by Mindy Klasky
My ears were ringing, and I realized that Judge DuBois had finally stopped pounding his gavel. I looked up at him, begging him to do something. And that was the first time I discovered that every single creature in the room was staring at me.
No, not at me. At my neck. At my fingers, covered with blood. At my blouse, soaked with the stuff.
Eleanor loomed over Brauer, the silver chain taut in her muscled hands. Her struggle with the witness had smeared her eyeshadow; a long purple streak disappeared into her hairline, making her look like a crazed clown. The court reporter, a skinny little guy, was peering out from behind his toppled stenography machine.
Judge DuBois was on his feet, his raptor eyes pinned to my fingers, as if he were taking an X-ray of my neck. Even the attorneys—the blond defense counsel and the disheveled prosecutor—were staring at me. My skin crawled as a high-pitched whine came from the defendant’s throat. Karl Schmidt was studying me as if I were a Thanksgiving turkey, and he was a man who had been denied food for days. Weeks. A year, at least.
“James,” Judge DuBois said. “Now.”
Now? What?
I whirled back to the one person who wasn’t in my line of sight. Mr. Morton stood directly behind me, close enough that I let out a bark of surprise. He reached toward me, but I lurched backward, even though the motion took me closer to Brauer, closer to all of the others. I couldn’t let him touch me, couldn’t let him put his frozen flesh on mine. My retreat made my heart pound even faster, and I started to panic when I felt more liquid seep between my fingers.
“Sarah,” Mr. Morton snapped, and his left hand shot out, closing around my wrist before I could protest. He pulled me toward the oak doors, toward the hallway and supposed safety. He had to be crazy, though. I wasn’t going anywhere with him. I wasn’t going anywhere with any of these ravenous creatures, any of these monsters who were staring at me like I was some three-course gourmet meal, laid out on a spotless white tablecloth.
I jerked my hand away from Mr. Morton’s.
Or, rather, I tried to jerk my hand away. He must have sensed the motion before I’d even thought to act; his fingers tightened around my wrist like a vise. “Let me go!” I shrieked.
“Sarah.” He might have been instructing me on proper alphabetic order for filing, for all the emotion in his tone.
“Leave me alone!” I fought to free myself, and my right foot slipped on the marble floor.
Even as I struggled to regain my balance, Karl Schmidt lunged toward me, screaming, “Feeder bitch!”
The woman in the plum suit was faster than she looked. Stronger, too. She caught her client in a cross-body hold and refused to let him go. I didn’t have a chance to feel grateful, though. She bared her own incisors, hissing at me like an angry cat.
“Sarah,” Mr. Morton said again, implacably calm. “Come with me. Now.”
What choice did I really have?
Better to follow Mr. Morton out of the room, away from the group of vampires. Better to deal with one, than with half a dozen. Even though every shred of logic said I shouldn’t, I let Mr. Morton lead the way to the locked courtroom doors. I couldn’t help but walk sideways, though, trying to keep an eye on both the ravenous creatures behind me and the man—strike that—the vampire who was my boss.
Apparently, my concern wasn’t absurd. When we reached the double doors, Mr. Morton manhandled me to stand in front of him. He shielded me with his body, hiding me from the others. Someone back there whined, like a dog waiting for kibble. It took forever for Mr. Morton to work the deadbolt. I gasped in frustration, and I saw his head twitch; he was clearly drawn to the blood that leaked between my fingers when I moved. As soon as the lock was sprung, I leaned into the panic bar, letting the weight of my body move the door.
Mr. Morton shifted his grip to my forearm before I could escape down the empty hallway. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “You need help.”
“I’ll call a doctor.”
“And tell him what?”
I couldn’t believe it. There was actually a hint of a smile on his lips, the barest turn at the hard corners of his mouth. He wasn’t amused enough, though, to let me go. Instead, he used his free hand to reach into his trousers pocket, to extract a keyring and relock the courtroom door. Ever the professional. No one was going to stumble on the Night Court by mistake. Not on Mr. Morton’s watch.
He took all of three steps, quick-marching me down the hall, before I lost my balance. I really was trying to move my feet, but my toes forgot to come along. I recovered from that first stumble, but my next step made my head swim. Apparently unaware of my confusion, Mr. Morton tugged at my arm, muttering under his breath as his fingers slipped down to my crimson-slicked hematite bracelet. His motion was enough to upset my balance completely. My knees buckled, and darkness swooped in like Poe’s intractable raven.
“God damn it!” I heard Mr. Morton say, and a tiny part of my brain was surprised to hear him swear. He was too proper to swear. Too reserved.
But there was nothing proper about the way he lifted me off my feet. Nothing proper about the way he cursed at me when I started to protest. Nothing proper about the way he barged into his office, about the way he dropped me onto the black leather couch that hulked against the wall.
Leather. I shouldn’t bleed all over leather.
Still dazed, I realized that my fingers had slipped off my neck, that my blood was flowing freely now. I fought to regain my grip, but my hand was tingling; I couldn’t figure out where my skin ended and the electric air in the room began.
I closed my eyes, the better to concentrate on such a strange sensation. It wasn’t just my fingers. My toes had dissolved as well. I wiggled them, trying to figure out where they’d gone. I used to have shoes, brand new shoes. But they were gone. Everything was gone now. I was just floating, a drifting swirl of thought….
“Sarah,” someone said from very far away. I didn’t want to listen. I just wanted to follow the irregular drumbeat that tickled the back of my brain, the thumping sound that was fading away, so soft now that I could barely make it out against my syncopated breathing.
“Sarah!” That voice was more insistent, more demanding. Still, there was no reason to respond. Not when I could just fall back into the darkness forever. Not … when … I … could…
I forgot my words and drifted away into the nothingness.
But then, there was something—a sharp smell, hot, like a penny roasting in the sun, sparking beneath my nose. I had a nose. And I had a mouth, as well. A mouth, with lips and tongue and teeth. My teeth were pressed against something, something soft and yielding. My tongue darted out, and I tasted … not copper. Not exactly. This was salty and hot, like chicken soup in the middle of a blizzard.
Strike that. Not soup.
This was velvety and pure, hot and delicious. I swallowed, once, twice, a third time. Heat spread through my body. I was drinking, but it felt as if I were inhaling some distilled essence of power. A vibrating energy filled my chest; it expanded inside me, doubling, and doubling again. It pumped through my arms to my hands, to the very tips of my fingers. It echoed inside my legs, past my knees, through my ankles and into my feet.
My flesh ignited with the sweetness of the drink, the sweetness and the saltiness and the pure, tawny wholeness of it. I could feel the rough ridges where my pantyhose had run as I stumbled through the hallway—when was it? A lifetime ago? I could feel a hangnail on my right thumb, sense it tingle before it closed itself up, before it disappeared.
And I could feel the mangled mess beneath my jaw. My torn vein was weaving itself together, knitting itself back to health. The flow of blood was restored beneath my skin, and the smooth stretch of my neck was new again.
With the healing came full awareness. Full comprehension. I knew that I was on a leather sofa. That I was cradled against a body. Arms were wrapped around me, holding me close, spoon fashion. My face was pressed against one of those arms, against a smooth, muscular wrist
. My lips were suckling at the edges of a wound.
I was drinking Mr. Morton’s blood.
I pulled back, horrified. My motion, though, only moved me closer to his chest, closer to the body that sheltered me, that protected me. Closer to the vampire who was my boss. “Let me go!” I demanded, but I was still too dazed to put actions to words, to actually push myself away from him.
“In a moment,” he said, and his words reverberated along the length of my spine.
I should have been petrified. I should have fought for freedom, given my life to escape to the human world, to the sane world, to the normalcy that waited somewhere outside this office. But the energy inside me—the alien blood inside me—soothed me, calmed me as if it were a drug. I sank back, dazed by the sensation that all was right, that I was safe.
I licked my lips, and I realized that the blood carried information. I knew things that I’d only imagined an hour before. A lifetime before. I understood vampires—who they were, what they did, how they lived, year after year after year, forever, unless they were killed.
Vulnerable to silver: check, as I’d already witnessed back in the courtroom.
Destroyed by sunlight: check, if “destroyed” meant increasingly severe burns tied to the length of exposure, culminating in brutal, cindery death.
Killed by stake: check, but only with a direct blow to the heart, with a weapon made of oak.
Teleporting, mind-reading, turning into a mist: nope, nothing that cinematic.
Garlic, crosses, and other pathetic human folk remedies to protect against fangs: forget about it.
Vampires didn’t need to sleep in coffins, and they didn’t salvage earth from some distant homeland. They did require an explicit invitation before they could cross the threshold of a home. And somehow, creepiest of all, they had no reflection—not in a mirror.
All of that was crystal clear inside my head. All of that, and one more fact: vampire blood healed humans. Healed humans completely, from whatever physical harm we suffered, from whatever illnesses our weak, flawed bodies harbored.
Vampire blood had brought me back from the very brink of death.
Buy Fright Court and read the rest of Sarah’s story here:
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
NO BOOK SPRINGS out of a vacuum, and Single Witch’s Survival Guide is no exception. I am indebted to the hundreds of people on Facebook who answered spur-of-the-moment questions for me, on topics as varied as physics and cell phones and preferences for baked goods. Kari Sperring gave last-minute advice on British-isms, and D. B. Jackson named Norville Pitt (simultaneously giving him his trademark pick-up line.) Stephanie Draven was instrumental in helping me build a new writing schedule for Single Witch; without her words of wisdom, I’d likely still be fiddling with Chapter Two.
This book was created under the auspices of Book View Café, and I am indebted to my co-op’s fine editors: Patricia Burroughs, Phyllis Irene Radford, and Jennifer Stevenson. Sherwood Smith is the true midwife for this book – her perceptive proofreading and her substantive edits made this a vastly different (and superior!) book than it once was. Vonda N. McIntyre did yeoman’s work with regard to format review and actually getting the book into the BVC bookstore.
Deborah Blake read Single Witch with an eye toward arcane accuracy. Hope Powers devoted a beach weekend get-away to a last-minute read-through, trying to spot errors and logical flaws. Of course any errors that remain belong to me, and not to anyone else.
My family has always supported my writing – from the original Klasky Clan to the expanded Timminses and Maddreys, and Fallons. It’s always a comfort to know that family has my back.
A special thank you goes to my husband, Mark. He always tolerates those days (weeks? months?) when the writing comes first, and he never makes me feel like I’m being unfair when I choose to spend a long weekend with Jane instead of with him.
Of course, no writing career is complete without readers. I look forward to corresponding with you through my website: www.mindyklasky.com.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MINDY KLASKY LEARNED to read when her parents shoved a book in her hands and told her she could travel anywhere in the world through stories. She never forgot that advice.
Mindy’s travels took her through multiple careers. After graduating from Princeton University, Mindy considered becoming a professional stage manager or a rabbi. Ultimately, she settled on being a lawyer, working as a litigator at a large Washington firm. When she realized that lawyering kept her from writing (and dating and sleeping and otherwise living a normal life), Mindy became a librarian, managing large law firm libraries. Mindy now writes full time.
For years, Mindy’s dating life was a travel extravaganza as well. She balanced twenty-eight first dates in one year, selecting eligible gentlemen from sources as varied as Washingtonian magazine ads, Single Volunteers of D.C., and supposedly-certain recommendations from best friends. Ultimately, she swore off the dating scene entirely. After two years of carefully-enforced datelessness, she made one last foray onto Match.com, where she met her husband on her first match.
Mindy’s travels have also taken her through various literary genres. In addition to her light paranormal romances and category romances, Mindy has written traditional fantasy novels (including the award-winning, best-selling The Glasswrights’ Apprentice), short stories, and nonfiction essays. As Morgan Keyes, Mindy writes for middle grade readers.
In her spare time, Mindy quilts, knits, and tries to tame her endless to-be-read shelf. Her husband and cats do their best to fill the left-over minutes.
ABOUT BOOK VIEW CAFÉ
BOOK VIEW CAFÉ is a professional authors’ publishing cooperative offering DRM-free ebooks in multiple formats to readers around the world. With authors in a variety of genres including fantasy, romance, mystery, and science fiction, Book View Café has something for everyone.
Book View Café is good for readers because you can enjoy high-quality DRM-free ebooks from your favorite authors at reasonable prices.
Book View Café is good for writers because 95% of the profits goes directly to the book’s author.
Book View Café authors include New York Times and USA Today bestsellers; Nebula, Hugo, and Philip K. Dick Award winners; World Fantasy and Rita Award nominees; and winners and nominees of many other publishing awards.
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