by Melissa Marr
“They come from where they come from,” Ariel replied. “They are what they are.”
I got the sense that Ariel wasn’t beating around the bush, that to him, that really was the answer.
“What about the other people?” I said slowly. “The ones with the blue-black eyes?”
“Their orders,” Ariel said, the muscles in his jaw tensing, “come from elsewhere.”
“They’re trying to kill me.”
Ariel shrugged, as if this was no more significant than the fact that my favorite color was red.
“That’s it?” I said tersely. “All of this—getting us up in the middle of the night, running us ragged, blowing up our truck—and that’s what you have to say for yourself? Nothing?”
“You needed to be here,” Ariel said. “This is where it must begin. It starts with you.”
“What starts with me?” I felt desperate, but sounded POed and chalked it up as one of those things that you just can’t help. “What starts with me, Ariel?”
He moved like lightning, closing the space between us and then some. His blue eyes stared at and into mine, and for a moment, I was certain he was going to snap my neck, the way Kissy had snapped that boy’s.
Instead, he brought his lips slowly down to mine and kissed me.
Blades. Blood. Light. Burning.
I saw the whole world in an instant, everything that was, everything that would ever be, and something flickered to life on the surface of my skin: a power, a knowing.
Ariel pulled back, and based on the expression on his face, I concluded that it hadn’t exactly been as earth-shattering for him as it had been for me.
“It is done,” he said, which isn’t exactly the kind of thing a girl wants to hear about her first kiss.
“What’s done?” I asked, trying not to feel too put out. I could sense the change he’d wrought, feel it rising up inside of me and washing away everything I’d been until now. “Ariel, what did you do?”
Ariel was not impressed by my desperation or my ire.
“There are three kinds,” he said. “You are the third kind.”
And then he was gone.
“What just happened? I mean, seriously, Kissy, who was he? What was he? How could he just say all of that stuff and then kiss me and then leave?”
I was indignant. Kissy, on the other hand, was in hog heaven.
“This is the best chimichanga I have ever had,” she said.
“Kissy,” I snapped. “Focus.”
“I am focusing,” Kissy replied calmly. “I am focusing on my chimichanga.”
After Ariel had disappeared, she’d dragged me across the River Walk to the closest Mexican restaurant, and the two of us had been sitting there ever since, Kissy shoveling chips and salsa like she was preparing to hibernate for the winter, and me trying my best to make sense out of chaos.
Growing up, I’d never thought much about Kissy’s ’pulses. They were the kind of thing you got used to, and I’d never wondered why I didn’t get them too, because you could tell just by looking at Kissy or talking to her for five seconds that she was something special.
Someone special.
But me?
I wasn’t anything. I could almost believe Ariel when he said that Kissy was some kind of cosmic Guardian, chosen to protect the innocent, one ’pulse at a time—but after all of these years, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea that I might be the special one, that whatever made Kissy different from normal folks—maybe I had a version of it too.
Kissy was a Guardian.
The girl at the gas station had been a Herald.
And I was the third kind.
“The third kind of what?” I asked, for what was probably the millionth time.
“I dunno, Jess,” Kissy said, her voice real soft, like she was talking a stray dog out from underneath a car. “Sometimes, there aren’t easy answers. Sometimes, things are just right. The things I do when I get the ’pulse? They feel right. And this—you, me, here, Ariel—it feels right too.”
I didn’t want feelings. I wanted answers. I wanted to know who Ariel was—what he was. I wanted to know why, from the second my lips had touched his, there’d been a burning inside of me, white-hot, liquid, steady.
I wanted to know why it felt familiar.
Why it didn’t hurt.
“Sometimes,” Kissy told me, waving her chimichanga for emphasis, “you just have to have faith that everything’s going to work out the way it’s supposed to.”
Have faith?
Somewhere out there, someone or something wanted me dead, and we had no guarantee that the black-eyed guardians would back off now that we’d completed Kissy’s mission. I had no idea what Ariel had done to me, or what he expected me to do now that it was done. I could feel the change, feel it spreading like wildfire through my body, inch by inch and bit by bit.
I felt older, stronger, connected.
I felt like this was just the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
“Seriously, Jess. Just relax. Que sera, sera. Have some guacamole.”
I closed my eyes and started counting silently to ten, so as to decrease the chances that I’d leap across the table and beat my sister to death with a chimichanga.
One, two, three . . .
The images I’d seen when Ariel kissed me flashed through my mind, and this time, they felt like memories. I saw a flaming sword, a desert, an army.
Four, five, six . . .
I saw people as cold and inhumanly beautiful as Ariel. I saw their faces twist into something pretty-cruel.
Seven, eight, nine . . .
I saw black eyes and shadows and rivers running with blood.
“Ten.” I finished counting and opened my eyes. I tried to remember everything Ariel had said about the third kind, everything the black-eyed boy in the McDonald’s had said about why I had to die.
It starts with you.
The third kind—by their sword, darkness bleeds.
“Feel better?” Kissy asked me.
“Just peachy,” I told her.
But all I could think, over and over again was: this is the beginning of the End.
You’d think that after something like that, nothing would ever be the same, but mostly, life kept right on going, same as it had for as long as I could remember—with a few notable, should-have-been-impossible exceptions.
Probably the biggest—not to mention most impossible—of those exceptions was that after we made it back from our little road trip, every morning from there on out, I woke up with my fingers curled around the hilt of a sword. It didn’t matter what I did or how many times I tried to get rid of that darn thing, the blade always showed up again, golden and gleaming and whispering to me in a language I didn’t understand.
And for a second, a single second when I first woke up, I would remember—the sword, the battle, the fire inside. Then, just as quickly as the memories had come, they would fade, leaving me with a whole lot of questions—and weaponry I shouldn’t have known how to use.
The next biggest change in our post-road-trip life—far less remarkable, but life-altering nonetheless—was that Kissy and I were grounded for life. Nana and Grandpa Jake were old-fashioned, and they didn’t hold with any of this newfangled nonsense about “destiny” or “powers.”
They also didn’t hold with blowing up trucks.
Being grounded gave Kissy and me a lot of time to sit around and try and make some form of sense out of the things Ariel had told us, but we didn’t come up with a serviceable theory about it all until a month after we got back, when the Walmart started playing Christmas carols nonstop, even though it was just past Halloween. Listening to “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” on repeat has a way of making you hear one word and think about the other, and that got us to connecting the dots.
Herald. Angel.
Guardian. Angel.
I half expected Ariel to show up—to tell us we were wrong, to explain how it was possible if we wer
e even a little bit right—but he never came. Kissy and I were on our own, her with her ’pulses, me with my sword, so full of questions I thought I might burst.
I wondered and I prayed and I Googled. I read everything there was to read about angels: seraphim, nephilim, watchers, beings—there were about a million different words, different mythologies, different stories.
I read about messenger angels.
Guardian angels.
Warriors.
And every night, I dreamed—about fighting and flying and rivers running red with blood.
Then, one morning, about a month after Kissy and I had come up with our little theory, she woke me up in the middle of the night, saying my name with all the aplomb of someone announcing she was fixing to drive down to the Sonic for a cherry limeade. “Hey, Jess?” she said, her eyes glowing incandescent green.
“Yeah?” I said, my fingers closing involuntarily around the hilt of my sword and my palm singing with the contact.
Kissy smiled. “We have to go to the Mojave Desert.”
I saw a flash—of a legion of dark-eyed women, dark-eyed men. Heaven and earth and innocents caught in between.
“Seriously, Jess,” Kissy repeated, giddy. “We have to go to the Mojave Desert.”
I sat up in bed, sword at the ready and the fire in my belly spreading out to each and every one of my limbs. A tiny voice inside of me whispered that this was it—the thing I’d been made for, the thing that Kissy and I had always been meant to do, but I didn’t say a word about that out loud. I didn’t say that this was the beginning of the End.
Instead, I fixed Kissy with a look. “Do we have to go to the Mojave Desert now?”
AUTOMATIC
by Rachel Caine
There was a new vending machine at the Morganville Blood Bank. In the withdrawal area, not the deposit area. It looked like a Coke machine, only instead of handy ice-cold aluminum cans, there were warm cans labeled O NEG and A and B POS—something for everybody. The cans even had nice graphic logos on them.
My girlfriend, Eve, and I were standing in front of the vending machine, marveling at the weirdness, and wondering a lot of things: first, what the hell did they tell the can manufacturers about what was going into those containers? And second, would the blood taste like aluminum? It already had a coppery tone to it, like licking pennies, but . . . would it be any good?
There were twelve vampires in the place, including me, and nobody was making a move to get anything out of the shiny new machine. The withdrawal room itself was clean, efficiently laid out, and not very friendly. Big long counter at one end, with staff in white lab coats. You took a number, you got called to the counter, they gave you your blood bag. You could order it to go, or drink it here; there were some small café-style tables and chairs at the other end, but nobody really liked to linger here. It felt like a doctor’s office, someplace you left in a hurry as soon as you could.
So it was odd how all the tables and chairs were full, and the sofas, and the armchairs. And how there were vamps standing around, watching the machine as if they expected it to actually do something. Or, well, expected me to do something.
“Michael?” Eve said, because I’d been a long time, staring at the glossy plastic of the machine in front of me. “Uh, are we doing this or not?”
“Sure,” I said, resigned. “I guess we have to.” I had actually been asked—well, ordered, really—to lead the way on this particular new Morganville, Texas, initiative. Morganville is—to say the least—unusual, even for someplace as diverse and weird as our great state: a small, desert-locked town in the middle of nowhere, populated by both humans and vampires. A social experiment, although the vampires really controlled the experiment. As far as I knew, we were the only place in the world vampires lived openly . . . or lived at all.
I was on the side of the vamps, now . . . not through any plan of my own. I was nineteen years old, and looking at eternity, and it was starting to look pretty lonely because the people I cared about, that I loved . . . they weren’t going to be there with me.
Somehow, the machine summed up how impersonal all this eternal life was going to get, and that made it so much more than just another Coke machine full of plasma.
I was still amazed that twelve other vamps had shown up today for the demonstration; I’d expected nobody, really, but in the end, we weren’t so different from humans: novelties attracted us, and the blood dispenser was definitely a novelty. Nobody quite knew what to make of it, but they were fascinated, and repelled.
And they were waiting.
Eve nudged me and looked up into my face, concerned. She wasn’t too much shorter than I was, but enough that even the stacked heels on her big, Goth boots didn’t put us at eye level. She’d gone with subdued paint-up today: white makeup, black lipstick, not a lot of other accessories. We were so different, in so many ways; I wasn’t Goth, for starters. I wasn’t much of anything, fashionwise, except comfortable. And she seemed okay with that, thankfully.
“Swipe?” she said, and tapped my right hand, which held a shiny new plastic card. I looked down at it, frowning. White plastic, with a red stripe, and my name computer-printed at the bottom. GLASS, MICHAEL J. My dates of birth and death (or, as it was called on the vamp side, “transformation”). The cards were new, just like the vending machine—issued about two weeks ago. A lot of the older vampires refused to carry them. I couldn’t really see why, but then I’d grown up modern, where you had to have licenses and ID cards, and accepted that you were going to get photographed and tracked and monitored.
Or maybe it was only the humans who accepted that, and I’d carried it over with me.
It was just a damn glorified Coke machine. Why did it feel so weird?
“So,” Eve said, turning away from me to the not-very-welcoming audience of waiting vampires, “it’s really easy. You’ve all got the cards, right? They’re your ID cards, and they’re loaded up with a certain number of credits for the month. You can come in here any time, swipe the card, and get your, uh, product. And now, Michael Glass is going to demonstrate.”
Oh, that was my cue, accompanied by a not-too-light punch on the arm.
I reached over, slid the card through the swipe bar, and buttons glowed. A cheerful little tone sounded, and a scrolling red banner said MAKE YOUR SELECTION NOW. I pushed the button—O negative, my favorite—and watched the can ride down in a miniature elevator to the bottom, where it was pushed out for me to take.
I took the can, and was a little surprised to find it was warm, warm as Eve’s skin. Well, of course it was; the signs on the machine said TEMPERATURE CONTROLLED, but that just meant it was kept blood temperature, not Coke temperature. Huh. It felt weird, but attractive, in a way.
They were all still watching me, with nearly identical expressions of disgust and distaste. Some of them looked older than me, some even younger, but they’d all been around for centuries, whereas I was the brand-new model . . . the first in decades.
Hence, the guinea pig—but mainly because I’d grown up in the modern age, with swipe cards and internet and food from machines. I trusted all that stuff, at least in theory.
They hated it.
I rolled the can indecisively in my hand for a few seconds, staring at the splashy graphics—the vampire fangs framed the blood type nicely. “How do you think they got away with getting these made?” I asked Eve. “I mean, wouldn’t somebody think it was a little strange?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Michael, don’t you pay attention? Out there”—meaning, anywhere except Morganville—“it’s just a big joke. Maybe they thought it was for a movie or a TV show or a new energy drink. But they don’t think about it like we do.”
I knew that, even though, like Eve, I’d been born and raised in Morganville. We’d both been out of town exactly once in our lives, and we’d done it together. Still, it was really tough to realize that for the rest of the world, our biggest problems were just . . . stories.
As hard as Mor
ganville was, as full of weirdness and danger, Out There hadn’t been a walk in the park, either. Though I wished I’d been able to go to a really big concert. That would have been cool.
I was still turning the can around, stalling. Eve grabbed it from me, popped the top, and handed it back. “Bottoms up,” she said. “Oh, come on, just give it a try. Once.”
I owed her that much, because the black choker around her neck was covering up a healing bite mark. Vampire bites closed quickly, and usually without scarring, but for an awkward three-day period, she’d be wearing scarves and high necks.
It was typically Eve that she was also wearing a tight black T-shirt that said, in black-on-black Gothic-style lettering, GOOD GIRLS DON’T. AWESOME GIRLS DO.
She saw me looking at her, and our eyes locked and held. Hers were very dark, almost black, though if you really got close and looked, you could see flecks of lighter brown and gold and green. And I liked getting close to her, drawn into her warmth, her laughter, the smooth hot stretch of her skin. . . .
She winked. She knew what I was thinking, at moments like these, but then as she’d once told me, smugly, most guys really aren’t that complicated.
I smiled back, and saw her pupils widen. She liked it when I smiled. I liked that she liked it.
Without even thinking about it, I raised the can to my lips and took a big gulp.
Not bad. I could taste the aluminum, but the blood tasted fresh, with a bitter streak that was probably from the preservatives. Once I started drinking, instincts kicked in, and I felt the fangs snap down in my mouth. It felt a little like popping your knuckles. I swallowed, and swallowed, and all of a sudden the can was light and empty, and I felt shaky. I don’t usually drink that much blood at one time, and I’m more of a sipper.
I crushed the can into a ball—vampire strength—and tossed it across the room into a trash can, basketball style. It sailed neatly through the narrow circle.
“Show-off,” Eve said.
I felt great. I mean, great. My fangs were still down, and when I smiled, they were visible, gleaming and very sharp.