Gates of Eden: Starter Library

by Theophilus Monroe

  “Devin has eliminated three vampires so far,” Mina said, clearly trying to puff up Devin’s resume since he obviously wasn’t inclined to boast.

  “Sounds like a busy week,” I said, smiling wide.

  Devin winced. “Three total. Ever.”

  I tilted my head and tried to draw his eyes to mine by psychological force. I figured if he saw me going out of my way to make eye contact, he’d feel a healthy amount of pressure to lock his baby blues with mine. “I was joking, Devin.”

  In truth, I’d had three-vamp weeks before, but I didn’t want to oversell myself any more than I wanted to undersell myself. They’d be convinced of my capability in time.

  “Three is quite impressive,” I said. “Most people don’t survive to stake one, much less three.”

  “Not just staked,” Devin said. “Eliminated.”

  I nodded. I suppose the phrase “staked” in hunter-speak was something of a synecdoche. It was short for “staked and eliminated,” which implied cutting out the vamp’s heart and burning it. Not that I’d spent a lot of time around other hunters. I’d encountered a few here or there, but I’d been doing it long enough and regularly enough that I knew the lingo.

  “Devin’s a preacher’s boy,” Dorcas said.

  “Not here,” Devin said. “Not this church.”

  “But a preacher’s boy no less,” Dorcas continued. “Only a few members of the Order attend this church.”

  “I don’t know much about this church,” I said, which was only a partial lie. I mean, I knew about their protests and bigotry. I didn’t know much more than that, and generally speaking, unlike the folks who represented this church in the media, I tried not to judge things I didn’t understand—even if they were quick to judge me. Not that I wouldn’t still despise what these folks were about once I knew the truth. But at least then I’d understand. I mean, if you’re going to oppose closed-minded bigotry, you have to take the higher road and have enough of an open mind to hear even the most loathsome people out. That way, in the end, you can oppose them from a position of strength rather than ignorance.

  And so far, despite the fact that these people were known for vibrant signs declaring what their deity hates, they’d been nice to me.

  “And you ladies,” I said. “You’re members here?”

  “We are,” Dorcas said. “Carol, Susan, and myself.”

  “But I’m not,” Mina said. “I’m something of a transplant from the original Order. I appreciate the church’s partnership, but they are not directly responsible for our Order’s actions.”

  “The Order doesn’t care so much what church you belong to,” Dorcas said, “so long as you’re a Bible believer.”

  “Do you believe in the Bible?” Carol asked.

  I nodded. “Noah and the Flood, the Exodus… those stories have always been dear to me.”

  “Indeed,” Dorcas said. “Prime examples of how God rises up to judge sinners and punish them for their perversions.”

  I snorted. It wasn’t what I meant. For me, those stories were legends of great meals provided for my former kind. But I certainly believed them. So in that respect, I could say I was indeed a Bible believer. “Very inspiring,” I said, attempting to remain as vague as possible about my endorsement of the stories. Enough, I hoped, that they’d continue to believe we were of the same mind.

  Meanwhile, Devin rolled his eyes. I don’t think he meant anyone to see it, but I’m more perceptive than most people. As a preacher’s kid—though I hadn’t ever met one so far as I knew—I was sure he’d had a good dose of this sort of thing his whole life.

  Not that I have a problem with any religion. Most of what I’ve read from human religious texts is overwhelmingly encouraging. It’s the people who miss the forest for the trees, who fixate on things to hate or condemn, that tend to give religion—no matter what religion it might be—a bad name.

  So far as I knew, that Jesus fellow was pretty cool. I didn’t recall him ever condemning people for behaviors or lifestyles he disagreed with. I’ve only read the New Testament once—as a part of my endeavor to learn human culture—and from what I saw, he was a radical who actually embraced the outcasts and those marginalized by the rest of society.

  I liked him. He was a lot different than many folks who tried to carry his name. I was quite surprised, in fact, to find that folks like me or Donnie or Geraldo, or anyone else from my community, were often unwelcome in churches supposedly founded to further his message.

  Maybe I’m just ignorant. But it seemed like they’d missed the point.

  “Have a contract for us, Mina?” Devin asked.

  I looked at Mina curiously. Was this nice old lady the “handler” that Wolfgang had spoken of? Or was she doing someone else’s bidding? No clue. All things I’d try to figure out. Not that infiltrating the Order was my primary objective. I was here to earn their trust, to find out what they knew about Alice’s whereabouts. And hopefully secure a contract for her.

  “A contract?” I asked. “Does that mean I have to sign on a line somewhere?”

  Mina shrugged. “We’re not so formal, dear. And the word ‘contract’ is just one we’ve come to adopt over time. Goes back to when the Order relied on mercenaries. But since you’ve come to us as a volunteer, I presume you’re not looking for any compensation…”

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am. Just looking for a way to help make the world a better place.”

  Mina smiled wide, reached into her purse, and handed Devin a small manila envelope.

  He hooked his thumb under the flap of the envelope and ripped it open. After glancing down at the contract, he looked up at me—probably the first time he’d looked at me directly without being prompted. “Nick, you ready to go do this?”

  I cocked my head. “It’s the middle of the day. Don’t you hunt vamps at night?”

  “Not this time,” Devin said. “Because we know where this one is hiding out during the daytime. Hopefully we can catch him asleep.”

  I nodded. “Easy peasy.”

  “Right,” Devin said, smiling sheepishly. Clearly he realized, as I did, that hunting vamps was never easy. Even a simple plan would invariably become complicated. Something unexpected would happen. But at least we had a job. And if I impressed them, I hoped more would follow.

  12

  HUNTING WITH DEVIN was bound to present a few challenges I wasn’t accustomed to.

  Not like I couldn’t handle it. But generally speaking, when you’re dealing with vampires you don’t come by many advantages. Those you do have you’d be wise to keep.

  For instance, since Devin and the Order presumed I was human, I couldn’t rely on the fact that I could move faster than most vampires. Of course, not every vampire had super speed. It was more common for vampires who had a few decades under their belt. But even a youngling, motivated by the craving to feed, could move quicker than the average human.

  To maintain my cover, I was going to have to move no faster than a human. I could push it to a point, but if I started to approach Usain Bolt speeds, it would rouse suspicion. A little faster than average was the best I could do.

  Then there was the whole matter of possibly getting cut. I didn’t bleed blood. Not that I intended to get cut, anyway… but usually I avoided that because I was fast. See the first “challenge” already detailed above.

  Even a small paper cut required special attention, a stitch or two using a strand of my hair. I know it’s weird, but it works. While my body has lost its shifting capacity, for some reason my hair retained some of it.

  I’m guessing it’s because my hair was formed before I got bitten. And however Alice siphoned my abilities from me through the bite, my hair follicles weren’t directly connected to my bloodstream. So a little stitch from my hair ensured that I returned to my given form, which in effect healed me of any wounds.

  Of course, that wasn’t something I wanted a lot of folks to know. I’ve read the Old Testament. I know the story of Samson and Delilah.
The moral of that story was clear: if you have magic hair, don’t tell no ho!

  Not that Devin was a ho. Maybe he was. I didn’t know him well enough to judge. I could tell, though, that he was holding on to something. It was like he had some big insecurity lurking around inside of him, like a demon clawing at his soul, begging to get free.

  It could have been anything, really.

  Maybe just low self-esteem.

  I didn’t know his family, but he was the son of a preacher. I could only imagine how hard it must be as a child to feel free to explore, to figure out who you are, if you’re constantly being forced into a pigeonhole of other people’s expectations.

  Maybe he was at odds with the Order’s beliefs.

  Someone who takes such good care of himself… that’s not usually the sign of someone who is both shy and depressed. He had an outlet. There was something in his life that gave him purpose. You don’t polish your nails if you think life sucks. You don’t give a shit about your nails, or anything about your appearance, when you’re depressed.

  Learned that at the asylum…

  Nothing was more dreadful than hanging around the folks committed for depression. Not just because they were party poopers all around, but if you were to check in on the patients who hadn’t showered in the last week and looked at their charts, I’d be willing to bet that nearly all of them were there for depression of some sort.

  I wasn’t ever really diagnosed with anything beyond PTSD. They initially suggested gender dysphoria. Some people use being trans and gender dysphoria as interchangeable terms. They aren’t. Gender dysphoria is a feeling of distress that might happen to those whose gender identity doesn’t match up with the one assigned at birth. I didn’t have distress over my gender, and I wasn’t ever assigned one at all. So I told them to take their DSM diagnosis and shove it up their asses. Metaphorically speaking, of course. They didn’t actually do it. The DSM manual is pretty big, so I hope they didn’t.

  It’s certainly common for trans folks to experience gender dysphoria, but it’s not a universal or guaranteed experience. And it didn’t fit me at all.

  No diagnosis fit me. Instead, they decided to simply counsel me through my “transition” to being human. To help me come to grips with the fact that eating people was no longer acceptable behavior. Yeah, I thought it was bullshit at the time.

  It felt like trying to take a red-meat-eating rancher and force him into vegan camp. If you don’t want to like tofu, you won’t like tofu. People who say they like that shit have had to work hard to convince themselves that it’s good. That’s why they usually spend so much time trying to tell other people how great it is. Because, deep down, they’re still hoping they’ll start to believe it themselves.

  I say all of that to say this: whatever had Devin tied up in knots was a bit of an enigma. It wasn’t generalized depression. He didn’t exhibit any signs of anxiety. I hadn’t seen any erratic behaviors. Just a discomfort… a sort of awkwardness.

  Hell, maybe he was just an awkward dude. But most awkward people aren’t as hot as Devin… they don’t tend to be attractive. They usually look as strange as they act. Not sure why—but when’s the last time you saw an incredibly good-looking person who was a total social misfit?

  Doesn’t happen much. Probably because social acceptability, in human culture, is so tightly linked to appearance. Makes sense, I think.

  “So what’s the plan?” I asked as I stepped out of Devin’s car. He drove a red Subaru Impreza. A small car, but he had the “sport” edition. It was cute. And I imagine fuel efficient.

  We didn’t take my motorcycle, mostly because you really need to get to know someone before you let them straddle you from behind. Devin and I hadn’t progressed that far in our relationship.

  Not that I was opposed to the thought…

  Never mind.

  Devin drove a Subaru Impreza.

  I was surprised to learn, as a part of our small talk on the drive, that the car wasn’t actually Australian. Hard to believe…

  I mean, didn’t Crocodile Dundee drive a Subaru? Again, my research into human culture has some gaps. I figured I must’ve missed something there. You can only pick up so much over the course of five years.

  “Need any stakes?” Devin asked, popping his vehicle’s rear hatch.

  I’d carried my duffel bag on my lap and already had it over my shoulder. “Nope,” I said. “But I might want to leave this in your car once I’ve geared up.”

  Devin grinned. “I wondered if you were actually planning to bring that whole thing inside with you.”

  I unzipped my bag. It was no overstatement to say that my bag was basically a treasure trove of all things that could hurt vampires. Stakes galore. My trusty crossbow and plenty of bolts. A few vials of holy water. Some chains, just in case we needed to bind the bloodsucker, and a Tupperware dish full of pre-peeled garlic cloves.

  “Damn,” Devin said. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Devin reached into my bag and surveyed my stakes. I had about a dozen in there, all of them stained with vampire blood. He shook his head. “How many vamps have you staked, anyway?”

  I smiled. “I lost count a long time ago. Not many weeks go by that I don’t take down at least one.”

  “One a week?” Devin asked. “That’s intense.”

  I smiled. “I’m a driven… person.” I cleared my throat. I’d almost said “girl,” but caught myself. Still undercover…

  “I’d say,” Devin said. “So the vampire here is still something of a youngling.”

  I sighed. “Any idea who its sire is?”

  Devin shook his head. “There’s nothing in the file.”

  “Usually if a youngling is being a nuisance or drawing too much attention, the vamp’s sire will take care of it before hunters even get a chance.”

  Devin nodded as he surveyed his paperwork. “What we have here says his cravings are minimal. He’s a youngling, but he must be past the worst of it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And he’s a priority target why, exactly?”

  Devin shrugged. “For the Order, the question isn’t the relative danger a vampire poses to society. All vampires are equally abominable. All need to be eliminated. And this one, a young male previously known as Chad in his former life, is probably meant to be an easy mark. They don’t want to start you out in the deep end of the pool. They’d rather you wade in slowly to make sure you don’t get in over your head.”

  I nodded. “Nice metaphor. But I could stake this kind of vampire with two hands tied behind my back.”

  “You don’t really mean that,” Devin said. “You’d still need to have a stake in hand.”

  I bit my lip. I was thinking of my heels. A swift kick to the chest. But again… undercover. “Just a manner of speech,” I said. “I just mean it should be an easy staking. Bada bing, bada boom. Get back in time for dinner.”

  “Hopefully in time for lunch.”

  “I agree.” I smiled. “Not to mention I have plans this evening.”

  “Girlfriend?” Devin glanced at my hand. I figured he was looking for a ring so as to know whether to guess girlfriend or wife. Of course, the folks at the church wouldn’t imagine boyfriend as a possibility.

  I shook my head. “Never had a girlfriend, actually.”

  Devin cocked his head. “I find that hard to believe.”

  I shrugged. “Why is that?”

  “I mean, not a lot of good-looking guys take vows of celibacy.”

  “You think I’m good looking?” I grinned a little.

  Devin blushed and started to stutter. “I… I mean, obviously you’re what a lot of women would probably find…”

  I grinned. That was it: I was about eighty percent certain that Devin was gay. His status as a preacher’s kid probably left him shoved firmly into the closet, but behind dead-bolted, fireproofed doors. Of course, he didn’t realize I wasn’t actually his type. Still, it was mildly flattering.
/>   I just smiled and nodded. “I’m sure you’d know. About how to handle the girls.”

  Devin shook his head. “Not really. I mean, I’ve had dates. Things never really…”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Let’s just stick to business. We have a vampire to stake.”

  Perhaps I’d find a way to press the question later, but we’d just barely met. If he hadn’t met me in connection with the Order, at the church… maybe he’d be more open with me as a stranger. But that ship had sailed. If he was going to confide anything in me, he’d have to trust me first. Not that I expected him to. It really wasn’t my business.

  But it was weighing on him. I knew the look; I’d seen it a hundred times. Men who shuffle their way into Leotards and Lace, pale white circles on their fingers, sitting alone, awkward, hoping someone random will just talk to them. Closeted men hoping, on some odd chance, that maybe someone will pick them up and fulfill their secret fantasies.

  And to see them come alive, to see their true selves emerge when they embrace it—if they do happen to muster up the courage to talk to someone—it’s like a one-hundred-eighty-degree change.

  Not that I endorsed closeted men hiding their late-night exploits from their wives. Though, when it came to human ethics, I suppose I was a bit of an amateur considering I didn’t have any qualms about eating people until a few years ago. Still, I’d never gravitated to those men; I wasn’t interested in a quick thrill.

  I’d spent my existence as an elemental taking human shape precisely to become an object of someone’s fantasies. It was a bait and switch, of course. But that was all I’d ever been able to do before.

  If I was going to get involved with a man, it was going to be something meaningful. And closeted men, especially men who are hiding it from wives at home, aren’t generally ready to commit to a trans woman. If they’re into trans women at all.

  Sometimes closeted men like to use trans women—presuming she hasn’t had the surgeries in the lower region—as a way of denying that they’re really gay. I mean, if it’s a woman they’re with, they aren’t gay. But they’re really looking for one thing. The one thing, in fact, I wished I could get rid of.