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

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You did that?”

  “Choice is a recent invention,” said Anton. “Hatred is not. I hated them all. They were my comrades, my own tribe, if you will, but I left them in hatred because they stayed outside safe in their numbers and sent me alone into the cave. A sacrificial goat.”

  He laughed.

  “I am in the hillside. It is dark and damp and close, but no Gauls have fallen upon me. I think perhaps I will live after all. Then there is a huge rustling and a rush of air, and they are on me. They knock my torch away; it falls on the floor and goes out before I can even see them. There are hundreds, or thousands, beating into my face and my body. They are biting me and drawing out my blood.”

  Rachel’s hand was over her mouth. “Gauls bit you?”

  “Not Gauls. Vampire bats. I awoke eventually, sore in a million places, but the soreness did not even last until I fumbled my way to the cave entrance. I could not find the torch, but the darkness did not seem so dark any more.

  “My cohort were all dead. The Gauls massacred them while I was interred in the hillside becoming a vampire. When I returned down the path I found them hanging from the bridge. The Gauls had tied a rope around each neck and thrown each soldier into the gorge in turn. Ninety-nine bodies in Roman armor hung beneath the bridge. They swayed in the breeze, bumping into each other. Ninety-nine men who had died bathed in my hatred, while I became immortal.”

  Silence filled the car.

  Anton discovered her fingers were entwined with his. Her skin was warm. The little scars from her earlier bloodletting felt rough against his palm. It surprised him how comforting her touch was. He squeezed, gently and instinctively, and Rachel squeezed back.

  His mind was empty, and full.

  “There’s nothing you could have done,” she said, after a long pause. “If you hadn’t been in the cave, you would have died with them.”

  “I know,” said the vampire.

  “And you couldn’t have escaped the bats.”

  “I know.”

  “And you must have … killed many more people than ninety-nine, over the last two thousand years.”

  “I have. But they died one by one, and they were not my cohort, and they were not my friends, and I did not hate them, and I was not twenty-one.”

  “But––”

  “You cannot help,” he said. “It is complicated, and besides it might not have really happened that way. It was a long time ago. It is just the memory of a memory.”

  “But you think about it a lot.”

  Anton looked out at the night.

  Rachel sighed, and looked at her watch. “I have to get home. Ken gets suspicious if I’m home late and he doesn’t know where I am.”

  He looked at her. “You are afraid to go home?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, with reluctance. “When I don’t know … whether he’s been drinking.”

  “I could watch from the––”

  “No,” she said. “He’s my problem. Remember, you’ve only heard my side of it. His might be different.”

  “You do not believe that.”

  “It’s probably about as true as your memories,” said Rachel.

  He looked away.

  She glanced at him and softened.

  “I’m sure they forgive you,” she said.

  “I doubt it. Anyway, they have been dead for centuries.” He paused. “Your Ken will not change, you know. Do not live your whole life hoping that he will.”

  Rachel closed her eyes. “All right.”

  “If he does not change––”

  “I’ll still love him,” she said. “There’s always the other twenty percent. Sometimes, it’s wonderful.”

  She pressed a button and the car doors unlocked.

  “I will be near,” he said.

  “Don’t be. This was enough. It’s too dangerous.

  He wanted to care. He did care.

  “I liked it when you held my hand,” she said. “It was nice. I don’t get much of that.”

  Her life would go on, and it would get better or it wouldn’t.

  Ninety-nine men hung beneath a bridge, blackened tongues protruding.

  “Fly away home,” said Rachel softly, and he opened the door.

  The last thing she said to him was “Thank you.”

  He had no words for her in return.

  The engine purred. The Saturn’s red taillights diminished.

  In the road, wind against his cheeks, he could still feel the pressure of her fingers against his. He closed his hand to lock their warmth away from the night.

  Anton closed his eyes, and did not watch to see which road she took.

  The Sabbatarian

  DAVID M. FITZPATRICK

  “I need you to help me kill a vampire,” the wrinkled old man with the eye patch said. “I’m getting too old for this, and this vamp’s too powerful anyway.”

  Rogan Mallory looked at him with a deadpan gaze, not knowing quite what to think. The street corner was desolate under an overcast sky; a few green leaves and paper scraps blew past them and the rows of houses. “And you’re a vampire hunter? You hunt them down and kill them?”

  “For sixty-two years,” the old man said. “Killed my first at age twelve. Took over for my father, who took over for his.”

  “So this is a family business?” Rogan pulled his brown duster tightly around his waist and crossed him arms defensively. This guy was a crackpot, and he wanted to finish walking home from the library before Delia worried. He remembered summers not long ago when he’d never have spent a warm summer day at the library, but out tearing up the streets on his motorcycle. Age and marriage had certainly tamed him.

  “For more generations than I can recount. But I have no son to carry on the tradition. I fathered six kids, four of them boys, but they have predeceased me.”

  “So you stop the first man on the street?” Rogan said.

  “Not quite. You’re special, Rogan Mallory.”

  Rogan looked at him, leery. “How’d you know my name?”

  “A little research. Hired a private investigator.”

  Rogan stepped away from the man. “Okay, pal, maybe it’s time we parted company.”

  “Please, just let me speak,” the man said, and Rogan had the feeling there was something sane and honest in his eyes. He was a crackpot, sure, but he didn’t seem dangerous. And there was a certain amusement factor to the whole bit. “All right, but it’s only because I’ve always liked horror fiction,” he said. “Make it fast, and when you’re done, I’m leaving.”

  “I saw you at your real estate office several months ago, and recognized your capability immediately,” the man said without prelude, his one visible eye gleaming in the dim light. “You have the most powerful aura I’ve ever seen in any Sabbatarian—even more than any other red-haired Sabbatarian.”

  “Sabbatarian?” Rogan echoed, self-consciously running his hand through his red hair. “Isn’t that a Jew who celebrates the Sabbath on Saturday? Or anyone who believes in strict observance of the Sabbath?”

  “It came to mean that over time. But more specifically, a Sabbatarian is one who is born on Saturday.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The ancient Macedonians knew that Sabbatarians are blessed with an innate protection from vampires. But it’s better than that. Sabbatarians have a power that works against vampires. Vampires attempting to mesmerize a Sabbatarian are likely to find it won’t work, or the vampires end up mesmerized. A red-haired Sabbatarian, on the other hand, is a far more powerful variety.”

  “This is silly,” Rogan said, suddenly keenly aware of a bat fluttering down to a nearby streetlight to nab a flying insect.

  “Not at all. I’m a Sabbatarian, and my power has been instrumental in combating them.”

  “Then why do you need me?”

  “As I said, I’m getting old. But you aren’t just any Sabbatarian. Far more important events in your life have transpired on Saturdays t
han normal people. And those events only escalate a Sabbatarian’s power. For instance, you were baptized on a Saturday.”

  “So are a lot of people,” Rogan said.

  “Think back on the major events of you life, Rogan. Saturday is a nexus point for you. You were married on a Saturday. You graduated both high school and college on Saturdays.”

  “I do most things I enjoy on Saturday, because it’s the weekend,” Rogan said. “There’s nothing amazing about it. Hell, I think I lost my virginity on a Saturday.”

  “I can only confirm what I’ve researched; you alone can recall the others. But your aura radiates with all the power and color of a Sabbatarian the likes of which nobody has ever seen.”

  “Right,” Rogan said with a smile. “I think our time is up. I’ll be on my way.” He sidestepped the old man and strode down the street amidst the growing wind and darkening skies.

  “I need your strength, Mr. Mallory,” the man called after him. “He’s far too powerful for me.”

  Rogan waved after him and kept on going.

  The man hollered, “I’ll be dead soon, but he’ll still be here. He’ll rebuild the vampire presence on this world. You may be the only one who can stop it.”

  He kept walking, trying to ignore the crazy bastard. Truly, this had been a strange day.

  And, come to think of it, it was Saturday.

  * * *

  Delia was quiet when he returned. He could tell she was mad at him. He tried making small talk but she just ate quietly. He knew the routine, knew the script. He finally sighed and set down his fork. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  The ensuing discussion where she kept telling him nothing was wrong and he kept demanding to know lasted several minutes. Finally, she gave in and said, “I just thought that, for a change, you’d stay home on a Saturday and we’d spend the day together.”

  “I had some research to do,” he said. “This legal tangle with the Crenshaws’ building permit is really mucking things up. We’ll spend tomorrow together, hon.”

  “You work Monday through Friday, twelve hours a day or more,” she said dully, as if she were protesting but not really caring. “I’d think you’d give me Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and he really meant it. “But being the designated broker is what gives us this nice house and the food we’re eating.”

  She sighed and nodded. “I know. But it’s always about you working. It’s never about us being together.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “I know.” Abruptly, she smiled broadly, all perfect white teeth his job had also paid for. “Hey, my sister called this afternoon. We’re going out to the mall in about a half hour.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You complain about me never spending time with you, and then you run off with her to go shopping?”

  “I didn’t know when you’d be home. They’re having a mallwalk sale. Everyone’s having big discounts and they’re keeping the mall open until midnight. It’s not like Sarah and I do this often.”

  * * *

  She was still backing out of the driveway in the BMW when the phone rang. He was only mildly surprised to hear the old man on the other end.

  “I assume we can talk a bit more,” the man said.

  “No, we cannot,” Rogan said.

  “You’re making this hard on both of us,” he said. “I need you, and I’m not going to leave you alone until you listen. And it doesn’t matter if you go to the police, or get a protection order, or hire security guards. This is more important than any of that.”

  “Mister, put yourself in my position. You approach me on the street, say you’re a vampire hunter, and tell me how some random occurrence of Saturday in my life qualifies me to whip Dracula’s ass. How would you react?”

  “Probably the same, which is why I’m so understanding.”

  There was still a level of amusement to the whole thing, but he didn’t need the guy calling his house when Delia was home. “What do I have to do to make you go away?”

  “Just believe what I told you.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  “I figured as much. That’s why I saved such proof for you. I have one I captured—here, at my house. It’s a young one, not very powerful. I could almost have wrestled it down. Now I promise you, if you just come here and have a look, and don’t believe me, you’ll never hear from me again.”

  * * *

  He almost took the motorcycle for a change, but he was nervous enough to prefer four wheels. He took the Mercedes to the remote address, which was outside of town, with no houses for a mile either way, surrounded by wide-open fields. Rogan pulled his Mercedes up next to the two vehicles in the driveway—an old van and a big Chrysler New Yorker. He sat, staring at the well-lit front porch.

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this. The guy could likely have a wooden stake ready to drive through Rogan’s own heart, for all he knew. Yet somehow he got out of the car and headed up the walkway.

  The house was a veritable anti-vampire fortress. Strings of garlic decorated the eaves under the roof, surrounded the windows inside and out, and encircled the door. Holy symbols from dozens of religions were displayed on the house, on posts around it, and designed into the brickwork of the walkway. Stranger still, he realized the glass in all the windows was one-way: reflecting mirrors, essentially. As he stood at the bottom of the stairs to the front door, he realized the wooden posts that lined the walkway, on which various symbols were displayed, could easily be yanked up from the grass and used as stakes. Rogan wondered if the flat, open fields that surrounded the property were devoid of trees for a reason. Maybe it was to keep the sun shining on the house as long as possible during the day. Was this guy that entrenched in his beliefs?

  The door suddenly flew open, and the eyepatched old man regarded him with a smile. “Welcome, Mr. Mallory. Do come in.”

  “Are you inviting me in?” Rogan asked. “If I’m actually a vampire, that could be disastrous for you.”

  The old man laughed loudly. “Stoker and Hollywood, Rogan. Absolutely untrue. Besides, I can spot a vampire a mile away, and you’re not it. I read auras, like I told you. Now, won’t you come in?”

  “I’d guess I’d like to at least know your name first.”

  The old man looked bemused. “And knowing my name will relieve the danger you believe is here?”

  “No. But I’ll feel better.”

  “Okay. It’s Jonah William Byrne. Now, please … come in.”

  “I’m regretting this already,” Rogan said, but he mounted the stairs and entered the house.

  The interior was more or less like the exterior: holy symbols everywhere. Real mirrors abounded—literally, every wall had multiple mirrors. There was no lack of garlic, either, and the whole place smelled of it.

  “He’s in the basement,” Jonah said, opening a door. Steps led down and out of sight. Rogan regarded them, and Jonah, uneasily.

  “Either way, the answer is in that basement,” Jonah said. “If I’m crazy, you’ll know soon enough.”

  They descended into a full concrete basement, dimly lit by low-wattage bulbs. An oil tank, a water heater, a furnace, and a washer and dryer were all here.

  “He’s this way,” Jonah said, heading toward the darker end of the cellar. It wasn’t until they were melting into the darkness that Rogan saw the large walk-in cooler. It was closed, its stainless steel door gleaming in the dim light, a muffled humming playing out a steady mechanical tune.

  “You refrigerated him?” Rogan said.

  “They don’t like cold much, and the walk-in’s soundproof,” Jonah said. “Now, it’s bound pretty damn tight, but it’ll probably make a whole load of noise and thrash around. Don’t let it scare you. Like I said, it’s young and not too tough.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. Rogan had been assuming Jonah was a nut case with a vivid imagination, but suddenly he wondered if Jonah were a homicidal nut case with an actual person in there. Worse, maybe
Rogan would become that innocent person.

  Jonah snapped the handle down and pulled the door open. Within, all was dark. “Here’s your proof,” he said, and flipped the light switch.

  Rogan blinked and recoiled in shock. There was a naked man spread-eagle on the floor, thin limbs extended in four directions, pulled taut with heavy chains. The chains were wrapped around his wrists and ankles many times, and secured to big hooks in the corners of the otherwise empty walk-in. A thin covering of ghostly white skin was stretched over his ribs and bones like a sheet of latex rubber over a birdcage. He regarded them all with sunken, dark eyes set in a gaunt face framed by stringy, black hair.

  Rogan was frozen, looking at the man in horror. Jonah Byrne had evidently kept his prisoner tied up down here, without food, for some time. “How … how long have you … had him here?” he stammered.

  Jonah waved him off, unconcerned. “Oh, don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s in better shape than he looks.”

  “How long?” Rogan said, hearing his own voice quavering.

  “About a month. I’ve been saving him for you.”

  Rogan backed up quickly, bumped into Jonah, and spun about. He intended to make a run for it. He was sure he could outrun the old bastard, make it to his car, and hoof it out of there—but there was Jonah, backing away from him, gun in his hand. Rogan wasn’t a gun expert, but he sure as hell knew how to classify the cannon Jonah had pointed at him. It was a big fucking gun.

  “Please don’t,” Rogan begged. “I’ve got a wife at home … please … ”

  “I expected more of you than whimpering and pleading for your life,” Jonah said, “but it doesn’t matter. You’re not leaving here until you understand. Now pick up the three-pound sledge and drive that wooden stake through its heart.”

  The sledgehammer and stake were leaning against the inside wall, and now Rogan’s brain was on the spin cycle. “I … I can’t do that.”