Vampire Sire

by J. R. Rain

  When we were done slicing and dicing, and I was confident I’d done my best to clean up this mess—all the while wondering just how many of the evil bastards had escaped from the paintings and lived on in this world—I spotted a breath of fresh air in the kitchen.

  It was a painting in the window over the sink that was being used to cover a broken window. The painting was... unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Lovely, and beautiful, full of rich, bold colors, thick and heavy and confident brushstrokes. Clearly impressionistic, and obviously inspired by Van Gogh himself. Except this painting was... dreamlike and surreal, wild and imaginative. On second thought, it was not so different from Van Gogh’s own “Starry Night.” Except this scene played out across a wheat field. A purple wheat field, mind you. The sky was orange and dotted with red stars. Distant cows were pink... and not really cows, either. They were slimmer, smaller, hornier. Well, three horns. Something that might have been a farmhouse with a smoking chimney was off in the distance. Except this house was a solitary tower. Most prominent were the two figures in the field, walking together, hand-in-hand. One was older, taller, gaunt. One was smaller, younger. Both seemed lost in conversation... except, there wasn’t a lot of detail on the faces. One was clearly a woman, one was a man. Were they lovers? I didn’t know, but that wasn’t the impression I got.

  Friends, I thought.

  “You like the painting?” asked Garrett behind me.

  “I do. A lot.”

  “It came with the house. I found it in the attic.”

  “And you decided to cover a broken window with it?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly my style. A little too derivative, if you ask me. I gravitate towards originality.”

  With my back to him, he hadn’t seen me roll my eyes, but I did. “But you liked it enough to bring it down here.”

  “It’s not a bad painting. Lightens up the place.”

  I laughed at that, and so did he. After all, his delayed memory command hadn’t gone into effect just yet. “I’m sure your demon wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “Well, we rarely went into the kitchen. You might be surprised to learn that I had weighed close to four hundred pounds.”

  I spun, gasping. “Have you eaten these past few months?”

  He shrugged. “I remember going through every last bit of food in my house, but eventually, I ran out. I remember one morning eating my toothpaste.”

  “You need a bacon burger. Stat!”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “But first, the paintings,” I cautioned.

  He nodded. “Yes, the paintings, of course. I should burn them.”

  “What a good idea.”

  “Say, do you want this painting as a sort of thank you for, you know, plugging up whatever gateway to hell I’d opened?”

  He hadn’t opened a gateway to hell. He had created whole worlds. Or one whole world. One horrific, terrible world full of nightmare. Then again, what did I know? And the idea of owning this painting gripped me and wouldn’t let go. Yes, I had to have this painting. I just had to. No doubt about it.

  Wait, wasn’t that exactly what Garrett had thought when he had seen the hideous painting at the estate sale (which we had long since cut to smithereens). It was. But this was different. This painting wasn’t... evil. At least, I didn’t think it was.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. I could feel my heartbeat increasing, which said a lot.

  “Oh, yes—ha! You are fast.”

  I had, after all, already snatched it from its perch above the sink. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s not for everybody. Glad you liked it. And thank you again,” he said, “for all your help. I’m not sure what would have happened to me in here if you hadn’t come along.”

  “I suspect you might have started eating the furniture.”

  “Or my own arm. Sam, did those paintings come to life?”

  “They might have.”

  “How?”

  “It’s a long story, and you’re going to forget all about it.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, just like you are going to forget this conversation in a few seconds.”

  “I will? What are you talking—hey, thank you again for all your help...”

  “We covered that part already,” I said. I was about to leave with my new painting, which was just small enough for me to carry under my arm, so I did so, carefully. Suddenly, this painting was my new favorite thing. The thing was... Garrett was a creator. A powerful one, and I instructed him to contact me should any nefarious types want to use his skills again, and he understood, and permanently memorized my phone number with my help. Next, I told him to paint what was in his heart, to enjoy it, to love it, to live it, and he nodded.

  And so I left. One demon down.

  Except the devil was back.

  A different devil, whatever the hell that meant. Let’s just hope that this devil stayed away from Sam Moon... and her Devil Killer.

  At least I had my painting.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The library was popping.

  The business of education was alive and well at the campus of Cal State Fullerton, located in Fullerton, California, sandwiched between a busy freeway on one side and a busy boulevard on the other. Residential houses, doctors’ offices, and shopping centers crowded for space amid the dozens of fraternity and sorority houses. It was a lively place, even if the students seemed to be getting younger and younger. Or I was getting older and older, although you couldn’t tell. Allison tells me that I could pass for a twenty-five-year-old, but I doubted it, since I could still see myself with full makeup on, and I still looked thirtyish to me, no matter what. Thirty was a good age. Not too young, not too old. If the conspiring dark masters had done me any service, it was to turn me at the prime of my life, unlike my one-time father, Jeffcock, who’d been turned much later in life.

  So, there was a chance I might have actually fit in with the swarming crowds of students flooding in and out of the many entrances into the many building. I was surprised to see a new Starbucks in the library. Yes, a Starbucks inside a library. Like the old Jay Leno joke goes, “Someday, Starbucks will open a Starbucks inside a Starbucks.”

  I was tempted to order a breve latte on my way to see the Alchemist, but decided against it. Coffee and dangerous occult books didn’t seem to mix. Then again, a coffee cup sporting a cryptic two-tailed mermaid on the logo seemed to go hand-in-hand with a secret occult reading room.

  Okay, I talked myself into it.

  A few minutes later, with my iced breve latte in hand, I stepped inside the elevator and punched the button for the third floor.

  ***

  The door into the Occult Reading Room is obvious to my eyes; not so obvious to the eyes of others. In fact, it’s downright invisible.

  I was never sure how the Alchemist managed to pull off that trick, but I suspected it had to do with his own great telepathic abilities, rivaled only by my own daughter, and maybe the bitch inside me, too. Max, I suspected, could read the thoughts of any and all who sought the Occult Reading Room... or those he deemed worthy of finding it. He knew their intentions, and he and he alone decided who was given access. I suspected the door was always there, but a simple spell kept it hidden. When a person was deemed worthy, the spell, and its illusion, was removed temporarily for them.

  Call it a working theory.

  “And a very good theory at that,” said a voice from down the hallway, followed by the young-looking Alchemist himself. His hands were clasped behind his back. He wore gray slacks and a black shirt. “But consider how few actually know about the room.”

  “I knew about it.”

  “You were told about it.”

  He was right, of course. Fang had known about it. Then again, Fang knew about everything. Still, Fang hadn’t known exactly how to find the room, and, to my knowledge, still hadn’t set foot in it. Which didn’t much matter. I had seen Fang’s own occult library and it was c
onsiderable. Not quite as extensive as the Alchemist’s, but damn close to it.

  I found myself thinking back to my first introduction to the Occult Reading Room—and to the Alchemist, aka, the Librarian, himself. “A young man at the help desk told me about the Occult Reading Room,” I said. “He seemed confused at first, then told me where to find it—wait, no way! You were the young man?”

  “Not quite, Sam. But I did influence his mind and words, and gave him the information you needed.”

  “He was super flirty, if I recall.”

  “And so were you, Sam.”

  “Geez, you’re everywhere,” I said.

  “It may seem that way. But here, in the library, I’m where I need to be to give access to those who need it.”

  That seemed smart and clever, and more magical than I could wrap my brain around. Which lent itself to a question I had been thinking since reading my sire’s/father’s account. “What’s the difference between an alchemist and a witch?”

  “One, you’re born with, the other, you cultivate through years of practice. Decades of practice. Hell, I’m still practicing it.”

  I thought of my one-time father’s story. Although a vampire, he’d cultivated the basics of magic.

  “He cultivated the basics of alchemy, I would suggest,” said Max. “And he became quite good at it, I see. Sam, would you mind terribly if I reviewed the letter?”

  “I don’t have it with me.”

  He pointed to my head. “It’s all up there, Sam. Every word.”

  “But I don’t remember every word.”

  “Your subconscious does.”

  I shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Thank you, Sam.”

  I spent fifteen, twenty minutes perusing the row of dark and dangerous books, ignoring the pleading calls of the entities trapped within, many of whom called out to the entity within me. Lots of trapped souls around here. I knew now that Elizabeth had been the one-time owner of these books. Who and what entities were trapped within, I didn’t want to know. For her part, Elizabeth seemed disinterested in their plight, ignoring their pleas for help and escape, even while she herself remained quiet, deep within my own mind.

  “Finished, Sam.”

  “You do know you’re a big snoop, right?”

  “So says the woman who follows people for a living.”

  “Touché.”

  “How are you feeling, Sam?”

  “You know how I’m feeling.”

  “I can see the different moods flowing through you. But what mood have you settled on?”

  I thought about that, turning away from a small, thick book that, I was certain, was pulsating. Or throbbing. Or beating. Like a heart.

  “Beating is accurate, Sam. The book is called The Heart of Asmoor.”

  “Should I ask?”

  “A dark wizard—a rival, really—bound by my dear mother. All his arcane knowledge is contained in that single book.”

  “Along with his heart?” I said.

  “It is all that is left of him. Stored in a compartment at the back of the book.”

  “Of course it is,” I said. “Because Elizabeth is creepy like that.”

  “She is also clever like that, too. She systemically destroyed her enemies. Worse, she bound many of them forever.”

  “Any particular reason why?”

  “Because she planned on living forever.”

  “So far, she’s doing a pretty good job of it.”

  “She is and she isn’t. Trust me, Sam. You are one of the few who’ve stalled her plans.”

  “And who are the others?”

  “Well, she did lose a major war, Sam.”

  “Of which you were an integral part?”

  He nodded humbly, and I got the meaning.

  “Okay, you were a major part of it. You led the war.”

  “Yes, Sam. But that is neither here nor now. At present, we need to address the entity that has, seemingly, evaded all of us for many centuries. An entity that is still killing young witches and mages the world over.”

  “Mages?”

  “Warlocks, Sam.”

  “Like Harry Potter?”

  “If that helps.”

  “It does, thank you.”

  Of course, I happened to know, perhaps better than most and, undoubtedly—to the delight of millions, if not billions, of fans everywhere—that the world of Harry Potter was real, that J.K. Rowling was herself a creator. Now, if I could just find a portal into that world, much like I did into the World of Dur last year. Perhaps I should go look for Platform 9¾ at King’s Cross Station in London...

  Like, seriously.

  “You can’t be serious, Sam.”

  “Do you doubt that the world of Harry Potter is real?”

  “Not for a second.”

  “Then somewhere, there’s a portal into it.”

  “Sam—”

  “Or maybe she can just write me into the story.”

  “Sam—”

  “Of course, I could always influence her to write me into the story...”

  “Are you quite done, Sam?”

  “Can I just have this moment?” I asked. “I’m picturing myself now at Hogwarts. Maybe they need a new dark arts teacher. In fact, I’m damn certain they do. Well, they did at the end of every book, ever. Didn’t she publish a play or something?”

  “I haven’t the faintest...”

  “Never mind that. I can picture it now. Picture me now...”

  “I know you can. Oh, wow. My eyes.”

  I laughed.

  “Who’s Remus Lupin?” asked Max. “Oh, I see, he’s the werewolf.”

  “What can I say? I have a type.”

  “Can we move on?”

  “Wait... hold on. Score!”

  “Were you just playing...”

  “Yes,” I said. “Quidditch.”

  “Are we quite done here?”

  “Quite.”

  “And you won’t enchant J.K. Rowling to write you into the book?”

  I shrugged. “No promises. But I don’t think she’s writing any more books. Or...”

  “No, Sam. You will not influence her to write more books.”

  “Maybe just one more?”

  “Starring you?”

  “No, starring Harry Potter, silly. But we would save the day, together.”

  “I think we have more pressing matters, Sam.”

  I had one last fleeting image of me downing some butterbeer, then nodded. “The Red Rider,” I said.

  Max nodded. The color of his eyes sometimes varied, I imagined, due to some alchemy mystery. Today, his bright-blue eyes twinkled with something other than ambient light. There wasn’t necessarily a flame in those eyes, but there was something else, something I might have just caught for the first time.

  “My guardian angel, Sam. He’s watching you. Through me.”

  “How come I never noticed it—him—before?”

  “I suspect he’s never been this interested before. As it turns out, you—and your one-time father, Jeffcock—aren’t the only ones looking for the Red Rider.”

  “You’re telling me this creep eludes even angels?”

  “It appears so, Sam. As best as anyone knows, he has mastered the frequencies.”

  “Say again?”

  “He can traverse through dimensions, going higher than even the angels can, if need be.”

  “And these words make sense to you?”

  “Yes, and no. Rarely does darkness travel up through the frequencies. In fact, never. Much of the spirit world is taking an interest in this case.”

  “It’s not really a case... okay, maybe it is.” The truth is, my one-time father kinda sorta did hand this off to me. I mean, if he knew me at all, he had to know I would take it on...

  “Sam, there is more than one guardian angel with us here now. They’ve been assembling over the past few minutes.”

  “Um, ‘scuse me?”

  “There are dozens of such beings
here, with more still coming. Look again.”

  I did look again, giving it my best Clint Eastwood squint. There. Dozens of them, all circling us, and looking far bigger than any mere mortal... although still not quite as big as Kingsley. My eyes naturally see into the spirit world, and I can often see Ishmael, my own one-time guardian angel when others can’t see him. And not too long ago, I met two archangels and a few more warrior-angels. These angels weren’t fully manifested. Just hanging out, and shining their bright light for those who could see or cared to see.

  “Or know where to look,” added Max.

  “Sure, okay. Wow. We have an audience.”

  “Indeed, Sam. And according to my own guardian angel, they are offering you their full support.”

  “They do realize that I am, you know, the enemy?”

  “Only that which hides within you offers them pause for thought. They know you fought the devil himself and won. They also know you wield the Devil Killer, and have been knighted, so to speak, by the Angel of Darkness himself. They understand all of that and more. Mostly, they understand that you are good at what you do, and they are putting their faith in you.”

  “Just this morning I was doing laundry and wondering where I’d gone wrong with my son,” I said. I gave the good-looking alchemist a glimpse of my meaning. And by meaning, I meant skid marks.

  “Disturbing, Sam. But your point is not lost. They understand your situation. Maybe not the situation with your son and his briefs. But they understand your limitations and strengths. They also understand that you may not succeed. So far, no one has. Not even angels. In fact, your one-time father, I am being told, came the closest to this fiend, and it took him 500 years to catch mere glimpses of him.”

  “Exactly. 500 years. And I’ve only been at this vampire business for barely longer than a decade.”

  “Indeed, Sam, but one of the angels is stepping forward. He is telling me you have an edge.”

  “I like edges.”

  “He is saying that, in fact, you are one of the few who can claim to have been killed by the Red Rider.”

  “Yeah, so. There’s probably dozens, if not hundreds, of such people on the earth.”