Best New Vampire Tales (Vol.1)

by Laimo, Michael; Newman, James; Hults, Matt; Webb, Don; Meikle, William; Wilson, David Niall; Everson, John; Waggoner, Tim; Daley, James Roy

  He turned back to his newfound fellow critic. “Come now, surely you can see what a bold statement the artist is making,” he said with a smirk.

  She grinned. “The only statement I see is ‘I’m a no-talent hack desperately hoping to find someone gullible enough to pay a few hundred dollars for damaged firewood.’“

  Benjamin laughed. “Now, now, they say art is in the eye of the beholder.”

  The woman was suddenly sober. “They’re wrong. Art exists all by itself.” She reached out and placed a pale, slender hand atop the chunk of wood. “Kopinski’s got a whole pile of these behind his house. It took him ten minutes to score the wood, and that only because he paused to go get a beer.”

  “You know the artist?”

  “Artist is far too kind a word, but no, I do not know him.”

  “Then how––?”

  She removed her hand, smiled, and gave a little shrug. “Just speculating.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were pretty damn close to the truth.” And that seemed to be all there was to say about Kopinski and his log, for suddenly a silence descended between them. The woman seemed undisturbed by it, merely looked at him and continued to smile, and Benjamin realized how attractive she was. Not that she was pretty, not really, was more on the plain side actually, her complexion washed out, hints of dark circles beneath her eyes, her nose a touch too long, her lips a smidge too thin. But those eyes …

  Her eyes were large and bluish green, with little flecks of color in them that seemed to change from moment to moment, first gold, then red, then black, then back to gold again. The pupils were dark and deep and wide, and it felt as if they were pulling at him somehow, as if they might suck him in and devour him whole if he weren’t careful.

  Benjamin suddenly felt self-conscious. He had never been an especially attractive man, and at forty-seven, whatever looks he did possess were on the verge of deserting him forever. His rusty-brown hair was thinning on top and too long in the back, and he hadn’t shaved in two days. He wore a gray trench coat that was probably as old if not older than the woman standing before him, and which was a decade overdue for dry-cleaning. His brown slacks were rumpled and sported several stains––some old, some fresh––and his tennis shoes, which had once been white, were now sooty gray black.

  He was old enough to be her father, too old for her to be looking at him like she was, too old to be liking it this much.

  He knew the smart thing would be to say good-bye and get out of here before he embarrassed himself. Instead, he said, “So what besides the opportunity to indulge in razor-tongued criticism has brought you out to the galleries on such a cold night?”

  “You, Benjamin Moulton. I’m a great admirer of your work.”

  Of all the possible responses she might have made, that was the last he expected. “How––?”

  “Do I know you?” she finished. “I frequent the galleries; I’ve seen you around.”

  He smiled ruefully. “I didn’t think I had any admirers. Most people don’t understand my stuff.”

  She made a dismissive gesture. “Most people lack vision.”

  “But not you?”

  “Not me,” she agreed. No hint of pride, just a simple statement of fact.

  Benjamin was a collage artist, but instead of paper or cloth, he used everyday household items to create his art. He took all manner of odds and ends, bits and pieces, and fit them together with glue, solder, wire and string to create his collages, to make his statements. Statements no one ever seemed to understand.

  “Prove it,” he challenged.

  “All right. But you don’t have any pieces on display here. We’ll have to go to the Plaid Pony.” And before Benjamin could respond, she turned and began threading her way through the crowd and toward the door, leaving him hurrying to catch up.

  Outside on the sidewalk, Benjamin coughed explosively as the cold night air filled his lungs and he wished desperately to light up a cigarette, but he hadn’t had enough money to buy a pack of Camels for the last four days. He briefly considered asking his new acquaintance if she smoked, and if so, could she spare a cigarette, but he decided against it. So many people were anti-smoking these days, and he didn’t want to turn her off before he had a proper chance to turn her on.

  The streets of the Old Brewery District were covered with a light dusting of snow, and tiny, almost imperceptible flakes were still drifting down, but they were few and far between.

  “They look so small and lonely, don’t they?” she said.

  “What?” he asked, startled.

  “The snowflakes.”

  “Ah, yes, they do.” That was exactly what he had been thinking. He felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the winter air and he stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets and wished he had a shot of whiskey to warm himself up, or at least a pair of gloves or a scarf. But the problem with the cliché of the starving artist was that it was a cliché for a very good reason.

  They trudged along the sidewalk, slowed by the crowds who’d flocked from all over town to attend the first gallery hop of the year. Fifteen years ago the Old Brewery District was a pesthole of run-down and abandoned buildings, the only residents rats, drug addicts and other assorted vermin. But a wave of urban renewal had gone through the city, thanks to flocks of yuppies with money to burn, and the Old Brewery District slowly became reborn as a haven for artsy-craftsy types and where once bars and 24-hour porn emporiums had stood were now art galleries and coffee shops. And once a month the yuppies––no longer so young but still well monied, thank you––came down, along with a mixture of college students and a sprinkling of curious middle-class types, to wander from gallery to gallery, sometimes buying, more often just looking and feeling virtuously intellectual for taking a few minutes to stare at what was mostly hackwork in between cups of cappuccino and cheap burgundy.

  Benjamin hated it. But he came every month. It was a good way to make connections with gallery owners and, better yet, potential customers. He might have been an artist, but that didn’t mean he was above prostituting himself. The only problem was finding someone who wanted him to spread his legs.

  Benjamin breathed as shallowly as he could to keep from coughing, the air curling slowly out of his mouth like miniature fog. He looked at his companion and noticed that her breath, unlike his, wasn’t misting in the frigid air. He shrugged mentally. Some people just handled cold weather better than others, he guessed.

  After all, she had on that light jacket, right? She probably sweltered in the summertime.

  Before long they came to the Plaid Pony and went inside. The Pony wasn’t as crowded as the last gallery had been, but then it was a small place with only a few works displayed. The girl brushed past the scattering of browsers and headed straight for his piece, the only one of his displayed in the Pony. For that matter, the only one displayed anywhere right now.

  The collage hung on the wall, a conglomeration of household junk glued to a piece of plywood. Screws, bolts, and clock springs, doll parts and matchbook covers, playing cards and Legos, unopened condoms and small plastic dinosaurs, a riot of the mundane, an explosion of triviality.

  The collage wasn’t titled; none of his work was. The placard on the wall announced it simply as Number 142 and said he was asking $145.

  Dream on, Ben, he thought. Dream on.

  He turned to his companion and gestured toward his piece. “All right, Ms. Visionary … go to it.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back. Her fingers came to her chin and stroked it lightly as she examined every inch of the collage. Benjamin found himself growing uncomfortable. He was used to people glancing at his work and moving on, not giving it this kind of concentrated scrutiny. This woman wasn’t just looking at his collage; she was truly seeing it.

  She studied Number 142 for a full five minutes before speaking. “On the surface, it appears to be about Aids. The screws and bolts represent sex. The clock springs time, which is running out.
Unopened condoms, which the ignorant and foolish refuse to use. They’d rather take chances, as evidenced by the playing cards. The matchbooks are empty, their fire gone, standing for those who have died. The Legos, oh, they’re lost innocence, I suppose. And the dinosaurs represent the ultimate and final extinction of a species, which might happen to humanity if it doesn’t wise up.

  “Of course, beneath the particulars of the imagery is the heart of the work, the deep sense of isolation and futility in the face of death.”

  Benjamin didn’t notice his mouth was hanging open, and if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. “You … understand.”

  “Of course. It’s rather obvious, really. Not that I’m criticizing, mind. It’s quite good. Perhaps not up to par with your best pieces, but still far better than anything else in town.”

  Benjamin didn’t know how to respond. After all these years of waiting for someone to actually get what he was trying to say, now that someone had, he had no idea what to think, how to feel.

  “What’s your name?” he finally asked, resorting to simple social custom.

  “Seina,” she replied with a smile. “Would you like to get some coffee?”

  Benjamin smiled back. “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  Seina passed by several popular coffee shops before finally stopping at Java Hut, a hole in the wall joint that Benjamin had never visited before. “It may not look like much . . .” she began.

  “And ten dollars says that in this case, looks are definitely not deceiving,” he finished.

  She grinned and led him inside.

  Sure enough, it was small, cramped, dingy and dirty, with only a handful of tables and even fewer customers. Seina led him to a table in the back and they sat.

  The only employee in sight, a pimply faced college kid behind the counter, looked sullenly in their direction, his lethargic gaze saying, You don’t really want to order anything, do you?

  Benjamin looked at Seina. “What would you like?” Ordinarily in this situation he would’ve added, ‘My treat,’ but all he had in his pockets at the moment was lint.

  “Nothing, really. I just wanted to go someplace where we could talk.”

  Benjamin turned toward the kid behind the counter and shook his head. The kid nodded once, relieved that he wouldn’t have to exert himself, and went back to staring into space.

  “So tell me, how did you get to be such a fan of mine?” Benjamin asked.

  “I follow the arts. Your work stood out. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Not that I’m fishing for compliments––ah, hell, of course I’m fishing for compliments––but what makes my work stand out?”

  She answered without hesitation. “The subtlety. The playful irony. Although it’s gotten less playful and more biting over the years.”

  Years? “How long have you been following my work?”

  “Oh, for a while now.”

  Benjamin didn’t know what to make of that. She hardly seemed old enough to have taken a serious interest in art for very long. Months, perhaps, but years?

  She smiled a private smile. “I’m older than I look.”

  “You did it again.”

  “What?”

  “Responded to something I was thinking.”

  “Coincidence.” But there was something about the way she said the word that made it clear she didn’t expect to be believed. “Tell me something, Benjamin. Do you like being an artist?”

  Benjamin started to answer, but before he could speak, he was seized by a fit of phlegmy coughing. It took him almost a full minute to get it under control and regain his breath. “Sorry,” he wheezed.

  Seina acted like it hadn’t happened. She just sat patiently, waiting for him to respond.

  “It’s a mixed bag,” he said. “Sometimes it’s great, like when an idea takes hold of me. I start hunting for objects. And not just any old objects will do; they have to be the right ones. I can spend days––sometimes weeks––searching for the appropriate materials. And then when I finally have them, I can start putting them together. At random at first, or at least that’s the way it feels. But before long a pattern begins to emerge, a pattern that was there all along. It just took me a while to see it. After that, the actual assembly goes fairly quickly. And then, when the collage is finished, I can see how close to my original idea I got.” He smiled. “Or didn’t get, as the case may be. “But sometimes it’s not so great. There’s the dry period between ideas, when it feels like you’ll never have another again. And of course, there’s the money, or rather the lack thereof. If I was a painter, at least I might be able to get some commercial work, you know? But there’s not much call for a commercial collage artist. I end up working a lot of odd jobs. I’ve done everything from painting houses to driving cabs.”

  “And what does it feel like to know you’re past your prime?”

  “I’m only forty-seven,” he said stiffly.

  “I wasn’t talking about age; I was talking about your creative prime.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come now, Benjamin. I said I’ve been following your work for some time, and I meant it. I’ve seen you grow from an immature artist with little skill and even less to say to a seasoned master of his craft. But lately your work has been … lacking. Like your collage in the Painted Pony. It’s still an accomplished piece of work, but nothing like what you used to produce.”

  Benjamin wanted to be angry, wanted to defend Number 142. But he couldn’t. He knew she was right. “Maybe I’m just in a slump.” He didn’t sound convincing, even to himself.

  “Perhaps. But there comes a time in every artist’s life when he begins the downward slide to mediocrity. It’s as inevitable as the approach of the grave.”

  “Now isn’t that a cheery thought.”

  Seina leaned forward then, her remarkable eyes shining. “But it doesn’t have to be like that, Benjamin. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She leaned even closer, her voice low and intense. “I know a way to keep your talents and skills at their peak, as fresh and vital as they ever were––for all time.”

  Benjamin chuckled. “Sounds like you’re about to launch into some kind of religious spiel.”

  Seina smiled, displaying sharp incisors. “Hardly.”

  * * *

  Seina’s home was the top floor of a condemned building not too far from the Brewery District. There was some furniture––a bed, couch, kitchen table, a few other pieces––but mostly her place was filled with creativity. There were paintings and sculptures in all styles from the minimalist to the gaudily bizarre. A piano rested in one corner, and next to it, on a table, were a saxophone and a flute, along with a stack of sheet music, some of which was pre-printed but most of which was hand-written. Quilts hung on the walls, next to framed poems––original, Benjamin presumed––rendered in ornate calligraphy. Origami animals of all colors were scattered throughout the rooms wherever there was space. Mobiles and wind chimes hung from the ceiling, stirring in the icy breeze wafting from the open windows.

  He shivered.

  “My kind don’t need heat,” Seina said.

  Benjamin knew he shouldn’t take her remark seriously. Vampire fixations were not uncommon among artsy folk. Some of them would go to any lengths to indulge their fantasies, including purchasing a pair of quite realistic looking fangs. Still, there was something about Seina, a sense of age, a feeling of restrained power. And those eyes . . .

  “I am what I say I am, Benjamin. How else could I know what you’re thinking?”

  “Maybe you’re just a good guesser.”

  “Maybe.” She closed the windows then led him over to the couch. Not quite sure what else to do, he followed and they sat.

  “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to live for eternity, Benjamin? It’s wonderful for the first century or two, but before long, much sooner than you’d think, it grows dull. Each night is like the one before
it, and the next night, and the next … Some of my kind take their own lives rather than endure any more of the numbing sameness. Some go mad. But some of us find ways to fill the emptiness, take up pursuits to keep us amused.”

  Benjamin told himself that he was humoring her; that he really didn’t believe.

  “And so you collect art?”

  If she truly was what she claimed to be and caught his thought about humoring her, she gave no sign. “In a manner of speaking. You see, I’ve always been attracted to the arts, but I lack talent. And since I have no talent of my own, I preserve the talent of others. Preserve it forever.”

  Stories flashed through Benjamin’s mind, novels he’d read, movies he’d seen.

  Immortality––the vampire’s most seductive promise. For him? He couldn’t bring himself to believe it. “Why me? Why here? Why aren’t you in New York or Paris, searching out real artists?”

  “Because, Benjamin, those artists have opportunities to be noticed, opportunities for their own sort of immortality, a place in a museum, a niche in a canon of Artists with a capital A. But there are other artists in other places who don’t have such opportunities, artists of great talent and skill who are equally deserving, but who are destined to remained unnoticed. Artists like you, Benjamin.”

  She laid a hand on his. It was ice cold.

  He jerked his hand away. “So just like that, I’m chosen to become immortal, like I’m some sort of supernatural sweepstakes winner?”

  “Not at all. I said I’ve been following your work for years, Benjamin, and I have. I frequent the galleries, the museums, the university art shows, concerts and plays, always searching for another artist whose gift I can preserve. I first became aware of your work fourteen years ago. I remember the piece. It was your Number 11, a eulogy for the death of sixties’ idealism.”