corrupting Alicia
Evan A. Tsoukalas
Copyright © 2005 Evan A Tsoukalas
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1719051992
ISBN-13: 978-1719051996
For Papa. Without you, this book simply wouldn't exist. And not just because I wouldn't exist.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to start by thanking my family. Very few of them are actually in my demographic, so the majority of them will probably never see this. Special thanks to Melissa for putting up with yet another reason for me to be upstairs on the computer.
Thanks to the handful of early readers; I almost feel like I should be apologizing to you instead.
Thanks to the team at Book Butchers. You made it surprisingly easy to find an editor who fit my voice and style. And special thanks to Derek for helping me tune up the blurb.
Thanks to Mike Waitz, aforementioned editor and ever-so-diplomatic corrector. You made my first experience working with a professional editor straightforward and relatively painless. It would have been entirely painless if some of the things you pointed out weren't so embarrassingly obvious that I couldn't believe I'd written them in the first place. Special thanks to she who did not think it necessary to be named (aka Julie Waitz); your honest feedback was both welcome and very helpful, so it is only right that I include you here.
Thanks to Dwight Miller, for shaming me into doing something with this novel.
1 introductions
There should be a universal warning system to prepare us for the days when our lives are about to change forever. I’m not asking for a neon sign or anything, but dark clouds on the horizon would be nice.
I have survived three of those days in my relatively short life, and although each was replete with valuable lessons about me and the world around me, I’ve yet to learn how to recognize their onset. Since each one has been significantly more disruptive than the last, a large part of me is convinced that I don’t have a chance in hell of surviving a fourth if I can’t figure out some way to see it coming.
Life-altering Day Number Three fell on a Tuesday night. I'd say I don't remember much about the first few hours, but that would be technically inaccurate as I do not forget anything, ever. Better instead to say that those hours featured nothing to distinguish them from all the other uneventful moments in my second life. I do remember that it was colder than usual. Not so cold that the smallest breeze felt like undead fingers trying to dig their way past the barriers of my clothing, but enough to severely limit normal pedestrian traffic.
I am not normal, and the cold has no effect on me anymore. Eighty degrees or twenty below makes no difference to me, so although I registered the cold that day, it neither held any discomfort nor altered my agenda for the evening.
I had been wandering the streets for several hours before I realized I was actually following one particular woman, but I will forever remember, in perfect detail, the moment it occurred to me. A surge of something vibrated through my body, starting with tremors and building into a motion that felt like it would jar the flesh from my bones. A slap in the face would not have been any more effective at getting my attention.
Alicia.
Her thoughts pulsed out in concentric waves, slapping up against mine. Her mind was painted with chaos, powerful and jagged thoughts overlapping in a jumbled mix akin to watching two edited-for-TV Tarantino films playing simultaneously on a 5-inch black and white television set with half an antenna and a cranked volume knob. Amidst that tumult, her inner strength and determination were extraordinary, a miniature binary star at the center, holding everything together with irresistible force.
It was this dichotomy that drew my attention. My anal- retentive nature pleaded with me to sort her thoughts alphabetically according to genre like mental DVDs, and since it would help me catalog all of the causes of her anxiety and discover from where on Earth her astonishing inner strength came, I was happy to indulge it.
Shackled by her thoughts, she might not have noticed me even if I were standing right in front of her, jumping up and down and waving my arms. She walked with that absent gait of someone whose thoughts are galaxies far, far away, and I followed like she played Pied Piper to my rat. Or perhaps to my child, depending on the type of person you are.
Considering my immediate preoccupation with her, it is somewhat surprising that I noticed the two men following her, despite their carelessness about it. Turning my attention to them, I perceived an evil intent toward her, but curiously, I sensed no personal vendetta. They had an apathetic viciousness about them, and though that might seem like a contradiction in terms, it is surprisingly common. She was simply an assignment to them; an errand.
Why do people insist on depersonalizing murder? It is one of the most intimate experiences that can be shared with someone else.
I’m sure that came across as overly psychotic, but I really only mention it to help explain why I was instantly enraged by their dry and clinical view of the situation. I tend to be extremely possessive of my victims, and it was bad enough that they had designs on my chosen prey. That they had so divorced themselves from the gritty reality of their task made it beyond intolerable.
They had been following her longer than I had, at first because stalking was part of the fun for them, but now because they were waiting only for the right moment to strike. It was this shift of intent that had caused my subconscious to take notice and alter my path accordingly. When I find myself amongst other predators, my volatile nature often forces me to demonstrate that I am the biggest, baddest dog in the neighborhood, and true to form, I was immediately determined to show them that true power allows one to create opportunity rather than waiting on it.
During the course of this recounting, I hope to clearly demonstrate the very real difference between true power and the illusion of it that you, my dear, cling to so very tightly.
I changed my course and pace to put me ahead of her, and it was not long before I found myself in a suitable position, waiting in the murky, impenetrable shadow next to a utility green dumpster that reeked of mold and sour milk.
She surprised me by turning down the very alley where I waited. She was on autopilot, wandering aimlessly, consumed by her thoughts, instinct alone keeping her moving. She passed me, so close that her scent chased away the nagging dumpster smell and almost drew a moan from my lips, but she did not notice me.
Less than half a minute later, the thugs entered the alley, thrilled by the arrival of opportunity, and my rapture over her was supplanted by a mad glee that made me want to giggle. I love it when people fail to recognize the imminent danger that usually lurks behind good fortune, propping it up with powerful, predatory arms. Their elation was akin to being thankful for the shade created by a falling boulder, and it instantly made the prospect of their deaths twice as appealing. I slowly inhaled the scent of imminent death now permeating the air, savoring it like a normal person might savor the air after a spring rain.
◆◆◆
It is extremely rare for prey to capture my attention in any way that makes me acknowledge it as an individual, and to be honest, it makes little difference either way. Stand out or blend in; neither will change your fate. Once I have turned my sights on you, it is only a matter of time before you exit this world.
A short amount of time...
On some level, I think most people realize it. Perhaps not enough to run screaming to the nearest church, but just enough to make them turn their head in a desperate bid to convince themselves that I don’t exist. On most nights, I rate the same treatment as a beggar holding a dirty, wrinkled Dixie cup in grimy fingertips so crusted with dirt that it looks like he clawed his way out of a grave just to intrude on the lives of the livi
ng.
Feigned or real, ignorance will not change their fate, either.
If anyone really knew what was coming their way, having someone beg for change on breath that reeks of drain cleaner would seem like the highlight of their day by comparison.
Of course, that reaction may well have more to do with this world we live in than any extra perception from the teeming masses. Being a product of an earlier generation, I know all of the reasons people do not want to talk to me (or anyone else for that matter).
Hell, I used to be just like you, bumbling my way through an insular and self-absorbed life, eyes downward, passing from one crutch to another, completely oblivious to all the important things, and instead of finding my grave naturally, I stumbled across someone willing and able to put me into it prematurely.
But for the wildest of flukes, at the time that I met Alicia, I would have been in the seventh year of my dirt nap.
Prior to my flirtation with death, I would have bet money that having my life torn from my desperately clenched fingers would make enough of an impression to keep me from doing the same to someone else... but I’d have lost that bet. I have done it every single night since, in the exact same manner as it was done to me, and the only difference is that my victims will not be coming back to do the same.
Or write about it.
What would you call someone who goes around killing people in the same manner in which he was killed? Looney Tunes? Or perhaps, as the old joke goes, anything he wants to be called? I’m sure there are many appropriate words, but the most accurate may not be readily apparent yet.
Or maybe my attempt at mystery is just another shining example of one of my more annoying flaws: I am never as clever as I think I am.
Perhaps the answer is already clear thanks to the blurb on the back of the book, and I’m wasting time on something ridiculously inconsequential instead of getting on with the story. On that note, let’s get back on track for anyone still in suspense thanks to my random musings.
What would you call someone who drinks your blood until you die?
Vampire.
You’re probably thinking “big fucking deal,” right? You have read that a gazillion times before and found it amusing and entertaining, but everyone except Gothy McGotherson and a handful of hardcore Twilight nerds knows that vampires aren't real.
Perhaps, perhaps not. If you will indulge me a bit and continue reading, I might actually chip away at the mountain of doubt that has been pounded into you since you stopped drooling on yourself and happily mashing vegetable paste into your hair.
Before I go any further, it is probably best to establish some credibility, dispel some common myths, and do my best to differentiate this story from all the rest as quickly as possible.
If I seem a little naïve, I blame it on being relatively new to the vampire thing. I learned about the Kennedy assassination in school, and I have barely been alive long enough to remember the day Reagan was shot (although what I really remember about it was how it all but ruined my 8th birthday). Sometimes I envy the others for living through so many important events, but when it occurs to me that they probably didn’t pay any attention to them, the envy slinks away as quickly and quietly as it tiptoed up on me.
Can’t have roses without thorns, I guess.
My relative youth, supernaturally speaking, likely begs the question of what makes me think I am special enough to have a story worth telling. Of course, to answer that seriously I have to pretend that most human beings do not follow Joe P. Average and Betty Sue Annoying-Hyphenate on some form of social media, greedily gobbling up their inane dribble about which soda they chose for mid-day snack or what show they watched last night...
Pretend successful. You'll find I'm good at it.
For starters, they tell me that I am the most powerful vampire in existence, and as far as I've been able to test that, it seems true enough. There are very few absolutes to vampirism, and even fewer vampires who understand enough to make that claim, so it really only means that I have yet to meet a stronger vampire.
I have met many, but we don’t exactly advertise.
The story of my Conversion and Ascension is interesting, but it should be saved for another time. This is about my time with Alicia, or at least it will be after just a bit more seemingly pointless exposition to provide the proper vampiric frame of reference.
It is true that we are not alive as the word applies to the majority on this planet. We are not mortal beings, but “undead” either conjures up visions of stumbling zombies or leaves a bad taste in the mouth, so we generally oppose the term’s use. I did suffer mortal death, but that was just the toll required to gain access to the immortality highway. In truth, I simply traded one life for another, and while there are rare occasions when I have the sneaking suspicion that I got the shit end of the stick, most of the time I think it’s a fucking trip to be the baddest mothersucker in Vampville.
When it comes right down to it, it is always better to be the predator than the prey. Hmmm... perhaps it’s more accurate to say that it is always better to have the choice of which role one wishes to play in any given situation.
It is not common for one of my kind to generalize the rest as a proper group, usually because it means that he is talking to mortals, which is obviously taboo. As a species, vampires are loath to agree on almost everything, so we haven’t really adopted a single term. Much like mortals, we consider ourselves the central point of reference, so we tend to only identify other species. When we talk about ourselves, we usually play the pronoun game with “we” or “us.” When an umbrella term is required, I prefer to use “revenant.” It’s not as ugly as “vampire,” which has come to symbolize only a small portion of what we do and not at all what we are. I can’t take credit for coming up with it, however, because I got it from a series of books by Wendy Haley, which I loved when I was mortal.
Back then, I thoroughly enjoyed most of the modern vampire fiction. Hmmm... “Back then?” Look at me write that as if it were eons ago. Sometimes it feels like it. Anyway, I realize now that nearly all of it is cruel, romanticizing something that isn’t very romantic at all. Living as a revenant is much like living as a mortal: there are ups and there are downs, and both are entirely what you make of them.
To be fair to mortal authors, however, the fault does not always lie in their narrative. That combination of power, misery and mystery somehow converges into an ambrosia that exudes romantic appeal and even longing. Especially the power part, something most mortals chase but never manage to achieve. Revenant power is deliciously appealing in the abstract, but in reality, it becomes another simple truth of existence, carrying its price as does anything else.
I have resigned myself to the fact that this book will probably not be much different in that respect, but I’m still hoping to surprise myself.
I know the origins of my kind. We are a corrupted branch of an ancient race of beings called vmbir (pronounced VOM-beer). I use “corrupted” rather than “evolved” because the differences between revenant and vmbir were forced and none of them can be viewed as beneficial. We are not vmbir for many reasons, the main one being that vmbir are born while we are Converted. There are many other distinctions, but I think I should save that for another time as well. The only reason I brought it up is to say this: We are not demons.
Some of us behave like demons, but a regrettable number of mortals behave that way, too.
I must drink blood to live, animal or human, alive or dead, and although the thought of drinking blood from the dead makes me want to puke, it makes no real difference except for the awful taste and the imagined satisfaction derived. I believe, for all practical purposes, that blood is blood is blood, and it all nourishes the same. Some of the older revenants disagree, but I think it’s all in their heads.
Revenance does not make one impervious to fooling oneself.
I can take in mortal food and drink for appearances, but one might s
ay that I have lost my taste for it. Like corn, it has no nutritional value, and my revenant Blood ignores most of it. After ingesting a certain amount, it is expelled the same way it came in. Sorry for that mental image.
I am always immaculately clean, and my skin would make a dermatologist famous if he were responsible for it. Not because I’m a neat freak or anything; it is simply the way hygiene works for us, as if even dirt is afraid to get too close.
Speaking of skin, I do not share a coloring scheme with a glass of skim milk, although I know many revenants who do. Unfortunately, it takes hundreds of years for the Blood to completely remove pigmentation from skin, and most people would be surprised how long physical appearance can sustain delusions of mortality... Eventually though, if I survive long enough, I’ll be as white as an Irishman’s legs in the dead of winter.
I write “if I survive” because we have an irritating penchant for knocking one another off, mostly for one idiotic reason or another, and we have a statistically higher suicide rate than a stadium full of dentists.
When I was first Converted, when the BloodHunger nailed me to a flaming, upside-down cross every night, I battled the suicide impulse, but now that my Hunger has pretty much lost its balls, I can’t see ending my life for all of the coffee at Starbucks.
Earlier, I mentioned that there are very few absolutes to vampirism, and here’s the first: the sun. A few rays of sunlight will change my name to Mr. Crispy in about sixty seconds flat, and before another minute passes, my remains will fit into a teacup.
Stakes through the heart are nothing more than a nuisance, but fire can be deadly. It has to be an inferno, though; setting me on fire probably won’t cut it. Hurl me onto a blaze that would make the bravest of firefighters say “Fuck this” and leave me with no method of escape, and that might make some revenants pretty happy.
Corrupting Alicia Page 1