The king talked for a moment, casually, but his hands were gesturing. A knight came forward, pulling his broadsword. The king gave a sharp jerk of his head and at the same time snapped his fingers at the gateway. It disappeared as the sword was coming down.
I didn’t know whether to be jubilant or disgusted.
I held up my arm again and it seemed nearly as transparent as the last time. Whatever makes up a ghost, I had once again come close to losing it all.
“Brownie…” Keiko said.
“I know; I don’t look so good.”
“You should return to the lamp charm. Long and I will take care of the rest.”
“Guess I don’t have much choice.” And I didn’t, so I closed my eyes.
* * * *
As far as I know, ghosts don’t sleep.
When I became conscious, the phone was ringing. After a moment, I realized it was my office phone. I was at my desk. The lamp charm was on its chain, lying on the blotter. I stared at it while the phone continued to ring. After about the fifteenth ring I figured it wasn’t going to stop, so I answered it.
“Brownie!”
At the sound of Keiko’s voice, everything that had happened crowded into my mind and I felt tipsy.
“I’m back,” I said.
“You are back,” she answered. A pause then, “How are you?”
I pulled a small mirror out of my desk drawer and looked at myself. Same hair, same eyes, same clothes I had died in. Best of all, I looked fairly solid.
“I’m mostly here,” I told her. There was another pause.
“I am so happy,” she said.
“How long have I been gone?”
“Just two days this time.”
I snorted. “Don’t say that like it’s going to be something that happens regularly.”
“Hai.”
“Hey—the phone rang a lot. Were you expecting me to answer?”
“No. I hoped…that is, it was the first time I had left the office since…I mean…I had a feeling that today would be the day that…”
I could almost see the her blush over the phone.
“A feeling, huh?”
“I am capable of them.” Now she was back on solid ground.
“About Wright and what happened—Is everything sorted?”
“Excuse me? Oh—yes. Long walked me back to the Mission and Martha Sue took over from there. Mr. Long is back in the woodwork and Colonel Wright has been returned to the hospital.”
“What about the coin?”
“Colonel Wright’s employers have it, but it is just a coin now.”
The connection was noisy. “Where are you?”
“I am at the airport. Laslo is home.”
“Oh. Say hello to him for me. And ask him about my present.”
“He will be happy to hear you are back. We will both be over.”
“Alright. See you later, then.”
I hung up. The whole conversation had sounded normal. And nuts at the same time.
It was mid-morning according to the clock.
I turned on the television. Matinee Theatre was on. They were doing a version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare. Not my favorite, but it seemed oddly appropriate.
After thinking about it, I still didn’t know how I felt about the king killing the vampire. But I was fine with it being her instead of us.
She killed to get the dream she wanted and then found out it didn’t want her back.
I don’t know that I ever had a dream I’d kill for. But I did have something the vampire didn’t get—another day.
About Robyn Hugo McIntyre
Thursday nights, 8pm, NBC. For three years, I knew exactly where I would be at that time—watching Star Trek.
I wasn’t surprised when novels set in the ST universe began to be released; it seemed only natural. As it seemed natural for my best friend and I to write and tape our own scripts and aspire to become the next D.C. Fontana. From there it was again only natural to think about what other writers were doing—what they were conversing about—and answer with our own plots and our own characters.
Instead of becoming a screen writer or novelist though, I became a technical writer. My life took turns I never expected and it wasn’t until decades later and the advent of the Internet that I rediscovered fan fiction. I learned that, though there was a ton of drek with Mary Sues galore, there was some exceptionally good writing to be found if you looked hard. After the changes I had been through in recent times, finding favourite characters treated well was like coming home and inspired me in a desire to write again.
So here I am, in pursuit of the me I think I was always meant to be. I first recognized myself in the writings of others. Now I hope that others will find themselves in what I write.
Find me on Twitter (robynmcintyre), GoodReads (robynmcintyre) or talk writing with me at http://robynmcintyre.wordpress.com
TAKE MY BREATH AWAY, by Rusty Goode
The nausea passed, but the chills and dizziness made Julia burrow deeper into the bed covers while she waited for the small blue pill to work its feeble magic on her ravaged system. Night would be here soon, bringing the taunting coldness of a waning moon, its diminishing light a mocking reminder of her own daily slide into a greater darkness. Try as she might, she no longer had the will to do much during the day, including paint. And she knew she wouldn’t have the strength to go out many more times after dark, looking for the one who could give her the only cure left open to her. She would either find him tonight, or it would be too late. Blessed by the medication, she drifted into unconsciousness…only to be awakened, what seemed like moments later, by the shrill bleating of the alarm clock.
Fumbling for the off button, she pulled the clock a little closer. 11:30 P.M. Time for two white pills to keep the beast at bay; a shower and then a trip to the closet for the right outfit. Julia had been saving one special dress for just this occasion. Tonight, everything had to be perfect.
* * * *
The taxi let Julia out at the mouth of the alley just as the moon rose fully over the roof of the factory on the other side of the street. The pale gold orb was never kind, it didn’t rise to warm and nurture you like the sun. Its cold, mocking light chilled the darkness, promising nothing. She turned her back on it, holding her skirt away from the dirty, splattered passenger door as she paid the driver. The man hesitated as he took her money. “Are you sure this is where you want to go, miss? There’s nothing much happening in this neighborhood after dark. And you’ll have trouble finding a cab to take you home.”
“I’m sure,” Julia answered, frowning. What did one more risk matter at this point? “You don’t have to worry about me.”
Pulling a card out from under a rubber band that circled his visor, the cabbie handed it to her with her change. “That’s my cell phone number,” he said. “I’m on ’til 6 A.M. Call me if you need a ride back home.”
Julia tucked the card into her small evening purse. “Thanks,” she said. “I just might do that.”
Except for a faint blue glow coming from a light over an unmarked door at the end, the alley was a dark gauntlet of commercial refuse and fetid smells. Dumpsters lined one side and their contents reeked of spoiled food and other rancid waste awaiting its burial at sea. Julia felt the stirrings of nausea in the pit of her stomach. Not now! She thought. She’d deliberately eaten nothing since the crackers and cheese she’d had for lunch. An unexpected dash to the ladies room to throw up could spoil everything.
The door under the blue light was guarded by the usual bald-headed steroid case. Tattooed muscles bulged from a tight black leather vest and his eyes had the crazed jumpiness of a chronic ’roid addict. Julia held out her ten dollars and tried to project the required mix of sultry appeal and anorexic ennui. She could almost feel the bouncer’s eyeballs ping over her body as he worked through the decision of whether or not he was going to let her in.
Come on! Julia thought. She’d put a lot of effort into her “loo
k” tonight, obsessively checking and re-checking herself in the lobby mirror as she waited for the cab to arrive. Her eyes had looked particularly dark and haunting. The heavy mascara emphasized the gaunt pallor of her face, and the faint flush of fever across her cheeks made rouge unnecessary.
Finally, the bouncer jerked his thumb at the door behind him. Julia smiled—she’d known she wouldn’t be turned away. She was, after all, a genuine example of the walking dead.
Inside, the club was the usual sea of black curtains, velvet banquettes, gilt gargoyles, and glass-beaded lamps trying to pass as crystal. Sepulchral Goth music pumped a seductive rhythm through hidden speakers in the walls. No one was dancing on the black-painted floor in front of the bar.
Julia surveyed the dark booths along the walls. They were only half-filled, and except for a flash of white shirt, or the glint of candle light off cheap costume jewelry, the occupant’s clothing blended with the shabby black velvet upholstery making them hard to distinguish from the decor. She knew from experience that the rest of the booths would soon fill up with more self-styled children of the night, come to hover over drinks, trying hard to perfect a look of boredom, indifference, glamour, but really hoping to be noticed, envied, and mistaken for the immortal dead.
Julia’s dress set her off from the legions in black. She’d chosen it to emphasize what she had so rapidly become—pale, thin and insubstantial—a wraith whose time was running out. She touched the slim column of white organza, letting her fingers trail down the long skirt. Two months ago it had been too small; now it hung on her emaciated frame. As she left her building, she had covered her head and shoulders with a red silk shawl to protect herself from the chill of the night air, but now she let it fall back, exposing her throat and the slope of her small breasts where they showed themselves above the Empire bodice of her gown. She’d worn her Grandmother’s ruby drop and matching earrings as well. The earrings swung gently from her pierced ears, but the deep red ruby drop, on its fragile chain, sat in the hollow of her throat like one bright, perfect tear of blood, paused briefly on its downward journey toward the virgin whiteness of her dress.
Julia took a deep breath. The “children” wouldn’t hit their stride until one or two A.M., and then their depraved posturing would go on until dawn. Lies would be told, connections made, blood drunk, or traded for sex and drugs. It was a dark, twisted fantasy play, repeated nightly.
Poseurs! Julia thought bitterly. She’d been tricked by their clever lies before and suffered the results. A player wasn’t what she was after. The time for games was over—the stakes had become way too high.
She made her way to the bar. Wine would make her dizzy and quite possibly ill, but she ordered a glass of red. It was an expensive drink, but the wine itself was raw and astringent. As she brought the glass to her mouth its fumes seared her nostrils, and a tiny wave of caustic liquid lapped a burning line across her lips. She put it back down on the napkin the bartender had set in front of her and sighed.
Someone slid onto the stool next to her. A familiar hand topped by a black velvet sleeve reached out to grasp her fingers and raise them to full, moist lips in a parody of chivalrous politesse. “Juliet, ma chere,” a voice murmured, “how lovely to see you.”
Julia turned slightly and retrieved her damp hand. My luck, she thought; Renfield lives. Out loud she said, “Dennis. I thought this club was too ‘downtown’ for you.”
The faux-French voice turned whiny. “I’ve told you, it’s Alain when I’m out like this!” Alain preened as he watched his reflection in the dark mirror behind the bar, confirming Julia’s opinion that Dennis was always his own, best audience. “And one must make the rounds to keep up,” he added lightly.
“Still looking for your one, true vampire?” he asked. When Julia didn’t respond he whispered slyly, “I have someone who’s dying to meet you. I told him you were a famous artiste.”
“Go away, Dennis,” Julia said. “I’m not in the mood for one of your Lestat look-alikes tonight.”
“Your loss, sweetie.” Dennis flashed his custom-made fangs and smoothed his dyed, black hair one more time before sliding off the stool. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
In the quiet moment after Dennis made his departure, Julia noticed the man at the end of the bar.
He sat in the corner, where one side of the L shaped bar met the wall, out of the flow of traffic and beyond where he would be reflected in the mirror. Dressed in a plain, slightly rumpled black suit and a white, open collared shirt the man had an air of tawdry elegance. Unfashionably long, dark hair concealed most of his face from Julia’s view. He seemed to be peering with great concentration into a glass of amber liquid, as he rotated it slowly between long, graceful fingers. The skin of his hands was so pale that it almost glowed. She held her breath.
Could this actually be what she’d hoped for, at last? The one she’d sought all these months?
Now she was afraid to move—as if any motion on her part would startle him, and he’d be off like a deer sensing a hunter in the meadow. A moment of excruciating length passed, and then without giving him another glance, Julia carefully picked up her wine and moved around the corner of the bar to sit on the stranger’s side, two stools away. She stared into space, fingers tight on the stem of her glass, and prayed that she could think of the right thing to say.
The stranger saved her the trouble.
“What do you want?” His voice sounded like a melody he rarely played.
“To meet you,” Julia said, still not looking in his direction.
“I just came in for a drink. I don’t want to ‘meet’ anyone.”
“I’m surprised the bouncer let you in,” Julia spoke to her wine glass. “They expect a certain kind of look in these clubs.”
The man gave a mirthless laugh. “I’ve never had a problem being invited in, and I wouldn’t be caught undead looking like these silly children.” He dismissed them with a glance. “Anne Rice should be burned at the stake.” He took a drink and held the glass up to let the light shine through the warm brown liquor. “Lovely,” he said. And then to Julia, “You’re not drinking your wine.”
“Wine doesn’t appeal to me anymore,” Julia answered. “I’m looking for something else.”
Finally, he looked over at her. “You’re ill.” This was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, very.” She began her desperate bid. “I have Leukemia. It was in remission, but now it’s back and none of the treatments are working. My time is running out.” She met his eyes, they were dark and without pity, “and I don’t want to die.”
“I can’t help you with that.” The stranger turned his attention back to his drink.
“Yes, yes you can.” Julia moved onto the stool next to him. “I want to become like you. I’d do anything for that!”
“It looks like you’ve already tried.” He ran a cool finger down the bruising and puncture marks on Julia’s neck. The chill touch goose-fleshed her arms, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation.
“They lied to me.” Desperation rose in her voice. “They weren’t real.” A sweep of her arm encompassed the room. “They just wanted…other things. But you…you are real, aren’t you? You’re truly one of them. You can save me. Make me live forever!”
“I don’t do that,” the vampire said. “Not anymore.”
“Why not?” Julia clutched at his sleeve. “I’ll give you whatever you want! You can do things to me. Anything.”
He made no response.
“Or I can pay you.” She scrabbled in her small evening bag and dropped a wrinkled handful of bills onto the bar. “I don’t have much money but I can get more.”
“I don’t want your money,” the vampire said impatiently. Then he considered his now empty glass. “Well…maybe just enough for another drink.” He signaled the bartender and stirred the pile of bills with his fingers, pushing the right denomination toward the inside edge of the bar. When the drink came he picked it up, took Julia�
��s glass of wine in his other hand, and led her to an empty booth in a dark corner.
“You don’t want to be like me,” he said, settling back on the banquette.
“But I do! I’ve thought about this for a long time. Ever since I heard there really were…people like you here in the city. My treatment isn’t working. My options are gone. I’m young and I don’t want to die! You see, I’ve just… I’m a painter. The New York Times said I was a rising star, and then this happened… I don’t even have the energy to hold a brush anymore, and that’s always been the most important thing in my life. Don’t you see that I need more time? Time I was supposed to have. I still have so many things to do.” She held her thin arms out to him, as if the prominence of her bones would make the argument for her. “Surely your kind of existence is better than this kind of death!”
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” the vampire said. “You think my existence is like this pitiful charade?” He gestured at the young men in their black velvet and leather, and the girls with their dyed black hair and flowing gowns. “These are children playing dress-up! To them it’s romantic and dangerous. They dream of suicide and immortality, and it makes their juices flow. Not one of them would last twenty-four hours as a vampire.”
“I’m not like them,” Julia pleaded. “I only came here to find someone like you and ask for help. You could teach me what I need to know to be an, an…immortal. I’d do whatever you say.”
“Not an immortal, child,” the vampire hissed. “Immortality is for the living. A Vampire is just death with an appetite! And what would my lessons be? That you should be content to walk in the shadows while others walk in the sunlight? That it’s only normal to crave the taste of blood? That it’s highly probable you’ll hunt down people you used to love and devour them like a ravening, mindless beast? And what will you care? The soul you forfeit is just a useless appendage; you’ll hardly miss it. Is this the ‘life’ you want? It’s better to die your mortal death and be done with it!”
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