by Paula Guran
As I shadow them from a distance, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something isn’t adding up. Although I seem to have found what I’ve come looking for, there’s something not quite right about it, but I’ll be damned (I know—I’m being redundant) if I can put my finger on it.
In my experience, vampires avoid Goths like a tanning salon. While their adolescent fascination with death and decadence might, at first, seem to make them ideal servitors, their extravagant fashion sense draws far too much attention. Plus, they’re huge drama-queens. Vampires prefer their servants far more nondescript and discrete. But perhaps this Lord Rhymer, whoever he may be, is of a more modern temperament than those I’ve encountered in the past.
I don’t know what to make of this trio who seem to be acting as Judas Goats, luring a fresh victim into their master’s orbit. Judging by their evident enthusiasm, perhaps they are more converts than servitors. They don’t seem to have the predator’s gleam in their eyes, nor is there anything resembling a killer’s caution in their walk or mannerisms. As they stroll down the darkened streets, their chatter is more like that of mischievous children out on a lark—such as TPing the superintendent’s front lawn or soaping the gym teacher’s windows. They certainly don’t seem aware of the extra shadow that attached itself to them the moment they left the Red Raven.
After a ten-minute walk they arrive at their destination—an abandoned church. Of course. It’s hardly Carfax Abbey, but I suppose it will do. It’s a two-story wooden structure boasting an old-fashioned spire, stabbing its symbolic finger in the direction of heaven.
The feeling of ill-ease rises in me again. Vampires dislike such obvious lairs. Hell, these aren’t the Middle Ages; they don’t have to hang out in ruined monasteries and family mausoleums anymore. No, contemporary bloodsuckers prefer to dwell within warehouse lofts or abandoned industrial complexes, even condos. I even tracked one to ground in an inner-city hospital that had been shut down during the Reagan administration. I suspect I’ll have to start investigating the various deactivated military bases scattered throughout the country at some point.
As I watch the little group troop inside the church, there is only one thing I know for certain—if I want to know what’s going down here, I better get inside. I circle around the building, keeping to the darkest shadows, my senses alert for signs of the usual sentinels that guard a vampire’s lair. I reach out with my mind as I climb up the side of the church, trying to pick up the tell-tale dead-air of shielded minds that signifies the presence of renfields, but all I pick up is the excited heat of the foursome from the Red Raven and a slightly more complex signal from deeper inside the church. Curiouser and curiouser.
Turns out the church spire doesn’t house a bell—just a rusting Korean War-era public address system dangling from frayed wires. There is barely enough room for a man to stand, much less ring a bell, but at least the trapdoor isn’t locked. It opens with a tight squeal of disused hinges, but nothing stirs in the shadows below me. Within seconds I have the best seat in the house, crouched in the rafters spanning the nave.
The interior of the church looks appropriately atmospheric. What pews remain are in disarray, the hymnals tumbled from their racks and spilled across the floor. Saints, apostles, and prophets stare down from the windows, gesturing with upraised shepherd’s crooks or hands bent into the sign of benediction. I lift my own mirrored gaze to the mullion window located behind the pulpit. It depicts a snowy lamb kneeling on a field of green against a cloudless sky, in which a shining disc is suspended. The large brass cross just below the sheep-window has been inverted, in keeping with the ever-popular desecration motif.
The only light is provided by a pair of heavy cathedral-style candelabras, each bristling with over a hundred dripping red and black candles, which flank either side of the pulpit. The Goth kids from the Red Raven gather at the chancel rail, their faces turned towards the black-velvet draped altar.
“Where is he?” Shawna whispers, her voice surprisingly loud in the empty church.
“Don’t worry,” Tanith assures her. “He’ll be here.”
As if on cue, there is a smell of brimstone and a gout of purplish smoke rises from behind the pulpit. Shawna gives a little squeal of surprise and takes an involuntary step backward, only to find her way blocked by the others.
A deep, cultured masculine voice booms forth. “Good evening, my children! I bid you welcome to my abode, and that you enter gladly and of your own free will.”
The smoke clears, revealing a tall man dressed in tight-fitting black satin pants, a black silk poet’s shirt, black leather riding boots, and a long black opera cape with a red silk lining. His hair is long and dark, pulled into a loose ponytail by a satin ribbon the color of blood. His skin is as white as milk in a saucer, and his eyes reflect redly in the dim candlelight, like those of a cat. It would seem that Lord Rhymer has finally elected to make his appearance known.
Serge smiles nervously at his demon-lord and steps forward, gesturing to Shawna. “W-we did as you asked, Master. We brought you the girl.”
Lord Rhymer smiles slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the new girl.
“Ah, yesss. The one called Shawna.”
As for Shawna, she stood gaping up at Lord Rhymer as if he was Jim Morrison, Robert Smith, and Danzig all rolled into one. She starts, gasping more in surprise than fright, as the vampire addresses her directly.
“You come before me of your own free will, do you not?”
“Y-yes.” Her voice is so tiny it makes her sound like a little girl. But there is nothing child-like in the lust dancing in her eyes.
Lord Rhymer holds out a pale hand to the trembling young woman. His fingernails are long and pointed and lacquered black. He smiles reassuringly, his voice calm and strong, designed to sway those of weaker nature. “Step forward, Shawna. Come to me, so that I might kiss you.”
A touch of apprehension crosses the girl’s face. She hesitates, glancing at the others, who close in behind her even tighter than before. “I—I—don’t know—”
Lord Rhymer narrows his blood-red eyes, intensifying his stare. His voice grows sterner, revealing its cold edge. “Come to me, Shawna.”
All the tension in her seems to drain away and the Goth chick’s eyes grow even more vacant than before, if possible. She moves forward, slowly mounting the stairs to the pulpit, as Rhymer holds his arms out to greet her.
“That’s it, my dear. Come closer … Just as you have dreamed you would, so many, many times before …” He steps forward to meet her, the cape outstretched between his arms like the wings of a giant bat. His smile widens and his mouth opens, exposing pearly white fangs dripping saliva. “Come be my bride …” he murmurs in a voice made husky by lust.
Shawna grimaces in pain/pleasure as the fangs penetrate her throat. Even from my shadowy perch above it all I can smell the sharp tang of blood. I feel a dark stirring at the base of my brain, which I quickly push aside. I don’t need that kind of trouble—not now. Still, I find it hard to look away from the tableau below me. Rhymer holds Shawna tight against him. She whimpers as if on the verge of orgasm. The blood rolling down her throat and dripping into the pale swell of her cleavage is as dark and slick as spilled molasses.
He draws back, smiling smugly as he wipes the blood off his chin. “It is done. You are now bound to me by the strength of my immortal will.”
Shawna’s eyelids flutter and she seems to have a little trouble focusing. She touches her bloodied neck and stares at her red-stained finger for a long moment. She steps back, a dazed, post-orgasmic look on her face. She staggers slightly as she moves to rejoin the others, one hand still clamped over her bruised and bleeding throat. Tanith and Sable eagerly step forward to help their new sister, their hands quickly disappearing up her skirt as they steady her, cooing encouragement in soothing voices.
“Welcome to the family, Shawna,” Sable whispers, kissing first her cheek before moving on to tongue her earlobe.
“You’re one of us, now and forever,” Tanith purrs, giving Shawna a probing kiss while scooping her breasts free of their blouse.
Sable presses even closer, licking at the blood smearing Shawna’s neck. Serge stands off to one side, nervously chewing a thumbnail and occasionally brushing his forelock out of his face. Every few seconds his eyes flicker from the girls to Lord Rhymer, who stands in the pulpit, smiling and nodding his approval. After a few more moments of groping and gasping, the three women begin undressing one another in earnest, their moans soon mixing with nervous giggles. Black leather and lace drop away, revealing black fish-net stockings and garter belts and crotchless underwear. At the sight of Shawna’s pubes—mousy brown, despite her fluorescent red locks—Serge’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He looks to Rhymer, who nods and gestures languidly with one taloned hand.
Serge fumbles with his ornate silver belt buckle, which hits the wooden floor with a solid clunk! I lift an eyebrow in surprise. While the boy may be thin to the point of emaciation, he is hung like a stallion. Sable mutters something into Serge’s ear that makes him laugh just before he plants his lips against her own blood-smeared mouth. Tanith, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips pulled into a lascivious grin, reaches around from behind to stroke him to full erection. Serge breaks free and turns to lift Shawna in his arms, carrying her to the black-draped altar, the other girls trailing after him. There is much biting and raking of exposed flesh with fingernails. Soon they are a mass of writhing naked flesh, giggling and moaning and grunting as the slap of skin against skin fills the silent church. And overseeing it all from his place of power is Lord Rhymer, his crimson eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he watches his followers cavort before him.
To his credit, Serge proves tireless, energetically rutting with all three girls in various combinations for hours on end. It’s not until the stained glass windows of the church begin to lighten that it finally comes to an end. The moment Lord Rhymer notices the approaching dawn the smile disappears from his face.
“ENOUGH!” he thunders, causing the others to halt in mid-fuck. “The sun will soon be upon me! It is time for you to leave, my children!”
The Goths pull themselves off and out of each other without a word of complaint and begin to struggle back into their clothes. Once they’re dressed they waste no time hurrying off, taking pains to not look one another in the eye. It is all I can do to suppress a groan of relief as the last of the blood cultists lurch out of the building. I thought those losers were never going to leave!
I check my own watch against the shadows sliding across the floor below me. Now would be a good time to pay a social call on their so-called “Master.” I hope he’s in the mood for a little chat before beddy-bye.
Lord Rhymer yawns as he makes his way down the basement stairs. What with the candelabra he’s holding and the flowing opera cloak, I’m reminded of Lugosi’s Dracula. But Bela Lugosi is dead.
The basement runs the length of the building and has a poured concrete floor. Stacks of old hymnals, folding chairs, and moldering choir robes have been pushed into the corners. A rosewood casket with a maroon velvet lining rests atop a pair of saw-horses in the middle of the room, and an old-fashioned steamer trunk stands nearby.
I watch the vampire set the candelabra down and, still yawning, unhook his cape and carefully drape it atop the trunk. If he senses my presence, here in the shadows, he gives no sign of it.
Smiling crookedly, I deliberately scrape my boot heel against the concrete floor. My smile becomes a grin as he spins around, his eyes bugging with alarm.
“What—? Who’s there?”
He blinks, surprised to see me standing to one side of the open casket balanced atop the sawhorse. I had caught the tell-tale smell when I first entered the basement, but a quick glance inside confirms what I already knew: the coffin is lined with earth. I reach inside and lift a handful of dirt, allowing it to spill between my splayed fingers. I look up and meet Rhymer’s scarlet gaze.
“Okay, buddy, what the hell are you trying to pull here?”
Rhymer squares his shoulders and pulls himself up to his full height, hissing and exposing his fangs, hooking his fingers into talons. His red eyes glint in the dim light like those of a cornered animal.
I am not impressed.
“Can the Christopher Lee act, asshole! I’m not some Goth chick tripping her brains out!” I kick the saw horses out from under the casket, sending it tumbling to the floor, spilling its layer of soil. Lord Rhymer gasps, his eyes darting from the ruined coffin to me and back again. “Only humans think vampires need to sleep on a layer of their home soil,” I snarl.
He tries to regain the momentum by pointing a trembling finger at me, doing his best to sound menacing. “You have defiled the resting place of Rhymer, Lord of the Undead! And for that, woman, you will pay with your life!”
“Oh yeah?” I sneer. “Buddy, I knew Dracula—and, believe me, you ain’t him!”
One moment I’m halfway across the room, the next I’m standing over him, his blood dripping from my knuckles as he lies on the basement floor, wiping at his gushing mouth and nose. A set of dentures, complete with fangs, lies on the floor beside him. I nudge the upper plate with the toe of my boot, shaking my head in disgust.
“Just what I thought: falsies! And the eyes are contact lenses, right? I bet the nails are shaped acrylics, too …”
Rhymer tries to scuttle away from me like a crab, but he’s much too slow. I grab him by the ruff of his poet’s shirt, pulling him to his feet with one quick motion that causes him to yelp like a whipped dog.
“What the fuck are you playing at here?” I snap. “What kind of scam are you running on those Goth kids?”
Rhymer opens his mouth and although his lips are moving there’s no sound coming out. At first I think he’s so scared he’s not able to speak—then I realize he’s a serious stutterer when he’s not a vampire. “I’m n-not a c-con man, if that’s what y-you’re thinking. I’m n-not doing it for m-money!”
“If it’s not for cash—then why bother?” Not that I didn’t know his motivation from the moment I first laid eyes on him. But I want to hear it from his own lips before I make my decision.
“All m-my life I’ve b-been an outsider. N-no one ever p-paid any attention to m-me. N-not even m-my own p-parents. N-no one ever t-took me seriously. I was a j-joke and everyone k-knew it. The only p-place where I could escape from b-being m-me was at the movies. I really admired the v-vampires in the m-movies. They were d-different, too. But n-no one m-made fun of them or ignored them. They were p-powerful and p-people were afraid of them. They c-could m-make w-women do wh-whatever they w-wanted.
“Wh-when my p-parents died, they left m-me a lot of m-money. So m-much I’d n-never have to w-work again. An hour after their fu-funeral I w-went to a dentist and had all m-my upper teeth removed and the d-dentures m-made.
“I always w-wanted to be a v-vampire—and now c-could to live m-my d-dreams. So I b-bought this old church and s-started hanging out at the R-red Raven, looking for the right type of g-girls.
“T-Tanith was the first. Th-then came S-sable. The rest w-was easy. They w-wanted m-me to b-be real so b-badly, I didn’t even have to p-pretend that m-much. B-but then it started to g-get out of hand. They w-wanted m-me t-to—you know—p-put my t-thing in them. So I f-found S-serge. I like to w-watch.” Rhymer fixed one of his rapidly blackening eyes on me. His fear was beginning to give way to curiosity. “B-but wh-what difference is any of this to y-you? Are y-you related to one of the g-girls? S-serge’s ex-g-girlfriend?”
I can’t help but laugh as I let go of him. He flinches at the sound of my laughter as if it was a physical blow. “I knew there was something fishy going on when I spotted the belt buckle on your Goth stud. No dead boy would allow that chunk of silver within a half-mile of his person. And all that hocus-pocus with the smoke and the Black Sabbath folderol? It’s a rank amateur’s impression of what vampires and vampirism is all about, cobbled toget
her from Hammer films and Anton Levy paperbacks! You really are a pathetic little twisted piece of crap, Rhymer—or whatever the hell your real name is! You surround yourself with the icons of darkness and play at damnation—but you don’t even recognize the real thing when it steps forward and bloodies your fuckin’ nose!”
Rhymer’s eyes suddenly widen and he gasps aloud, like a man who has walked into a room and seen someone he has believed long dead reading the newspaper. Clearly overcome, he drops to his knees, his blood-stained lips quivering uncontrollably.
“You’re real!”
“Get up,” I growl, flashing a glimpse of fang.
But instead of inspiring fear, all this does is cause him to cry out even louder than before. He is now actually groveling, pawing at my boots as he blubbers. “At last! I k-knew if I w-waited long enough, one of y-you w-would finally come!”
“I said get up, you little toadeater!” I kick him away, but it does no good. He crawls back on his belly, as fast as a lizard on a hot rock. I was afraid something like this would happen.
“I’ll d-do anything you w-want—give you anything you d-desire!” He grabs the cuffs of my jeans, tugging insistently. “B-bite me! Drink my b-blood! Pleeease! M-make me like you!”
As I look down at this wretched human who has lived a life so stunted, his one driving passion is to become a walking dead man, my memory slides back across the years, to the night a foolish young girl, made giddy by the excitement that comes with the pursuit of forbidden pleasure and made stupid by the romance of danger, allowed herself to be lured away from the safety of the herd. I remember how she found herself alone with a blood-eyed monster that hid behind the face of a handsome, smooth-talking stranger. I remember how her nude, blood-smeared body was hurled from the speeding car and tossed in the gutter and left for dead. I remember how she was far from dead and yet not living. I remember how she was me.
I am trembling as if in the grips of a high fever. My disgust has given way to anger, something I’ve never been very good at controlling. Part of me—a dark, dangerous part—has no desire to ever learn. I try hard to keep a grip on myself, but it’s not easy. In the past when I’ve been overwhelmed, I’ve tried to make sure I only vent my rage on those I consider worthy of attention, such as vampires. Real ones, that is. Ones like myself. But sometimes…