.

  As he reached the stairs leading to the bell tower, the screaming grew more intense. It sounded like it was coming from the direction of the Black Lodge. He hesitated for a moment, then resumed mounting the rickety wooden steps. He wound his way up the narrow, dusty confines of the tower staircase, even though he knew he was helpless to change the outcome of whatever was transpiring on the street below. This was his penance: to bear helpless witness to horror upon horror, night after night. For once, long ago, he had been tricked by Satan into believing he was doing the Lord’s Will by smiting an evil doer. But by succumbing to the sins of pride and wrath, now he was only fit to tend St. Everild’s forgotten altar, and nothing more.

  He pushed open the belfry trapdoor with a mighty grunt, to be greeted by a rush of cold, damp air mixed with the smell of nesting birds. His occasional trips to the tower were the closest he’d come to venturing out-of-doors after dusk over the last decade. The tower had four large, narrow windows that faced the compass points, allowing him unobstructed views of Deadtown. From this vantage point he followed the comings and goings of his “parish.” The bells that had once graced the belfry were long gone, but judging from the rotten coils of rope and the size of a solitary clapper left behind, they must have been impressive.

  To the east was the river, gleaming dark as sacramental wine in the light reflected from the city. To the north was Pointer territory. To the south was The Street With No Name, the neighborhood’s unofficial neutral zone, where its few remaining businesses were clustered. And to the west, directly across the street from St. Everild, was the Black Lodge.

  He wasn’t certain which had been built first, as both dated back to Colonial times, and both were quite old. Perhaps the Holy See had elected to build St. Everild in defiance of the Freemasons’ antipapal bigotry, or maybe the Freemasons had erected their lodge as an affront to the Pope. There was only one person in all of Deadtown who knew for sure. And Father Eamon had no intention of ever speaking a single word to Lord Sinjon.

  The priest looked down into street and glimpsed the silvery grin of a death’s head on the back of a jacket, as its owner held a gun to a quaking woman’s head. No doubt she was some hapless tourist who had wandered into the area by mistake, as no citizens of Deadtown would be so foolish as to leave the comparative safety of their homes after sundown.

  The priest’s attention was suddenly drawn to a flicker of movement in the opposite alleyway. There was a sound like that of a book being snapped shu
t and the Black Spoon gang member stiffened and stretched, as if trying to get a crick out of his back. He suddenly dropped his gun, his victim forgotten, and tried to reach the crossbow bolt jutting from of his spine, before collapsing in the gutter. The woman stared down at her erstwhile attacker, blinking in shock. Before she could heave a sigh of relief there was another snap and a second bolt found its way into her throat, pinning her like a butterfly to the brick wall behind her. The unseen killer’s mocking laughter rose on the night air, making Father Eamon shiver like a wet dog. The priest crossed himself and quickly recited the prayer for the dead. He then hurried down the tower stairs to the relative warmth of the sanctuary. He did not want to think about what he’d just seen, but he knew that of Sinjon’s men being killed on the very door step of the Black Lodge was Not Good.

  The pain in his leg was now so intense it made his vision blur. He reached behind the pulpit, retrieving a quart of bottom-shelf whiskey. He cursed his weakness as he knocked back a stiff slug. The liquor burned almost as badly as his shame. The first swig of the night was always the guiltiest. After that, they began to blur and soften, as did his memories and the sorrow that accompanied them. He eased himself into the one pew he’d managed to upright in the twelve years since he’d made St. Everild his home, angling his bum leg so it was supported by the hard wooden bench. As the cheap whiskey dulled his senses, he decided that he was definitely going to get around to righting the rest of the pews.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter Six

  Ryan was trying very hard to be quiet because Eddie said not to disturb the strange lady while she was asleep. Except she wasn’t sleeping. She was dead. Not dead like the rat he found in the alley, but not exactly alive either. Ryan knew she was a vampire because Eddie had told him so when he woke up. Eddie also told him that there was nothing to be scared of: that Sonja wasn’t like Esher or any of the other vampires in Deadtown. Ryan didn’t know exactly what to make of this, but if Eddie said it, then it must be true. As far as he was concerned, Eddie was the smartest person in the world. He wondered if his real dad was anything like Eddie. Probably not, or else his mom would have let him stick around. As much as Ryan liked Eddie, it was nothing compared to how much he loved his mom. Every night before he fell asleep he would think about how it used to be before the monsters came and took her away. For as long as he could remember they always moved around a lot, living in furnished one-room apartments. Since his mom slept all day and worked all night, Ryan spent a lot of time with babysitters. Sometimes, if she couldn’t get someone to watch him, she’d lock him in the apartment by himself with the TV turned on and couple of PB&J sandwiches. So he learned how to take care of himself pretty early. By the time he was four he already knew how to call 911 and microwave a burrito all by himself. Most of the time he sat up watching TV until his mother came home, because that was the only time he had her to himself. Usually she would bring home fast-food and read him a story, like Curious George Rides A Bike or Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel, and then they’d go to bed. Until the monsters came, Ryan had never slept away from his mom. Their life was hand-to-mouth, spent one day ahead of the eviction notices, but it was all he had known. Ryan often had nightmares about the night the monsters came. It was just before dawn and he and his mom had just gone to bed. Normally they slept from five in the morning until two or three in the afternoon. Suddenly there was a horrible crash and the front door of their apartment flew open and a bunch of strange guys and a scary-looking woman came in. Ryan’s mom screamed at him to run and hide, but he was too scared and didn’t want to leave her, so he grabbed her hand, instead, and held on tight.

  The scary-looking woman pointed at Ryan’s mom, and the guys dragged her off the bed. Since he was still holding his mother’s hand, he got dragged along too. When the scary woman with the metal sticking out of her face saw him, she cussed and grabbed him by his hair, looking at him like he was a bug or something. He screamed, more out of fear than pain, and his mom broke free from the guys long enough to punch the mean lady. The mean lady laughed and let go of him, then slapped his mom hard enough to knock her out. Ryan was so frightened he ran and hid under the couch, which is what he always did when the shows on TV got too scary for him. No one seemed to notice. The guys grabbed his mom and carried her out of the apartment. Just as the mean lady was about to close the door behind her, she dropped down onto all fours and looked under the sofa and grinned right at him. That’s when he saw her sharp, pointy teeth and red eyes and realized his mom had been captured by monsters. Unlike the shows he saw on TV, no policemen ever showed up. After a day or so he realized that his mom wasn’t coming back. So Ryan packed what few things he owned—mostly action figures—and went in search of her. It wasn’t long before his quest brought him to Deadtown. He spent most of the first week avoiding the gang kids, scrounging food out of garbage cans, and looking for a safe place to hide. Being little, he was able to crawl into spaces most people would never think to look in.

  Unlike most of Deadtown’s residents, Ryan actually ventured out at night. He had no choice. It was the only way he could hope to catch a glimpse of his mom. He’d actually gotten pretty good at sneaking behind Pointer lines—it was kind of like playing hide-and-seek, except that it wasn’t a game anymore. Ryan had been on the street two weeks by the time he met Eddie. There were a couple of people living in Deadtown who knew about him, and left scraps of food and old clothes on their doorsteps. He would wait until no one was around before darting from his cover and collecting the offerings. Then one day, as he was hungrily wolfing down a half-eaten sandwich left on an alley stoop, the door suddenly opened and a pair of masculine hands grabbed him and yanked him inside. Ryan’s first instinct was to kick and scream, biting at the hands until they let him go. He scampered across the room and tried to make himself as small as possible, wedging himself under the sink. He glowered at the white-bearded man in the tie-dyed shirt standing between him and the door. The bearded man didn’t look very dangerous, but then Ryan had learned through painful experience that appearances in Deadtown were often deceiving.

  “Damn it, kid! I’m just trying to help you! There’s no call for you trying to take my fingers off at the knuckle!” the older man snapped, sucking the blood from his wound. The anger quickly drained from his face as he got a good look at Ryan. “Jesus, kid! I’ve seen fatter alley cats than you! Look, I’m sorry if I scared you—I just didn’t want you to run off. I’ve been seeing you on the street for a few days now, and it’s botherin’ me that a li’l dude like you is on his ownsome. Where’s your mama, kiddo?”

  “The monsters took her,” Ryan replied simply. The older man made a face. “Your mama is Lord Esher’s new squeeze?” “What’s a squeeze?” Ryan frowned.

  “Never mind,” he replied.

  Ryan decided he liked the bearded man because he looked like Tim the Bouncer. Tim the Bouncer worked at one of the clubs where his mom used to dance, and had a beard, but it wasn’t white, and he wore a leather jacket and rode a motorcycle. His mom said Tim the Bouncer was an angel, although Ryan had never seen any wings or a halo on him. Maybe this man was an angel, too.

  No longer afraid, Ryan finally looked around at his surroundings for the first time and saw that the whole room was full of books. He slowly crept out from under the table, his head swiveling in every direction.

  “Do all these belong to your, mister?” “Every last one. Do you like books, kid?”

  Ryan nodded vigorously. His eyes widened as he spotted a familiar dust jacket amidst the jumble. He quickly snatched up the copy of Make Way For Ducklings, holding it as if it were an ancient treasure. The gleam in his eyes was that of someone who seeing an old friend they thought long dead. “I used to have this book!” he exclaimed excitedly. “My mommy would read it to me before I went to bed!”

  “Would you like to have that book, kid?” the man asked gently. “Yes—but I can’t read yet,” he admitted sheepishly.


  The man smiled and motioned for Ryan to bring him the book. “That’s okay. I’ll read it to you.”

  Ryan looked at the old man, then down at the book, then back again. “My name’s Ryan.”

  “Hi, Ryan. My friends call me Eddie.”

  Ryan smiled. It was the first time he’d done so in a long while. It felt good. “Hi, Eddie.”

  From that moment on the two became fast friends. Ryan loved and trusted Eddie more than anyone in the world except his mom. And if Eddie said the strange lady with the sunglasses was okay—then she was okay. Even if she was a monster.

  Ryan put aside the picture book he’d been pretending to look at and walked over to stare down at Sonja. Eddie had pushed aside some of his books to make room for her, and she was lying on the floor atop a blanket. She was still wearing her street clothes—she hadn’t even removed her boots or jacket. Her arms were folded across her chest, hands resting atop her jacket. She didn’t seem to be breathing. He couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or shut because she was still wearing her sunglasses. He leaned in closer and stared down at his twinned reflection in the mirrored lenses. He had gained some weight since moving in with Eddie, but he still looked thin. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue, giggling as his mirror image did the same.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  Ryan yelped and scuttled backward as Sonja unfolded her arms and sat upright. She swiveled her head toward him, her gaze still shielded by the sunglasses.

  “I wasn’t making fun of you! Honest!” he said nervously.

  “You needn’t be afraid of me, Ryan,” she said as she stood up and stretched, her leather jacket creaking as she moved. “Where’s Eddie?”