Urban Fantasy Collection - Vampires

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Fine,” I agreed eagerly. I’m not afraid of other women; the only girl who ever managed to steal a boyfriend from me was my sister Rachel, before she got sick. I felt a pang of grief when I thought of her. If only I’d been a vampire then, I could have brought her over, but it had taken too long.

  “And I get to feed off of the girl. You will have to eat before or after.”

  “Okay,” I said. If he needed to feel like he was in control that was okay with me. He began taking off his wet things and I toweled him off with the driest parts of the towel he’d used on me. “And you don’t get to bite me,” he added. “Ever. Not unless I explicitly say so. I don’t like to be bitten.”

  I helped Eric dress in jeans and one of thoseWelcome to the Void T-shirts he usually wore; then he kissed me one more time. “Don’t leave the room until you’ve eaten.”

  I nodded. As the door closed behind him, I could hear him muttering, “I bet Dracula never had to put up with this shit.”

  I laughed. “Dracula had three wives, honey,” I whispered. “It was probably much worse.”

  11

  ERIC:

  THE VOID CITY HOWLERS

  My to-do list was a mile long. I needed to look up Magbidion’s number and get him to take a look at the silver bullet I’d dug out of the werewolf skull over at Orchard Lake. Roger might appreciate it if I found a way to tell him I’d accidentally whacked his buddy Brian. Werewolves were apparently out for my blood. If I had half a brain, I would be out there now, looking for a way to get them off my ass.

  With that same half a brain, I should have turned around, walked back into my bedroom, and told Tabitha that it was over. Since I apparently wasn’t going to do that, I needed to put Rachel in a cab and send her home. Yes, there were a lot of things I should have been doing.

  Instead, I was going to a hockey game. C’mon—front row, center ice. Who could turn that down? Believe me when I say that, up to the last minute, I tried.

  “I can’t go to the game, Roger.”

  “What are you even talking about? You know you’re going. Brian already stood me up. I’m not getting stood up by you too.”

  Ah, guilt. “Yeah, sorry about Brian.”

  “It’s not your fault the guy turned out to be a flake,” Roger spat. “Screw him.”

  He trailed after me from the front door of the Demon Heart to the Pollux. Rachel was waiting just inside the door. She’d changed into hip huggers and a crop top. When I was born, seeing a girl in her bloomers was indecent. Now, my girlfriend and most of the women I knew were strippers. You might say that I’ve changed with the times. Even so, I stared at Rachel’s pelvic bone. A hint of her thong peeked out over her hip huggers and the only thing that stopped me from attacking her on the spot was Roger’s hand on my shoulder.

  “If she’s why you can’t go to the hockey game, you have my blessing,” Roger whispered.

  “Hockey?” Rachel perked up. “I love hockey.”

  Roger bit his lip. “Brian’s a no-show, so we do have an extra ticket.” He’d bought one for Brian and one for me, so he wasn’t just giving me Brian’s unused seat. I suddenly felt better about having accepted.

  “I thought you liked high society gals,” I teased.

  “Just because you like orchids,” Roger said, taking Rachel’s hand, “doesn’t mean you ignore the wildflowers.” She blushed when he kissed her hand. The light in the room took on a crimson tinge and Roger backed off.

  “Don’t go all flashy-eyes at me, buddy.” He held up both hands in supplication. “I was just being friendly.”

  I counted to ten in my head and reminded myself that Roger was my best friend. Slowly, the red receded. Rachel looked on with a bemused pout. I didn’t like the look of accomplishment that I saw blazing in her eyes. At least with Roger, we’d have a chaperone along.

  Ishould have sent Rachel home and invited Tabitha to the hockey game, but there just wasn’t time. We’d miss the whole first half arguing. So I went to the hockey game with Roger and Rachel.

  The Void City Howlers weren’t all that good, but they were the home team and they could usually be counted on for a fight. They didn’t win very often, but when they took to the ice someone always got hurt, and that’s all I wanted to see anyway. My favorite player was Sparky Parker, the Howlers’ power forward. Without fail, he always started a fight in the last seven minutes of the game. He used to do it at five minutes until the NHL screwed it up with all those crappy penalties. Even so, he was the king of the Gordie Howe hat trick, pulling off the goal, assist, fight trio in most matches to the exclusion of all else, even winning.

  Roger led us down to the front row, where the cold from the rink seeps up through the floor. Rachel was already freezing when we got to our seats, and the souvenir jersey that I’d bought her wasn’t helping much. I took off the jacket I always wore to hockey games and hung it on her shoulders.

  “Thanks.” She touched my hand and the world went black, white, and red. It can happen when the bloodlust gets bad. Thing is, I didn’t think I was hungry enough to justify it. Before I had time to give it much thought, Rachel whispered, “Later,” in my ear and snuggled up under my arm, a warm little cinnamon-scented angel. Her proximity, the sheer physical closeness, should have made things worse, but color slowly bled back into my vision. That was weird.

  “How did you—” I began to ask, but Roger cut me off.

  “So, does Tabitha know about your new girlfriend yet?” asked Roger.

  “No.” I looked down at Rachel. “She’s not my…look, just drop it.”

  Roger just smiled and scanned the crowd.

  “Looking for someone?” I asked.

  “Something like that.” He waved at a blond guy who was dressed to the nines. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty. The blond came over, carrying two boxes carefully in his arms. He handed the boxes to Roger with a curt nod.

  “With Lady Gabriella’s compliments, Lord Roger.”

  “New boyfriend?” I asked Roger.

  “Yeah, yeah. Go screw yourself.” Roger slipped him five one-hundred-dollar bills, holding on to his hand when the boy accepted. Five hundred dollars and Roger didn’t even flinch. Must not have been his own money. I wondered if I checked the receipts back at work, whether I’d find a five-hundred-dollar payout with Roger’s name on it. “And, Dennis, the other thing?”

  “It’s been arranged, Lord Roger,” Dennis responded. “If there will be nothing else?”

  Roger barely noticed him. He had released Dennis’s hand and was busy opening one of the boxes. “Huh? Oh, yeah, we’re good. Run on.”

  “Seriously,” I continued, “you pitching or catching, Rodge? I bet you’re catching.”

  “Shut up.” Roger pulled a dark bottle out of the box and handed it to me. It saidHorace Gibson—1922—AB negative on the label. “If you keep giving me the business, I won’t share.”

  “Giving you the business? Who the hell says that anymore?”

  “I’m serious, Eric.”

  “Fine.” I handed the bottle back. “I can get my own blood. I don’t need to have it delivered.”

  “Yeah, but can you ferment yours?” He broke the seal and popped the cork.

  “What?”

  “Blood booze.” He took a swig from the bottle, shuddered, and then coughed. “Smooth.”

  “How does it taste?” I asked.

  “Like blood,” he admitted, “but with a serious kick.”

  “Can I try it?” asked Rachel.

  Roger agreed and I disagreed in unison.

  “She doesn’t need to start drinking blood, Roger.”

  “Oh, like that won’t be part of this evening’s festivities for you two.” Roger handed the bottle back to me. “Blood is the only bodily fluid we’ve got.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Eric. What do you think it tastes like when I kiss you?”

  “Fine.” I handed her the bottle. She took two small sips and passed it back to me.

&nbs
p; “Not bad,” Roger told her, “but save the rest for the vampires, if you please. It cost me more than you know. They don’t just sell this stuff at the local liquor store.”

  “Where’d your boyfriend get it?” I asked. Roger’s eyes lit up from within, a dull orange pinpoint encompassed by his pupils. The fading brown pigment in his irises set it off nicely. He normally wore contacts to conceal the fade. Plenty of vamps do. Vamp irises typically lose their hue with age, resulting in a washed-out shade of the original color.

  Talbot once told me that truly ancient vampires have red irises, and sometimes even the whites of their eyes go permanently crimson. Mine hadn’t faded at all, but most Vlads have weird traits that set them apart, like my ability to turn into a white cat instead of a black one. My guess was that my blue eyes were like that. I once heard a rumor about a Vlad who can eat hamburgers. I’d have rather had the hamburgers and worn contacts.

  “Well?” asked Roger.

  “I drifted off there for a second,” I told him. “I was thinking about hamburgers.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed. “You could drive a saint to murder, you know that?”

  “Game’s starting,” I answered. “Are we going to fight or watch the game?”

  The row behind us was enthralled by our conversation. I looked at the fat guy behind me and bared my fangs. “Don’t mind us,” I told him. “We’re vampires.”

  “My son plays that game,” he replied. “Aren’t you guys a little old?”

  I turned my attention to the start of the game without answering him. Halfway through the first period I took a swig of the fermented blood. My taste buds couldn’t tell the difference. Maybe they had all died, or perhaps my palate is unrefined. I enjoyed the kick, though. It burned going down my throat and every swallow sent a dagger of heat into my heart, like heartburn would feel if it involved real fire.

  “Good?” Roger asked.

  “It’s different,” I shrugged. “Anything different…” I yawned. “When are they going to start playing?” I asked.

  “They are playing,” said Roger.

  “Not that I can see.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Roger said.

  “Which game are you watching?” I took another pull off of the bottle and realized that it was empty. Roger opened the other box and handed me a second bottle.

  “This is total crap. Sparky hasn’t even cross-checked anybody.”

  “You can tell him about it after the game.” Roger smirked. “I have a friend who knows the owner. We’ve got permission to go and talk with the team.”

  “Cool.” I offered Roger a drink from bottle number two. It had a red label on it withUnidentified Female—1982—O positive written on it in bold black letters. If anything, the burn was worse with the second bottle, but there was a taste to it, acidic and bitter.

  Sparky Parker played like he was more intent on ice skating than cross-checking anybody. In the second period, Fordman, the Howlers’ left winger, had about as much chance of scoring as a hippo in a full-body condom. They weren’t even trying. Halfway through the third period, I finished the bottle.

  “Let’s just go,” I told Roger.

  “What about meeting the team?”

  “Screw ‘em.” My tongue felt heavy and things were a little blurry. I was completely wasted.

  “Please, can we stay and meet the team?” Rachel asked.

  “Fine.” I cupped her breast. She didn’t seem to mind. “Anything you want.” We kissed and time rolled away. She moved onto my lap, grinding against me. Some parts of my body became more engorged with blood than others. The little voice in my head that normally would have thought twice and worried about consequences had passed out in the middle of that first bottle of blood booze. In his place was a horny little voice that I hadn’t heard since college. He didn’t care if we got caught or if security threw us out. All that mattered to him was getting inside Rachel’s jeans.

  The world blurred around us like time-lapse photography. Only Rachel and I were still, cocooned in cinnamon bliss. I wondered if it was some kind of magic or just the booze, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

  “Guys?” Roger whistled in my ear, then thumped me in the forehead.

  The game was over, the crowd all gone. It was just the three of us. Rachel got to her feet, blushing sweetly as she straightened her outfit. What the hell had happened? Without her to hold on to, I fell backward and began sliding off the bleachers. Maybe blood booze had been a bad idea. Roger pulled me to my feet.

  “Jesus, you are totally crocked,” Roger told me. “Let’s go meet the team.”

  Resting one arm on Rachel and the other on Roger, I stumbled in the direction that they led me. “You’re my best friend, Roger,” I slurred. He didn’t answer.

  12

  ERIC:

  BISCUIT IN THE BASKET

  Arm in arm, Roger, Rachel, and I stumbled down a long hallway behind the bleachers. I vaguely remember singing at one point. Then, suddenly we were in the locker room, meeting the Void City Howlers.

  My vision cleared long enough for me to see Sparky Parker, my former hero, the king of the ten-minute penalty, transform into a werewolf. A snarl started at the base of his toes and ran up his entire body, leaving hair, fur, and muscle in its wake. The only signs of his human form were the green and white Howlers jersey he was wearing and the hockey stick gripped tightly in his left paw.

  You’d think I’d have put it all together. After all, the team was called the Void City Howlers. In my own defense, though, the Mighty Ducks had never turned into mallards on ice. So the deductive reasoning wasn’t as intuitive as it might seem. Plus, I was totally wasted for the first time in forty years.

  Autograph book in hand, I looked around the room. It was just me, Sparky, and the other Howlers…no sign of Roger or Rachel. “Where did they go?” I asked.

  “Your friends just ditched you, vampire,” Sparky growled. “They ran.”

  “That’s good.” I blinked. “Did I run away too?”

  “You shouldn’t have done it, vamp,” he growled.

  “You’ve got spots.” He did have spots. Wolf Sparky looked sillier than any werewolf I’d ever seen. Coarse white fur covered most of his body, but it was speckled with dark black spots. He blurred. A large Dalmatian-spotted blob hit me in the face with something long and thin with a curved end: a hockey stick. I was grateful, because when the world stopped spinning everything was a little clearer.

  He grabbed me by the face, palming my head like a basketball, and tossed me through the double doors that led out to the rink.

  Other blobs expanded. They were angry fuzzy blobs with white and green middles, kind of cute, really. My vision cleared a little and a very wavery Wolf Sparky loomed over me. A long trail of drool dangled from his muzzle and pooled on the souvenir jersey I was wearing. I wondered if it was the one I’d bought for Rachel, and if so, how I’d ended up in it.

  “You have a droopy ear,” I observed. “Did you know that you had…have a droopy ear? I think your mom got a little drunk one night and…oof.”

  That time he grabbed my leg and tossed me out onto the ice. I felt kind of bad about mentioning the whole parentage thing. I’m kind of a happy chatty drunk and my mouth gets away from me. Cold hard ice broke my fall and I slid along the freshly resurfaced rink. The top layer hadn’t quite refrozen and the glacial water soaked into my clothes.

  No crowd cheered the Howlers when they took to the ice this time, but I was impressed. “You guys just skate around me, okay?” I told them. “I don’t think I can get up.”

  I don’t know who took the next several shots at me, but they must have been pissed off about something, or maybe…“I’m starting to think you guys don’t like me,” I complained.

  “He’s totally hosed,” growled a dark black one with a bobbed tail and brown highlights like a Doberman’s. “Just stake him and get it over with.”

  Trying to roll over, I lost my balance and fell to the ground
with a loud crack.

  “Lookit. One of his eyes is blinking.” Strobelike red light flashed rapidly on and off, upsetting my stomach.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said to no one in particular.

  “He’s gonna yack,” one of them said, gliding past me.

  “Vampires can’t yack,” called number 45 from one side. Each of them moved as easily on the ice bare-pawed as they had with skates, but in wolf form their strides were more confident, their reflexes better.

  “You guys ought to skate like this all the time,” I said. “Then you might win a game or two.” That didn’t come out the way I had meant it.

  A sharp pain in my side sent me spinning along the ice quickly. Sparky was driving me down the rink, a human-size hockey puck, across the blue line, straight through center ice, and toward the goal.

  “Yeah, Sparky!” someone shouted.

  Two of the other Howlers, Fordman and Hartaff judging by the jerseys, skated in to try and steal me from Sparky with more resounding thuds. One of my arms gave way with a crack and pain lanced up to my shoulder; my blood was smeared all over the ice.

  “Okay, fellas,” I said. “That’s enough.”

  Sparky brought me in, shoving me across the goal line and into the boards. About that time, I realized they weren’t just playing, they were fighting. My growl was louder than Sparky’s.

  “Stake him!” Fordman shouted. Sparky’s custom stick plunged into my back and out through the front of my souvenir jersey. I didn’t want to think about how much strength it took to jam a blunt handle completely through a man’s torso. Red illumination flashed on the boards in spurts. Off. On. Off. On. Blood wine erupted violently from my throat. It ran down the stick and onto the ice. The glow from my eyes blinked twice more and stayed on.

  “Biscuit in the basket, baby!” several of them roared.

  “Get the cooler.” The hockey stick wasn’t made of real wood, but I was still moving far too slowly. Two of them ran off of the ice and then came back toward me with a cooler.