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

  “There will be,” Rogan said, with a surprising boldness that confused him.

  “He’s using you, Mr. Mallory. He’s showing you how terrible we’re supposed to be—feeding into your mind, which has been plagued by a lifetime of folklore and fiction, and turning you into a crusader for his cause.”

  “I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m only helping him destroy you—no others.”

  “But if you succeed, you’ll find you enjoy it. You’ll want to do it again. Eventually, you’ll be a vampire hunter, crusading whether you planned to or not. And for what? To rid the world of your Hollywood perceptions? We’re just different, Mr. Mallory––stronger, faster, spookier, but more or less the same. We pay for those advantages with an eternal nightlife. And when we do take human blood, we rarely kill and barely injure—and they never remember. When most of us kill, it’s rapists, murderers, and street scum. We help keep the world clean.”

  “It just isn’t right for you to judge and execute people.”

  “No less so than Byrne’s family hunting us to the brink of extinction for ten centuries,” Gantu said. “He’s not only the last of his line—he’s the last of any line. We were hoping that when he went, it would be over. But then, he found you.” He cocked his head, surveying Rogan curiously. “And, naturally, he has found the most powerful Sabbatarian I’ve ever seen. How ironic. Your life must have been filled with a lot of very important Saturdays, Mr. Mallory.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Could I have a refill?” Gantu asked, holding out his tumbler glass.

  “Uh … sure.”

  He felt ridiculous, tending bar for this vampire. He felt even stranger when he realized he was standing with his back to Gantu, and in a mild panic his eyes found Gantu in the decorative bar mirror. The vampire sat on the sofa, calmly waiting.

  “You reflect,” he said suddenly.

  Gantu chuckled. “It makes shaving much easier.”

  “But Jonah’s house—”

  “Yes, a carnival funhouse of mirrors; a thousand years of superstition at work. That only works on the very young vampires. Garlic, though, that’s bad for us. Too bad; I still love the aroma. Younger vampires can’t even catch a whiff of it, much less be near it. I can wear the stuff and it won’t bother me, but I can’t eat it.”

  “This is crazy,” Rogan said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I’m sitting here chatting with you like you’re my next-door neighbor,” he said. “I don’t know who to believe, you or Jonah … but either way, this whole past week has been, by far, the strangest of my life.” He returned to the sectional and handed the Scotch to Gantu. “So you’re basically telling me I have a choice: help him kill you, or help you kill him.”

  “I have no such designs. As I said, he’ll be gone soon enough.”

  “So either I help you, or we lock eyes until somebody falters,” Rogan amended.

  “I have no interest in killing you,” Gantu said with a thin-lipped smile, his white fangs shining like polished ivory. “Let me be honest, Mr. Mallory: you impress me. Never has one been able to hold me so easily. But to be frank, the sun won’t reach me at all inside this house. I can go for a week without sleep. You can’t. But I don’t want to do that—and unless you force my position, I won’t.”

  Rogan shook his head. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “I want you to stay out of this. Let things happen as they will.”

  “How do I know you won’t kill him?”

  “I have no need to.”

  Rogan got up, paced to the fireplace, and turned back, his brow furrowed. “Everything in me says what you and your kind do is wrong—regardless of whether your victims are rapists or whatever.”

  “At least we’re selective,” Gantu said. “Do you go out of your way to slaughter only the evil cows, or the criminal pigs, or the chickens with bad hearts? Certainly not; worse, you breed them for the sole purpose of having them end up on your plates. Given that comparison, who is the worse vampire?”

  “Barnyard animals aren’t human beings.”

  “It could be argued that those we choose to kill aren’t, either. They’re lower than barnyard animals—abominations to your kind. Do you not execute your own when their crimes are terrible enough? When a man rapes and kills a seven-year-old girl, is locking him up for life the wrong thing to do?”

  It made sense, and it was true that Gantu probably could wait it out and kill him; certainly, he could have burst into the house and ripped him apart without so much as a hello, but he hadn’t. Or maybe he really couldn’t and was even afraid. Or maybe he really did want to talk. Or … or maybe Rogan didn’t know what to think.

  Gantu said, “Let me put this into perspective. I understand you’re going through a divorce.”

  “You use the same private detective as Jonah?”

  “Unlikely. Would you say your wife and her lover have devastated your life?”

  “Hell, yeah, I’d say that.”

  “Would you like me to kill them?”

  Rogan’s heart stopped cold. Images flipped through his mind like illustrations in a book. He envisioned her suffering and dying, her lover right along with her. For a moment, it seemed utterly right and just.

  But he blinked and shook his head to clear it. “No.”

  “But you thought about it, didn’t you?”

  He regarded Gantu’s red eyes with a cold look. “Of course I did.”

  “Now think of her in bed with him, being pleasured by him,” Gantu said firmly. “Of her pleasuring him. Riding him, taking his seed within her, and coming home to your bed with lies and excuses.”

  Rogan turned his head away. He felt tears brimming. He wasn’t about to let Gantu see them.

  “Imagine how many times you were inside her after he was.” Gantu’s voice was harsher now, almost commanding Rogan to heed the words. “Those times when you thought she was wet just for you—but it was his juices in which you basted, my friend.”

  “Stop it,” Rogan hissed.

  “There are no secrets here, Sabbatarian,” Gantu said. “Say the word, and I shall execute your vengeance on them!”

  “No,” Rogan said. “Let them have each other. Besides … maybe I could have done more to make her happy. Been home more, worked less. But it doesn’t matter. But thanks for offering.”

  He clambered to his feet and faced Gantu. “And I’m thankful for Jonah, who discovered her affair. It hurts now, but better now than years later, and maybe other lovers, later.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I can’t help either of you. If he dies naturally, he dies. But if he comes for you, I can’t let you kill him.”

  “I had hoped you would have thought otherwise,” Gantu said.

  “I’m sorry.” Rogan swallowed hard, starting to sweat again. “Are you going to kill me now? Should we begin the stare-down?”

  Gantu sighed and shook his head, coming to his feet. Rogan did so as well as the vampire strode past him towards the foyer. “No, we should not. The truth is, perhaps I’m all talk.” He turned when he reached the front door and looked back. “You really are the most powerful I’ve ever seen, Sabbatarian, and I’ve dealt with your kind for a long time. I don’t know if I could hold out before you’d overcome me.”

  “That’s a hell of a way to show your hand,” Rogan said. “You had me believing I’d lose that stand-off.”

  “I really don’t know. I don’t believe I wish to find out. I hope you don’t, either.”

  Rogan smiled. “I guess I don’t.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Mallory.”

  “Good evening.”

  Gantu opened the door and, in a sudden flash, was gone in a small hurricane. The potted trees in the foyer blew furiously around and the door suctioned shut with a bang.

  * * *

  Jonah showed up at his house late Saturday morning with a loaded double-bolt crossbow. “Are you ready?”

  “A little early, isn
’t it?” Rogan asked. “Not a lot of vampire action at high noon, you know.”

  “Best time to do it. They’re holed up somewhere. Anyway, I’ve got the gear loaded in the car, so let’s get going.”

  “He came to see me last night.”

  Jonah looked at him sideways. “Who came to see you?”

  “Gantu.”

  Jonah’s face hardened, his good eye squinting. “Son of a bitch. Thought he’d go a round with you. Since you’re still here, I’m guessing he didn’t win. What happened?”

  “We had a few drinks together.”

  “Had a few—? You’re kidding!”

  Rogan was very aware of the deadly weapon Jonah held. It was currently pointing down, a good sign. “I’m not. He came to plead his case.”

  “Plead his case? What, he tried to talk you into killing me, is that it?”

  “Not at all. Just wants me to stay out of it. He knows you’re dying, and he knows you’re the last of your line—of any Sabbatarian line.”

  “He knows shit!” Jonah said with a snarl. “The bloodsucking bastard knows he’s beat. He knows I’m coming for him, and he knows I found you. He probably came to kill you last night, and found out how fucking powerful you are. Had a few drinks, my ass! He was screwing with you, Mallory—messing with your head to keep you from wasting him!”

  “I don’t think so,” Rogan said. “They’re different from us, Jonah, but … maybe not as different as you think.”

  A look of realization crossed Jonah’s face. “Christ, you bought into it. You listened to him. Did anything I said get through to you?”

  “Everything.”

  “But what he said made more sense, is that it?” Jonah backed up suddenly, bringing the crossbow to bear at Rogan’s chest. “You bastard … you walk in the sun and you don’t drink blood, but you’re one of them!”

  Rogan backed up a step. “Of course I’m not. Put that thing down.”

  He reached for the edge of the door, intending to throw it shut, but Jonah figured it out. He moved quickly into the foyer, shoving the weapon roughly forward as he backed Rogan up. “What the hell kind of Sabbatarian sides with vampires?” he hollered.

  “I’m no kind of Sabbatarian!” Rogan cried out. “I lived my whole life without even knowing what a Sabbatarian was! You find me on the street and tell me all this … of a family dedicated to destroying vampires through the ages. I’m just supposed to accept that everything you and your forefathers believe is the truth?”

  “Yes!” Jonah screeched, and now Rogan was against the wall: nowhere to go. He held his breath as the crossbow butted into his sternum, inches below his chin. “For generations, we’ve dedicated our lives to ridding the world of these monsters. I know what they are! I know what they do!”

  “Maybe they’re not all evil,” Rogan managed, willing his voice not to shake. “Maybe they’re no different than men like you with blind purposes—men who never question, who kill without a thought.”

  “You sniveling pile of shit,” Jonah said, showing gritted teeth, his single eye burning with hate. “I’m gonna stake you, right here, just like them. Stake you to your own fucking wall and let you die there.”

  “Is that the kind of man you are?”

  Jonah wavered. “I’m a man who won’t allow vampires to rule this world.”

  “You’re a man who has only known one thing all his life,” Rogan said. “You’re a man who killed his first vampire when he was twelve and he’s been crusading ever since. And you’ve been crusading with a thousand years of anger and vengeance and you don’t even know why!”

  “I know exactly why!”

  “You know what you were told to know! Your entire belief system is based on childhood commands given to you by forty generations of unquestioned tradition! You’re no different than a bigot raised to hate blacks, or a Republican to hate Democrats, or a rock and roller to hate country music. You’re a robot, Jonah, a mindless robot running programs and you don’t even know why!”

  Jonah’s face was dark and etched in steel. His lips curled back over his teeth. “I know why. Justice. I kill those who must be killed. I kill to bring justice to the human race.”

  “Gantu said something similar. Maybe you’re more alike than you realize.”

  Jonah shoved the crossbow harder into Rogan’s ribs, moved his finger onto the trigger. “Say good-bye, vampire lover,” he said, and began to squeeze.

  Rogan’s mind raced. There was no way out of this. No way—

  —unless there was.

  He looked into Jonah’s good eye with both his own, and the two locked gazes. He didn’t know exactly what to do, so he just did whatever felt right. In his mind, he evoked images of fire and electricity, of molten iron burning like a sun and thunderstorms laying waste to everything in their paths. He envisioned his Sabbatarian powers welling up within him like a massive hurricane, and in the same moment saw it compact rapidly into a monstrous cyclone of unbelievable ferocity. Then he envisioned launching that amazing force at Jonah.

  Peripherally, he saw Jonah freeze, finger nearly depressing the hair trigger of the crossbow. Jonah’s good eye widened.

  “What are you doing?” Jonah hissed.

  Rogan didn’t break concentration. He kept his gaze fixed, kept the invisible cyclone of power spinning out of him, engulfing Jonah. Jonah moved back half a step, and the crossbow went with him. He could sense Jonah’s finger trembling on the trigger, feel him trying to contract muscles and tendons to fire the bolt into Rogan’s chest.

  “Stop,” Jonah said. “Stop it!”

  Images flickered in Rogan’s mind’s eye. He saw a man filled with mindless hate imbued upon him in his youth. He saw vampires dying from stakes, garlic juice injections, the blazing sun. He saw holy symbols of every religion, over the decades, driving them back.

  “No,” Jonah whispered. “How can you do this … ?”

  Jonah moved back a step, then another, but it was under Rogan’s power. Rogan moved forward, raising his hands before him. He brought them down, slowly, and as he did, Jonah’s crossbow lowered until it pointed at the ground. Jonah grunted, straining, sweating like a cold pipe in a hot basement, but his attempt was nothing to Rogan. It was like an infant struggling against a circus strongman. There was no contest.

  “Fire,” Rogan said softly, and Jonah’s finger yarded on the trigger. The bolt launched into the stone floor of the foyer and bounced away, splintering into pieces. Jonah cursed.

  “Again,” Rogan commanded, and Jonah’s finger moved to the second trigger and released the other bolt to the same results.

  “You can’t … stop me!” Jonah howled. “You can’t! I must … do my duty!”

  “No more weapons,” Rogan said, and he flicked his left hand to the side. The crossbow flew from Jonah’s hands as if it had been yanked by an invisible rope. Jonah muttered another hopeless oath. Rogan brought his hands together, before him, and cupped them. Then he lifted them, envisioning the field of power gathering beneath Jonah, and the vampire hunter levitated off the floor.

  “Move beyond this hatred before you die this way,” Rogan said. “Don’t crusade against an enemy you don’t even know.”

  “You’re powerful indeed,” Jonah said, breathing heavily. “A Sabbatarian with power over other Sabbatarians—what a cruel joke the gods are playing!”

  “Leave them alone,” Rogan said. “It just isn’t worth the rest of your life, Jonah.”

  “I’ll never stop!” Jonah shouted. “I haven’t long to live in a godforsaken world crawling with those evil creatures, but I’ll hunt them until my dying breath!”

  “We’ll see,” Rogan said, and with a gentle influx of power, he willed Jonah out the door. The old man landed on the porch with a grunt. Rogan released him and broke the gaze.

  He tried to will the door to shut, but seemed to have no power over it. He reached out and calmly closed and locked it.

  He listened as Jonah returned to his car, screaming foul epithets al
ong the way. The engine roared to life, and Rogan listened as the car squealed off.

  He knew what he had to do.

  * * *

  They called them crotch rockets, because the power between your legs was a lot like that. He hadn’t ridden it in several years, beyond just around the block. He’d always told himself—and Delia, and anyone who’d listen—that he was getting too old for that sort of thing. It was always just an excuse for him to wallow deeper in his unfulfilled life.

  The bike was black and shined like volcanic glass. There was chrome in all the right places, including a custom-made front wheel featuring multiple lightning bolts. Delia had complained about his childish vanity, spending money on the custom wheel—and the bike itself, for that matter. Back then, he just liked how cool it all was. Now, straddling it felt as if he were preparing to ride into space on some personal launch vehicle.

  He wore his black leather jacket and matching pants. Chaps were for the laid-back bikers; pants were for style, speed, and cool. He closed the visor on his shining black helmet and adjusted his gloves. He felt powerful.

  He was powerful.

  He roared the bike to life and tore out of the garage, feeling the beginnings of his rebirth.

  * * *

  He envisioned both Jonah and Gantu in his vivid mind’s eye, and it worked as Jonah had described. It was as if he had psychic radar that tracked paranormal homing beacons, and it took him into the city. He didn’t know where he was going, but somehow he knew his subconscious did. He laid his faith in that lower mind and moved like the wind. He rode through traffic, snaking around vehicles with all the speed and daring of his youth—but all the care and control of his older years, and maybe with an injection of something else more supernatural.

  He headed straight for the east side, taking rights and lefts and shortcuts, guided by his intuition. Before he saw the abandoned factory, he knew he was headed there. It came into view along the edge of the waterfront, old and in need of exterior work but otherwise in decent shape. A massive old parking lot, long out of use, encircled it on all sides the water didn’t. The entire place was corralled with a rusted chain-link fence.