Praise for
Christopher Moore
“Clearly the unhinged Hiaasen. He’s Daily Show–funny and willing to subvert anything.”
—Janet Maslin, The New York Times
“The funniest writer of comic fantasy novels working today.”
—The Washington Post Book World
“The careers of the writers with even a quarter as much wit and joie de vivre as Moore are always worth following.”
—USA Today
“Few contemporary authors are as consistently bizarre, poignant, funny and wonderful as Christopher Moore.”
—Rocky Mountain News (Denver)
“Christopher Moore is a very sick man, in the very best sense of the word.”
—Carl Hiaasen
“The thinking man’s Dave Barry or the impatient man’s Tom Robbins.”
—The Onion
“If there’s a funnier writer out there, step forward.”
—Playboy
“Christopher Moore is rapidly becoming the cult author of today, filling a post last held by Kurt Vonnegut.”
—The Denver Post
Also by Christopher Moore
You Suck: A Love Story
A Dirty Job
The Stupidest Angel:
A Heartwarming Tale of Christmas Terror
Fluke:
Or, I Know Why the Winged Whale Sings
Lamb:
The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal
The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove
Island of the Sequined Love Nun
Coyote Blue
Practical Demonkeeping
BLOODSUCKING FIENDS:
A LOVE STORY
CHRISTOPHER MOORE
Simon & Schuster Paperbacks
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Christopher Moore
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Paperbacks Subsidary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Simon & Schuster trade paperback edition March 2008
SIMON & SCHUSTER PAPERBACKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Control No.: 95007463
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-5849-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-5849-7
eISBN-13: 978-1-4391-9149-1
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges those people who helped in the research and writing of Bloodsucking Fiends:
Mark Joseph and Mark Anderson for help with research in the Bay Area. Rachelle Stambal, Jean Brody, Liz Ziemska, and Dee Dee Leichtfuss for their careful reads and thoughtful suggestions. My editors, Michael Korda and Chuck Adams, for their clean hands and composure. And my agent, Nick Ellison, for his patience, guidance, friendship, and hard work.
In memory of my father:
JACK DAVIS MOORE
PART I
FLEDGLING
CHAPTER 1
DEATH
Sundown painted purple across the great Pyramid while the Emperor enjoyed a steaming whiz against a dumpster in the alley below. A low fog worked its way up from the bay, snaked around columns and over concrete lions to wash against the towers where the West’s money was moved. The financial district: an hour ago it ran with rivers of men in gray wool and women in heels; now the streets, built on sunken ships and gold-rush garbage, were deserted—quiet except for a foghorn that lowed across the bay like a lonesome cow.
The Emperor shook his scepter to clear the last few drops, shivered, then zipped up and turned to the royal hounds who waited at his heels. “The foghorn sounds especially sad this evening, don’t you think?”
The smaller of the dogs, a Boston terrier, dipped his head and licked his chops.
“Bummer, you are so simple. My city is decaying before your eyes. The air is thick with poison, the children are shooting each other in the street, and now this plague, this horrible plague is killing my people by the thousands, and all you think about is food.”
The Emperor nodded to the larger dog, a golden retriever.
“Lazarus knows the weight of our responsibility. Does one have to die to find dignity? I wonder.”
Lazarus lowered his ears and growled.
“Have I offended you, my friend?”
Bummer began growling and backing away from the dumpster. The Emperor turned to see the lid of the dumpster being slowly lifted by a pale hand. Bummer barked a warning. A figure stood up in the dumpster, his hair dark and wild and speckled with trash, skin white as bone. He vaulted out of the dumpster and hissed at the little dog, showing long white fangs. Bummer yelped and cowered behind the Emperor’s leg.
“That will be quite enough of that,” the Emperor commanded, puffing himself up and tucking his thumbs under the lapels of his worn overcoat.
The vampire brushed a bit of rotted lettuce from his black shirt and grinned. “I’ll let you live,” he said, his voice like a file on ancient rusted metal. “That’s your punishment.”
The Emperor’s eyes went wide with terror, but he held his ground. The vampire laughed, then turned and walked away.
The Emperor felt a chill run up his neck as the vampire disappeared into the fog. He hung his head and thought, Not this. My city is dying of poison and plague and now this—this creature—stalks the streets. The responsibility is suffocating. Emperor or not, I am only a man. I am weak as water: an entire empire to save and right now I would sell my soul for a bucket of the Colonel’s crispy-fried chicken. Ah, but I must be strong for the troops. It could be worse, I suppose. I could be the Emperor of Oakland.
“Chins up, boys,” the Emperor said to his hounds. “If we are to battle this monster, we will need our strength. There is a bakery in North Beach that will presently be dumping the day-old. Let’s be off.” He shuffled away thinking, Nero fiddled while his empire went to ashes; I shall eat leathery pastries.
As the Emperor trudged up California Street, trying to balance the impotence of power with the promise of a powdered-sugar doughnut, Jody was leaving the Pyramid. She was twenty-six and pretty in a way that made men want to tuck her into flannel sheets and kiss her on the forehead before leaving the room; cute but not beautiful.
As she passed under the Pyramid’s massive concrete buttresses she caught herself limping from a panty-hose injury. It didn’t hurt, exactly, the run that striped the back of her leg from heel to knee, the result of a surly metal file drawer (Claims, X-Y-Z) that had leaped out and snagged her ankle; but she was limping nonetheless, from the psychological damage. She thought, My closet is starting to look like an ostrich hatchery. I’ve either got to start throwing out L’eggs eggs or get a tan on my legs and quit wearing nylons.
She’d never had a tan, couldn’t get one, really. She was a milk-white, green-eyed redhead who burned and freckled with sun.
When she was half a block from her bus stop, the wind-driven fog won and Jody experienced total hair-spray failure. Neat waist-length waves frizzed to a wild red cape of curl and tangle. Gr
eat, she thought, once again I’ll get home looking like Death eating a cracker. Kurt will be so pleased.
She pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders against the chill, tucked her briefcase under her breasts like a schoolgirl carrying books, and limped on. Ahead of her on the sidewalk she saw someone standing by the glass door of a brokerage office. Green light from the CRTs inside silhouetted him in the fog. She thought about crossing the street to avoid him, but she’d have to cross back again in a few feet to catch her bus.
She thought, I’m done working late. It’s not worth it. No eye contact, that’s the plan.
As she passed the man, she looked down at her running shoes (her heels were in her briefcase). That’s it. Just a couple of more steps…
A hand caught in her hair and jerked her off her feet, her briefcase went skittering across the sidewalk and she started to scream. Another hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged off the street into an alley. She kicked and flailed, but he was too strong, immovable. The smell of rotten meat filled her nostrils and she gagged even while trying to scream. Her attacker spun her around and yanked on her hair, pulling her head back until she thought her neck would snap. Then she felt a sharp pain on the side of her throat and the strength to fight seemed to evaporate.
Across the alley she could see a soda can and an old Wall Street Journal, a wad of bubble gum stuck to the bricks, a “No Parking” sign: details, strangely slowed down and significant. Her vision began to tunnel dark, like an iris closing, and she thought, These will be the last things I see. The voice in her head was calm, resolved.
As everything went dark, her attacker slapped her across the face and she opened her eyes and saw the thin white face before her. He was speaking to her. “Drink,” he said.
Something warm and wet was shoved into her mouth. She tasted warm iron and salt and gagged again. “It’s his arm. He’s shoved his arm in my mouth and my teeth have broken. I’m tasting blood.”
“Drink!”
A hand clamped over her nose. She struggled, tried to breathe, tried to pull his arm out of her mouth to get air, sucked for air and nearly choked on blood. Suddenly she found herself sucking, drinking hungrily. When he tried to pull his arm away she clutched at it. He tore it from her mouth, twisted her around and bit her throat again. After a moment, she felt herself fall. The attacker was tearing at her clothes, but she had nothing left to fight with. She felt a roughness against the skin of her breasts and belly, then he was off her.
“You’ll need that,” he said, and his voice echoed in her head as if he had shouted down a canyon. “Now you can die.”
Jody felt a remote sense of gratitude. With his permission, she gave up. Her heart slowed, lugged, and stopped.
CHAPTER 2
DEATH WARMED OVER
She heard insects scurrying above her in the darkness, smelled burned flesh, and felt a heavy weight pressing down on her back. Oh my God, he’s buried me alive.
Her face was pressed against something hard and cold—stone, she thought until she smelled the oil in the asphalt. Panic seized her and she struggled to get her hands under her. Her left hand lit up with pain as she pushed. There was a rattle and a deafening clang and she was standing. The dumpster that had been on her back lay overturned, spilling trash across the alley. She looked at it in disbelief. It must have weighed a ton.
Fear and adrenaline, she thought.
Then she looked at her left hand and screamed. It was horribly burned, the top layer of skin black and cracked. She ran out of the alley looking for help, but the street was empty. I’ve got to get to a hospital, call the police.
She spotted a pay phone, a red chimney of heat rose from the lamp above it. She looked up and down the empty street. Above each streetlight she could see heat rising in red waves. She could hear the buzzing of the electric bus wires above her, the steady stream of the sewers running under the street. She could smell dead fish and diesel fuel in the fog, the decay of the Oakland mudflats across the bay, old French fries, cigarette butts, bread crusts and fetid pastrami from a nearby trash can, and the residual odor of Aramis wafting under the doors of the brokerage houses and banks. She could hear wisps of fog brushing against the buildings like wet velvet. It was as if her senses, like her strength, had been turned up by adrenaline.
She shook off the spectrum of sounds and smells and ran to the phone, holding her damaged hand by the wrist. As she moved, she felt a roughness inside her blouse against her skin. With her right hand she pulled at the silk, yanking it out of her skirt. Stacks of money fell out of her blouse to the sidewalk. She stopped and stared at the bound blocks of hundred-dollar bills lying at her feet.
She thought, There must be a hundred thousand dollars here. A man attacked me, choked me, bit my neck, burned my hand, then stuffed my shirt full of money and put a dumpster on me and now I can see heat and hear fog. I’ve won Satan’s lottery.
She ran back to the alley, leaving the money on the sidewalk. With her good hand she riffled through the trash spilled from the dumpster until she found a paper bag. Then she returned to the sidewalk and loaded the money into the bag.
At the pay phone she had to do some juggling to get the phone off the hook and dialed without putting down the money and without using her injured hand. She pressed 911 and while she waited for it to ring she looked at the burn. Really, it looked worse than it felt. She tried to flex the hand and black skin cracked. Boy, that should hurt. It should gross me out too, she thought, but it doesn’t. In fact, I don’t really feel that bad, considering. I’ve been more sore after a game of racquetball with Kurt. Strange.
The receiver clicked and a woman’s voice came on the line. “Hello, you’ve reached the number for San Francisco emergency services. If you are currently in danger press, one; if the danger has passed and you still need help, press two.”
Jody pressed two.
“If you have been robbed, press one. If you’ve been in an accident, press two. If you’ve been assaulted, press three. If you are calling to report a fire, press four. If you’ve—” Jody ran the choices through her head and pressed three.
“If you’ve been shot, press one. Stabbed, press two. Raped, press three. All other assaults, press four. If you’d like to hear these choices again, press five.”
Jody meant to press four, but hit five instead. There was a series of clicks and the recorded voice came back on.
“Hello, you’ve reached the number for San Francisco emergency services. If you are currently in danger—”
Jody slammed the receiver down and it shattered in her hand, nearly knocking the phone off the pole. She jumped back and looked at the damage. Adrenaline, she thought.
I’ll call Kurt. He can come get me and take me to the hospital. She looked around for another pay phone. There was one by her bus stop. When she reached it she realized that she didn’t have any change. Her purse had been in her briefcase and her briefcase was gone. She tried to remember her calling card number, but she and Kurt had only moved in together a month ago and she hadn’t memorized it yet. She picked up and dialed the operator. “I’d like to make a collect call from Jody.” She gave the operator the number and waited while it rang. The machine picked up.
“It looks like no one is home,” the operator said.
“He’s screening his calls,” Jody insisted. “Just tell him—”
“I’m sorry, we aren’t allowed to leave messages.”
Hanging up, Jody destroyed the phone; this time, on purpose.
She thought, Pounds of hundred-dollar bills and I can’t make a damn phone call. And Kurt’s screening his calls—I must be very late; you’d think he could pick up. If I wasn’t so pissed off, I’d cry.
Her hand had stopped aching completely now, and when she looked at it again it seemed to have healed a bit. I’m getting loopy, she thought. Post-traumatic loopiness. And I’m hungry. I need medical attention, I need a good meal, I need a sympathetic cop, a glass of wine, a hot bath, a hug, my auto-tell
er card so I can deposit this cash. I need…
The number 42 bus rounded the corner and Jody instinctively felt in her jacket pocket for her bus pass. It was still there. The bus stopped and the door opened. She flashed her pass at the driver as she boarded. He grunted. She sat in the first seat, facing three other passengers.
Jody had been riding the buses for five years, and occasionally, because of work or a late movie, she had to ride them at night. But tonight, with her hair frizzing wild and full of dirt, her nylons ripped, her suit wrinkled and stained—disheveled, disoriented, and desperate—she felt that she fit in for the first time. The psychos lit up at the sight of her.
“Parking space!” a woman in the back blurted out. Jody looked up.
“Parking space!” The woman wore a flowered housecoat and Mickey Mouse ears. She pointed out the window and shouted, “Parking space!”
Jody looked away, embarrassed. She understood, though. She owned a car, a fast little Honda hatchback, and since she had found a parking space outside her apartment a month ago, she had only moved it on Tuesday nights, when the street sweeper went by—and moved it back as soon as the sweeper had passed. Claim-jumping was a tradition in the City; you had to guard a space with your life. Jody had heard that there were parking spaces in Chinatown that had been in families for generations, watched over like the graves of honored ancestors, and protected by no little palm-greasing to the Chinese street gangs.
“Parking space!” the woman shouted.
Jody glanced across the aisle and committed eye contact with a scruffy bearded man in an overcoat. He grinned shyly, then slowly pulled aside the flap of his overcoat to reveal an impressive erection peeking out the port of his khakis.
Jody returned the grin and pulled her burned, blackened hand out of her jacket and held it up for him. Bested, he closed his overcoat, slouched in his seat and sulked. Jody was amazed that she’d done it.
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