“You stupid bastard! I don’t even want to be like me!”
I tear the mirrored sunglasses away, and Rhymer’s eyes widen as he sees my own. They look nothing like his scarlet-tinted contact lenses. There is no white, no corona—merely seas of solid blood boasting vertical slits that open and close, like those of a snake, depending on the strength of the light. The church basement is very gloomy, so my pupils are dilated wide—like those of a shark rising from the sunless depths to savage a luckless swimmer.
Rhymer lifts a hand to block out the sight of me as I advance on him, his trembling delight now replaced by genuine, 100 percent monkey-brain fear. For the first time he seems to realize that he is in the presence of a monster.
“Please don’t hurt me, mistress! Forgive me!”
I don’t know what else he might have said to try and avoid his fate because his head comes off in my hands right about then.
For a brief second Rhymer’s hands still flutter in their futile attempt to beg my favor, then there is a spurt of scarlet from the neck-stump, not unlike that from a spitting fountain, as his still-beating heart sends a stream of blood to where the brain would normally be. I quickly side-step the gruesome spray without letting go of my trophy.
Turning away from Rhymer’s still-twitching corpse, I step over the ruins of the antique coffin and its payload. No doubt the dirt had been imported from the Balkans—perhaps Moldavia or even Transylvania. I shake my head in amazement that such old wives’ tales are still in circulation and given validity by so many.
As I head up the stairs, Rhymer’s head tucked under my arm, I pause one last time to survey what is left of the would-be vampire king of the Goth chicks. Man, what a mess. Glad I’m not the one who has to clean it up.
This isn’t the first vampire-wannabe I’ve run into, but I’ve got to admit he had the best scam. The Goth chicks wanted the real thing and he gave them what they thought they wanted, even down to retro-fitting the church with theatrical trapdoors and magician’s flash-pots. And they bought into the bullshit because it made them feel special, it made them feel real, and, most importantly, it made them feel alive. Poor, stupid bastards. To them it’s all black leather, lovebites, and tacky chrome jewelry; where everyone is eternally young and beautiful and no one can ever hurt you ever again.
Like hell.
As for Rhymer, he wanted the real thing as badly as the Goths. Perhaps even more so. He’d spent his entire life aspiring to monstrosity; hoping that, given time, his heartfelt mimicry of the damned would either turn him into what he longed to be thorough sympathetic magic, or that his actions would eventually draw the attention of the creatures of the night he worshipped so ardently. As, indeed, it had. I was the real thing all right; big as life and twice as ugly.
But I was hardly the bloodsucking seductress Rhymer had been dreaming of all those years. There was no way he could know that his little trick would lure forth not just a vampire—but a vampire-slayer as well.
You see, my unique and unwanted predicament has denied me many things: the ability to age, to love, to feel life quicken within me. And in retaliation against this unwished-for transformation, I’ve spent decades denying the monster inside me; trying—however futilely—to turn my back on the horror that is the Other who dwells in the dark side of my soul. However, there is one pleasure, and one alone, I allow myself to indulge, and that is killing vampires …
And those that would become them.
Dawn is well under way by the time I reenter the nave. The whitewashed walls are dappled with light dyed blue, green and red by the stained glass. I take a couple of steps backward, then drop-kick Rhymer’s head right through the Lamb-of-God window.
The birds are chirping happily away in the trees, greeting the coming day with their morning songs, as I push open the wide double doors of the church. A stray dog with matted fur and slats for ribs is already sniffing Rhymer’s ruined noggin where it has landed in the high weeds. The cur lifts its muzzle and automatically growls, but as I draw closer it flattens its ears and tucks its tail between its legs and quickly scurries off. Dogs are smart. They know what is and isn’t of the natural world—even if humans don’t.
Last night was a bust, as far as I’m concerned. When I go out hunting I prefer bringing down actual game, not faux predators. Still, I wish I could hang around and see the look on the faces of Rhymer’s groupies when they find out what’s happened to their “master.” That’d be good for a chuckle or two.
No one can say I don’t have a sense of humor about these things.
JUST HIS TYPE
Storm Constantine
Storm Constantine is the creator of the Wraeththu Mythos, the first trilogy of which was published in the 1980s. She has written more than thirty books, including full-length novels (such as Hermetech and Burying the Shadow), novellas, short story collections, and nonfiction titles, such as Sekhem Heka.
She is currently working on a new novel and several short stories. Storm is the founder of the independent publishing imprint, Immanion Press. She lives in the Midlands of the UK with her husband and four cats.
“When I was researching my novel Stalking Tender Prey,” she recalls, “which was primarily about the legends of fallen angels, it seemed clear to me that the vampire myths might also have stemmed from the same origins.
“The Biblical rendition of the fallen angels derived from earlier myths from the ancient Mesopotamian civilization of Sumer, which perhaps came from times earlier than that. The old stories seem tantalizingly to suggest that the image of winged beings grew from memories of a real race of flesh and blood, who were vulture shamans. The idea of them having wings could derive from the fact that in their rituals they wore the wings of griffin vultures around their shoulders. (Ancient remains of these wings have been found in caves in the Middle East, along with bones and other evidence of ritual.) Drinking the blood of both animals and humans is something the fallen angels were accused of doing, and this may well have been part of their shamanic rites.
“It wasn’t really appropriate to include this aspect of the myth in Stalking Tender Prey, so I was glad to be given the opportunity to explore it in the story for this anthology.”
THE TROUBLE WAS she was just his type. Sitting at the back of the stuffy pub function room, her eyes fixed upon him, she commanded his attention, apparently without effort. He could tell she was tall, because her head was the highest on the row. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was dressed in black.
She had come to watch the famous historical investigator and author, Noah Johnson, deliver a lecture. He found he was playing to her alone throughout the evening. He knew the talk, “Vampires in Myth and History,” by heart, having delivered it countless times before. He updated it constantly, but essentially, it was the same old stuff: colorful but careful. He was selective about what he gave the punters. He knew how to please a mixed crowd.
The regular meetings, “Enigmas of History,” were going well. He ran them once a fortnight in the upstairs room of his local pub, The Gun and Duck, and now had a regular attendance of around fifty people. Sometimes, he had to turn some away. More than fifty and the front row started fainting. He’d started it to augment his writing income, for the periods when funds were slack—a downside of any writer’s life. But it was going so well, he had planned more events; outdoors, now that summer was coming. Sarah would have loved all this. But he mustn’t think about her now. She was no longer part of his life.
Noah’s friend and assistant, Gary, dimmed the lights in preparation for the slide-show. Some of the audience were fanning themselves with the handouts Gary’s girlfriend, Abby, had placed on every seat prior to the meeting. The windows were open, but did little to improve the air quality in the room.
One by one, the slides slipped across the screen: illustrations copied from ancient texts, photographs Noah had taken himself while investigating in far corners of obscure eastern European countries. Some of them had been reproduced in Noah’s be
stselling book, The Search for Nosferatu. The subject no longer captivated him: he’d done it and it was over, but the public was always hungry for it. Noah had moved on to other things and was currently researching his next book, which was concerned with the mythical landscape of the remote Scottish islands, and how the strange ancient structures there might have come to be built.
When the lights came back on, Noah’s eyes were drawn immediately to the girl in the back row. He half-expected to see that she’d left. That would be just his luck, but no, there she was, sitting straight and demure, gazing at him from beneath downcast lashes, a slight smile on her lips.
He began to answer questions from the audience, but was anxious to keep it short tonight. If people wanted to air their opinions, which most of them did, especially the regulars, they could continue in the bar downstairs. He interrupted a woman as she was speaking. “Hey, it’s too hot up here. Shall we move down?”
Most of them would go home, but the ones who saw themselves as the core of his group would remain until closing time. It was only nine o’clock.
People started getting out of their seats, apparently as eager as he was to escape the hot function room. The woman who’d been interrupted looked crestfallen, somewhat confused.
Gary and Abby began clearing up, gathering the dropped leaflets, packing away the slide equipment. “Good turnout,” Gary said.
“You could hire a bigger place,” Abby suggested. “You’d still pack it.”
Noah was looking at the crowd shuffling out. He saw that the girl in black had remained in her seat. He smiled at her and she stood up. He went toward her.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson, would you mind if I asked you something?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Come down to the bar. We usually stay on for a few drinks.”
“Thank you.”
He put his arm behind her proprietarily to guide her to the door.
“Thanks, Noah!” Abby called behind him. “We’ll just finish off, shall we?”
He grinned back at her and she shook her head in mock disapproval. Abby was used to him and he knew how much he could get away with.
Downstairs, punters insisted on buying Noah drinks, but he bought one for the girl himself. “I haven’t seen you here before,” he said, leaning on the bar.
She pulled a face. Her features were delicate, mobile. “No, I’ve only just moved here. It was great to discover this group, especially that it’s run by you. I’ve got all your books.”
He laughed. “Thanks.” In his mind, he could hear Abby’s warning cry of: “Noah! She’s a fan, okay? For God’s sake, be careful.”
The girl brushed strands of dark hair from her eyes. Her well-shaped lips were painted perfectly in a dark purple. Her dress was of black lace and velvet, down to the floor. She was virtually the same height he was. “I’m Lara, by the way. Lara Hoskins.”
Noah handed her a vodka and tonic. When she took it from him, he saw that her lace cuffs came right down to her fingers. The nails were painted black. “So, what did you want to ask me?” He was conscious of the eyes of his “core group” upon him, their resentment at a newcomer monopolizing him. Normally, this was the time for Noah to hold court.
“Well, I have to admit it was the subject of the talk tonight that most attracted me,” Lara said. She laughed nervously. “Not that I wouldn’t have come anyway, of course …”
“And?”
“Why don’t you talk about the origins of the vampire myth?”
“I do. You heard it.”
She was silent for a moment. “I think we both know there’s more to it than that.”
“Essentially, it’s European, although there are parallels in Mesopotamian and Judaic mythology.”
“But where do those myths come from?”
“There are recurrent themes in every mythology. People the world over have the same fears, the same desires. There’s no reason to think the vampire myth comes from a single root source.”
“But in Nosferatu, you implied differently.”
“What are you getting at?” Noah said, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re a vampire searching for your roots!”
A vampire would certainly not color up the way she did then. “I have a serious interest in the subject,” she said. “I’d hoped you’d take me seriously too.”
“Look,” he said. “If you want the truth, I think people can become obsessed with certain myths, especially the vampire ones. It’s dangerous.”
“How?” She looked hungry.
“Any obsession is dangerous. I don’t like to encourage it.” He was thinking of Sarah. Her face was before his eyes, sad and despairing.
“What happened?” Lara asked in a low voice. It was as if she knew already.
He could tell her easily. She could be his confessor. “I knew someone,” he began. Then a hand slapped his back.
“Hey!” It was Abby. “Don’t tell me you haven’t got drinks in for us!” She smiled at Lara. “He treats us like lackeys!”
“Sorry,” Noah said. He turned to attract the attention of the barman.
For the rest of the evening Abby refused to leave Noah’s side. He knew why. Abby knew him too well. She was good company and gave no indication to Lara that she was suspicious of her, but Noah was well aware of his friend’s feelings.
After last orders, when the group was breaking up, Noah said to Lara, “There’s an event next Sunday. We’re going on a tour of local ancient sites, churches, springs and so on. Should be quite a convoy. Would you like to come?”
“Well …” Lara put her empty glass down on the bar. “Might be difficult. I don’t have transport.”
“I could pick you up,” said Noah.
“Great!” Lara opened her bag and rummaged in it. “I’ll give you my address. What time?”
“Oh, about midday.”
“It’ll cost a tenner,” said Abby, somewhat darkly.
“Good value,” Lara said, taking the lid off a fountain pen.
Outside, in the car park, Abby started on Noah. “What are you up to?” she demanded. “I thought you’d decided to leave punters well alone.”
“What do you mean?” Noah countered, fiddling with his keys.
“I mean that you fancy her. It’s obvious. But you’ve been down this road many times before. You know where it leads.”
“She’s just coming to the event,” Noah said. “What’s wrong with that? Lots of other people are going and they’re all punters as well.”
Abby folded her arms belligerently across her chest. “I’m not stupid!”
“Give him a break, will you,” Gary snapped.
Abby was not to be deterred. “She’s a fan, Gary, and she’s got her sights set. There’s something a bit odd about her. I can just feel it.”
“He’s a grown man,” Gary said in a tired voice. “For Christ’s sake, Ab, you sound like his bloody mother.”
“I’m the nearest he has to that,” Abby said, getting into the front passenger seat of Noah’s car.
For the next few days, Noah couldn’t stop thinking about Lara Hoskins. Abby was wrong to be so suspicious. Of course, he had met Sarah at a lecture, long before he’d begun the regular meetings, and perhaps this was why Abby was so scared for him. He’d dated lots of girls since, some of them plucked from the “Enigmas of History” group, and he was the first to admit that none of them had worked out particularly well, but he was sure this was different. Lara was bright and had an inquiring mind. There were no warning signs. Her hands had been steady on her glass all evening. She’d been open and sociable.
By Sunday morning, he was buzzing with anticipation, and spent more time than usual on his appearance. Lara was probably about ten years younger than him, in her midtwenties by the look of her, but that didn’t matter. He looked young for his age. All his life, women had flocked to him.
When he drew up outside her house, she came through the front door before he’d even turned off the engine. She was dressed in b
lack jeans and T-shirt, with a black hooded fleece tied around her waist, presumably in case it got cold later. Her long black hair was caught up in a severe ponytail but swished provocatively around her head and shoulders as she ran down the short drive to the road. She was as slim as a boy and looked athletic. Noah’s heart turned over. She was gorgeous.
“Hi!” she said breathlessly as she virtually threw herself into the car. She smelled strongly of an oriental yet floral scent.
“Hi,” Noah echoed. “I like a woman who’s ready on time.”
Lara laughed. It was a bright, free sound, devoid of artifice. Of course, she’d been ready for hours.
When they arrived at the meeting point, Noah was pleased to see there was a good turnout—about seven packed cars. Abby was going round collecting money and distributing maps.
At each site they visited, Noah had the group sit down and meditate to see if they could pick up any information from the past, such as what the site might have been used for in ancient times. He never did this at the indoor meetings. This was his select group, with whom he was prepared to try more “weird stuff,” as some referred to it. During the meditation, Lara saw a great deal of detailed and pertinent imagery. “I think you’re psychic,” Noah told her privately.
“Oh, I know that,” she said.
“You couldn’t be more perfect,” Noah said.
Lara smiled. “When can we continue our conversation?”
“Later. How about dinner?”
“Sounds great.”
Noah had to lose Abby and Gary for the evening, which was not easy. He didn’t want Abby to know he was taking Lara out, sure that she would insist that she and Gary went with him. Fortunately, they’d brought their own car that day, so at the last site Noah whisked Lara off quickly, virtually without saying goodbye to anybody. He knew he’d have to pay for it later and could anticipate Abby’s terse message that would be waiting on his answerphone when he got home. But for the time being, he didn’t give a damn. Both he and Lara were giggling as his car skidded away in a cloud of dust and gravel.
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