Thirst No. 1: The Last Vampire, Black Blood, and Red Dice

by Christopher Pike

  But he doesn’t. Although staggering, he remains on his feet.

  “Oh, Christ,” I whisper as I fall to my knees. Will this bastard not die? Across the black shadows of the underbelly of the bleachers, we stare at each other, both bleeding profusely. For a moment our eyes lock, and more than ever I sense the disturbance in him, a vision of reality that no human or vampire should want to share. I am out of bullets. He seems to smile—I don’t know what he finds so amusing. Then he turns and shuffles away, and I cannot see him or hear him. Pulling the knife from my naked belly, I swoon on the ground, trying to breathe through a haze of red agony. I honestly cannot remember the last time I had such a bad night.

  Still, I am Sita from the dawn of humanity, a vampire of incomparable resiliency—unless, of course, I am to be compared to him, this fiend whose name I still do not know. He is not dead, I am sure of it. And after maybe twenty minutes of writhing on the concrete, I know I will survive. Finally my wounds begin to close and I am able to sit up and draw in a deep breath. Before taking the stake through the heart, my wounds would have closed in two minutes.

  “I must be getting old,” I mutter.

  I cannot hear any vampires in the vicinity. But police are closing in on the Coliseum. After putting my knife back in its proper place under my pant leg, I stumble back up the concrete tunnel and onto the field. I find a hose and wash off as much blood as possible. My shoulder, my belly—they are not scarred. Yet I have lost much blood and am terribly weak, and now I have to worry about the police. Their cruisers park outside the arena. Somebody must have called about the gunshots. With so many bodies lying around, it would be a mistake to be caught inside the Coliseum. I would be taken downtown for questioning, where my messy clothes would be difficult to explain. I wonder if I should hide inside until things cool off, but, no, that might take hours, if not days, and I am anxious to return home and speak to Ray to figure out what to do next.

  But before I leave the arena, I check on the three vampires to make sure they are indeed dead. It is always possible, despite the severity of their wounds, that they could heal and rise again. To be doubly sure, I crack each of their skulls with the heel of my right boot. The grotesque acts cause me no qualms of conscience. I am, after all, just protecting the officers who might find them.

  I hurry in the direction of the least amount of noise and am outside, over the fence, and in the parking lot when a bright searchlight suddenly focuses on me. It is from a cruiser, damn. It pulls up alongside me, and a cop who looks as if he has been eating doughnuts for the last twenty years sticks his head out the passenger side.

  “What are you doing here at this time of night, young lady?” he asks.

  I appear anxious. “I’m trying to find my car. It broke down about an hour ago and I went looking for help and these boys started chasing me. They threw water balloons at me and threatened me.” I shiver, catching his eye, pressing his belief buttons. “But I managed to get away.”

  The cop looks me over from head to foot, but I doubt he notices the bloodstains on my clothes. In the dark they would be hard to see on black clothes. Plus my gaze has shriveled his will. He is swayed by my great beauty, my obvious youth, my long blond hair, which I have let down. He throws his partner behind the wheel a look, then turns back to me and smiles,

  “You’re lucky all they threw was water balloons,” he says. “This is no area to be walking alone at night. Hop in the back and we’ll take you back to your car.”

  It will appear odd to decline the offer. “Thank you,” I say, reaching for the door. I climb in the rear seat of the patrol car. His partner, a younger man, glances back at me.

  “Were you inside the Coliseum just now?” he asks.

  I catch his eye as well. “No,” I say clearly. “How could I possibly be in the Coliseum? The fence is fifteen feet high.”

  He nods like a puppet. “We’ve just had some trouble in the area is all.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  A man calls on their radio. The fat officer explains how they ran into me. The man on the other end is not impressed with my story. He orders them to hold me until he arrives. There is strength in the man’s voice, even over the staticky line. I wonder if I will be able to control him as easily as the other two. We sit and wait for the boss to arrive; the officers apologize for the delay. I consider drinking both officers’ blood and leaving them dazed and incoherent, but I’ve always had a thing for cops. The fat one offers me a doughnut, which does little to satisfy my deeper hunger.

  The man who arrives is not LAPD but FBI. He pulls up alone in an unmarked car, and I am told to get in up front. I do not resist. He introduces himself as Special Agent Joel Drake, and he has an aura of authority about him. A young man, he has blond hair almost as light as my own, and blue eyes as well, although these are darker than mine. He wears a sea blue sport coat, expensive white slacks. He is strikingly handsome. I feel, as I climb in beside him, like an actor in a series. Agent Vampire—there should be such a show. His face is tan, his features sharp and intelligent. He studies me in the dome light before shutting his door. He notices that I am soaking wet, although, once again, the bloodstains on my black outfit are all but invisible. The other officers drive off.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Alisa Perne.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I’ve been walking for an hour, lost.”

  “You say you got hit with water balloons thrown at you by a bunch of guys? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I catch his eye, such beautiful eyes really. I hesitate to blunt his will too forcibly, afraid it might damage him. Yet he is strong; he will not be moved without great power. Nevertheless, I cannot let him take me in for questioning. Lowering my voice, I pitch my tone in such a manner that he will feel as if I am speaking between his ears, as if he were in fact thinking what I am saying.

  “I have done nothing wrong,” I say gently. “Everything I tell you is true. I am a young woman, helpless, a stranger here. The best thing you can do is take me to my car.”

  He considers what I say for several seconds. I know my voice runs like an echo inside him. Then he shakes himself, seemingly throwing off my implant. I can sense his emotions, although I cannot read his thoughts. His doubt remains strong. He reaches out and shuts his door; the engine is already running.

  “Have you been inside the Coliseum tonight?” he asks.

  “No. What’s inside the Coliseum?”

  “Never mind. The police say they found you here, in the parking lot. What were you doing here?”

  “Fleeing from the guys who harassed me.”

  “How many were there?”

  “I’m not sure. Three or four.”

  “We have a report from two young men in the area. They say their buddy was attacked by someone who fits your description. Minutes ago we found their buddy’s body, lying in a gutter. What do you have to say about that?”

  I grimace. “I know nothing about it. How did he die?”

  Joel frowns. “Violently.”

  I shake my head, looking anxious. “I was just trying to get back to my car. Can’t you take me there? It’s been a long night for me.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Oregon. I don’t know L.A. I took a wrong exit and then my car stalled. But with your help, I might be able to find it.” I reach over and touch his arm, holding his eyes once more, but softly, without fire. “Please?” I say.

  He nods finally and puts the car in gear. “Which exit did you get off?”

  “I forget the name. It’s up here. I can show you, and maybe we can retrace my steps.” I point as we pull out of the parking lot and head north in the direction of the freeway. “Honestly, I’ve never hurt anyone in my life.”

  He chuckles bitterly. “I don’t imagine you had anything to do with what happened tonight.”

  “I’ve heard L.A.’s a violent town.”

 
He nods grimly. “Especially lately. I suppose you’ve read the papers?”

  “Yes. Are you in charge of the murder investigation?”

  “Several of us are overseeing it.”

  “Have you any leads?”

  “No. But that’s off the record.”

  I smile. “I’m not a reporter, Agent Drake.”

  He smiles faintly. “You shouldn’t get within twenty miles of this area at night. How long are you going to be in L.A.?”

  “Why?”

  “We might need to ask you more questions later.”

  “I’ll be around. I can give you a number once we find my car.”

  “That’s fine. Did you get off the Harbor Freeway or the Santa Monica?”

  “I was on the Santa Monica Freeway. Let’s continue north a few blocks. I think I’ll recognize the right street.”

  “How old are you, Alisa?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “What’s your business in L.A.?”

  “I’m visiting friends. I’m thinking of going to school here next year.”

  “Oh. Where?”

  “USC.”

  “The Coliseum is right next to USC.”

  “That’s the reason I was driving around here. One of my friends lives on campus.” I shiver again. “But with all this violence I’m seriously reconsidering my choice of universities.”

  “That’s understandable.” He glances over, checking out my body this time. He does not wear a wedding ring. “So you’re a student. What are you majoring in?”

  “History,” I say.

  We drive without talking for a few minutes, me merely pointing where I think we should turn next. Actually, I do not want to take him to my car because even though he is responding to my suggestions, he still has a will of his own. And he is obviously highly trained. He would memorize my license plate number if I brought him to my rental. A block from where I have parked, passing a red Honda, I signal for him to stop.

  “This is it,” I say, opening the car door. “Thank you so much.”

  “Do you think it will start now?” he asks.

  “Why don’t you pull in front of me and wait to see if I can get it started.” I add, a sexy note in my voice, “Could you do that for me?”

  “No problem. Alisa, do you have any ID on you?”

  I grin foolishly. “I knew you were going to ask that. I’m afraid I’m driving without my license. But I can give you a number where I’ll be tomorrow. It’s 310-555-4141. This is a genuine L.A. number that will ring through to my house in Oregon. You can call me there any time for the next three days. Do you want me to write the number down for you?”

  He hesitates, but I know he is thinking that with my license plate number he can always trace me. “That’s not necessary, it’s an easy number to remember.” He pauses again, studying the damp marks on my shirt. There is no way he can tell they’re bloodstains just by looking at them, but I have to wonder if he can smell the odor, even after my heavy washing. Despite my subtle influence, he would never let me go if he definitely saw blood. And I am not free yet. “Can you give me an address as well?” he asks.

  “Joel,” I say in my special way. “You don’t really think I killed anyone, do you?”

  He backs away slightly. “No.”

  “Then why do you want all these things from me?”

  He hesitates, shrugs. “If you have an address, I will take it. Otherwise your phone number is enough for me for now.” He adds, “We’ll probably talk tomorrow.”

  “Good enough. It was nice meeting you.” I step out of his car. “Now I just hope the damn thing starts.”

  Joel pulls in front of me and waits, as I suggested. It was not a suggestion I made willingly, but felt I needed to allay his suspicions. The Honda door is locked, but I open it with a hard yank and slip behind the wheel. With two fingers I break the ignition switch, noting how Joel studies my license plate number in his rearview mirror. He writes it down as I press the contact wires together and the engine turns over. I wave as I quickly pull away from the curb. I don’t want the people in the adjacent house to hear me leaving with their car. After driving around the block, I get into my own car, and in less than an hour I am in the air, flying in my personal Learjet toward Oregon. Yet I know I will return to Los Angeles soon to finish the war with the powerful vampire.

  For good or evil.

  TWO

  Ray is not home when I get there. Our residence is new, obviously, since my original house blew up with Yaksha inside. Our modern mansion in the woods is not far from the old house. It has many electronic conveniences, a view of the ocean, and heavy drapes to block out the midday sun. More than any other vampire I have known, Ray is the most excruciatingly sensitive to the sun. He is made like a Bram Stoker model vampire out of old legends. Many things about his new existence trouble him. He misses his school friends, his old girlfriend, and especially his father. But I can give him none of these things—certainly not his father, since it was I who killed the man. I can only give him my love, which I dreamed would be enough. I am only in the house two minutes before I am back in my car looking for him. Dawn is an hour away.

  I find him sitting on his ex-lover’s porch, but Pat McQueen is unaware of his nearness. Along with her parents, she is sleeping inside. I know she thinks Ray perished in the blast that supposedly took my life, too. He sits with his head buried in his knees and doesn’t even bother to look up as I approach. I let out a sigh.

  “What if I was a cop?” I ask.

  He looks up, his melancholy consuming his beauty. Yet my heart aches to see him again; it has ached ever since he entered my life, both the physical heart and the emotional one. Radha, Krishna’s friend, once told me that longing is older than love, and that one cannot exist without the other. Her name, in fact, meant longing, and Krishna’s meant love. But I never saw how their relationship tortured them the way my passion for Ray does me. I have given him the kingdom of eternal night, and all he wants to do is take a walk under the sun. I note his weakness, his hunger. Six weeks and I am still forcing him to feed, even though we don’t harm or kill our meals. He doesn’t look happy to see me, and that saddens me more.

  “If you were a cop,” he says, “I could easily disarm you.”

  “And create a scene doing it.”

  He nods to the blood on my top. “It looks as if you have created a scene or two tonight.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “How was Los Angeles?”

  “I’ll tell you back at the house.” I turn. “Come.”

  “No.”

  I stop, glance back over my shoulder. “The sun will be up soon.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You will when you see it.” He doesn’t answer me. I go and sit beside him, put my arm around his shoulder. “Is it Pat? You can talk to her, you know, if you must. I just think it’s a bad idea.”

  He shakes his head. “I cannot talk to her.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  He stares at me. “I come here because I have nowhere else to grieve.”

  “Ray.”

  “I mean, I don’t know where my father’s buried.” He turns away and shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone.”

  I take his hand; he barely lets me. “I can take you to where I buried your father. But it’s just a hole in the ground, covered over. It will not help you.”

  He looks up at the stars. “Do you think there are vampires on other planets?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. In some distant galaxy there might be a whole planet filled with vampires. This planet almost was.”

  He nods. “Except for Krishna.”

  “Yes. Except for him.”

  He continues to stare at the sky. “If there were such a planet, where there were only vampires, it would not survive long. They would destroy one another.” He looks at me. “Do I do that to you? Destroy you?”

  I shake my head sadly. “No. You give me a great deal. I just wish I knew what to give you in retu
rn, to help you forget.”

  He smiles gently. “I don’t want to forget, Sita. And maybe that is my problem.” He pauses. “Take me to his grave. We won’t stay long.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I stand, offer him my hand. “Very well.”

  We drive into the woods. I lead him through the trees. I remember the spot where I buried P.I. Michael Riley, of course—I remember everything. Also, I smell the faint fumes of his decaying body as they seep up from beneath six feet of earth. I fear Ray smells them as well. The life of a vampire is a life of many corpses; they do not invoke in me the strong emotions they do in most humans. Ray drops to his knees as we reach the spot, and I retreat a few dozen feet because I want him to be alone with his emotions—a caldron of sorrows. I am still too weak to let them wash over me. Or else I am too guilty. I hear Ray weep dry tears on a missing tombstone.

  My two most recent wounds have completely healed, but my chest continues to burn. I remember the night Ray pulled the stake from my heart while my house burned nearby. Barely conscious, I didn’t know if I would live or die, and for the next three days Ray didn’t, either. Because even though my wound closed quickly, I remained unconscious. All that time I had the most extraordinary dream.

  I was in a starship flying through space. Ray was beside me and our destination was the Pleiades star cluster, the Seven Sisters, as it is often called by astronomers. Outside our forward portals, we could see the blue-white stars growing steadily in size and brilliance, and although our journey was long, we were filled with excitement the whole time. Because we knew we were finally returning home to where we belonged, where we weren’t vampires, but angels of light who lived on the radiance of the stars alone. The dream was painful to awaken from, and I still pray each time I lie down to sleep that it will return. The color of the stars reminded me of Krishna’s eyes.