The Anti-Vampire Tale

by Lewis Aleman

  My eyes wrench shut. My breaths come choppy and weak—all I can hear. Mind empty. Chest so cold.

  Then I feel it. Pressure on my finger. His cheeks taught. Eyes beginning to stir.

  Pull my finger out.

  His eyes barely open, smile forms, “What’s up, Bright Eyes?”

  “Simon!” I squeal.

  “Don’t stop—don’t stop! He’ll go out again,” demands Maxine over my shoulder.

  Place my finger back in his mouth. His tongue slides over it, sending tingles up my arm and into my chest. Know the feeling is so wrong—so inappropriate, but it lingers.

  Color returns to him—the little color that keeps his pale face from looking like death.

  Maxine leans over me, her eyes intent on him. Death over my shoulder, life spilling from my finger before me, and I’m caught somewhere in-between.

  Maxine sits off to the side, eyes closed, breeze blowing over her golden hair. I sit next to her. So late. Don’t know what time it is, but the sun must be about to break through the darkness any minute now.

  I say, “Scary few minutes there.”

  Looking straight ahead as if I’m not even here, she says, “Sorry—had no idea he was so far gone. Never seen anyone so dry. Never heard of a vamp dying of being dry—never even seen anybody try to hold out this long before.”

  I look back to Simon, who sleeps soundly after having his fill. His color has returned, and his breathing is strong and steady.

  She asks, “He never fed on you? The two nights you were together—he never fed at all?”

  “No, he didn’t even try.”

  Shaking her head, “Must’ve thought you were too delicate—too pristine to feed on. I wouldn’t have fed on him earlier as payment for keeping an eye on you if I knew he was that dry.”

  Pause while her words sting the air around us.

  “Why didn’t you let him feed off you? I mean, why give him my finger when you could’ve done it yourself?” I ask the question that’s been on my mind.

  “Nothing special about it when he doesn’t want it, princess.”

  She stares forward, still only acknowledging I’m here with words, not bringing herself to look at me.

  I start, “90 degrees just two days ago—where is this breeze coming from?”

  “Winter’s coming early this year…besides, two days ago I loved a vampire who may not have loved me—yet, but he liked me as much as any other girl. Now, he’s in love with a little princess, and I might as well be a guy as far as he’s concerned… a lot can change in two days.”

  Silence. At least silence between us—the woods chime with consistent buzzing.

  “Thank you for helping him, anyway.”

  “Don’t thank me—it wasn’t for you. I want him alive because I still love him. Has nothing to do with you.”

  “But you stayed—you didn’t run away and leave me alone out here, even when you were mad at me.”

  “Don’t start thinking differently about me now, princess. Don’t know how close I was to slicing you instead of the tree.”

  A gasp escapes from me.

  She continues, “Besides, it was kinda fun watching you stumble through the woods looking for me,” laughs and continues, “I stayed because I promised him—had nothing to do with you.”

  Pause.

  “Look—I’m selfish and shallow—I know what I am. Just hard to be anything else. Never had anyone to care for—no family, no children, no real friends. Always just taken what I wanted. No one was around long enough to complain. No one’s been around long enough for me to try to be any better for them, so I’m not. Guess that’s how all of us are who haven’t found their prince charming like you…not to mention those of us who found him and can’t have him.”

  “Come on now, Maxi,” I say with her looking as shocked by me calling her Maxi as if I had reached out and goosed her, “There are about three billion men in the world—you couldn’t possibly have tried them all out.”

  She tries to look angry, but a smile breaks through.

  I continue, “You haven’t, have you? I know you vamps are as old as dirt, but all three billion of them—really? How are you not exhausted?”

  “You know for something so easy to kill, you’re awfully sassy.”

  “A new thing for me—been bottled up for years.”

  Her eyes are moist, “Simon does have that effect on us, doesn’t he? Bringing out things we’d never let anyone see before—making us do things we never would’ve.”

  I nod, trying to look away from her sad eyes and give her emotions some privacy.

  She adds, “Although, I have no idea what he sees in you—don’t think he’ll be happy with you for very long. I think maybe he’s gone blind or lost his mind or something.”

  “Do you ever think anything that you don’t say, Maxi?”

  “Oh…” she mutters, finally looking in my direction, “I’m thinking something right now, princess.”

  She lets the ominous comment settle into me and then looks away again.

  Not knowing if I’m making a tenuous friendship or setting myself up for a brutal attack, I place my hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t knock it away, but she stares straight ahead, still preferring the darkness over the sight of me.

  Rustling comes from behind us, and we both jump.

  Simon stumbles toward us, something glowing in his hand.

  “Ruby, tell me she’s not this stupid!”

  “What? What is it?” I shout to him.

  He tosses the glowing object to me. Maxine’s hand reaches out and catches it. Quickly, she drops it into my hands.

  It’s my phone. Words on a screen are so out of place in the darkness of the woods.

  He says again, “Tell me she’s not this stupid, Ruby! I just can’t…I can’t even begin—”

  “Yes, she’s this stupid, Simon. God bless her; she’s this stupid.”

  The glowing words read, “Can’t take this. 2 bored. Coming back 2 NOLA. Turning off phone. U kno where 2 find me.”

  Sunday. Going to be a bloody Sunday.

  Sunday is Jazz Night. Can’t think of a better reason to shed some blood than being forced to listen to five hours of goatee-stroking, off-rhythm, snap-inducing, pseudo-intellectual, haughty, self-claimed-superior cacophony.

  Seriously, I hate jazz more than Johnny. And if you catch my obscure reference, you belong at ‘80s Night with the rest of us.

  All I want to catch is Ruby’s blue-maned, careless friend and get the three of us the hell out of here. Keep Ruby’s hand tight in my own. Haven’t feared anything in half a century, but I fear I’ll lose her. Fear it so much it hurts. Been like that since I brought her back into the city.

  Scared to have her here. Scared more to leave her in the woods where I can’t see her. Edgar knows right where Ruby was—has to know by now that the number I gave him was to call upon a dead girl. Roderick probably knows right where she was in the woods by now too. Edgar’ll be all too happy to tell him to get back at me. Be his way to get Roderick off his own back for not returning to him right away—wasted his time on the chase I sent him, searching for veins that were long dry.

  We walk into the bar and look around. I don’t see anything blue bopping. Don’t know if I’m happy or sad not to see her. Maybe she wised up. Or, maybe they’ve already found her before she could come out here. That seems more likely.

  Still only 10:15. Place doesn’t get hot till 11 or later.

  Sounds of a four-piece drum kit solo reach my ears. The awkward stops grate at me. Why can’t it be Tuesday night Burlesque? So glad they have that here—without it there’d be no pyro at the edge of the stage, and this tale would’ve been a whole heck of a lot shorter. A lot sadder too.

  A guy across the bar squints his eyes behind his thick-framed glasses and waves one finger in the air—keeping his other hand at the brim of his bebop hat. Have to admit I kind of like the hat. Not my style, but a nice hat.

  Ruby squeezes my hand—my eyes slide
up her arm, along her shoulder, over the sleek contour of her neck—still unmarked by me, along the slender cheekbone, up her delicate nose, and to the intoxicating green of her eyes. That’s exactly my style.

  Every bit of it.

  She pulls my hand down, guiding my body toward her own. Her luscious, full lips press into mine, filling me with the warmth and hope that my fear had drained from me.

  Knew what I needed without a word. She looked into me, knew what I lacked, and poured it out of herself into me.

  Such a small package filled with so much. Even after our time in the wild—our time on the run without shower or refreshing, her hair smells wonderful—her kiss sweet.

  Worry what is happening that I can’t see. Don’t want anything to harm her—even while she thrills me.

  I slowly back off, fighting a pull to return to her lips as we separate. She smiles and slides her arm around my waist, running her fingers across my lower back.

  I scan over the bar, trying to find anything blue or anything menacing. The night would go better if I never saw either of them, but the urge to have this weight off my shoulders—some kind of end to this stress and worry—makes me wish I’d find either of them right now and face fate head on.

  I look to the DJ booth. It’s not Mark. He loves jazz about half as much as I do, although I don’t find it all that different from the drum and bass stuff he digs so much.

  It’s an older guy named Jeff. Know him but not really friends. I wave and get his attention—not too much else for him to look at in the bar that’s not yet very populated.

  I make a gun with my hand, aim it at my forehead, and pull the trigger with my thumb. He smiles. I hold up eight fingers and then just a fist. He mouths the word Sunday down to me. I point at my wrist where a watch would be worn if I were ever concerned about the time. He shrugs his shoulders and fiddles with equipment in front of him.

  “Always Something There to Remind Me” starts, its uniquely ‘80s keyboards and chiming bells invading the jazz-only event. Beebop guy doesn’t seem too upset, still waving his lone finger around as conductor.

  “How’d you do that?” asks Ruby.

  “You know by now—I’m a magic man.”

  She dances slowly up to me, brushing against me, “You just get us all out of here tonight—that’s all the magic I need to see for awhile.”

  I nod and look around.

  Her slim fingers reach up and slide over my chin, “Not that I don’t love the magic you’ve shown me, or the sparks in your fingertips.”

  I smile and look at something moving over her head near the stage. It’s the emergency door—it’s not all the way shut.

  I pull her around to the other side of me.

  “What? What is it?” she asks.

  I bang my hand on the bar as I call out, “Angie?”

  The bartender shuts the lid of the cooler she was stocking with beer bottles and bops her way over toward me.

  “What’s the big dea—” she starts to ask before I interrupt.

  “Keep her behind the bar—don’t say a word,” I say grabbing Ruby at her waist and lifting her up onto the bar.

  “What? Why should I kee—”

  “Please, no questions—someone’s here that wants to hurt her—bad.”

  “Okay. Okay. Try to keep things cool. Please.”

  “Thanks, Angie.”

  I turn to the emergency exit.

  “Wait!” calls from behind me.

  I look over my shoulder and see Ruby behind the bar now and watching me intently.

  “I’ll come back for you,” I say.

  She looks slightly relieved.

  “Now, down,” I say pointing, “Stay below the bar.”

  I look back to the door and rush toward it. Quick hop on the stage, pass up the door, lean on the wall with my ear close to the crack between the door and the sill.

  Hear voices, but nothing clear.

  I look up to Jeff and see him watching me curiously—again nothing much else to look at in the bar but bebop guy’s soul patch and his finger waving. I motion for him to turn the volume down. He looks pained, but turns the level down for me. Voices become clear.

  “…been here three nights in a row—what makes you think she’s ever coming back?”

  “Trust me,” this voice is Roderick’s—definitely Roderick’s, “She can’t stay away much longer—this is her drug.”

  A third voice chimes in, “Look, I’m starting to get the itch, man—can’t be here all night.”

  Third voice is Edgar’s. Those words could be his epitaph. Definitely him.

  Roderick again, “You’ll stay as long as I tell you, junkie. She’ll be here: trust me.”

  “Not here now—wasting our time. Could be anywhere in the city if she even came back at all. This place ain’t even gonna get going for another hour—playing freakin’ ‘80s music right now—it’s supposed to be stupid jazz night. Ain’t even started yet.”

  “All right,” barks Roderick, “We’ll go check out the damn market, and if she ain’t—isn’t—see you’ve got me talking like an imbecile—if she isn’t there we’re coming right back here. She’ll be here all night anyway once she comes.”

  The door slams roughly—right beside my ear. Probably kicked by Roderick. Just glad that they didn’t come back inside.

  Time. At least we have a little time. Don’t know how much or what good it’ll do, but we’ve got a little. Hope it’s enough to keep her alive.

  I see her two defiant and gorgeous eyes peering over the edge of the counter full of concern, and I know I need a way to save her from all this—even though my mind has no idea how to do it.

  Like being trapped in a glass tomb, I press my hand against the clear pane blocking me from the burgeoning life on the other side that I’m not a part of. Dark blue, the color of a dream, and muffled on my side—loud, bouncing, and alive on the other.

  It seems that with every new song, the crowd below grows out of itself, people spawning out of people—filling in every tiny bit of available space with another sweaty, dancing body.

  Hard to believe so many people would show up for a jazz night at a wild place like this—and on a Sunday at that, but as the night’s progressed, the jazz has gotten funkier and people have started dancing. Some of them seriously over-dancing. Never seen people gyrate to this style of music, but they sure seem to be having a good time.

  I recognize a lot of the more flamboyantly dressed people from ‘80s Night. I think this bar’s regulars would show up for a combo Do-Your-Taxes/Root-Canal Night as long as it was here and there was going to be some dancing.

  Despite the undying enthusiasm of the usual crowd, I don’t really want to be here. Only here looking for my crazy friend—my crazy, innocent friend who’s gotten herself tangled up with a monster. Until her blue hair bounces into the bar, I’ll be here—hiding behind the upstairs bar, pretending to be a bartender. The girl who is the legitimate bartender is none too thrilled to have another female crowding her workspace, but she smiled and agreed right away when Simon asked her to keep us here.

  The upstairs bartender certainly hasn’t minded having Simon within her close quarters, having found countless opportunities to brush up against him while fixing drinks and taking orders—her hands sliding across his back, her hips rubbing against him as she passes.

  Simon’s stayed with his eyes to the window all night, taking no notice of her behavior—not even a flinch—as if his body’s lost all feeling.

  The lights from the dance floor reflect and flash in the window, falling on his unmoving reflection. He’s like a jagged mountain in the middle of a lightning storm, light explosions and thundering carnage falling all around him, but he remains still and certain.

  It all moves in his eyes—all the frantic activity mirrored inside his beautiful blue irises, but his stare moves not. A stillness usually only reserved for the dead.

  He’s only taken his sight off the window a few times in the two hours we’ve b
een up here. He’s blinked as if remembering something, and then he’s turned to me and given me a smile or a kiss. Immediately, he’s turned right back to the window, and the bartender’s given me a sneer.

  Whenever I could, I’ve taken a few orders, filled some cups with ice, grabbed some beers out of the iced bins—not so much to help her out, although I wouldn’t mind helping her if she’d keep her hands off my man, but to give me something to do and to keep the illusion that I have some unsuspicious reason for being here behind the bar.

  Most times she’s said nothing to me when I’ve helped her; sometimes she’s graced me with a nasally, “I got it, hun.”

  Maybe I should just tell everyone the unbelievable truth: I’m hiding up here from bloodthirsty vampires that are after me and my blue-haired friend. No one’d believe me anyway—this place never has a shortage of delusional eccentrics. Then I could just stand here and put my arms around Simon—wouldn’t need to pretend to be a bartender, and I could block her nasty hips from touching his delicious body again…yeah…maybe just push her down the crooked, old stairs. Two rounds of free drinks and everyone up here’d forget all about it…mean, you’re getting mean in all this madness, Ruby…okay, okay…maybe just lock her in the little bathroom all night.

  Despite it all, the upstairs bar is a great place to hide. There are no signs letting people know they’re allowed to go upstairs—it’s a narrow, unevenly constructed, wooden staircase that is dilapidated and dimly lit. It turns at 180 degrees in the center, offering no view to those on the bottom floor of what it leads to.

  The dark blue upstairs room itself is tiny, about the size of a large bedroom, with a one-person unisex bathroom. Getting to use that closet-sized bathroom, locked in and alone while Simon stood guard outside, has been the only small joy of the day. But, it’s hard to enjoy regaining my feminine mystique that I so crudely lost under the trees and moonlight—because my friend’s in danger, and we could all be killed trying to save her. That kinda sucks all the joy out of reclaiming my dainty appeal. Never been too big on that frou-frou stuff anyway, but the incident in the woods was a bit much even for me.