by Vance, Ramy
It is good that he is alone in this field. His roar is mighty and it would scare any human unfortunate enough to happen by.
But just as he is about to unleash his howl, he sniffs someone approaching.
He does not need to see her to know who she is: the Other pretending to be a human. The one who lost her magic, just like him. Moving with the silence of an experienced predator, he stalks around the tree, out of her sight. There he stands perfectly still, tracking her movements not with sight and only partially with hearing.
He mostly tracks her with smell. The gods may have taken his hyena form from him, but they did not take his superior sense of smell—not all of it, at least.
She stops by the statue, some trace of her former instinct telling her someone is near. But she embraces her human side far too much, and she suppresses her instincts, choosing to ignore them and move on, rather than stay and explore possible dangers.
Egya lets out a low, disapproving growl. Her past—her Otherness—it is a gift. A gift she denies.
And this angers the former were-hyena.
This angers him greatly.
DayStalker, NightWalker
It was dusk when I left the Old Librarian, and so I engaged in another one of my quirks from my vampire days. The long walk in the dark. You know, the whole creature of the night wandering around at night. Cliché, I know, but it was my jam.
My jam? Did that refer to jam as in a band jamming, or jam on toast? Or both. And when was my jam in? Argh, I needed elocution lessons. Actually I needed slang lessons, but somehow I didn’t think the university offered those.
Looking at my wristwatch I saw that I had been wandering around for quite some time. It was almost midnight. But I didn’t feel like going home. Not yet. But where could you go at this time of night on a Tuesday?
Most of the campus would be closed. The only place still open was Gerts, the campus bar, and given that it was the first day of classes and a school night, I guessed even Gerts wouldn’t be open for much longer. Besides, I didn’t feel like a drink even though I was of the legal age according to the mortal law in the Quebec province. Here you only needed to be eighteen to drink. Younger than most places. It’s the French influence, I guessed.
Regardless, I was nineteen.
By now, I’m sure you would correct me on that one: I was actually over three hundred years old. But the way I figured it, I was—biologically speaking—still only nineteen. I was turned at fifteen, so I figured that when I returned to being human again, I would start aging from that point. I’d been human for four years since the GrandExodus—so four plus fifteen. Nineteen.
My math skills were impeccable. I was sure to make the dean’s list.
Anyway, that’s how I saw it, but I wasn’t sure how the rest of the world saw it. You see, ever since the Others came, mortal law had been challenged on multiple levels. Legal definitions had to be broadened and bastardized and reevaluated to include Earth’s newest residents.
But society was still too busy dealing with angels, minotaurs, wendigos, avatars and all sorts of OnceImmortals. We half-breeds were largely ignored—partly because we were technically human, but mostly because we never went into the limelight. After centuries of hiding from humans, we were pretty good at confining ourselves to the darkness.
I walked down the hill toward the university’s main campus and took a deep breath. Autumn was on its way, which, in Montreal, meant that real cold was coming. Montreal was a university town with four major universities within its city limits. I went to McGill—the best of the bunch (or at least that’s what other McGill students say).
Montreal itself wasn’t a bad place to live. European feel with North American sensibility; friendly people, not too smug; lots of bars, clubs and other places for frustrated locals to let off some steam. When I was a vampire, this would have been ideal hunting grounds. As a student, Montreal was ideal party grounds. Funny how the two go hand in hand.
But partying and hunting aside, what made Montreal special was that it was built on (and around) an inactive volcano. I wished it were a dead volcano, but it wasn’t. Not that anyone was worried, though. Montreal’s volcano hadn’t shown any sign of activity since I was born—yeah, three centuries ago. That was a good indicator that it was safe enough, right?
Then again …
Four years ago, mythical creatures barely showed any activity on Earth either.
And look where we were now.
But still, a volcano was a volcano, and the locals, several decades ago, had decided to hedge their it-won’t-erupt bets by putting a cross at its very top. A Christian, neon-lit, bigger-than-an-upright-bus, vampire-burning cross.
And this was the city I chose to move to?
What’s more—I actually lived on the volcano. If you walked up the hill, past the Royal Vic Hospital, past the McGill football stadium, you entered McGill University dorm territory. If this volcano erupted soon, we freshmen would be the first victims. Seems fitting, if you think about it.
McConnell, Molson, Gardner and Douglas Halls all sat about halfway up the hill, along with a large circular cafeteria that was cutting-edge architectural design … in the 1950s. I lived in Gardner—the dorm that was the absolute closest you could find to that beacon of a cross.
Every time I trekked up the hill, staring at the cross, I would just think to myself that moving here had been some inner penitence or something. You don’t spend three centuries as a murderous immortal demon without developing your inner masochist.
I walked onto the main campus field, which never seemed to close—too many late-night studies—and passed by James McGill’s statue. The Scotsman explorer was a short, stout man, holding his pioneer hat against the wind, cane planted firmly on the ground in one hand, the other pointing straight ahead. It wasn’t a grand statue or anything. The guy was my height, and I was born in eighteenth-century Scotland—we were a lot shorter than today’s average human.
I gave my fellow Highlander a pat on the head. Immediately, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. In the past, that was what happened when danger or potential prey was nearby, like a vampire’s sixth sense. Maybe late-night studiers were finally going home, or perhaps two lovebirds were making out in the moonlight.
But I saw no moonlight lovers, no late-night studiers walking home, nobody. In fact, I noticed for the first time that everything around me was eerily dark—no lights, no noise, all the buildings long abandoned.
I take that back. There was one light on the main floor of the Other Studies Library. I guess my senses were on the fritz.
Oh, well.
I peered closer at the Other Studies building. Seems the Old Librarian was still working, and I wondered if he’d be up for a visit. Maybe he would finally be able to tell me how he got my father’s tartan.
“Besides,” I thought (out loud, probably), “I’m his newest employee … and technically it is tomorrow.”
The library had one of those old wooden church doors. From the front, I couldn’t see inside—all the large windows were on the sides of the building, with only two slender, stained-glass displays flanking the entrance.
I tried the door. Locked.
I jogged back to where I’d been to look up at the window again, but there wasn’t enough light to make out what was happening inside. At this point, I usually would have just given up and called it a night, but I wasn’t especially looking forward to finding Deirdre naked in our dorm again (I swear! I wasn’t!), and something about this whole thing was starting to make me feel uneasy. That vampire sixth sense again, maybe? I jogged to the front door once more and, pulling back on the iron knocker just within reach, I knocked and waited.
Nothing.
I was about to give up, when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. When I was a predator, those hairs had saved me more than once. Up until now, I had assumed they were a part of my vampiric nature. Either I had carried over some of that nature with me or that tingly feeling had been my h
uman part all along.
Either way, I had learned to trust that instinct. The door was locked, nobody was answering the knocker … I scrutinized every inch of the door and the surrounding facade, until I spotted a mail flap near the bottom of the door. I pushed it open and peered inside. Two desk lamps were lit in the study area, but from this angle, their light only revealed a couple of cushy armchairs and an empty fireplace. Nothing of interest.
But I could smell something.
A smell I knew very well.
Human blood.
Vampires Aren’t Only Humans
Human blood. Unmistakable … I should know. I’d only spent the last few centuries guzzling it down like a camel in a desert. A … vampire camel? Whatever. Poor simile, but you get the point.
Smelling it as a human was completely different than drinking it as a vampire. As a vampire, the smell excited me, intoxicated me—drove me mad with insatiable desire. But as a human, the smell of blood made me retch, and the thought of tasting the crimson liquid made my stomach twist with nausea.
Get over it, girl, I thought as I tried to find a way into the library. It’s probably nothing too serious. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that the Old Librarian had merely fallen and hit his head. That the smell of blood came from a head wound, not a gaping throat or severed carotid artery. A few stitches and a concussion would be the worst that he’d suffer.
But the smell was way too strong for that … and as much as I tried to lie to myself that he’d be fine, I’d been involved in enough death to know better.
The Old Librarian was dead. The part of me that was still vampire knew that.
The human part of me, on the other hand, still clung on to hope.
I pulled at the door handle again—no good. I’d need a battering ram to get through this heavy wooden door. If only I still had my vampiric strength. But what I lacked in strength, I made up for in smallness. The windows that ran along the side of the door were narrow, barely the size of a dinner plate. But I could work with that. Now all I needed was something to smash the window with. I ran to the path leading up to the library and picked up a heavy stone lining the flower bed. Rushing back to the door, I hefted the stone and smashed it through the window.
Then, taking off my Hermes jacket—still muddy from Deirdre’s home decor—I wrapped it around my arm and cleared the rest of the glass, silently lamenting the lacerations the leather suffered from the process. I’d definitely have to buy a new one now. Good thing I had money—and lots of it. Three hundred years of antique collecting and compound interest tends to do that.
Glass cleared, I sucked in my breath and shimmied through. I made it in—barely—with only my butt and my chest getting squished as I did. Evidently, those parts of me were a bit wider than a dinner plate.
Inside I wasted no more time. I let my nose guide me to the back of the library’s main floor, near to where the artifacts were kept—but even without that sickly smell as my guide, a part of me knew this was where I’d find the old man.
As I got closer, the smell of blood became stronger and stronger. Turning the corner, I braced myself for what I thought I’d see.
But what I saw was much, much worse.
The Old Librarian was strung up on the heavy, oak bookshelves closest to the display cases. His hands were literally nailed to the thick shelves. His feet, positioned one in front of the other, were held together by a thick metal spike, which had been driven through them.
He hung in a crucified position on that shelf. I might have thought his killer was imitating the classic Christ crucifixion … if it weren’t for the stuff on the floor.
Like some Egyptian mummification process interrupted, four canopic jars had been arranged in front of him, each holding a different organ. His small intestines sat on a silver tray, his large intestines on a gold one. And as for his blood—that had meticulously been drained from his body, into large clay pots. Very little of it had been spilled on the floor. His murderer had been precise.
My eyes were drawn back up to his body. His chest cavity had been torn open and I only saw an empty hole where his heart should have been.
I groaned … but this was not the worst part by far.
From the expression on his face, I knew that he had been awake while he was being ripped apart.
“Oh, Old Librarian,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you scream for help? Why didn’t I hear you?”
The answer came when I looked down and saw that his tongue lay on a cloth right in front of us both. The cloth was wet, not only with blood but also mucus and saliva, which meant that the monster responsible took the time to stuff his mouth with that cloth to muffle his screams. The monster most likely cut out the Old Librarian’s tongue after he died.
This didn’t make sense. Too much was going on here. The crucifixion, the ceremonial draining of blood, the way the organs were distributed in the four jars … the tongue on a cloth. It was like he was killed by a bunch of monsters from a dozen different horror movies.
I tried desperately to keep my composure. I’d played my part in quite a lot of killing. Some for fun—most of it to survive. But I had never been a part of something such as this. Say what you will about vampires—we never did this to our victims.
I turned away, having taken in as much of the scene as I dared. With my back to him, I now faced the cases housing an array of Other artifacts. Several of the display cases, I now noticed, were broken and empty. I didn’t need to turn around to know they had been used in the sick killing behind me. I couldn’t recall exactly which ones had been in those now-empty cases, but I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw one that wasn’t missing—my father’s old Scottish dirk.
His display case stood untouched.
As I stared at my father’s weapons, I considered my next move. What happened here was recent, maybe even minutes from completion, which meant the killer or killers couldn’t have gotten far. I could hunt them down—after all, I was pretty good at that. But I was also human now. What would a human do? A human would call the police. It would take ages for them to get down here, and the trail would probably be cold by then. But they had modern forensics and—
Crunch.
Coming from the front of the library, the unmistakable sound of a foot crunching down on glass.
The monster was still in here … and had accidently stepped on some of the glass I’d smashed when breaking into the library—which meant it (I can only assume something capable of committing such a horrible crime was an it) was trying to escape.
Looking at the old Scottish dirk, I knew what I had to do.
I may no longer be a vampire.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still a killer.
Dirks and Lipstick
The monster stopped moving, evidently waiting to see if I had heard the glass beneath its boots … or claws, or … whatever passed as its feet. This monster was playing it cautious, which meant that it wanted to escape without incident.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Even though the old rush of the hunt came surging through me, I fought the urge and stood perfectly still, pretending not to have heard my prey. Then I listened.
Faint breath came from the front of the library.
I slowly counted in my head, waiting, listening. In a minute, I’d make my move and either it would attack me or run. Either way, whatever I did would have to put me in the best position to take it down. I thought about the Old Librarian. He had been frail, weak—certainly not trained like I was. He wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. That meant I couldn’t gauge my opponent’s strength on what I knew.
What I did know was that it was at least strong enough to string the Old Librarian up, which put it in the class of a big and strong human at the very least. I also knew that it contained the resolve and constitution to brutally tear apart a living creature—to crucify an innocent old man and harvest his friggin’ organs—without sympathy or mercy. This most likely meant that when I did engage
with it, the monster wouldn’t hesitate to put me down.
But I also knew the Old Librarian was a good man who had treated me kindly. This knowledge alone was enough to lead me to one final conclusion.
This monster was going to die …
… and I was going to be the one to make that happen.
The minute was up. The monster hadn’t made another move, so it was my turn. I darted forward to my father’s display case and smashed the glass with my elbow. I reached in and very nearly managed to get my hand on the dirk before powerful hands pulled me back and threw me across the room. Of course, ever the college freshman looking to impress (or at least fit in as human), I just had to go out in my Versace dove-white silk blouse. On smooth marble floor such as this, my blouse was like a sled. I slid across the floor until I hit the front door—with my head.
So much for this monster being as strong as a large human male. More like a frigging bull, or an elephant. Maybe a bull elephant.
I probably would have spent the next minute on the floor, groaning in pain—if it weren’t for the large figure bounding from above. It would have crushed me under its weight, but I regained my wits and rolled under one of the large study desks.
A black claw ripped the table back. I rolled under another table. The claw ripped away this table and I rolled beneath the next. Then another.
This perverse game of musical chairs—well, tables—wouldn’t last forever. I knew I needed to get a weapon if I wanted a chance at fighting this thing, which meant I needed to put more distance between us than a few layers of lacquered wood.
I faked rolling beneath another desk, then darted between two shelves instead, using them as cover. Lucky move—the monster was wider than the space between the shelves, and as it charged, its weight pushed them apart, causing them to knock over like dominos in two directions.