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

by Christopher Pike

  SEVEN

  When I met Private Investigator Michael Riley, Ray’s father, he talked to me about my previous residence. Trying to impress me with how much he knew about my wealth.

  “Prior to moving to Mayfair, you lived in Los Angeles—in Beverly Hills, in fact—at Two-Five-Six Grove Street. Your home was a four-thousand-square-foot mansion, with two swimming pools, a tennis court, a sauna, and a small observatory. The property is valued at six-point-five million. To this day you are listed as the sole owner, Miss Perne.”

  I was very impressed with Riley’s knowledge. That was one of the main reasons I killed him. It is to this house we go after Zuma Beach. Mr. Riley forgot to mention the mansion’s deep basement. It is here I keep a stockpile of sophisticated weapons: Uzis, grenade launchers, high-powered laser-assisted sniper rifles, 10-millimeter pistols equipped with silencers—toys easily purchased on any Middle Eastern black market. Loading up my car, I feel like Rambo, who must have been a vampire in a previous incarnation. Loved the way that guy snapped people’s necks. Ray watches me pile on the weapons with a bewildered expression.

  “You know,” he says, “I’ve never even fired a gun.”

  That concerns me. Just because he’s a vampire he’s not necessarily a crack shot, although he could quickly become one with a couple of lessons. Myself, I have practiced with every weapon I own. My skill is such that I use every gun to its full capacity.

  “Just don’t shoot yourself in the foot,” I say.

  “I thought you were going to say, just don’t shoot me.”

  “That, too,” I say, feeling uneasy.

  Edward Fender’s job application and résumé contain only one permanent address, which is his mother’s. It is my belief that the lead is valid. Mrs. Fender’s house is located only four miles west of the Coliseum, in the city of Inglewood, a suburb of Los Angeles. It is a quarter after nine by the time we park in front of her place. Rolling down the window and bidding Ray to sit silently, I listen carefully to what’s going on inside the residence. The TV is on to “Wheel of Fortune.” An elderly woman sits in a rocking chair reading a magazine. Her lungs are weak; she has a slight dry cough. A front window of the house is half open. The interior is dusty and damp. It smells of poor health and of human serpents. A vampire has recently been in the house, but he is no longer there. Now I am absolutely certain of the identity of the monster I pursue.

  “He was here less than two hours ago,” I whisper to Ray.

  “Is he in the area?”

  “No. But he can come into the area swiftly. He has at least twice my speed. I am going to speak to the woman alone. I want you to park out of sight down the street. If you see someone approach the house, don’t try to warn me. Drive off. I will know he is coming. I will deal with him. Do you understand?”

  Ray is amused. “Am I in the army? Do I have to take your orders?”

  I take his hand. “Seriously, Ray. In a situation like this you can’t help me. You can only hurt me.” I let go of him and slip a small revolver into my coat pocket. “I just have to put a couple of bullets in his brain, and he will not be making any more vampires. Then we can go after the others. They will be a piece of cake.”

  “Do you like cake, Sita?”

  I have to smile. “Yes, of course. With ice cream, especially.”

  “You never told me when your birthday is. Do you know?”

  “Yes.” I lean over and kiss him. “It is the day I met you. I was reborn on that day.”

  He kisses me back, grabs my arm as I go to leave. “I don’t blame you, you know.”

  I nod, although I don’t completely believe him. “I know.”

  The woman answers the door a moment after I knock and remains behind the torn screen door. Her hair is white, her face in ruins. Her hands are arthritic; the fingers claw at the air like hungry rats’ paws. She has flat gray eyes that look as if they have watched black-and-white television for decades. There is little feeling in them, except perhaps a sense of cynical contempt. Her bathrobe is a tattered gown of food and bloodstains. Some of the latter look fresh. There are red marks on her neck, still healing.

  Her son has been drinking her blood.

  I smile quickly. “Hello. Mrs. Fender? I’m Kathy Gibson, a friend of your son’s. Is he at home?”

  My beauty, my smooth bearing throw her off balance. I shudder to think of the women Eddie usually brings home to Mother. “No. He works the graveyard shift. He won’t be home till late.” She pauses, gives me a critical examination. “What did you say your name is?”

  “Kathy.” My voice goes sweet and soft, strangely persuasive. “I didn’t mean to stop by so late. I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  She shrugs. “Just watching TV. How come I’ve never heard Eddie mention you before?”

  I stare at her. “We only just met a few days ago. My brother introduced us.” I add, “He works with Eddie.”

  “At the clinic?”

  The woman is trying to trick me. I frown. “Eddie doesn’t work at a clinic.”

  The woman relaxes slightly. “At the warehouse?”

  “Yes. At the warehouse.” My smile broadens. My gaze penetrates deeper. This woman is mentally unstable. She has secret perversions. My eyes do not cause her to flinch. She is fond of young women, I know, little girls even. I wonder about Mr. Fender. I add, “May I come in?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I have to make a call. May I use your phone?” I add, “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

  I have pushed the right button. She enjoys being bitten. Her son drinks her blood with her consent. Even I, an immoral beast, have never been drawn to incestuous relationships. Of course, in the literal sense of the word, we are not talking about incest. Still, the Brady Bunch would never survive in this house. She opens the screen door for me.

  “Of course,” she says. “Please come in. Who do you have to call?”

  “My brother.”

  “Oh.”

  I step inside, my sense of smell on alert. Eddie has recently slept in this house. She must let him sleep away the days, not questioning his aversion to the sun. My ability to handle the sun is hopefully my ace in the hole against this creature. Even Yaksha, many times more powerful than myself, was far less comfortable in the sun than I am. Secretly I pray Eddie can’t even leave the house in the daylight hours without wearing sunscreen with an SPF of 100 or better, like Ray. Although my senses study the interior of the house, my ears never leave the exterior. I cannot be taken unaware, like before. Mrs. Fender leads me to the phone beside her rocking chair. Her reading material lies partially hidden beneath a dirty dishrag—a back issue of Mad Magazine. Actually, I kind of like Mad Magazine.

  I dial a phony number and speak to no one. I’m at Eddie’s house. He’s not here. I’ll be a few minutes late. Goodbye. Setting down the phone, I stare at the woman again.

  “Has Eddie called here tonight?” I ask.

  “No. Why would he call? He just left a couple of hours ago.”

  I take a step toward her. “No one’s called?”

  “No.”

  She’s lying. The FBI has called, probably Joel himself. Yet Joel, or anyone else for that matter—with the exception of Eddie—has not been in the house recently. I would smell their visit. Yet that situation will soon change. The authorities will converge on this place sooner or later. That fact may not be as crucial as it appears. Eddie would not easily walk into a trap, and clearly he does not meet with his cohorts in this house. The warehouse is the key. I need the address. Taking another step forward, I force the woman to back against a divider that separates the meager living room from the messy kitchen. My eyes are all over her, all she sees. There is no time for subtlety. Fear blossoms inside her chest but also awe. Her will is weird but weak. I stop only a foot away.

  “I am going to visit Eddie now,” I say softly. “Tell me the best way to the warehouse from here.”

  She speaks like a puppet. “Take Hawthorne Boulevard east to Washingto
n. Turn right and go down to Winston.” She blinks and coughs. “It’s there.”

  I press my face to her face. She breathes my air, my intoxicating scent. “You will not remember that I was here. There is no Kathy Gibson. There is no pretty blond girl. No visitor stopped by. The FBI didn’t even call. But if they should call again, tell them you haven’t heard from your son in a long time.” I put my palm on the woman’s forehead, whisper in her ear. “You understand?”

  She stares into space. “Yes.”

  “Good.” My lips brush her neck, but I don’t bite. But if Eddie pisses me off again, I swear, I am going to strangle his mother in front of him. “Goodbye, Mrs. Fender.”

  Yet as I leave the house I note a cold draft from the back rooms. I feel the vibration of an electric motor and smell coolant. The house has a large freezer next to one of the back bedrooms. I almost turn to explore more. I have planted my suggestions, however, and to return may upset the woman’s delicate state of illusion. Also, I have the location of the warehouse, and finding Eddie is my first priority. If need be, I can return later and search the rest of the house.

  EIGHT

  Tell me about your husband Rama?” Ray asks as we drive toward the warehouse. “And your daughter, Lalita?”

  The question takes me by surprise. “It was a long time ago.”

  “But you remember everything?”

  “Yes.” I sit silently for a moment. “I was almost twenty when we met. Three or four times a year merchants used to pass by that portion of India that is now known as Rajastan. We lived between the desert and the jungle. The merchants would sell us hats to keep off the sun, herb potions to drive away the bugs. Rama was the son of a merchant. I first saw him by the river that flowed beside our village. He was teaching a small child how to fly a kite. We had kites in those days. We invented them, not the Chinese.” I shake my head. “When I saw him, I just knew.”

  Ray understands but asks anyway, anxious to dwell on my humanity in the light of what happened at the beach. “What did you know?”

  “That I loved him. That we belonged together.” I smile at the memory. “He was named after an earlier incarnation of Lord Vishnu—the eighth avatar, or incarnation of God. Lord Rama was married to the Goddess Sita. Krishna was supposed to be the ninth avatar. I worshipped Lord Vishnu from the time I was born. Maybe that’s why I got to meet Krishna. Anyway, you can see how Rama’s and my names went together. Maybe our union was destined to be. Rama was like you in a lot of ways. Quiet, given to thoughtful pauses.” I glance over. “He even had your eyes.”

  “They were the same?”

  “They did not look the same. But they were the same. You understand?”

  “Yes. Tell me about Lalita?”

  “Lalita is one of the names of the Goddess as well. It means ‘She who plays.’ She was up to mischief the moment she came out of my womb. Ten months old and she would climb out of her cradle and crawl and walk all the way to the river.” I chuckle. “I remember once I found her sitting with a snake in one of the small boats our people had. Fortunately the snake was asleep. It was poisonous! I remember how frightened I was.” I sigh. “You wouldn’t have known me in those days.”

  “I wish I had known you then.”

  His remark is sweet—he means it that way—yet it stings. My hands fidget on the steering wheel. “I wish many things,” I whisper.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation?” he asks suddenly.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious. Do you?”

  I consider. “I know Krishna said it was a reality. Looking back, I believe he always spoke the truth. But I never talked to him about it. I scarcely talked to him at all.”

  “If reincarnation is a reality, then what about us? Are we evolving toward God? Or are we stuck because we’re afraid to die?”

  “I have asked myself the same questions, many times. But I’ve never been able to answer them.”

  “Can’t you at least answer one of them?”

  “Which one is that?” I ask.

  “Are you afraid?”

  I reach over and take his hand. “I don’t fear death for myself.”

  “But to fear it at all—isn’t it the same difference? If you trust Krishna, then you must trust that there is no death.”

  I force a smile. “We’re a philosopher tonight.”

  He smiles. “Don’t be anxious. I’m not thinking of suicide. I just think we have to look at the bigger picture.”

  I squeeze his hand and let go. “I believe Krishna saw all of life as nothing more than a motion picture projected onto a vast screen. Certainly nothing in this world daunted him. Even when I held his companion, Radha, in my clutches, he never lost his serenity.”

  Ray nods. “I would like to have such peace of mind.”

  “Yes. So would I.”

  His hand reaches over and touches my long hair. “Do you think I am Rama?”

  I have to take a breath. My eyes moisten. My words come out weak. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do. Did I come back for you?”

  There are tears on my face. They are five thousand years old. I remember them. After Yaksha changed me, I saw neither my husband nor my daughter again. How I hated him for doing that to me. Yet, had I never become a vampire, I never would have met Ray. But I shake my head at his questions.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Sita—”

  “When I met you,” I interrupt, “I felt as if Krishna had led me to you.” I reach up and press his hand to the side of my face. “You feel like Rama. You smell like him.”

  He leans over and kisses my ear. “You’re great.”

  “You’re wonderful.”

  He brushes away my tears. “They always paint Krishna as blue. I know you explained that it’s symbolic. That he is blue like the vast sky—unbounded. But I dream about him sometimes, when you lie beside me. And when I do, his eyes are always blue, like shining stars.” He pauses. “Have you ever had such a dream?”

  I nod.

  “Tell me about it?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “All right. But didn’t your husband die before he could have met Krishna?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I can’t be remembering a past life?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t think so.”

  Ray lets go of me and sits back, seemingly disappointed. He adds casually, “I never dream of blood. Do you?”

  Often, I think. Maybe once, five thousand years ago, we had more in common. Yet I lie to him, even though I hate to lie to those I love. Even though I have promised myself and him that I would stop.

  “No,” I say. “Never.”

  We park two blocks away from the warehouse, a gray rectangular structure as long as a football field, as tall as a lighthouse. But no light emanates from this building. The exterior walls are rotting wood, moldy plaster, panes of glass so drenched in dust they could be squares etched on the walls of a coal mine. The surrounding fence is tall, barbed—a good stretch of wire on which to hang fresh corpses. Yet the occupants are more subtle than that, but not a lot more. Even from this distance I smell the decaying bodies they have ravaged inside, and I know the police and the FBI are seriously underestimating Los Angeles’s recent violent crime wave. The odor of the yakshini, the snakes from beyond the black vault of the universe, also wafts from the building. I estimate a dozen vampires inside. But is Eddie one of them? And how many of his partners presently walk the streets? Vicious dogs wander the perimeter. They look well fed.

  “Do you have a plan?” Ray asks.

  “Always.”

  “I want to be part of it.”

  I nod. “You realize the danger.”

  “I just have to look in the mirror, sister.”

  I smile. “We have to burn this building down with all of them inside. To do that we need large quantities of gasoline, and the only way we are going to get that is to steal a couple of gasoline trucks from a nearby refiner
y.”

  “With our good looks and biting wit, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “Indeed. The hard part will come when we try to plant our trucks at either end of the building and ignite them. First we’ll have to cut the fence, so we can drive in unobstructed, and to do that we will have to silently kill all the dogs. But I think I can take them out from this distance using a silencer on one of my rifles.”

  Ray winces. “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes. Better a few dead dogs than the end of humanity. The main thing is, we must attack after dawn, when they’re all back inside and feeling sleepy. That includes our prize policymaker—Eddie.”

  “I like to take a nap at that time myself,” Ray remarks.

  I speak seriously. “You are going to have to be strong with the sun in the sky, and drive one of the trucks. I know that won’t be easy for you. But if all goes well, you can seek shelter immediately afterward.”

  He nods. “Sounds like a piece of cake.”

  “No. It’s a baked Alaska.” I study the structure and nod. “They’ll burn.”

  Yet my confidence is a costume. The previous night, when I stared into Eddie’s eyes, he seemed insane, but also shrewd. The ease with which we have found him and his people disturbs me. The stage is set for a snuff film, big time. But I have to wonder who is directing the show. Whether it will go straight onto the front pages of the Los Angeles Times. Or end up buried in film, in Eddie’s private collection.

  NINE

  We crouch in the shadows two blocks down the street from the warehouse as I load my high-powered rifle, especially equipped with laser-guided scope and fat silencer. At our backs are two gasoline trucks, with two huge tankers hooked on to each one. We didn’t even have to go to a refinery to steal them. Leaving the ghetto, we just spotted the blasted things heading toward the freeway. I accidentally pulled in front of one and got my car slightly damaged. Both drivers climbed out, and I started screaming at them. How dare you ruin my brand-new car! I just bought it! Man, you are going to pay big time!

  Then I smacked their heads together and took the keys. I figure they should be waking up soon, in the Dumpster where I dropped them. Ray helped me drive one of the tankers back to the warehouse. For once, he seemed to be enjoying himself—the thrill of the hunt. Then the sun came up. Since that time, fifteen minutes ago, he has been hiding under a blanket and wiping at his burning eyes. He doesn’t complain, though. He never does.