by J. F. Lewis
I pushed open the Demon Heart’s double doors like I owned the place. The scent of junk food assailed my nostrils, my rain-slick blond hair matted to my neck and shoulders, and my soaked white T-shirt, not just wet but blood-stained, did not go unnoticed by our patrons. The only contestant in an unannounced horror-themed wet T-shirt contest, I curled my upper lip and struggled to keep my fangs in. It was a busy night and I wanted to eat all of them, to drain them dry and suck the marrow. Sizzling funnel cakes went into the fryer behind the snack counter; it was too loud.
Gladys smiled at me from behind the counter, but Cheryl’s eyes widened and she shooed me away. Backing out of the Demon Heart, I turned and ran across the street to the Pollux. Fuck Cheryl! With trembling fingers, I typed the security code wrong twice before I got it right and the doors unlocked. I heard Cheryl jogging across the street after me, but I slammed the doors in her face.
The hole in my brain, where Dad’s presence usually was, yawned empty in my mind, my heart, my stomach. I sank to the floor of the foyer and screamed. The emptiness crept further into my belly; my hunger spiked. It was all Dad’s fault. He was too far away and I couldn’t feel him. His absence was physical pain, like some strand of whatever passed for my soul was stretched from Void City, all the way to Paris. Magbidion and Erin, two of Dad’s thralls, admitted that his absence was uncomfortable, but neither of them felt it as strongly as me.
Talbot walked down the grand stair and looked at me with pity. He’s huge. Not that I’m short. I’m a good six feet tall, but Talbot picked me up and cradled me like a child. Dad had left him behind, too.
“Where’s Rachel?”
Talbot was then taken by my question. “I haven’t seen her. Why?”
“I was thinking I might eat her while Dad’s gone. She’s trouble. And he won’t stay mad long. It’s me.”
“Yeah.” He looked away as he answered. “I’m pretty sure he wants Shenanigans around a little longer.”
My hand started shaking and I clamped it against my side, claws digging into my skin. “But I’m hungry.” There was no blood flowing from the wounds.
“He’s either got to come back or you have to go to him, Greta,” Talbot rumbled. “Either that or . . .”
“I’m not making a thrall!” I roared. Bloody spittle landed on Talbot’s cheeks, but he barely registered it. Having blood replace all of your bodily fluids is one of the many indignities that accompany vampiric immortality. Cheryl walked back to the Demon Heart, but she stood in the doorway, eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head right through the glass of the foyer. She means well, but she’s not my mom.
I turned into a bat, my clothes falling through Talbot’s arms to the floor as I flapped angrily toward her. Lucky for her Talbot is so fast. He snatched me out of the air, held me down like a wounded sparrow. My furry reddish-brown bat skin pulled smooth and taut when I changed back into a human. Talbot straddled my naked body. His heat was too much. It makes Dad horny, closeness like that. I’m not Dad. I get hungry. My fangs sank into Talbot’s forearm.
“Greta, no!” His blood burned. He pushed me away, smoke trailing from my lips. “You’ve been through postmortem stress, Greta. You can’t drink from me anymore.”
“Hunt.” I choked the single word, turning to leave, but he grabbed me again and then Cheryl’s wrist was in my mouth. I bit down as hard as I could, worrying her flesh as I felt the bones crack. She screamed and Talbot hit me in the back of the head. Once. Twice. Three times. And then I let her go. She didn’t run, she was too well trained for that, but her immediate departure took the form of a very rapid walk.
Talbot shifted his hold into a full nelson.
“Let. Go.” My mouth was burned and speech was agony. It wasn’t healing either. I could feel it not healing, the pain that should have faded and didn’t, just like a wound inflicted by a cross.
“If you don’t get control of yourself, Phillip is going to put you in storage until Eric gets back,” Talbot warned me. “We’ve got to do something, Greta. Even you know it’s getting out of hand. He hasn’t been gone very long and you’re already—”
Extending my claws, I raked his sides, but he didn’t let go. “He told me to stay here and watch things. Dad put me in charge. Not you, Talbot! Not Magbidion or Cheryl! Me! If I want to kill everybody, then I get to kill everybody! I’m the boss! Me!”
“At least go talk to Phillip.” Talbot’s breath was hot against my skin. “Maybe he has some kind of magic—”
“Fuck Uncle Phil!” I bellowed. Tears of blood flowed down my cheeks, and I raked his sides again in frustration. Then I felt Phillip. He moved into range with such incredible alacrity that I had barely processed what I was sensing before he was standing right next to me.
“Buona sera, my dear,” Uncle Phil said lightly in what I thought might be Italian. The diminutive chubby man was balding, but something in his bearing made spines snap to attention in his presence. Talbot let me go and I reached for my underwear, surprised when Phillip had the manners to avert his gaze. “Talk of the Devil and he is presently at your elbow, yes?” he quoted. Still pleasant on the surface, his voice contained depths of meaning for vampiric ears. Uncle Phil was playing nice, but he was pissed.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Uncle Phil,” I said, slipping my jeans back on.
Dismissing my apology with a wave of his hand, he exhaled in perturbation when he saw Talbot. “Need his presence truly be inflicted upon me, Greta? I understand your father’s reliance on his assistance, but surely you and I have no need of a chaperone.”
“Go check on Cheryl, Talbot.” I pointed at the doors. Dad once told me that it was never a good idea to be alone with Uncle Phil, but given the circumstances I couldn’t see the wisdom in annoying him further.
Reluctantly, Talbot kissed me on the forehead, wiped his blood off my lips, and walked out the front door.
“Did you know that F-U-C-K originally meant ‘Fornication Under Consent of King’?” Uncle Phil asked.
That’s bullshit, I thought. It’s never meant that at all. Fuck has basically meant “fuck” for hundreds of years, but I didn’t say anything. Now wasn’t a good time to correct Uncle Phil. I picked my shirt up instead, but it was too bloody to put on.
Before I formulated an acceptable answer, Phillip floated off. He examined the molding around the ceiling and the detail of the chandelier before landing gently on the gallery outside the mezzanine. He seemed quite interested in the restoration, making pleased little noises when he saw things that met his approval and tutting when he saw work that did not reach his standards. I held the ruined shirt over my head and wrung the last few drops of blood into my mouth, waiting for him to say his piece. The drops of blood eased my pain a little, which was a very good sign. I didn’t want to have to wait until Dad got back for my mouth to heal. He’d thought to leave me some of his blood, in case of emergencies, but I’d been sneaking a little of it before bed each day and there was only a cup or so left.
“Did you know that I’ve not been inside this building in sixty years?” Phillip disappeared through the double doors of the mezzanine. Still half-naked, I followed him, leaping up over the balustrade, my feet slapping hard against the thin carpet. Just after I walked through the doors, I felt his hand on my arm. I counted to ten slowly, waiting for him to take his hand off my arm, but he started talking instead. “Greta is from German. It’s a shortened form of Margaret, meaning ‘pearl.’ Such an apt name really, because you are a genuine treasure.” Smile lines showed at the corners of each eye when he frowned. “Yet even the most precious treasures require care and attention. Silver and gold must be polished, and the most beautiful gems must first be cut in order to shine.”
“Don’t touch me!” I growled. Four long scratches appeared on Uncle Phil’s face, jagged furrows that did not bleed like they should have. I thought I might have put them there.
Phil released his grip on my arm, momentarily stunned either by the idea that I’d actually hurt him or by
the knowledge that I’d done it faster than he could turn to mist. I don’t know which. He explored the wounds with his fingertips absentmindedly, as if it were a new sensation or a long forgotten one. The wounds healed, but not at Vlad speed—it was closer to a Soldier’s or a Master’s regeneration. Duly noted.
“What do you want me to do?” I sighed.
“Don’t be like that, Greta. This is not a court. It is not as if you stand before your judge, jury, and executioner.” He could have fooled me.
“A buon intenditor poche parole, as the Italians say,” he continued.
“Which means what?” I interrupted.
“A word to the wise is sufficient,” he translated. “You should study languages, my dear. A lively mind is such a charming companion to a beautiful exterior. Let me be blunt.”
Let me get a T-shirt. I crossed my arms over my breasts and leaned back against the wall. Or you could loan me your jacket. But I didn’t say any of that either.
“Okay.” I nodded. Uncle Phil was never blunt.
“Do you know why vampires have children? Aside, of course, from your father, who is a very special case?”
He sat down in the front row of the mezzanine and patted the burgundy colored seat next to him. The seats were covered in real velvet.
So that you can eat them later? “Because they’re lonely?”
With white teeth bared in a sly grin, he turned to gaze at me. “I once thought the same thing.” He put one hand on my knee and rotated further so that we were face-to-face. “Have you ever considered making Eric a grandfather?”
I already had. Not that it was Uncle Phil’s business. Not that I’d even told Dad about his grandchildren. Who’s to say he’d be the happy grandpa? Not me. And why the hell did Phil think making new vampires would settle me down? Had fatherhood settled Daddy down? If that wasn’t what he was thinking, then it was just more talking, more controlling, more Phillipness, and I don’t have a high threshold for men like Phil trying to make me do things I don’t want to do. I didn’t make it to ten that time. To be honest, I didn’t even count.
“Hands off!” There is one advantage to thinking with your brain, like Dad does. I’ve gotten better when it comes to words, but actions . . . Using your brain puts a little extra cushion between the impulse to act and the action. With the cushion, I might have come up with a clever comeback. Without it, my fist (at least I kept the claws in) hammered into Uncle Phil’s nose, bringing it flush with his skull. I was honestly surprised the punch connected. So was Phillip. We stared at each other, and Phil’s charming façade vanished as he misted, maintaining his form, but with vapor trailing from the edges. I didn’t like what I saw underneath that façade. He grew in stature, not unlike Ian McKellen’s Gandalf in the first Lord of the Rings movie, you know, when he’s really pissed at Bilbo?
“I have a thing about being touched,” I told him carefully. “I’m not apologizing, but it’s from before, when I was human.”
I wanted to keep cool, not say anything else, but Uncle Phil just kept looking at me until I continued.
“I’ll think about it, okay, but don’t push me. It’s my choice, nobody else’s.”
Phil nodded slightly, and vanished as swiftly as he’d arrived. No quip. No parting shot. Nothing. I was willing to bet that Uncle Phil’s shit list had a new contender for numero uno.
20
GRETA:
OLD HABITS
An hour after Uncle Phil left, I was still sitting in the mezzanine and my hunger was back. It wasn’t a thirst for blood, but a craving for real food: cookies, ice cream, the crap they served over at the Demon Heart, anything that was full of fat, sugar, or grease. I’d been dead for a long time, but stress still made me want to binge.
When Dad found me, I was tall for my age, over one hundred ten pounds, nine years old, and miserable . . . a fat little girl with floppy fat-girl boobs. I still remember it even though I doubt he does. Dad’s memory is tricky. I think it’s because he was embalmed. It makes Dad forget things, lots of things, so it’s hard to know what Dad does or doesn’t remember.
In a way, I hope he doesn’t remember it. It was a warm summer night and the breeze kept it from being too humid. We were at the beach—well, at a rental house near the beach. It was the only vacation my foster parents had ever taken me on. Henry and Diane (my foster parents) got into an argument, which wasn’t really unusual since they fought all the time, but Diane stormed out and left me with Henry. She’d never done that before. Henry had made it clear that all he was interested in was a government check, but Diane had been really nice to me. I expected her to come right back, but she didn’t.
I don’t like to think about what happened after Henry got drunk, but not a night goes by when I don’t remember what happened later. Henry was passed out in the bed and I was lying there halfway under him, too afraid to move.
In my head I kept thinking about what I was going to do when I got my courage up. I told myself that I was going to get a pair of scissors and snip his bits off or find a kitchen knife and stab him in the heart. Maybe I would even set him on fire, or worse. Everything hurt, and more than anything else in the world, even more than I wanted revenge, I wanted to be brave enough to get up, walk downstairs, leave, and never look back.
Before it happened I remember stillness, a calm that came over the house and the beach. The gentle roll of the waves became inaudible and the breeze that blew the curtains stopped, leaving them hanging still in the night. Outside, a shadow crossed the open window, in front of the moon, and I got my first glimpse of Eric, my new daddy, the only real dad I’ve ever known. He was glorious, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, with a white T-shirt. He looked almost like the Fonz in Happy Days reruns, but there was blood on his shirt. His boots hit the windowsill and, halfway in and halfway out of the window, crouched low and dangerous, he stared at the scene: me, Henry, the bed, the tangle of sheets, the blood.
“This better be the right fucking house,” he snarled. “Is that Hank?”
I couldn’t answer. He pulled a torn photo out of his pocket and looked at Henry. “Yeah, that’s Hank.” He dropped the picture and it fluttered to the hardwood floor of the house Henry had rented. In the moonlight, I could see the three of us—Henry, Diane, and me—standing in front of their house in Whedonville. There was blood on the photo, too.
Eric grabbed Henry by the feet and tossed him out of bed.
“Wha . . . ?” was all Henry got out before he hit the floor. Eric moved so quickly it was like a strobe light had been turned on. He was at the foot of the bed, bending over Henry. Henry choked, struggling for air, as Eric held him off the floor by the throat. Eric snarled, and moonlight caught the whiteness of his fangs.
“I didn’t do nothing,” Henry said between gasps.
“Who said you did?” Eric asked. “I’m not judgmental. I just want the ghost of your annoying little bitch of a wife to shut up.” He let Henry drop to the floor. “She keeps going on and on about ‘You’ve got to protect Greta. I never should have left her alone with him!’” he mocked in a whiny high-pitched voice. “It seems like every fourth or fifth meal has some sob story about unfinished business or how they can’t believe you murdered them. And do you think there is a damn mage around here to send them on their way? Hell no! Not one that answers the phone anyway.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Henry continued. “Just take what you want and—”
His sentence ended in a scream when Eric reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Bones crunched under the pressure; I heard them from across the room. Bending down, Eric looked him in the eye. “Don’t lie to me, Hank. I’m not your priest. I’m the executioner du jour. That’s French for ‘you were married to the wrong chick on the wrong night and now you get to die so that her ghost will shut the hell up’!”
“Okay, I was drunk and I . . . oh my God . . . I’m so sorry, please don’t . . .”
Urine ran down Henry’s legs and a wet spot blossomed on the front of his
underwear, but his sentence ended when Eric punched him in the throat. “I’m not even going to bite you,” Eric said as Henry choked to death. “You’re rank, man. Christ!” On his knees, Henry gasped for air, but he couldn’t draw any in.
I was still in bed, still staring. There was no fear, just adoration. For the entire time I’d been with the Reynoldses I had wished Henry would just drop dead and now he was going to do it, right in front of me. When Eric turned his gaze on me, the red light from his eyes washing over my body, I smiled. His fangs were out and the way they flashed in the moonlight made him look so cool.
“You can have me if you want. I won’t fight you.” I pulled the covers back and stood up slowly, limping. I’d recently gained a very clear understanding of what went on behind closed doors. Thanks to Henry, I wasn’t wearing anything under my stained nightshirt, and a thin trail of blood ran down the inside of my leg. “You killed Henry . . . Hank . . . and that’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
He recoiled from me.
“I can take a shower first,” I offered. “So I won’t smell like him. Or if there is anything else you want . . .”
He shook his head. “No, kid . . . Look, I’m glad you’re not too upset and all but . . .”
“You’re a vampire?” I asked.
He nodded.
“But he won’t become a vampire, too?” I said, pointing at Henry.
“No, I didn’t bite him and I’m not going to. There’s more to it than that anyway . . .” Henry grabbed at Eric’s leg and Eric batted him away.
“Will Diane come back as a vampire?” I asked. “Is that”—I nodded at his shirt—”I mean, you know, you bit her, right?”
“Nah, she’s not coming back either, kid.” He looked at the empty air next to him, tilted his head to one side, and then pointed at Henry. “But this jerk’s not hurting anybody ever again. You see?” Crossing in front of me, he grabbed Henry by the hair and put his work boot on Henry’s head, pushing his face into the floorboards until the front of his skull collapsed, flattening to match the smoothness of the wood. Eric stood back up and looked at the same spot of empty air.