Snowbirds of Prey

by Ward Parker

  “Have you fed on anyone yet?” Missy asked.

  “No. Just animals. And don’t worry, I promise you’re safe with me.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  That’s when he told her he was leaving her for good. Fighting his sexuality hadn’t gone so well, and trying to resist his new vampire instincts would be even more disastrous. Living here would be destructive to both of them.

  She had seen the end coming already, and now it was undeniable. But still, her heart felt like it was crushed in a vice. She nodded, fighting back tears. He moved all his possessions out in two days.

  She would never stop loving him. And she didn’t think she could recover when she learned he died less than a year after he left. He never got to enjoy the immortality he craved.

  She read the article in the newspaper and watched the brief segment on the local news, but it was Carlos who told her the true details when he visited her one night shortly afterwards. One of the neighborhoods of the neighboring city was filled with cafes and bars popular with the LGBT community. Unfortunately, it also occasionally drew gangs of skinheads and neo-Nazis who liked to ambush individuals, then taunt and beat them. Carlos told Missy that he and Tom were several blocks away from the entertainment area, hunting along empty streets of shuttered stores when they were caught.

  Carlos had sensed the presence of the gang lurking in a building under construction. He could have easily raced away before the thugs even got a good look at him. After all, he had preached to Tom that discretion was more important than anything else. Never fight, always flee. The existence of vampires must remain secret. But the Nazis, having seen the two men walking by, yelled anti-gay slurs at them.

  Tom’s anger got the best of him. He stopped and got into a fighting stance. He wanted to kill them all.

  “Let’s go,” Carlos whispered. “Now!”

  “I’m not running away from these punks,” Tom said.

  “You’re a brand-new vampire. You have a lot of rage and you haven’t learned how to control it yet. Please, let’s get out of here.” He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Please.”

  Tom appeared to shake off his anger and followed Carlos as they sprinted away before the Nazis, emerging from the building, could surround them. Some of them chased the two vampires but there was no way they could catch up, even though the vampires weren’t running their fastest because Tom wasn’t yet at his full strength.

  A few blocks later, Carlos noticed he was alone. Tom had turned around and raced back to confront the thugs.

  When Carlos arrived on the scene, Tom was already on the ground getting stomped on by a dozen Nazis. A mere dozen men shouldn’t have been able to get a healthy vampire of Tom’s age on the ground. But Tom had yet to be fully adapted to his transformation. Perhaps his strength wasn’t where it should be, or his coordination was unsteady.

  Tom’s face was covered with blood as the young Nazis kicked him, screaming obscenities about his sexuality. Every time he almost got to his feet, he was knocked down again.

  Carlos grabbed the closest punk by the neck and threw him into a pile of concrete blocks. He slapped a second one in the back of his head, sending him tumbling. A third one pulled a pistol and aimed it at Carlos’ head.

  “C’mon, faggot,” he said.

  Carlos bared his fangs and snarled. The punk’s face turned white and he ran away. Carlos cursed himself for giving away his identity as a vampire. The last thing vampires needed was to give a hate group another target to attack.

  Two, then two more, police cars pulled up with lights flashing. Neo-Nazis scattered everywhere. The police officers, guns drawn, shouting orders for everyone to get on the ground, managed to catch four of the punks. Carlos would have escaped, but he didn’t want to leave Tom. One of the cops knelt beside Tom to examine his condition.

  “Holy crap, it looks like his wounds are healing right in front of my eyes,” the cop said. “No, I must be imagining it.”

  “These dudes are vampires,” said the handcuffed punk who had run away from Carlos. “For real.”

  The senior cop, a sergeant, laughed. “You guys have been smoking too much meth. There’s no such thing as vampires.”

  Carlos felt a malignant energy spread throughout the police. They packed the Nazis into two of the patrol cars which left the scene. The sergeant and one other officer remained with Carlos and Tom.

  “Follow me, sir, I need to ask you some questions,” the sergeant said to Carlos, leading him to the street where they stopped beside one of the patrol cars. “Now, tell me your version of the events tonight.”

  As Carlos recounted the story, an alarm went off in his mind, a psychic warning. He glanced back at the construction site.

  Where the other cop was kneeling beside Tom, driving a sharpened piece of rebar into his chest. Carlos’ lover and vampire child writhed in the dirt, screaming in pain.

  So quickly the cops probably didn’t even see him, Carlos shot across the construction site, gathered Tom into his arms, and raced away into the night. He wanted to kill the cops, but that would only put the vampire population in more danger. And he had to get Tom to Harlan, a vampire friend who had healing skills, to save him.

  But it was too late.

  Carlos sat across from Missy at her kitchen table, a budding tear in one eye. He was slight and studious, with jet-black hair and goatee. But he exuded strength.

  “He died in my arms before I reached Harlan’s apartment. I’ve only been a vampire for 50 years and I’ve never seen one die before. It was—I’m sorry. It’s insensitive of me to even bring up that image.”

  She was in shock. “I appreciate your telling me.”

  “Vampires are in danger. I’ve heard rumors of the police summarily executing them, but I never believed the stories were true. Until now. They’re treating us like vermin to be exterminated, without the public finding out we exist.”

  “Is this some sort of policy?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. I think it’s just rogue cops. The few that have actually come into contact with vampires or our prey. If the top brass know about us, I doubt they’re saying anything about it.”

  “Well, Carlos, you’re the only vampire I know now. I hope you have better luck than Tom did.”

  He gazed at her thoughtfully. She figured it had never dawned on him until now that Missy wouldn’t have lost her husband except for him. Yeah, maybe he would have left her eventually, but he wouldn’t have ended up dead.

  “Again, I’m sorry for your loss,” Carlos said.

  She was silent.

  “I want you to understand we’re not murderers. Sometimes our prey dies, usually by accident. Sometimes they are humans. But, you know, humans kill humans more than we do—”

  “Okay,” she said in a firm voice. “I don’t want to hear any more. I realize no one gets through this life as a saint, but Tom was pretty damn close. I just want to think about him tonight.”

  Carlos nodded, smiled grimly, and disappeared. She never heard a door open or close.

  That was ten years ago, and Missy hadn’t fallen in love since. She dated, now and then, but was reluctant to commit after experiencing betrayal and loss. What made it even harder to find love was a bit of magick she taught herself to avoid being hurt again: a truth-telling spell.

  Unlike the psychoactive drugs governments have used over the decades as truth serum, her spell didn’t muddle the mind and make it open to suggestion. Her spell simply made those enchanted by it want to tell the truth.

  She often used it on a second or third date if the man was clearly looking to escalate things and get her in bed. It was a really easy spell. All she would do is sprinkle certain herbs on the floor beneath the restaurant table where the man couldn’t see and chant a quick spell under her breath. And voila!

  “Missy, you look so good tonight,” a guy would say. “You remind me of the girl who just dumped me and I want to use you to get her out of my system so I can then dump y
ou and move on to better things.”

  They would always have a shocked look on their faces after they confessed.

  “Check please,” Missy would say before the man would plead, with a beet-colored face, that it had been a mere slip of the tongue and he hadn’t meant it at all.

  Yes, Missy knew she wasn’t playing fair, but she wouldn’t stop using the spell. The system itself wasn’t fair and women needed any help they could get. She only wished there was an easy way to use it on car salesmen.

  22

  Closing Early Tonight

  When Matt pulled up to the gate at Seaweed Manor, he had no idea what to say without sounding suspicious. A different gate guard than the one he had talked to before came out of the booth. He was an obese white guy with no chin. He didn’t greet Matt. He just stared at him.

  “Hi,” Matt said. “I’m here visiting a friend in A-305.”

  “Name?”

  “Chainsaw.”

  “No, your name.”

  “Matt Rosen. Good ol’ Chainy might have forgotten to put me on the guest list. He’s such a knucklehead sometimes, that guy.”

  The guard studied his face for a moment. “There is no guest list,” he said. “I’m just supposed to ask your name.”

  The guard returned to the booth and raised the gate. Matt parked in the visitor lot and strolled up to the twin five-story buildings in the bright light of the full moon. Rock music blared from open windows. From one, incongruously, Neil Diamond crooned. It was like walking past dormitories on a college campus. Except for the howling of a wolf coming from somewhere on the property as if Matt had been suddenly transported to Montana.

  The entrance door to Building A was unlocked, and Matt took the elevator to the third floor. The elevator smelled of spilled beer and Bengay ointment. The condos were accessed by open breezeways on the front of the building and a small sign outside the elevator told him to turn right for the lower-300’s.

  As he stepped out onto the breezeway, he was surprised to find a half-dozen people standing in line outside of a unit halfway down. It was a motley crew of mostly younger people in various states of disrepair. A couple of them looked insane, with wild, rolling eyes and mouths that snapped—the kind who would eat your face off for the fun of it. They shifted on their feet with anxiousness.

  “Um, excuse me,” Matt said. “Is this Chainsaw’s place?”

  The last guy in line nodded. He was young, pale, and looked like he was about to barf.

  Matt kept silent as people left the condo singly or in pairs and the line moved forward. The herbal odor of marijuana drifted from the open door. Soon, Matt was next in line, standing in the doorway, waiting for the strung-out guy ahead of him to stuff a baggy in his pocket and practically sprint from the condo.

  The lighting was dark in the living room, mostly supplied by a lava lamp and a couple of candles in puddles of wax on an ugly black coffee table. Matt walked in slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the near-darkness.

  A tall, skinny, bald man sat on the couch smoking a cigarette. He wore torn jeans, biker boots, and a tight AC/DC T-shirt. The ashtray overflowed. Next to it stood a giant blue bong.

  “What do you want?” Chainsaw had a speech impediment of some sort.

  “Do you have Reboot?” Matt asked.

  “Who sent you?” he lisped.

  “Kyle.”

  “Okay, but we have to hurry.” Chainsaw glanced at the watch on his scarred and tattooed arm. “It’s late. I’m running out of time.”

  The cause of the speech impediment was a pair of dentures that kept coming loose in Chainsaw’s mouth. He also had a stud through his tongue which didn’t help matters. The man hadn’t aged well. Matt guessed he was in his sixties but it was hard to tell in someone who had obviously done a lot of hard living.

  Chainsaw got up and looked out the front door, then shut and bolted it. Matt’s pulse ratcheted up.

  “Don’t worry,” Chainsaw said. “You’re my last customer tonight. I don’t want anyone else coming in. It’s too late.”

  It was only 7:00 p.m., but Matt didn’t mention it.

  Chainsaw went into the adjoining dining nook where the table held a scale and several piles of small plastic baggies with different substances in them. “How much do you want?”

  Matt had no idea of how much Reboot someone would buy or even what measuring system was used for it.

  “Uh, enough for one night. Just for me. And I’m a light user.”

  “Half a gram should be more than enough. Stay away from heights and if you think you have the ability to fly, don’t do it. Oh, and if you have the urge to eat human flesh, choose a Snickers bar instead.”

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Hey, Chainsaw, do you mind if I ask a couple of questions? A friend of Kyle’s and mine came by here recently. A pretty girl by the name of Taylor? Taylor Donovan?”

  “I wouldn’t remember.”

  “It was Saturday night last week. She came by very late to buy some Reboot.” Her late-night visit made Matt question why Chainsaw was closing shop so early tonight.

  The dealer handed Matt a tiny baggie of a light-brown powder that looked like dried, ground-up insects. “Forty bucks.”

  Matt handed him two twenties and took the baggie.

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Nope. You saw tonight how busy I get.”

  “This is her,” Matt showed Taylor’s photo from the newspaper.

  Chainsaw rubbed the scars on the top of his bald head. “I guess you’re not a cop if you haven’t arrested me already for drugs. You a private investigator or something?”

  “I’m a reporter.” Matt abandoned his subterfuge in case he wanted to use any quotes from Chainsaw. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Taylor the night she died.”

  “She died? An overdose? I’m not responsible if anyone does anything stupid after they leave here.”

  “No. Murder,” Matt said in a neutral tone, trying to read Chainsaw’s reaction.

  “Maybe I recognize the face. I usually remember pretty girls.” He glanced at his watch and grew agitated. “You gotta go now, man.”

  A wolf howled from the direction of the beach. Chainsaw rubbed his arms as if he were cold and ushered Matt to the door. Matt wondered if the dealer was having heroin withdrawals.

  “One last thing,” Matt said, stopping at the door. “She probably went straight to the beach after leaving here. Does that jog your memory?”

  Chainsaw groaned with pain and raced toward the bedrooms. Painful coughs came from down the hallway. Matt expected to hear the sound of vomiting next.

  Instead, there was moaning.

  “Hey, are you okay in there?” Matt called.

  No answer. Only a low groan, raw and throaty.

  Do I check on him to see if I need to call 911, Matt thought, or just get the hell out of here?

  He decided to be a good Samaritan. He entered the dark hall connecting the bedrooms, went past the guest bathroom that smelled of mildew, and walked toward the master bedroom with a light on inside shining through a half-open door. A television played at low volume somewhere in the room, not visible behind the door.

  “Hello?” Matt said outside the bedroom door. He peeked inside. There were piles of clothing on the floor. The bathroom door on the far wall was closed.

  A deep, rumbling snarl came from behind him. He jumped in surprise and turned, heart pounding.

  A massive form crouched in the shadows only a few feet away. The creature was too shrouded in darkness to make out more than fur covering massive muscles as the creature prepared to spring. Eyes flickered in yellow and claws gleamed in reflected light.

  “Don’t kill me,” Matt whispered.

  A giant mouth opened in an angry growl that escalated into an ear-splitting roar.

  And a set of upper dentures fell out, landing on Matt’s shoes.

  23

  Of Mind and Magick

  When Missy got home, she practiced her telekinesis
. Practicing strengthened this natural ability of hers, which could be combined with magick spells to powerful effect. If she could only get them right.

  Every time she practiced her telekinesis, she found it difficult to begin. There’s no ritual to put you in the right mindset—no changing into yoga pants and rolling out the mat. Meditation helped clear her mind, but to summon the kind of juice needed to bend a fork or move a book across the room was no easy feat.

  The fear-induced adrenaline that rushed through her when she dropped her phone the other day kicked her mind into the right gear to stop the phone before it smashed upon the tile floor. She had then slowly eased it downward to rest upon the floor without damage. But she found it incredibly difficult to make the phone rise from the floor and return to her hand. In fact, it had taken nearly an hour of concentrating to accomplish this task. She feared it would bring on a migraine.

  Her most impressive feat of telekinesis was clearing the table of dirty dishes and placing them in the sink last week. She had returned home from work and was angry to find she had accidentally left the dishes on the table when she left in a hurry for a patient appointment. She was so pissed off the dishes seemed to sail across the kitchen on their own accord, as if they were scared of her. Too bad they hadn’t washed themselves, too.

  She hadn’t even concentrated to make them to do that. Clearly, emotion helped the power work.

  Today, as the sunrise shined through the windows, her goal was to empty the dishwasher. Putting the dishes in the appropriate cupboards would probably be too hard, but for now, placing them on the kitchen counter would suffice.