The Anti-Vampire Tale

by Lewis Aleman

She chuckles for a moment, then adds, “Sad about the girl. As silly as she sounds, it’s a terrible thing. So many of the young ones now—so many just giving it all away.”

  The flicker of a match lighting.

  “Now, what can you tell me about Roderick?” I ask.

  The match’s flame wavers as it lights a candle. Slowly the candle moves up her body to her face.

  Her lips speak in the candlelight, her face still shrouded in darkness, “Roderick’s the one that should overdose. Make the world a better place for everyone.”

  She’s over three centuries old. Second oldest vampire known alive next to Roderick—except of course for the unfounded rumors of ancient bloodsuckers living in the French Alps, the Orient, or even Siberia, depending on the preference of who is telling the tale.

  She looks no older than a teen playing goth dress-up, with gray streaks in her long, braided, black hair. Her black dress reaches to the floor, is dirty and matted with cat hair of varying shades of gray and black, and was a gown designed five decades ago for an older lady with bland taste.

  Her lips are as crimson as if she has just finished feeding. Been an outcast among the vampires as long as I’ve been alive. Living with her cats. At least two dozen of them. They say she feeds on them in cycles, never taking too much to harm them, and never feeding on one again until she’s been through all the rest.

  The only evidence of the long centuries she’s suffered through is the grit in her voice.

  Her real name is Karianna, although I’ve never heard anyone call her by anything other than Katrianna since I was a child. The legends of her feeding on her vast feline friends are popular gossip among the vampires. They deem her to be dirty, not much more than a human romantically entangled with a pet. After she became Katrianna for so long in perverse tales told in private, people couldn’t resist it in public, even right to her face, as often happens when someone is spoken more about than to.

  Without a single blow, they killed Karianna, leaving a reclusive lady called Katrianna who is known only from their tales.

  Been years since I saw her face last—she hasn’t had much use for visiting other vampires and hearing their gossip about her. I was a young one last time she came around, and only remember her leaving with deep gashes in her face from an argument with Roderick.

  The legends have sworn she’s aged into a toothless bag of wrinkles, and has descended into lunacy from her lonely life in isolation. From what she’s showing me in the candlelight, the rumors of her appearance are nothing more than harsh lies. She looks as young as a high school senior—a girl dressed in an old woman’s clothes.

  As to the sanity of a self-described crazy cat lady who drinks the blood of her only companions, I’ll have to brave the dark that shields most of her body to find out.

  She speaks, “Roderick has always been fascinated with all kinds of decadence. Women—wine—violence—power, and of course feeding. He’s as happy with head games as he is with drinking the blood of a forbidden young thing.

  “After a century of diving into all of it, he began to get bored—the joy of his conquests getting smaller and smaller. Every girl’s blood less sweet than the one before. Every touch a little more dull than the last. Each drink having less effect on his body. I think that’s when he began to crack. He was always a mean one, but at some point he became something much worse.

  “He was gone for awhile—before any of us came over to this side of the world—he was wandering somewhere in Southern Europe. I heard the older ones saying he must have finally been caught and killed. Then he returned. Unmarked and unharmed, but with a cruelty that he didn’t have before. My mother used to say the bitter root was twisted a little deeper in him when he returned.

  “Truth be told, I used to think he was handsome when I was a young girl. The first crush I ever had. Don’t know if I’ve had another like it. Who knows—old eyes can’t see things as they were. Hearts change the memory a little more every time it comes to mind, eventually being no more than our dream of what was.”

  I try to get her back to the story, “What happened when he came back?”

  She clears her throat with a huff, “Older ones who said bad things about his new attitude slowly disappeared. My mother was one of the last. The last words I remember her saying were that Roderick is wiping out all the wisdom left in our kind—killing anyone with knowledge and experience to prove him wrong.”

  “What was he doing that made them criticize him?”

  “When the old fixes no longer satisfied him, he sought out the extreme. The forbidden. Things that are said to leave you cursed for doing.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Mixing—mixing the desires, perverting them. Not just orgies, but massacre orgies. Not just alcohol, but alcohol and opium. Not just beatings—not just murders, but dungeons where he’d torture poor souls until they were screaming for death.

  “And the psychological—he’s been a student of the mind for centuries. Not happy with just having followers, but needing to pit them against each other whenever he pleases. The power to undo them all—to make them loyal to no one but him. It pleases his sick need for the ultimate power over them, but it also prevents any rebellion. If servants are always fighting each other as much as enemies, they’ll never unite to overthrow their master.”

  I ask, “What do you think he’s doing now that’s different? Something’s just started that’s new—something that he’s obsessed with—something that has to do with this blue-haired girl.”

  “They say nothing under the sun is new, young Simon.”

  So odd to hear someone, who knows what I am and that I’ve lived through decades, call me young. Guess I am young in her eyes.

  “Has to be something new—something huge—Roderick was exposing himself to hundreds of people in a bar trying to get it.”

  “What?” she asks, her voice changing tone for the first time since we began talking.

  “It was at an ‘80s Night. He was—”

  “‘80s Night? What’s that?”

  “1980s Music. It’s a night where they only play ‘80s music—some people dress up—lots of drinking—lots of dancing.”

  “You young ones and your invented reasons to celebrate. But, okay—I get it. What was he exposing?”

  “It was all about one girl. A girl named Ambrosia. She was trying to get away from Roderick, and he dug his fingernails into her arm in front of all these people—blood was running down her forearm. Didn’t care if police came—was going to fight me with his two goons, Carvelli and Quint, right in front of all the normals.”

  “All over one girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Must have wanted her pretty bad.”

  “Pretty sure he had already had her.”

  “Hmmm…all that trouble over a girl he’s already tasted. She must’ve had something he wanted.”

  “Right, but what?”

  “Edgar was talking out of his mind for two days when he first came here. Most of it made no sense. Some of it words—some of it sounds—almost none of it went together. But he kept trying to talk about what made him so sick. They were drinking some kind of new blood—some new breed is what he kept calling it. Edgar mixed it with some junk Roderick gave him and shot it in his arm. Something happened, and he thought he’d die.”

  “He was alone?”

  “No. He was with Roderick and the others. They were all drinking this new breed stuff, when he decided he needed to shoot it in his veins with his smack, but Roderick gave him something poisonous instead of his usual stuff. Said he cried out for them to help him, but Roderick just watched. Stood over him and watched him inch closer to death—studying him like a science experiment. Roderick said he had to see what it’d do to Edgar.”

  “How’d he get away?”

  “Said Roderick had some girl there—thought he was hallucinating—she had big yellow eyes and giant blue ponytails.”

  “That’s her! That’s the girl—Ambrosi
a!”

  “What? Someone really looks like that?”

  “That’s her to a tee. Couldn’t be anyone else.”

  “Wow, he thought he was seeing things—I did too. Who’d’ve guessed she’d be real, looking like that? Sounds like a cartoon character. Oh, well, guess that makes sense then. Edgar said Roderick was so fixed on her—for hours, that he slipped away without Roderick noticing. By the time Edgar found me, he was speaking gibberish and drooling down his chin.”

  “That jerk never mentioned any of this—just told me to talk to you. He knew I was looking for info on why Roderick’s after the girl.”

  “‘Course he did. Now he can say he never told you anything. All he told you was where I am—they don’t care about me anymore. No matter how loaded he gets, he’ll never slip up and admit he told you anything, because he didn’t. He got me to tell you. Sneaky junkie.”

  “Well, what’d’you think all this has to do with Ambrosia? Why’d Roderick go so crazy—act so careless in public?”

  “Whatever she’s got—has to be related to this new breed they’re hooked on. Maybe she makes it for them.”

  “Ambrosia doesn’t seem like a dealer, Katrianna—more of a party girl.”

  “Maybe she just brings them what they need to make it—maybe just one thing—one ingredient.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe her blood’s the sweetest thing they’ve ever tasted.”

  “Doubt it. She’s pretty full of toxins from what I’ve been told. Smoking, alcohol, junk food.”

  Katrianna shudders and continues, “Whatever it is—it’s the key to all of this. If what Roderick mixed with that new breed almost killed Edgar, it’s brutal. That boy’s body’s been full of every bad thing known to man. If it did that to him, it’s something powerful. Something never seen before.”

  I nod.

  “And if Roderick’s so interested in it that he was going to let Edgar die—losing one of his chief henchmen—just to watch what it would do to him, it could be the end of us all.”

  “If you think his kiss is delicious, you should taste his blood.”

  Her poisoned words pass through smiling lips.

  “Rather taste what drives his blood, Maxine.”

  “His heart?” she looks at me with a mocking expression.

  I return the stare, but not the ironic smile.

  She bursts with laughter and a word, “Please!”

  I look away, fidgeting roughly with my fingernails.

  She continues, “Honey, he’s a vampire, and more than that, he’s a male—no more reliable than a male of your own kind, following any skirt that flickers in his sight when it passes him.”

  “You’re wrong—he can love.”

  “Sure, he can,” she says and my enraged pulse slows slightly. “He can love—all of us—just not any one of us.”

  The last few hours have been hell with her. Her pleasant voice sneaking in ugly comments. Her teeth and nails flaring out when she doesn’t like what I have to say. Been so trying on my nerves that I begin to lose fear of enraging her.

  I say, “Just because you jump from lap to lap before love can ever heat up underneath you—it doesn’t mean everyone else does it too. Not everyone’s so afraid of being scorched by love that they snuff it out before it can begin—ensuring they’ll be lonely but never burned, not realizing the loneliness is drying them up inside worse than the heat ever could.”

  Tears summon to her eyes—her expression looks cracked. So bizarre. Changed so fast. Turned from a weapon to a wound.

  “Oh, my God,” I say.

  She shakes her head, staring at her lap. Stray tears drop onto her thighs.

  I continue, “You do love—Simon—you love Simon!”

  Fire burns in her eyes beneath a sheet of liquid, “Shut your pretty mouth, princess, before I make it ugly.”

  I go to speak, but I see her nails in her right hand outstretched and ready. Her breaths come deep and heavy, raising her entire frame with them. I bite my tongue in hopes that I may keep it.

  Still sitting, she raises her legs in front of her, bent at the knees, heels on the ground, and she drops her arms atop her kneecaps, her hands barely touching in the center. Her stare shoots at me just over the top of her hands.

  I sit about twelve feet away from her with a small branch that Simon sharpened yesterday grasped in my fist behind my back, squeezing it so tightly the bark falls off—tiny pieces covering my hand.

  Her voice jolts my hysteria, “What’s so shocking, pristine princess? Is love only for boring little angels like you? Am I so filthy, so stained, that I can’t love?”

  “That’s—that’s not what I meant.”

  “Then, what did you mean? You can see I love him.”

  “I see it now. Is that why you act like you do?”

  She digs into her own hand with her nails, eyes narrow, “Act like what?”

  “Looking for sex—all the time.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what I’ve seen—it’s all you’ve shown me.”

  “Maybe I should gouge your eyes out if that’s all you see with them.”

  Her nails dig deeper into her palm.

  “What about Simon’s eyes?” I ask.

  She grunts and exhales like the air in her has suddenly turned pungent, “Curse you.”

  “Do you think he sees anything in you that I don’t?”

  “Watch it, prissy. Ain’t nothing here but the trees, and they won’t save you. Nothing will.”

  “Save me from what?”

  “From me.”

  Long stare.

  “Thought you promised Simon you wouldn’t hurt me,” my voice stumbles under her fiery gaze—she seems to especially hate it when I say his name, “He’ll never forgive you.”

  “We’re immortal, weak one. Sure, he’ll be furious. A year. A decade. Might even want to kill me. It’ll pass. Eventually, I’ll still be here—your memory won’t. In fact, the sooner you’re gone—the shorter your memory’s gonna stick around in his head.”

  Fight the tremble in my voice, “Then what?”

  “Then what—what?”

  “If you’re not always looking for sex, and what I see in you is so wrong—then what are you doing all the time? Why do you act like that?”

  “Not about the sex. Distraction—it’s a distraction.”

  “A distraction from what?”

  She shakes her head and looks down to her legs again.

  A voice tells me to shut up. It begs me to stop. It’s the voice that controlled me for so long. Was miserable for so long. It’s grown quieter since I met Simon.

  “What is it? What are you hiding from?”

  Her voice is no louder than a whisper, but it cracks like a scream, “Simon.”

  “What does he have to do with you hooking up all the time?”

  “Whenever I think of him, my arms hurt because he’s not in them, so I grab someone to make me think I have someone to hold—to tell myself my embrace isn’t empty anymore. My body becomes alive at the thought of him, pulsing and restless—can’t sleep, so I find someone, sometimes anyone, just so I can scratch the itch, close my eyes, and pretend I’m happy for a moment. Sometimes pretend I’m with Simon—sometimes pretend I’m happy to be with whoever’s there with me. Never lasts long. Never gets rid of the itch, just a quick scratch—always comes back.”

  “Ever think that doing all this is why he’s not interested in you?”

  She springs to her feet—fluidly—unreal velocity. Her fingers arch, outstretching her nails as she speeds at me in a blur.

  Her legs move so fast—her feet tear into the ground—lunging her body forward. Looks like moving light. Blurry lightning-fire coming to burn through me.

  So fast, can’t move.

  Cocks her hand back and flings it at my head. Nails coming at my nose—raising to my forehead—skimming through my hair—shredding a chunk out of the tree trunk behind me—splinters and dust fal
ling onto me and all over the ground.

  My fist still grasps the small spear behind me. I spin around and aim its pointed end in front of me. Branches sway, and leaves float to the ground, but there is no sign of her—just the wake she left behind.

  I’ve wanted nothing more than for her to leave me alone since Simon left me with her. For hours, she wore my patience down—saying anything to rile me up, any hateful thing to upset me.

  Now that she’s run off into the darkness, I’m going after her, and I’m not entirely happy about it.

  Wanna know how to spot a local out of the tourists in The French Quarter?

  The local looks both ways before crossing a one-way street—the tourist trusts people will still obey silly traffic laws in the middle of their wild night.

  I seek the ones who still trust the imaginary laws to protect them. I like them when they’re all sweaty and stumbling. They like me better when they’re sweaty and stumbling too.

  Have to get my fill now. Roderick’s got Quint and Carvelli out here to bring me in. Saw those two on Bourbon. Luckily they were too distracted by something they saw gyrating through an opened doorway to notice me before I slipped away. Roderick must be having some colorful fits waiting to find out what I’ve learned—boiling in his own hatred over why I haven’t come back to him. Time’s running out.

  Would’ve already been back there if Simon hadn’t promised me a girl with an acute feeding fetish. Girls are drawn to Simon like plants stretching, straining to get closer to the sunlight. Swear one would stretch her head in front of a speeding bus to catch another glimpse of him, and die smiling as the metal behemoth crashed into her. So easy for him, and he wasted his power for so many years over that girl he lost. Regardless of all that—any girl that made an impression on him is something to hunt down and experience—that’s why I defied Roderick, left him waiting while I tried to meet up with this girl Simon told me to call. Didn’t mention she was dead. Her brother explained it to me over the phone. Simon’ll pay for this. Whether Roderick needs it or not, Simon’ll pay.

  Also would’ve been back in town sooner if he hadn’t torn my stomach to shreds. Simon would’ve never got me like that if Roderick woulda just let me feed before sending me out. By the time I found them in the woods, the withdrawal dizziness had already clouded my mind. Can’t fight like that. All Roderick’s fault. Impatient, hard-headed…