Blood Lite

by Jim Butcher

The Jag hurtled through an orange light and zoomed past the fountain in Echo Park. The fountain was on, spewing colored water the city really could not afford; but when you lived in Echo Park, you needed a little lift.

  The drug dealers hanging around the fountain turned and stared in astonishment as Angelo zoomed back. Big hats, bling, sweatshirts, .357s. They glowered at the Jag, which was stupid because dudes in Jags could be customers. But a serial killer was after their bitches and sistahs, so long faces were probably more appropriate than signs that read buy your shit here.

  Angelo made a choking sound. Then he threw back his head and started laughing as he cranked the wheel and started circling the fountain.

  "Okay, truth time. But you already know I sent you that message as a test," Angelo said. "Because I thought you told Carla M."

  Dwight stared at him. Horror and relief washed through him like wave upon wave of pastel dancing waters. It was a joke! A horrible example of terrible judgment, and so unbelievably mean and cruel, and God, he was pissed,

  and—

  "What? he said to Angelo. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because you like her. You want to get into her pants." "Dude, you have kurukuru," Dwight said. Then he hit rewind. "And don't try to push this thing onto me. Jesus, you told Bob V. What the hell were you thinking?"

  Angelo looked unrepentant. "I wanted to get better. You don't get better if you're not rigorously honest. He was my sponsor. We did the Fifth Step at Malibu: Confessed to God, ourselves, and another human being the exact nature of our wrongs."

  "Get better? At what? Dying by lethal injection?" Dwight shouted.

  "Bob V. is dead," Angelo reminded him. "Having a sponsor is like going to confession. They can't tell anybody jack."

  "Priests can go to the police if it will solve a murder case," Dwight bellowed. "We just saw that on CSI."

  "Stop freaking out. I was raised Catholic," Angelo said with a toss of his brand-new curls. "You're wrong."

  The Jag was still circling the fountain. The localz were standing up, watching, fishing in their sweatshirts, probably for unregistered weapons. Angelo gazed thoughtfully at them.

  "I want something," he said. "Meth or I don't know what." He giggled. "Blow. It's the other white meat."

  And it was then, and only then, that Dwight realized that Angelo was already higher than a kite. He must have toked up or tanked up or shot up sometime during their creative Big Picture evening of Artistic Choices.

  That was allowable. Dwight had shot up, too. In fact, he was probably higher than Angelo right now, because of the adrenaline racing through his body. He could feel

  his mind beginning to carom again, zinga-linging dangerously out of control.

  "I was worried you might tell Carla M. to impress her," Angelo said again. "You know you want her. And not just for dinner."

  And suddenly Dwight saw the real Big Picture: Telling. I Know Who Ate You Last Summer. Forget perms and screenwriters with tasty parts; Angelo was going to start one-upping him with the truth. He was going to break Rule Number One with the gusto of the parasitically infected. Already had, in fact.

  "You bastard!" he shouted at Angelo. Then who knew what possessed him, but he made a fist and slammed it against Angelo's temple. To his even greater surprise, Angelo's head slammed against the driver's side window, and the car roared straight for the fountain.

  "Shit!" Angelo yelled. "What the hell did you do that for?"

  I did it because you always humiliate me. I did it because you ate my girlfriend. I did it because if I don't do it to you, you're gonna do it to me.

  Dwight saw red. He saw blood. He grabbed the wheel with his left hand and dug in the glove compartment with his right. Got out their .357 Magnum and whammed it against Angelo's head as hard as he possibly could.

  Angelo slumped. His foot slid off the gas pedal. Dwight turned the wheel and they orbited the fountain like a ride at Disneyland.

  The gangbangers looked on in amazement. Bling gleamed in the moonlight. Teeth, too. It was not every night boyz in the hood watched two guys in a Jag making like Lindsay Lohan.

  Finally the car screamed sideways and stopped. The tires were smoking. Angelo was still unconscious.

  Dwight got out of the car, stomped around to the driver's side, opened the door, unbuckled Angelo, and dragged him out.

  "Hey!" he shouted at the desperado homeboys. "Hey, this dude killed that girl Maria!" He dug into the pocket of his tight leather pants and pulled out her ugly rhinestone LA County Fair necklace. He'd almost forgotten he'd ripped it off her neck after he'd bashed her head in with that very same .357 last Tuesday. And Ana-somebody-nobody, three weeks before that.

  "Check it out!" He shook the necklace at them. M-A-R-I-A. Stringy. Addicts so often were. "I found this on him! He killed her!"

  Faces black and brown looked at one another. Muttered. Someone purple-black and six-four started walking toward the car.

  And bald. He was bald! "Yeah! Bring it on! Payback!" Dwight flung down the necklace; it landed in the big gash in Angelo's head where the blood was pooling. Oh God, were those his brains? Eaten away by kurukuru?

  Dwight stepped over him, piled into the car, and blasted out of there. Drove like a crazy man. A crazy man with a big secret that he had told no one, not even Angelo. No One Knows. He called Carla M.

  "Hey," she said drowsily. She must be in bed. Ka-zoing! Dwight got hard.

  "Yeah, hi. Angelo said he forgot something at your house. Okay if I come and get it for him?"

  "Oh? Sure," she said. "What is it?"

  "His emotional throughline," he replied. Then he hung up.

  Laugh, cry? Plow the car into that oncoming retaining wall?

  So many artistic choices, so little—

  time.

  Bitches of the Night

  Nancy Kilpatrick

  "Dis night, you vill take two each, a male and a female. And dis time, no AB negative!"

  Istvan hated using the cheesy English-with-a-Transylvania accent. Sure, he'd been born in Transylvania, but his family had moved to what was now called Romania. He'd tried to teach these women his language—Romanian— but they were all too thick to learn. And although each spoke English, and their native tongue, of course, nothing worked as well at controlling them as the Englvanian. And Satan knew, they were hard enough to control. He felt lucky he'd stumbled on even one trick, which seemed to excite them sexually. At least when they were aroused they weren't thinking about wrestling power from his hands. They were perverse in the extreme, and he had to stay on top of his game or he was doomed; no wonder he felt perpetually exhausted! When was the last time he'd had a good day's rest?

  "Am I understood?" he bellowed, Bela Lugosi-style, accompanied by Lugosi hand gestures.

  The three females cowered, or two of them anyway. For the last century or so, he hadn't deluded himself that it was in- real terror, but at least they played the game.

  Sephora, the Spanish one, so voluptuous and juicy, the one who refused to cower, cocked her pretty head, dark eyes flashing, and positioned her fists on her ample hips. "Master, let me take two females. She can take two men." She jerked her head toward the willowy Celine, the French one, who arched a pencil-thin eyebrow and pouted her full lips until the tip of one snowy fang glistened against the crimson of that sensuous mouth.

  "You think I want to take the men?" Celine snapped. " Tabernace!" she shouted, a Quebecois curse word that had something to do with a church. "They are puny in this city. Their balls shriveled and their cocks hungry like a moose's snot."

  They all stared at Celine blankly. Istvan wished she'd stop using those indecipherable and obscure French expressions. Her language skills were pathetic.

  Morgana, of Celtic origins, or so she claimed, always the impatient one, tossed back her long fiery hair and hissed at Celine. Celine clawed the air in Morgana's direction. Sephora cackled, a sound like fingernails on a blackboard.

  Istvan's shoulders tensed. He felt a headache forming at
his frontal lobes. They were driving him nuts! "Enough, bitches! I haf no time for your constant bickerings! I am busy man!"

  "But Master," Sephora purred, moving close, and he

  became wary.

  She smiled up at him and batted her eyes flirtatiously.

  This was better. He snaked an arm around her waist. "Yes, my luf?" He cupped her chin.

  "Master," she breathed seductively into his ear, "you are no longer a man."

  And then the bitch cackled in his ear, so loud that headache pain flashed through his brain like lightning. The other two joined in. He shoved the Spanish bitch away, but that only made her laugh more.

  "Poor Master," Morgana said, trying to run her hand up the hairs of his chest where his shirt was open to the navel and the gold chains dangled. He hated it when she did that, making him nearly lose it every time, and he knocked her claw away. "Are there not still kisses for all?" she went on sarcastically. "You said so yourself."

  Great, he thought, now she's quoting from Dracula! Soon she'd be acting out a vampire-bride role from one of those stupid Nosferatu movies she runs continuously on the DVD player. She actually spent a thousand of his hard-earned dollars on a white wedding dress with a frilly lizard-neck ruff that imitated what Lucy wore in Coppola's Bram Stoker's Dracula. Would it never end?

  How in hell did he ever get hooked up with these three? Each had seemed like a good idea at the time. He remembered fondly "acquiring" them one by one, turning them from the light toward the darkness, from day to night. He had loved each, in his way, according to who they were as individuals, their special beauty and unique talents. He'd spent much time and energy and had given considerable blood to change them. But all too soon they succumbed to what appeared to be the fate of the females of his kind—intense viciousness fueled by vindictiveness.

  And, unfortunately, familiarity did breed contempt and he was their main victim, or would be, if he let that happen.

  He could see now he'd made a mistake, making three. One he could control. Two he could manage. Three . . . they had ganged up and nearly overpowered him!

  "We want to go to the Vampire Lounge," Celine whined, her black eyes flashing, her newly bleached pony-tail that hung to her waist swaying seductively.

  Sephora's brown eyes twinkled, and the fun lover tossed her long black hair back over her bare shoulders.

  Morgana's blue eyes narrowed into cool agates. She folded her arms across her pert bosom. "Chicken again? We just had that last night!"

  "Sweet eighteen and all fake fangs," Sephora said.

  "Well, at least they are tasty!" Celine snarled. "And they can still get it up!"

  Did she just glance at him? The impertinence! She turned her head toward him full-face and smiled sweetly. Maybe he'd imagined it. But it was one of the huge drawbacks of their vampiric state. The females could still enjoy copulation, but Istvan could no longer function up to speed.

  "They're salty, too," Sephora added. "They sweat when they drink so much beer." She licked her thick lips, flicking just the tip of her tongue around an incisor—he loved that tongue in his ear! It aroused him, or would have, if he still had an appendage that could be aroused.

  "They swing like a monkey's finger from cheesecloth over a warm lake," Celine said dreamily.

  Istvan blinked in incomprehension just before pain blasted his head anew. He turned toward the window, wishing he could either catch his reflection in the glass or turn into a bat and fly away. A rest or a change. He'd give his eyeteeth—well, one anyway—for either. But all he saw was the empty parlor. No reflection of him. He had no fear that he wasn't there, though—he could hear the three airheads chattering incessantly like crows at dawn.

  He glanced around the room as he saw it reflected. The Spanish wrought-iron screen, the French chaise longue, the antique Irish bellows and other fireplace implements ... something for everyone. Anything to keep them happy and the bitching to a minimum! Maintaining such a large house and an extravagant style that would appease proved costly, not to mention the yearly moves to a new city—he'd been wise to invest money in various airlines for nearly a century. But they were insatiable when it came to makeup, hair treatments, manicures and pedicures and facials and massages, jewelry and fancy outfits, expensive restaurants where they ate no food, and theaters where they could be seen—it's a wonder they hadn't bankrupted him! Celine was tall and slim with feline grace, Sephora short, full-figured and emotive, Morgana in the middle with tight curves and high pert breasts, plus a quick wry wit. Their tastes, they'd informed him often enough, were distinctive—although they all usually dressed like Elvira clones—and they had assured him it was impossible to wear the same clothing more than once. Naturally it took them until midnight to dress—every closet and drawer was stuffed with black fabric and evening after evening he watched them toss piles of designer clothing onto the middle of the floor, searching for a particular piece. They didn't bother picking anything up, which forced him to do it because he had been cursed by being born to his mortal life a double Virgo and then being turned when the moon was in Virgo, and he needed order. And demon knew, a century and a half of nagging had not altered their messy habits. If anything, they were worse than ever. He couldn't find a surface unmarked by makeup the color of fresh blood or dead roaches!

  They were still bickering, now about who would get to go first tonight. Morgana was asserting her rights, as the first turned.

  Sephora said, "Well, you are the oldest."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Morgana snapped, eyes narrowing.

  "You are the old bat!" Celine snarled out a laugh.

  "At least I have style!" Morgana shouted. "You two are worse than hags."

  "Oh, we're hags!" Sephora responded snidely. "At least I don't try to wear microminis up around my fangs!"

  Celine was applying black kohl to her eyelids. "That is because, cherie, they do not sew them in your size!"

  "And they don't make men in your size!" Sephora snapped. "Except what's on ten-year-old boys!"

  Celine hissed. Sephora threw a black pillow at her, that the svelte Celine ducked. Morgana draped yet a seventh Celtic crucifix backed by a copper plate around her swan-like neck and poked a fourth copper-backed cross earring through the lobe of her left ear. Somehow she had learned this—"Druid," as she called it—trick of wearing crosses without harming herself, although everyone else in the room had to endure the violent light they emitted. Istvan turned away from her to protect himself.

  Wearily, he wondered how many more centuries it would take before they drove him completely insane. The true death was looking better and better. Was there a way to get rid of them and recover the peace and quiet he longed for?

  "I am hungry!" he shouted. A rerun of The X Files would be on in ten minutes and he wanted to get the pint he'd socked away, plop in front of the tube and relax until close to dawn, when they would come scuttling in, shrieking, drunk on too much vitae and more obnoxious than ever.

  "Be gone!" he shouted, raising his arm dramatically and pointing to the door. Getting them moving always took so much energy.

  The three backed out of the room submissively like vapors receding in a cheap horror flick. They loved theatrics. The door slammed and he heard them laugh derisively on the other side, but at least they had vanished from his sight. He watched out the window until he saw them depart the house giggling, arguing, touching one another like the whores they were, leaving the garden gate open, of course. Then they disappeared around the corner.

  He took a deep breath and felt peace wash over him. Tonight, for the millionth time, he contemplated just leaving. But they would find him. Like iron filing to a magnet, the vampirized always found the creator. He would have found his if she hadn't met the ultimate fate. Another breath turned into a sigh of resignation.

  It was hard now to remember his plan, and he'd had a plan. Once. Something to do with making existence easier, more fulfilling. Take three women, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead—he reall
y should buy shares in Clairol!—turn them into submissive vampiresses, have them go out and hunt and then, when they came home, he could extract all he needed from each. A bit of fondling whenever he was in the mood___Wasn't that every male vampire's dream? But

  the dream had quickly disintegrated into a nightmare. He hadn't anticipated that problems would develop because he could no longer perform sexually while they still possessed functioning equipment. And he had not bargained on them forming a unit and turning against him. If he were not an honorable man, or a reasonable facsimile of a man, he would have abandoned them long ago and taken his chances, fleeing as they pursued until they, hopefully, gave up the search. But he had made promises—of which they were only too eager to remind him—and he intended to live up to his commitments, even if it killed him, which it just might. I will love you until the true death and beyond! What a fool he had been to say that to each of them!

  He opened his coffin and felt under the satin along the false bottom until he found the little indentation. He then pressed the button and a panel slid open. He reached inside the tiny refrigerated box for the Hellmann's jar of O positive. His fingertips slid along the cold metal. It must be here somewhere; the hidden compartment wasn't that large. But after feeling around for a few seconds, then tearing away the satin so his nocturnal vision could confirm what his hand already knew, he faced the grim reality— the blood was gone. It, as well as the double metal box that contained half a dozen consecrated wafers he kept for emergencies—he never knew when he'd have to stop one of his "brides" cold.

  Damn those bitches! They had stolen his blood! And his wafers! Rage boiled in his empty veins. He trembled and regaining control of himself proved to be a struggle. He knew it was Sephora—she was always sneaking around, prying into his things, meddling. . . . Well, when she got home there would be hell to pay! She would be severely punished! Black thoughts streaked through his mind in images of what he would do to the perpetrator. The tortures he would inflict. She had gone too far this time. No, he would not tolerate this!