Better Off Undead

by Martin H. Greenberg

Only I didn’t return home the next morning. Or the morning after that. Three days after graduation, a police officer found me in a field near the high school. Once more, the doctors worked like Trojans to save me from massive blood loss from tearing wounds to my neck and left forearm. And, like before, I couldn’t remember what happened.

  The next time, the last time, happened the night of my thirtieth birthday. Only this time, there was no last minute reprieve, no heroic lifesaving efforts by the doctors. That night I died. I know that just as surely as I know my own name. Since then, I’ve lived my dreams—and my nightmares. There’s no escape, not for me.

  Even now, as I write this, I can feel it. My blood pulses with a growing heat as my hunger builds. The anticipation of the hunt fills me. The moon is slowly trekking across the night sky, welcoming me just as the sun of a new morning once did. A part of me looks forward to the night and the hunt to follow because no hunt is the same as the one before it. What will happen this time?

  Outside my window, the last hint of day loses the battle against the dark of night. As it does, I close my eyes, remembering the evening of my thirtieth birthday. The beauty of the setting sun washed over and through me then. The blues, reds, yellows and purples are like an artist’s palette, so lovely and awe-inspiring. Such beauty should never be the harbinger of anything but good. It’s at times like this, as the memory of the splendor of a sunset fills me, that I almost regret what’s happened.

  But, as with most regrets, it quickly fades. The dark mystery of night is as invigorating as the beauty of a sunny day. Too many overlook or never see the true majesty of the night. Now the night is my milieu and I revel in its mysteries, its challenges and its dark beauty.

  The song of countless crickets fills the air and the hunger once more asserts itself. At least I don’t have to be picky about what I want. The city just beyond my window offers a whole smorgasbord of possibilities . . .

  I leaned back with the remaining pages on my knees, my hands resting lightly on top of them, guarding them. As I did, a sense of something new filled me. It wasn’t peace, not exactly. It was more like a sense of calm, of acceptance. Come what may, I’d written the story and Drea’s reading it somehow made it real. Depending on Drea’s response, I had some decisions to make.

  Drea reached for the pages. My first instinct was to slap her hands away. Then the irony of it hit. Why stop her? She’d already read most of the story. It wouldn’t cause any more damage to let her see the rest of the pages. While it wasn’t exactly a “no harm, no foul’’ situation, that philosophy certainly seemed to apply.

  “Jess, tell me something.’’

  Drea spoke softly, almost hesitantly, and hope once more flared. Maybe she hadn’t liked the second part of the story and was finding it difficult to tell me.

  Please, God, let that be it.

  “It’s obvious you’ve drawn on your own childhood for parts of this story. Why? Why choose something so personal?’’

  I didn’t answer immediately. I couldn’t. If I said too much, she’d realize more about the story than was safe for either of us. If I didn’t say enough, she would keep probing, prodding. But I needed to say something before she started putting it all together.

  To give myself a moment to gather my thoughts, I reached for my wine glass. I should have realized she’d recognize part of the story. She knew how my parents had institutionalized me twice during my teens. They’d been at their wits’ end because I kept disappearing at night. The next morning they’d find me, sometimes battered and bloody. All too often, the blood had been my own. No matter how hard they tried to convince me to tell them what was going on, I wouldn’t. How could I? They’d no more understand what was happening than I did. So, worried I was trying to harm myself, they’d turned me over to the “professionals’’ to cure.

  Not that any cure for what ailed me was available. The only cure was to die—again—and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet, at any rate.

  Any way, I’d told Drea about it, without going into too many details, a year ago. She’d needed to know before some reviewer dug it up. She’d jumped to the conclusion I’d expected. She thought I’d had a drug problem my parents couldn’t deal with and I was satisfied letting her think that. It was so much safer than the truth—for both of us.

  “You’re always telling me to write what I know.’’

  And I had made a fairly successful career out of it. Over the last five years I’d had five books published, each of them steeped in the paranormal. Oh, they weren’t horror stories like those of King or paranormal romances that made tragic heroes of hunky vampires or tormented werewolves. Still my paranormal mysteries had made me enough money to allow me to move to the country, away from the prying eyes of nosy neighbors and the cameras of those fans who simply didn’t know how to respect personal boundaries.

  Out here I was safe. Whenever the urge to hunt came over me, I could indulge it with a short trip to the city. There was no one to ask uncomfortable questions, no one to see something they shouldn’t.

  In short, I was living the life I’d always wanted and enjoying it.

  However, if I didn’t think of something to say pretty soon, that might all over.

  Once more I glanced out the window. My pulse beat a quick staccato at the sight of the harvest moon moving inexorably across the night sky. It was later than I thought and Drea had to go—now. But how was I going to without bodily throwing her out the door?

  “Well, you certainly captured the pain and fear of your narrator.’’ She looked up and smiled, approval lighting her eyes. “You outdid yourself. Especially when you described how she slowly changed. It’s almost as though you’ve been through it yourself.’’

  Oh, she had no idea.

  “Really, Drea. You know that’s impossible.’’

  “I do. Even so, I’d love to know how you managed to tap into not only how it feels to die but also how it feels to be someone who’s no longer quite human.’’

  “To paraphrase the old adage, ’If I told you, I’d have to kill you.’ ”

  Damn it, why wouldn’t she leave?

  Pain flashed and muscles tensed as a shaft of moonlight streamed through the window. If Drea didn’t get out of there soon, it would be too late. She’d get the answers to her questions, but the cost would be too high—for her, at least.

  I flowed out of my chair, unable to sit still any longer. As I did, I felt my control slipping even as my senses sprang to life. Fighting the sudden hunger that demanded satisfaction, I fisted my hands at my side so tightly my nails bit into my palms. My breath hissed from between my clenched teeth as my lips peeled back, revealing those telltale fangs I’d been so careful to hide.

  Damn it! It was too late. She’d waited too long.

  Drea looked up, her eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O of shock. The wine glass slipped from her fingers and shattered against the hard wood floor. With a small cry of fear, she shrank against the back of her chair, almost as if she were trying to become part of it. No longer did she look like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Now she reminded me of the canary—a very tasty canary.

  Why had she so foolishly shown up without warning, without giving me the chance to feed before her arrival?

  Well, she’d wanted to know how I’d been able to describe the changes my narrator went through. Now she was about to find out, up close and personal. But it was a shame. I really didn’t want to kill her. Besides, in those high heels and tight skirt, she wouldn’t even lead me on a good chase. That would be no fun at all.

  Then inspiration struck, bringing with it the answer to all my problems. It was perfect. If I controlled myself, I could turn her, make her one of us. There’d be no uncomfortable questions to answer when she didn’t turn up for work for a day or two, since she worked out of her house. Even better, I wouldn’t be faced with having to look for someone to replace her.

  After all, it’s so very hard to find a good agent, and Drea had been a very good
agent indeed.

  SEPARATION ANXIETY

  S.M. Stirling

  Jacob Carrol Graff stood at the head of his casket, watching mourners file past his body with a deep sense of satisfaction.

  Distinguished, if I say so myself, he thought, looking down at the form that had been his.

  Tall, impressively fit for a man in his eighties, face ruggedly handsome and still with a full head of iron-gray hair, all set off by the immaculate pearl-gray Armani suit, the tasteful dark velvet of the rubbed-teak casket, and the soft rainbow light that filtered through the chapel’s stained-glass windows. The one right behind the coffin showed the Lamb of God. He had commissioned that himself, years ago.

  If you looked very carefully you could see that the Lamb had disconcertingly sharp teeth, and a rather un-Jesus-like expression of mocking irony in those curiously slanted, slit-pupiled eyes. The glass also filtered out the elements in sunlight that would be fatal to his discorporate form.

  The wonders of modern science, he thought happily. Monkey curiosity has its uses.

  He wasn’t really standing; that was a perception he imposed on himself, as he imposed the sensation of feet resting on the carpeted floor, or the touch of the silk ascot against his throat, and the scent of the floral arrangements that glowed along the walls. He’d worn that body for eighty-odd years, and the floating web of energy held together by sheer will which now constituted his being remembered it at a level far below thought. It had been that lump of gray matter and tangled net of nerves that gave rise to the quantum net that held his being.

  But I am free of it now, he thought.

  Free of all the nagging little aches, the soreness in his right hip, the pain and weakness in the hands. The body he . . . hypothesized . . . on the evening of his funeral was young and taut and trim. It had become more and more distasteful to return to his birth-form for decades now, as it failed him bit by bit. He’d have gone over much earlier, if he’d been certain that he could survive. And at last . . .

  I am become Literalized Metaphor, he thought with a chuckle. How that English professor at Harvard would hate me.

  One of the mourners looked up in uneasy suspicion, one who shared the Blood, a member of a lesser Family. Jacob diminished his presence with practiced ease, fading even to his own perceptions.

  He had survived death; most of his breed could walk free of the flesh while it lived and slept, walk free to hunt and feed and amuse themselves, but those who could go on after their mortal shell died the final death were much fewer. In a few weeks he would be able to manifest an artificial body from available matter. In the meantime he could begin practicing his ability to influence minds . . . and then material objects. Inspiring psychological torment by haunting dreams and the edges of perception was all very well—delightful, in fact—but there were times when the sheer atavistic joy of fang and claw were best.

  Ah, he thought, as one man in the line paused gravely to look at the body; he could see the fantasy running through the mind (behind the solemn expression) of spitting into the corpse’s face and dancing about the coffin snapping his fingers.

  Sergio is discourteously gleeful to see me gone. Sergio, Sergio, I’m not gone . . . I’m just changed. Death is not necessarily the end . . . as you will find out to your eternal regret.

  The emotions of the mourners filing by were marvelously clear to him without the muffling effect of a link to living meat; the deep satisfying crimson heat of hate, the delicious musk of fear . . . even the occasional waft of grief, like the taste of salt and acid. The lavender-and-cut-grass scent of relief was predominant. But he made a careful note of those who were enjoying themselves too much.

  He would visit them first.

  He glanced at his daughter, Carol, who had taken her name from his to honor him, and approved the cool, controlled demeanor she projected. It was very much in keeping with her detached personality. His son Jason was there too; the name was as close to his own as possible without becoming an impossibly vulgar junior. Next to his half-sister’s detached calm the boy was milk-pale and visibly shaking, a line of sweat along the edge of his fine blond hair.

  Well, Jason’s seventeen to Carol’s twenty-four. It’s to be expected that he’ll be more emotional. I suppose it’s even flattering.

  His son had been a surprise in many ways, starting with the pregnancy—it was all very well to play with your food, but you didn’t expect that. Vastly more talented than he had any right to be, given his mixed blood. As Graff had told the boy more than once, it was obviously quality of genes, not quantity, that counted.

  Then he caught a look from Carol, directed at her brother. One that should have boiled the blood in his veins . . . though that would take considerable power, and killed too quickly to be very amusing, despite the lovely sound of the words.

  Tsk, he thought. My little girl is about to show her true colors. Better watch yourself, son.

  In truth, he was pleased; the girl’s swift flicker of deadly intent might have escaped him when he wore the body, perhaps even when he night-walked from it. There were definite advantages to being dead, rather like a butterfly bursting free of its cocoon. Of course, Carol would never have allowed herself to show her animosity if he were still alive . . . or if she thought he was dead-but-present. The breeding program hadn’t anticipated that before her generation.

  This is going to be interesting. Jason will either survive and prove his right to the Blood . . . or keep the next few weeks from being too boring.

  Dad would never forgive me if I lost it, Jason thought, looking down on the time-scored aquiline features.

  “Good-bye,’’ he murmured very softly. I’ll never be able to make you proud of me now, he thought, and blinked fiercely against a prickle under his eyelids.

  Then something struck him. Something like an enema of ice; he had to exert all his will to keep from screaming and leaping before he realized that it was not material. He looked up to meet Carol’s huge violet eyes as she brushed back a fall of hair red as an autumn maple leaf.

  It’s OK, he thought. I know you’ve got your own grief to work through. It’s natural to lash out.

  Particularly natural for one of them; and Carol was nearly purebred. It was a pity she hadn’t conceived from their father—among the Brethren of Night it was a matter of simple survival to cross back that way. The future of their species hung in the balance. If they wished to hold the powers they had, and breed back to the godlike powers their ancestors had once possessed, only fools or humans would balk at a little incest.

  If only I had more of the Blood! he thought. And you know, Carol and me . . . the children would be over three-quarters. As pure as Father. . . . Why not now, when we’re both lost and in pain?

  Of course, she had Jeff, her fiancé, to turn to. Looking around he hunched his shoulders at the sight of the tall dark-haired man, so calmly assured and indefinably amused.

  I, on the other hand, feel like a bait fish in shark-filled waters.

  His training was far from complete and he needed a mentor. Which meant, should he even be able to find one, that he would effectively be a servant for the next ten or fifteen years.

  That’s if I’m lucky and get a generous master who wants me to leave eventually.

  Most of them were looking for a lifetime commitment or no deal. His sister would be able to help him, but she was acting so cold. For the life of him he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to upset her.

  “That was quite a look you just shot at your brother,’’ Jeff murmured in Carol’s ear. “What did the infant do to offend you?’’

  The crowd was milling around the reception room. Tall French windows stood open on the stairs that led down to the gardens and the pool, and the warm California air bore the scents of pepper trees and flowers. Servants circulated with trays of refreshments; Carol took a tall flute of pale Roederer Cristal Rose 1999 in one hand and a little sausage on a toothpick in the other. She savored the aromatic bouquet, then sipped the ho
ney and white chocolate flavors. Then she nibbled at the sausage; that was delicious—either pork delicately spiced with ginger and garlic, or that secretary Father had said was asking too many questions. In which case it was not only tasty, but a wonderful joke on the human majority attending the funeral of the distinguished San Francisco philanthropist and financier Jacob Carrol Graff.

  “That monkey’s existence offends me,’’ she hissed. “I had to play nice while my father was around to dote on it, but that’s over now.’’

  Her fiancé chuckled. “What do you intend to do about it?’’

  She looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Let’s just say I have no intention of sharing my inheritance with a meat-animal.’’

  “Do save some for me.’’

  “My boy.’’

  Jason dropped the toothpick and turned to meet the cold, assessing eyes of Michael Bundt, a contemporary of his father’s. He took the hand the older man offered and shook it. Bundt held onto Jason’s and placed his other hand on top of it.

  “My condolences. When you’re settled we really must talk. I can be of help to you. And a young boy on his own in this world will need all the help he can get.’’

  Ouch, Jason thought. Do I look that vulnerable?

  Bundt was exactly the type of man he’d hoped to avoid. Rumored to have an appetite for boys and cruelty, not necessarily in that order. Still, it was the only offer he’d received, he couldn’t afford to be overtly hostile.

  “Thank you, sir.’’ He tugged on his hand and after a moment Bundt released it with a little smile.

  “Here’s my card,’’ he said, producing one as if by magic. As Jason took it he slapped the boy’s shoulder. “Call me.’’

  Graff senior narrowed his gaze on the older man. Certainly, they’d been rivals for most of their lives, that didn’t mean it was good form to take advantage of his underage son. Oh, you’re in for a surprise, old friend. And not a pleasant one if he had anything to say about it.