by Ian Hall
I began to cry. But not tears of pain, tears of joy.
I looked at Amos and his henchmen; Valérie included, and knew that I stood above them and their petty earthly dealings.
I raised no objection when they led me away. They drove me back to Amos’s house along the snowy roads at a frantic pace, but fear never entered my mind.
I raised no hand in defense as they punished me that night, or the subsequent others.
They tried to force me to drink human blood, but I refused. They even poured it down my throat by force, and I threw it back up at them. The beatings were so bad, I thought I’d die, but vampire bones fix much quicker than humans’. Every morning, I’d be whole again, ready for another round.
Every night for two months, Amos drank of Valérie’s blood, vampire feeding from vampire. And every night, he did it right in front of me. For the first week she stood defiant, then she gradually became quieter, sullen, until at last, she lay little more than a husk. On the sixty-first night, Amos fed from her supine form for the last time. As he sunk his teeth into her throat, Valérie finally died, crumbling into dust onto the cell floor.
At her death, I felt nothing, but I rose from the room, and slowly walked to my room.
I knew enough about vampire ‘beholding’ to know that technically I’d been freed.
Donnie Kelp had been released from Valérie’s spell.
The next morning, darting past the usual football guards, with my new ID still in my back pocket, Jackson Cole ran.
And I ran as a vampire, blinding speed, the towns passing by me in droves.
At first I could hear the jocks behind me, their panting echoing my own, but they didn’t have my incentive, my will to survive.
After an hour of running, I found no pursuit in sight, but I kept going. The country passed as a blur, until I realized that the landscape had completely changed.
In place of the chilly February Pennsylvania morning lay a desert sunrise. I felt the warm sands under my blistered feet.
I had run until the soles of my shoes were worn away.
In surprise and wonder I found myself looking at colored desert sands and distant mountains. Donny Kelp had died, left behind in Pennsylvania. I felt in my pocket for my new identity, the driver’s license that Valérie had given me, seemingly so long ago, and knew Jackson Cole was never going to be bothered by Amos Blanche again.
(And now back to Valérie’s story (Original Sin) to close this section.)
Amos announced his new drive for power as his ‘crusade’, but having seen his previous attempts, I moved my attentions in one direction – getting out from under Amos’s jackboot.
For some time I had known of the ability to make men see what I wanted them to; almost a hypnotic capacity which I had honed for some time.
When I sided with Donny against Amos, and he took my blood nightly, I knew my time had come.
It took me sixty-one days to disguise my physical state to the degree of atrophy I needed for my biggest deception. From day one, as Amos drank from my neck, I held back some of my strength. By the end of the second week, I feigned half strength, but actually grew in both power and vitality.
As Amos drank each night, he reveled in his supposed triumph, and allowed the chinks in his armor that I needed; cracks that let my veil cover his eyes, those dull conceited eyes. I wept inside for Donny, forced to witness my apparent destruction, but I knew that I needed the partnership between Amos and Donny to be complete for me to put my plan into action.
Each night I clenched the muscles in my neck tighter, stymying the flow of blood to his lips. By the end of the month, hardly a trickle passed into Amos’s mouth, but still he sucked, trying to drain me.
Each night, as Amos reveled, his gaze locked to Donny’s, I clouded his eyes more, my control over him becoming stronger. Sometimes as he nuzzled my artery for more, he came so close that I could breathe directly up his inflamed nostrils, my power growing each day. Not that I ever thought I could defeat the man in a straight fight, I just needed his eyes to be elsewhere when I performed for the final night. I needed Donny to play his part. I needed the performances of a lifetime.
On the sixty-first night, Donny leant close to our embrace, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, his skin a deathly grey. I knew that this would be the evening of my escape.
I breathed into Amos’s face, then did the same to Donny. “I die.” I said repeatedly. “I crumble to dust.” I whispered softly. Their attention seemed so rapt on my declining condition, neither heard me. “I crumble to dust.” I gave a gasp, then fell limp in Amos’s grasp. “I crumble to dust.”
With every fiber of my being, I thrust the image of my body crumbling into their minds.
Amos stood up, letting me fall to the wooden floor. Donny gave a gasp of disgust, and stalked from the room in a dark temper. For a moment Amos looked down at me, and I held my breath, too frightened to move. Then he shrugged and walked away, the footsteps in the hall getting quieter as he returned to his den.
For minutes I lay in silence, not entirely convinced that I’d gotten away with it and deceived the old man. I listened with all my might, but the dull chorus of the horns of faraway trains proved the only sound, their long plaintive tones announcing my victory.
I allowed myself the beginnings of a smile; I’d achieved success over one of the oldest vampires alive.
I silently got to my feet, and crept to the door, stealing a look out into the corridor. The dark hallway beckoned, and my feet took to the left, away from Amos’s room. I couldn’t take the chance of saying a proper goodbye to Donny, but silently wished him well, and with a trembling hand, gripped the handle of the main door.
In a second I stood outside.
South.
In a minute I passed out of the main streets of town, and racing down the street. The setting sun lay on my right, and I kept it there as I did fifty miles without stopping.
Looking for Romanian vampire in Miami proved a simple enough task, we do have the keenest of senses, and we also emit a subtle musky aroma. In two days I located the man who had drowned me in the bathtub. He seemed to be the owner of a small Romanian restaurant. Small round tables, covered in white and red checkered cloths, filled the room.
The room was busy, but he noticed me immediately. He weaved past the tables and sat opposite me. His dark features held no trace of feeling, but his brown eyes bore into mine. “What brings you to Miami?”
I smiled, trying to keep my emotions under check. This man had killed me once, and by the look of the attentive staff, he expected some kind of trouble. “I thought I’d catch some sun. You know, it gets kinda wet in Philly.” I extended my hand over the table. “My name is Valérie Marneffe Berthier Lidowitz.”
His brows furrowed slightly. “A mouthful indeed.” He shook my hand carefully, his grip loose and wary. “Gheorghe Kovács. I run things down here. You can call me Georgie.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I smiled.
“Did Amos send you?”
My smile deepened. “Let’s just say Amos and I no longer see eye to eye.”
“But you are beholden to him; he turned you.”
“I was a vampire from the moment I was born,” I said, clasping my fingers together on the bright tablecloth. “I was never beholden to him, or any other.”
And thus we end this small glimpse into Valérie’s story, the full version of which you can read in Vampires Don’t Cry: Original Sins.
In the full two-voiced novel, Ian writes as Theresa Scholes, a new vampire in Amos’s cadre. April writes as Valérie Lidowitz.
Not only are they taken into a new world of vampire training, but they also must face their old boss… Amos blanche.
We hope you buy and enjoy.
Now, from the days of 1958 -59, we fast forward you to the present day, with the first four chapters of Vampire High School. Alan Rand has been forced to change his name to Alan McCartney, and is living in Gregor, Arizona.
The Vis
iting Cheerleader
(Present Day, Gregor, Arizona.)
It all started on Friday evening; football night.
The first high school game of the season, the excitement ran high, and there were kids milling around everywhere. The visitors, nearby Everton High, hadn’t arrived in numbers yet, so the area was a sea of white and crimson. Flags, jackets, shirts, balloons; we had it all. The Gregor Academy marching band rehearsed near the main entrance, doing dips and the well-rehearsed shimmies, the final practice before taking to the field at the start of the game.
I knew my best friend, Alan McCartney, marched somewhere in the middle; he’s first clarinet. Great guy, he’s got a bunch of the greatest friends, and he plays clarinet and guitar. Girls melt at his feet most of the time. Everyone wished they were Alan.
I’ve known him for just over a year.
The school band wears white with burgundy trimmings, (Mrs. McCartney always complained about washing Alan’s uniform) and the white uniforms shone like fresh snow in the early floodlights. I stood, waiting for the cheerleaders who normally followed the band; I mean, a guy’s got to have some entertainment in his life.
The band turned, doing a boogie version of the school’s anthem, (Go Hawks!) when the music slowly fizzled to silence. The band began to run in all directions, like someone let off the stink bomb of a lifetime. The musicians evaporated from the center out, and I just watched in fascination as some stampeded towards me to safety.
I jumped up on a low wall and clung one-handed to the black lamppost like that guy in “Singing in the Rain.”
When the rout died, standing alone on the concrete were Alan and a visiting cheerleader, in a way too tight embrace.
Snogging like dervishes.
Well, at first I thought they were kissing. She had her back to me, and I couldn’t see much of anything at all.
(I heard later that she marched with him, holding his hand down her top; so he wasn’t playing much clarinet. Then she got kinda passionate and started to drill his neck).
So there they were, standing in a crazy, tight embrace. She had one hand rubbing his crotch, while she feverishly chewed at his neck. This chick had the cutest butt you’ve ever seen, long blond hair - everything a guy could want. And her butt wiggled as she munched on my best friend’s neck.
I began to get a wee bit jealous, when I suddenly knew something wasn’t quite right. In fact, it felt as wrong as it could possibly be.
Alan dropped his clarinet - his pride and joy. His folks had paid a fortune for it.
The ebony tip hit the concrete with a loud ‘popping’ sound, and shattered, sending shards of black wood and silver parts in all directions.
Then the cheerleader turned around to face me. Her mouth and lips were covered in blood, and her teeth shone a bright white. As she turned, I saw Alan’s neck. Man, no matter what stain fighter Mrs. McCartney used, she wasn’t getting that color out in a hurry.
“Mandy,” I hissed, remembering her once visiting the school. I didn’t know her full name, but I knew they had an off-and-on thing going on.
My best friend’s white tunic hung in shreds from his bare shoulder, and a mass of the deepest red spread from his neck to his balls. The blood stain got worse as my mouth opened, and arcs of deep ochre pumped rhythmically from his neck, the dark red pulses flashing in the spotlights.
“Help!” I roared, but it did more harm than good. Hearing my cry, Mandy let Alan go, and he fell to the ground like an empty suit.
Mandy caught my stare and flashed me a fleshy-bloody grin, then ran off as fast as her pretty legs would go.
Man, her tits bounced real good.
Yeah, I know I’m going to take some ribbing for that observation, but there are a few facts to learn before jumping to the wrong conclusions about me.
My name is Lyman George Bracks, but due to a mop of shaggy ginger hair, everyone calls me ‘Red’.
It’s the ultimate teenage curse; worse than zits or halitosis. Yeah. Laugh now, but you don’t have to deal with it every day.
I do.
I know I’m destined to never get to first base with any girl anywhere, because they’ve already been warned off by their friends for even thinking about dating a ‘ginge.’
Yeah, laugh.
So, yes, I did check out Mandy’s tits as she ran away.
I waited ‘til the last of the retreating bandsmen had passed, then I ran to Alan’s side. I knelt down on the grey stone and lifted his body onto my lap. The blood still pumped from his neck, but not with as much pressure as before, and I knew that wasn’t a good thing. I looked around, and gasped; so much blood already spread outwards from his body onto the concrete. I put my fingers on the wound, and pressed as hard as I could. Despite my pressure, it still surged through my fingers.
“You’ll need replacing in the band,” I joked through my tears. “When your throat’s ripped out by a visiting cheerleader, you’re not likely to be returning to the Gregor Academy marching band. At least not anytime soon.”
Go Hawks!
I thought of the opponents from Everton High, a town ten miles west.
I lifted my eyes to see the crowd gathering round me. A hundred cell phones were dialing 9-1-1. My voice trembled. “Man, this is going to put an edge on the age-old rivalry.”
Hi. My name’s Mandy. Mandy Cross.
Being a vampire’s not necessarily all fun and games. Sometimes it kinda sucks. Pun intended. First of all - you’re technically dead. Secondly - you have to eat your friends. Thirdly - after a couple snack attacks, you don’t have too many friends left. Least not the human ones.
And if that’s not bad enough - then to be a vampire and have your unbeating heart ripped right out of your chest, thrown to the ground and marched over by some fanged Don Juan…
If you’re buying into that fire crotch’s BS about Alan being all Mr. Wonderful, then you’re just as lame as he is. Pick up Gregor Academy (Vampire High), turn it upside down, and shake. Not one of the jerk-offs that falls out will know the real Alan McCartney like I did.
The guy was a total douche.
And he had it coming. If you just skip over all the chapters written by that effing red-headed retard, I’ll tell you the for-real story. Of course, if you like being a loser, then skip my parts and listen to the Ginger-bred Man, the King of Loser-Town.
BTW—he totally checked out my rack as I ran away. What a geek.
Last summer turned out to be a very rough time for me.
I should have been a senior at Everton High this year; the school for regular kids; the ones who haven’t been forced to drink vampire blood, killed, and then came back to life.
Like I said…last summer was not a good time. I’d spent my junior year being all into this total jock named Craig. I was seriously in love with this guy; we did it and everything. But, as soon as summer hit, he hooked up with some other chick and like, totally just blew me off.
BTW- that other chick just happened to be my BFF, Cami. Spoiler alert: Cami is now fish food.
That was one of the things so totally awesome about getting in with a real-live vampire. Alan was all, “You don’t have to take s-h-i-t from anyone; your soul is already gone, so it’s not like you can go to Hell or anything.”
But, it’s not like I just went, “Oh, cool. I’ll become a vamp so I can tear out Cami’s throat.” In fact, it took a long time for me to make that decision. Not that Alan didn’t work overtime to try and convince me it was worth the gross blood-sucking and even getting bitten. Seriously - that dude was so stoked up on plasma half the time, who knows if he really believed what he said.
His VH buddy’s gonna try to tell you Alan was all cool and stuff, such a nice vampire and wouldn’t hurt anybody. Like I said before, though, I’m the one who really knew him. He’d jump through my bedroom window at two in the morning and have red Kool-Aid stains all over his face. Except it wasn’t red Kool-Aid. We pretended, so I wouldn’t totally hurl. But, for real, it was… feline blood. Yep
- that a-hole drank cats! One of my cats even. Mr. Stinky; may he rest in peace.
That’s how Alan and I met, in fact. I felt so depressed that summer that I couldn’t sleep like, at all. So, I’d go out to the gazebo in the middle of the night and just kind of, you know, chill. One night I sat there, ironically, reading Vampire Diaries by L.J. Smith, when I heard a rustling in the hydrangeas behind me.
I dropped my book and ran for the back door. I don’t know why I did this - total brain fart - but, instead of running inside, I just flicked on the flood lights and stood there like a dum-dum.
I made that kissing sound you call cats with. “Stinkmesister, is that you, baby? C’mere, Stinkyson…”
I watched in like, total horror as my sweet little Persian came limping out from behind the hydrangeas. Two stumbling steps later and he fell over, dead as a dodo. I freaked and then launched into some weird Superwoman mode.
The rake just, like, leant up against the house so I grabbed it and went to town on the bushes. I swung, and hit something that couldn’t have been bush. Next thing I know, this dude is like, popping up from behind the plants, blood all over his face and holding up his hands like I was gonna arrest him or something.
“Okay! Knock it off,” he said.
I totally slugged him with the metal part of the rake. The pointy things went right into his temple and he dropped. I felt so pissed about my cat that I didn’t care; I went to Mr. Stinky and tried CPR.
Of course, Mr. Stinky stayed dead. But the guy with the rake for a face didn’t. He crawled at me like a snake, all yellow-eyed and bleeding. Then he grabbed my ankle and bit. It only took a little blood for him to heal.
Anyway, that’s how Alan McCartney and I met for the first time.
The cops were called of course, I mean, a hundred-piece marching band has at least fifty cellphones tucked in pockets and bra cups, but that kind of stuff takes a while to arrive. I knelt in the growing pool of blood and held him and cried. I could tell by the sea of white trouser legs that the rest of the band had gathered back around, but there was no, “Let’s do what we learned in First Aid.” That bitch had hit a big artery, and I couldn’t see a way back.