by Rei Fletcher
"Are you working tonight? I could come hang out."
"No, I'm not on tonight."
"Mom there? I could come over."
"No, I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"Just a thing."
"C'mon, Mare. What's going on?"
"Nothing, I told you."
He sighed. It was her cue to talk more. Instead, she was imagining swinging the little frying pan, hitting E— Him.
"I got a gig. I'm not sure if Charlene told you. It isn't much. Just a half an hour on stage at the fair. Last chance before I go away to university."
"That's great!" She tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. Since when was Bobby good enough to perform in public?
"My dad was talking to the guy in charge of the schedule."
There it was.
"Will you come watch?"
"Of course! It'll be awesome to see you up there."
"Cool. Maybe I can run my playlist by you."
"Sure. That'd be great. Hey, I gotta go."
She said goodbye too fast, and he seemed confused and maybe on his way to being pissed off. Her first thought shouldn't be that she didn't care, but it kinda was.
She waited for the sun to go down since that seemed to be the best time for the gate. If she waited until it was fully dark it would take most of the night, and even then there was the glow from the city.
She felt clumsy; a big lump of something she was afraid might be terror had settled in her chest. Her fingers fumbled with her bootlaces. No fucking up this time, or stumbling around tripping over the things; she tightened them up and felt better. Like suiting up for battle. Yeah. She shoved the small pan into her backpack and stepped out into the chilly night.
As soon as the weight of her backpack settled onto her shoulders she shrugged it down again. "Fuck you, you fuck. I can't even use my bag now."
The ridiculous burst of anger carried her to the driveway. There was no light waiting, not that she could see, and the trees were just trees. She hung out, watching the bars of light and shadow. Nothing happened, and the quality of them didn't change.
"Come on. Open wide."
Whatever they said about her opening gates, she couldn't quite figure out how she'd done it.
"I don't fucking think so."
She plunged between the trees, shouting his name.
"You want to come into my world? Lie to me? Try to use me like trash? Come on! Come on, then! You wanted to use me? Come and fucking get me."
Branches clawed at her face. She ducked and ran, leaping over roots that looped up suddenly in the gloom. The whole way she kept shouting his name. She was deep in the trees and far from any houses before she stopped, listening over the sound of her heart and her breathing. She waited, and waited, and was about to move on again when she heard it: a soft, crackling sound. She heard it once, and then again, and it had moved. Something was moving. A foul stench drifted in the otherwise clean forest air, making her stomach turn over. The lights didn't make sounds. She turned, pulling the pan out of her pack, holding it ready.
Come on, you fuck. Send one of your little asshole things.
Her eyes had adjusted enough so that she could see a hint of movement on a log.
"Are you scared? You shit. Come on!"
Whatever it was made a low, grunting sound, like a walrus, but the sound stretched out long and low. It made her hair stand on end. She picked up a rock and threw it. The thing bellowed and lunged toward her, one minute safely distant, the next right up in her face. She screamed and swung the pan. It wasn't a hard swing, but it shrieked and flopped away.
The smell made her gag. She covered her mouth, backing up a step or two. It lurched around, making its grunting sound. Little flecks, like embers along the edge of burning paper, flared on the side of its face. Or where its face should be; it didn't really have one. It had a mouth though, flaps of flesh, loose and rubbery, over a black hole, and a body a bit like a walrus, too. She thrust the pan at it, and it dodged under. The tail she thought was useless swiping at her legs with blurry speed, hard enough to make her stumble to her knees. She crawled quickly forward, feeling the thump against the ground as it landed where she'd been. When it grabbed her leg she kicked out, trying to shake it off.
It pulled her back. The pan fell out of her hand. She rolled over and kicked at its face with her free leg. It released its vicelike grip, flaps sucking back into its mouth, making it look like a toothless old man. She scrambled away, feeling around the mouldering forest floor for the pan.
It grunted. There was a tone like from when it'd decided to attack before. Her fingers caught the edge of the pan and she rolled over, swinging. The handle of the pan touched its chin and it squealed. Fire flared up. It lurched away, pawing at the burn with its lumpy front legs. She got to her feet, swinging the pan with all of her strength. It bounced off the rubbery hide. The thing scurried away. She ran after it, flipping the pan over and landing with all of her weight on it, feeling the flesh give way beneath the point of the handle.
It screamed and screamed, bucking her off. She rolled out of the way. Small trees cracked and broke as it charged blindly, trying to reach around to pull the pan out. An orange glow began to spread beneath its skin, followed by foul-smelling smoke pluming out of the spreading wound. She bent over just in time for the vomit to miss her clothes.
The screams became terrible, pain-filled whimpers. It was trying to crawl away, carving furrows in the dirt. She wiped her mouth and edged toward it, seeing the glow travelling under its skin, like veins. It turned its blind face up toward her. Without thinking she reached down, its sounds so pitiful that she wanted to offer some comfort. It snapped at her and she staggered back.
"Fuck you, then."
It stopped moving. The silence returned. She picked up a stick and poked at it. The leaves rustled when it shifted limply. She circled it cautiously. The pan still protruded from its back. She held her fingers over the metal, felt no heat, and touched it quickly, just in case. It was inert: a lump of iron meant for cooking eggs.
"That was a thing to see."
She swung around, ripping the pan free and holding it out, the slimy gore on the handle making her stomach turn again. Ash looked at it, and Marianne was sure that she wasn't imagining her amusement. She lifted her hands.
"Don't cook, I'm innocent."
After a minute she lowered it. "It wouldn't even hurt you, would it?"
"It's a pretty solid lump of iron, Marianne. That'll smart a bit, vampire or no."
She walked toward the corpse. Marianne saw how carefully she moved, even though smoke was still coming out of the hole in its hide. She kicked it a few times, then leaned down. Marianne heard a wet sound. When Ash stood up there was a knife in her hand, its blade marred with blood.
"Unless time is of the essence, always make a killing blow."
"It wasn't dead?"
"Best be sure. Never leave an enemy to come crawling along behind you."
She'd killed it. She looked at the pan.
"My mom is going to murder me. She spent ages fixing this up."
"Nothing a bit of a scrub won't fix."
"Really? But…"
"Vegetarian, are you?"
"No."
"Difference of context, not kind."
Marianne reminded herself that it was a vampire telling her this. On the other hand, she was in no position to replace the pan.
"It feels different. I guess it shouldn't."
"I told you that I'd hunt them."
"There are lots of them, right? You won't miss this one."
She saw a bone-white flash of a smile.
"That wasn't why you came here, was it, my girl? To kill one of these?"
Marianne shrugged. Ash's eyes were sharp.
"You couldn't have known it was here."
"How did you know to come here?" Marianne snapped.
"If you're going to hunt, you need a trail. They sometimes try to crawl home."
"Same here."
"Liar." Ash waved at the forest, a little vaguely. "You came for him."
"Maybe."
"With a pan."
"It worked on that."
Ash kicked it again, then looked into the trees.
"Right. Come along, then. We'll give that pan a bit of a clean."
Marianne grabbed her bag and followed, not caring that she looked like an obedient dog as long as Ash wasn't going to try and ditch her.
"What about the body?"
She pointed. The corpse was already melting away into the ground.
"They decay faster than beasts of this world."
"Does it have a name? A species?"
"An Unformed Beast."
"Oh."
Ash glanced back at her, amused. "Disappointed?"
"I thought they'd have a cool name."
"Uncharted territory, really. If you think of something, let me know. I'll send it along to hunter central."
"There's a—" She cut herself off.
"Sorry. Joke. No fancy secret society."
"Are there a lot of you?"
"Hunters or…?"
"Either. Both."
"Not so many hunters. Fewer of my kind. Being born isn't easy. You think twice, putting someone through it, and it doesn't always take."
She wondered if Ash had ever tried to make a new vampire, or if it was a story she'd been told. Or something she just knew from having gone through it.
"How old are you?"
"You aren't supposed to ask a lady's age."
"You look like you're only a couple years older than me," Marianne reasoned, "so if you're lots older than that, it's a compliment, right?"
"Ha! Fair enough. About two hundred, give or take."
"You were born in the…1770s?"
"About that. People weren't always diligent about tracking the march of years, back then."
She tamped down on a pile of questions. "He's older."
"He's been ghosting our world for far, far longer than I've been walking it."
Her car was parked down one of the many dead-end dirt roads branching off the highway, looking out of place under the trees. Despite everything—or because of it, maybe—Marianne smiled as soon as she saw it and touched the chrome lightly while she waited for the door to be unlocked.
Ash covered the passenger seat with a blanket from the trunk, looking at least a little apologetic.
From the outside, Ash just had a kind of nice log house, curtains drawn across its wide windows. She thought it would be rustic inside, like antlers and southwestern throw pillows. When Ash hit the lights the big main room brightened gradually, and the inside was nothing like the outside. It was pale, almost white wood, with black wood furniture and leather instead of the overstuffed couches she'd expected, and lots of glass. The ceiling was high enough that even Ash's soft words echoed. Her own voice sounded brassy and out-of-place. The only thing it had that seemed totally normal was a fireplace, wood set on the grate, ready to be lit.
"Make yourself at home." Ash disappeared into the kitchen. Marianne set her bag down by the door. Goo and mud were ground into her jeans, and the couch looked really expensive. She tried to brush the worst of it off, then used the tail of her plaid jacket to clean her hands a bit. The rustling sounds from the kitchen continued, so she made a little circuit of the room. It looked like a catalogue; there were no pictures or things. No collections clustered on surfaces. A Hudson's Bay blanket was tossed over the arm of a chair, and a blue cup abandoned on an end table, still with tea in it. A line of books stood on the mantle. No romances. Shakespeare, though, and some novels, old and new. A Star Trek book. A few books that looked like journals. She glanced at the kitchen, then took down a book of sonnets, flipping carefully through fragile, yellowing pages.
"Who are you reading?"
Marianne jumped. Ash's entrance had been utterly silent. She checked the spine. "Millay."
"'We rose from rapture but an hour ago.'"
"You must like poetry a lot, to memorise it."
"Hers in particular."
"We didn't study her. Just things like the kinds of sonnets. Lots of Shakespeare."
"Millay was famous enough in her day."
Marianne replaced the book, wincing when she sat down, thinking of stained leather.
Don't be stupid. It's fine. If it wasn't she would have brought the blanket in.
Like housetraining a dog. The thought made her smile.
"Drink?"
"I'm...yeah. Sounds good." Maybe Ash didn't know alcohol laws. If Marianne wanted to help she probably shouldn't remind her.
Ash set a bottle of whiskey on the table, and two shot glasses. Marianne decided to roll with it, and managed not to cough, spit up, or otherwise embarrass herself. Ash sat cross-legged in a chair, glass held just by her fingertips, watching her for some time. Marianne leaned back. Once you got over the taste, whiskey had a pleasant warmth. It spread out into her limbs. She stopped worrying about dirty leather and the general strangeness of things.
"Are you going to keep getting into trouble?"
"Probably."
"I'm no kind of teacher."
"Even a bad one is better than nothing."
"That's unfortunately not always true." Ash cocked her head slightly, thick brown braid sliding down over her shoulder. She was wearing a dark purple blouse and black jeans. The blouse was a little clingy, and cut low, exposing a fair amount of pale flesh. She suited her room, Marianne decided: classy and cool. "You could stay home. It would be safer."
"Yeah. I could."
"How likely are you to do what I tell you, when I tell you?"
Her heart thumped. "I'll try."
"You know what I am."
"Yeah."
"You believe what I am?"
Marianne rolled the shot glass between her fingers. "You, you know. The teeth...And you were really fast and strong. That's all vampire stuff."
"I might be mad."
"Crazy, you mean? I might be, too. I thought about it." She scratched at a splotch of gore on her jeans. It had dried into a murky grey, flecked with a crust that looked a bit like salt crystals. "It seems pretty real."
"Doesn't it just." Ash drained the glass with one elegant motion, shadows shifting on her throat. It looked like living marble.
"You can drink and eat and stuff?"
"A little. It isn't for sustenance. Just flavour."
"Do you have powers? Vampires in books have them. Like, mind control and transformation and stuff."
"Powers." Ash leaned forward slightly. Marianne blinked, the movement prodding at her memory.
"No," she said finally. Marianne's sense of deja vu slipped away. "Nothing very dramatic. A few tricks I've picked up. I'm fast, and strong, and hard to kill. I won't have a natural death."
"Holy water and crosses and stuff?"
"Shite."
"Stakes?"
"Not wooden ones."
"Garlic?"
"Love it."
"Guns?"
"Enough, maybe, all at once. Hard to say."
"Bombs?"
"Rather not try."
"Sunlight?"
"I sleep."
"Like the dead?"
Ash grinned. "A bit like, yes. I've never watched myself to see, though."
"What about mirrors? Do you have a reflection?"
"I wasn't born with this eyeliner."
Marianne peered at her. Her makeup was flawless. She dropped her gaze to the glass, and Ash leaned over to pour her another shot. The light caught in her sleek hair.
Protein diet?
She thought a minute.
Gross.
"Churches? Running water?"
"Harmless. You're well-versed in this."
"I like horror. Well, liked. I don't know, now." Marianne drank to buy time. The whiskey was easier to drink the second time. It occurred to her that if Ash slept during the day it meant she would be weak. She'd willingly given up the informati
on, too. Unless it was a lie, like the ones that guy had told her.
Ash hadn't asked anything of her, though. She'd tried to send her away, even.
"Thanks for answering."
"Best you trust me if we're going to work together."
Marianne sat up. Ash laughed.
"Eager puppy."
She brought out a heavy canvas duffel bag. It clunked onto the slab of black wood that served as the coffee table. Inside were weapons, mostly knives and things like that. Ash set them out one by one.
"Go ahead. Get a feel for them."
"They look old."
"Some are."
She picked up a knife. The blade and hilt together were about as long as her arm to the elbow. The sheath was a dull black, flecks of silver remaining from some faded decoration. On the front of the hilt on the crosswise bit was a character that looked like something that the D&D players at school wrote. There were some other symbols, too, and a cross on the end.
"I thought you said crosses didn't matter."
"People were superstitious. They didn't know what worked, so they tried everything. Now we know better. The tools are still good."
She didn't know what a knife meant for killing monsters should feel like, but she liked the solidness of it in her hand.
"Iron?"
"A good alloy."
"I guess I could have used a bread knife."
Ash laughed. "You did fine with a pan. You'll do better with these."
Marianne felt a little swell of pride. She tried out all of the weapons, but her eye kept going back to the one in the black sheath.
"We'll keep you away from projectiles for now. You can practise with all of these, but that's a good choice. It should serve you well."
Chapter 8
Ash told her she could take the knife home with her, as a kind of promise. Marianne didn't know which direction the promise was being made in, and it was probably both. Standing there in the bright light of Ash's sleek kitchen she didn't want to ask too many questions, afraid of shattering the strange dream she found herself in.
Ash was cleaning up the pan with as much care as her mom had. Blood was blood, she said, at least when it came to cooking implements.
"A good pot is worth its weight in gold. My ma had hers from her ma. Lots of things have changed in the world, but not good iron. Never turn away from a good tool."