

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or undead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Ian Hall and April L. Miller. Hallanish Publishing, thru Smashwords Inc.

Published by Hallanish Publishing at Smashwords Inc.

ISBN; 9781310597855

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Vampired Don't Cry: Blood Samples

By Ian Hall and April L. Miller

Other vampire titles, available in paperback and eBooks everywhere...

Vampires Don't Cry series...

Vampires Don't Cry: Original Sins

Vampires Don't Cry: Blood Anthology

Vampire High School (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 1)

The Helsing Diaries (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 2)

The Rage Wars (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 3)

Blood Red Roses (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 4)

Connecticut Vampire series...

A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court

A Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary's Court

And sign up here for our newsletter;

 http://vampiresdontcry.blogspot.com/p/mcembedsignupbackgroundfff-clearleft.html

Blood Samples is a sampler of the vampire worlds of Ian Hall and April L. Miller.

Contents;

Vampires Don't Cry: Original Sins

(Five chapter Sample)

Vampires Don't Cry: The Turning of Alan Rand

(Complete short)

Vampires Don't Cry: First Blood: Donny Kelp

(Complete short)

Vampire High School (Vampires Don't Cry Book 1)

(First four chapters)

A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court

(First four chapters)

We hope you enjoy the sample, and continue to follow our writings.

An Excerpt from;

Vampires Don't Cry: Original Sin

By Ian Hall & April L. Miller

Distant Childhood Memories

When I look back on my early days, I see them through a red veil of rage. It seemed the one emotion; the singular driving force that both encompassed and propelled me through that time.

I can only dimly recall my father's face, weather-worn, drawn and pale. I could not comprehend then his great, fierce love for me. To my childish understanding he held the warden's keys, holding me against my will. No amount of affection could have tamed the torment within.

Those distant years of the 1860's come back to me in dreams. As soft as a butterfly's wing, father brushes the hair from my moist, angry brow. "Valérie," he says, "Be still, child." Gingerly he pries the dead bird from my clutches, its crimson blood still coating my lips. I am scraped and bruised, the smell of my own blood increasing the never satisfied hunger. Father, holding my arms by my sides, lifts me by the waist, tears in his blood-shot eyes. I kick and scream as I'm carried from the garden, my one sanctuary through the madness of those hazy, turbulent times.

He is always so tired; Father can scarcely bear the burden of my small frame. Like miniature daggers, my tiny nails dig into his soft skin and peel four concentric lines down the side of his neck. The wounds are deep but not fatal; but to my child's mind, they still serve their purpose. Out of shock and terror, Father loses his grip and I go tumbling onto the plush grass as he drops to his knees beside me. I am free to run but I'm held in place by the promise of a fresh meal. Instead I lunge. The first trickle hardly coats my tongue and yet it is enough; the frenzy engulfs me.

It takes two servants to pull me from Father's bleeding throat. They drag me to the dark room and secure me to the wooden post. Alone with the rage, I bellow into the cavernous space. I pull against the chains and bite the shackles at my wrists. And then I smell it- the coiled skin beneath my filthy nails. I chew at them until even the flesh of my own fingers hangs in shreds.

In this dream, I am looking down on myself from above. I know that it is me and that I am four. I'm wearing a blue silk dress with white lace at the collar and sleeves, a yellow bow and ribbon in my long, blond hair. Meant to be a lady, bred to good standing and high society, yet, beneath the fine garments beats the heart of a savage.

The slideshow of red-tinted images brings me forward. Below me, nearly nine years old, the young girl is now sheathed in a dirty cotton nightdress, hair matted. A Roman-Catholic deacon presses an ivory rosary to her forehead, christens her with sprinkles of blessed water and prays mightily that God will exorcise the demon from within. Again, I am chained at the wrists, my knees purple from the hard stone I'm forced to kneel on. Three nuns hover behind the priest, crossing themselves for protection. I am laughing.

I will never know if these are true memories or a collage of moments my mind has pasted together. I only hoped the truth of my youngest existence had yet to be revealed, that this nightmare of moments had been torn from my imagination. It seems that time passed again, and there came a day that believers had stopped praying and I had been sent away to be forgotten.

My childhood in Italy should have been a time of play, a period of laughter and freedom. Instead it held nothing but restriction, my body bound in thick starched canvas, short leather and brass buckles fastened tight. Twice a day they prised my mouth open using a metal contraption, and a rubber tube passed between my straining teeth, down into my throat. Then cold liquid trickled down from a funnel held high above my head. Twice a day I struggled against its intrusion, twice each day I eventually relented, tired and weak from the fight.

Throughout this time I never spoke. I initially found the words difficult to copy, so kept them to myself. But I listened. I memorized every word, every nuance. For years I kept the secret in my head, my source of solace through the long cold nights.

Days after my tenth birthday, I left home for the last time. I remember father's sad tear-filled eyes. He stood on the wide stone staircase as I got carried from the tall walls of my home. He waved to my struggling form, but I could not return the gesture, my body again encased in the stiff, unforgiving canvas device. The carriage ride swiftly took me from the streets of Venice into the countryside.

Through the small barred window, long lines of grapevines punctuated my journey to a small, secluded building. My new room held little light, only two high windows showed the sky of the outside world. The floor, walls, and door padded in thick studded wadding. Two long glass panes sat high on the inside wall, but the dark glass never revealed the watchers that lurked beyond.

I spent my time running between the walls, propelling myself from one side to the other. I lived that way for a very long time.

Men watched from high above, their faces fleeting, their expressions somber and full of malice.

I don't remember when, but at one point my days must have taken on a different routine. Each day, two strong men held me to the floor, and a man in a white jacket stuck a long needle in my arm; a painful injection that made me sleep far more deeply than before. When I woke, and lay still groggy from my slumber, the same men force-fed me and changed my diaper. This went on so long, I almost forgot my previous regime. I have no idea how many days the dark shapes of the observers watched from above, but on one morning, it all changed.

In time my muscles atrophied, the slack skin feeling strange as I lay, continually bound.

Strapped in my canvas contraption, the two men carried me to a small, bright room, where they laid me carefully on the floor. A window looked out onto brightly colored green sycamore leaves. I lay on the floor, smiling at their young beauty, and did not see or hear the man enter the room.

"You can go outside, Valérie," he said, his words suddenly spinning my head in his direction. "If you're a good girl."

He stood tall and thin, with closely cropped brown hair and beard. He exuded calmness from every pore of his body, and for some reason I found myself listening to his monotone. He walked past me to the window and looked outside. "The summer here is very pretty. There are gardens and flowers, hedges, and so many birds." He turned to me, returning my stare. "You could go outside. Are you going to be a good girl?"

For some reason I nodded. I had the notion I would pretend to be good, just long enough to get the buckles removed, then I would smash his face in.

But then he shook his head.

"You be a good girl first, then you get outside. You never struggle, you never try to bite us, you take your food without incident. Then you get outside."

I shook my head on anger and roared my protest past the mouthpiece in my canvas suit.

"Never!"

Argh. I had let the cat out of the bag, he knew I could talk.

He grinned as he walked through the door into the dark corridor beyond, and the two strong men carried me back to my dark, padded room.

Each morning, they forced the tube down my throat. Each morning, I got taken to the room with the window. Each evening I rebelled.

Soon the leaves began to change color; subtly dimming from bright green to a paler, subdued yellow. As I lay on the tiled floor, I realized how much I wanted to see the garden.

That night, I did not struggle as they injected me. Instead I lay still on the floor, looking into their eyes. For four days I exhibited no revolt against my captors.

The next morning, I woke not encased in my suit. I sat up, and flexed my arms and legs. When the men entered, they carried no tube or funnel. Instead they offered me a small paper cup, which I gingerly accepted. I drank the fluid from the cup, returning it carefully to the man's hand.

I sat back and watched them leave. I had been a 'good girl', I now awaited my reward.

Next morning, the white coated men led me by the hand along the corridors to the tiled room. The floors felt good on my bare feet, although my leg muscles protested slightly. Arriving at the room, I walked to the window, and looked out onto the garden below.

"Good morning, Valérie." The thin man said. "My name is Dr. Fabrini; you may call me Alvise."

He came to my shoulder, but never touched me, pretending to enjoy the luscious view along with me. It seemed to be his gesture of trust, knowing full well the likelihood of my turning to attack. For the first time in my short life, mind overruled instinct; the small chance that I might feel nature beneath my feet offered an incentive a father's approving voice never could.

"This view never fails to impress me," he said whimsically, "I have worked at many asylums over the years, Valérie, and none offered such amenities. Most facilities I've seen could pass more for dungeons than a hospital; cave-like walls, dirty and crawling with infestation. You could never dream the horrors endured by the patients in those places, Valérie; they are treated less than animals and their keepers are cruel beyond reason."

"Being strapped to a bed, force-fed through a tube doesn't qualify as cruelty beyond reason by your definition, Dr. Fabrini?" I clutched the window frame to contain myself, but could not disguise the venom in my voice.

"Alvise, please," He forced a grin. "In the facilities I speak of, Valérie, the treatment you have endured here is reserved for only the most well-behaved patients. You would not want to know what becomes of the... less cooperative... inmates."

Only then did I realize the doctor had successfully baited me into a dialog. I kept my eyes forward, unwilling to grant him any further victory.

He continued without my input, "You have your father to thank for your luxury accommodations, Valérie. Mr. Lidowitz has invested much of his wealth sending you here and insuring no harm befalls you. His devotion is something quite spectacular and quite rare, my dear."

"You've spoken to my father?" I bit my lip, punishing them for allowing the hasty words to pass.

"Oh yes. He personally commissioned my fellowship here, relocating my entire family from Sicily out of his own funds."

I looked up into his eyes. "Does my father ever visit me?"

Dr. Fabrini smiled. "He watches you sometimes, and wonders."

I turned to the garden, and pretended to take in its details, but I felt consumed by a longing to see father once again. He still cared for me.

At last I broke my gaze from the beautiful landscape and took in the full measure of Dr. Fabrini. He looked a young man, yet had the finest brush of gray at the temples. I'd never seen eyes so clear, blue as crystal water. Great patience lay behind them; and curiosity besides.

"Why would my father have done such a thing?"

"Your father loves you." Dr. Fabrini tried to appear humble, "I have a good deal of documented success in matters of healing the mind, Valérie. Your father is a tenacious man; he did his research. And now here I am."

"My mind is not sick." I sneered.

He continued as if I'd not spoken, "Most physicians in my field tend to focus on punishment for poor behavior. I believe in reward when appropriate behavior is exhibited."

The doctor cupped his hand around my wrist. Immediately, I knew I could break his hand to splinters, crush the bone to powder if I so chose. But, I tucked the knowledge away for another day and allowed him his show of dominance.

"You have earned your first reward."

Through a long, white labyrinth of halls, he led me to a heavy pair of thick, oak doors. For the first time since being dragged in through those doors they were opened to me and I felt a rush of brisk, clean air in my face. Were it not for Dr. Fabrini's persistent hold upon me, I would have run out into the open fields and put the asylum at my back forever. Instead, I walked out like a mutt on a tether, knowing my frail muscles would take little catching.

My bare feet sunk into the sharp blades and I felt a thrill run up my toes and through my body. The air felt moist with the promise of a coming downpour. Above, clouds were gathering and I remembered quite suddenly the sensation of bathing in the fresh rain.

I remembered Father holding my arm- much the way Dr. Fabrini held me now- as I struggled to leave the dry awning of the porch and rush out into the storm. At last I managed to wriggle free, leaping from the stone steps and into the driving rain. Arms open and face up to the heavens, I spun and rejoiced gloriously. Laughing, Father ran to me, flung me into the air and twirled me about. There we danced together even as the clouds thundered above. For the first time in all my years away, I knew a longing to be held in the arms of someone who loved me and shame for my inability to love in return.

Dr. Fabrini tugged at me as the first sprays of droplets coated my face. I wanted nothing more than to stay and dance beneath the purging clouds but I knew my only chance at feeling the grass on my feet again would be to go quietly.

Slowly, I bent and plucked a single blade from the ground. I clutched it in my palm like a treasure and Dr. Fabrini graciously allowed me my prize.

Doctor Fabrini

Such became our custom over the following stretch of days. Each time I behaved, I was allowed a little further outside and for incrementally longer spans, but always with Dr. Fabrini at my wrist. All together I collected eighteen blades of grass.

On the nineteenth such excursion, Dr. Fabrini walked me to a thicket of vegetation that hid an arched footbridge over a narrow creek. For the first time ever, he let go my wrist and motioned for me to cross of my own volition. I could have jumped the creek in a single bound, but still I walked the wooden bridge, pausing to glance over the side at the still and shallow bed.

"Just there," he said, pointing to a lattice-encased gazebo on the other side.

I followed the direction of his finger and entered the obscene structure. A half-circle of benches pushed up against the round walls. Dr. Fabrini sunk onto one as if immersing in a tub of tepid water. He motioned for me to sit upon the opposite bench and I did, the crisscrossing lattice obscuring my view of the nature around.

"Isn't it marvelous," he said with a deep sigh.

"It feels like a cage," I replied obstinately.

Dr. Fabrini smiled sagely, "You have an innate distaste for anything man-made, Valérie."

"It's a cage!" I said again.

"It's a place to sit and enjoy the surroundings."

"I can sit on the grass and not have to squint my eyes to see my surroundings through pieces of wood, or get splinters in my feet from these chopped up boards."

"Shoes might be helpful to you in that department," he shrugged, glancing down at my dirty feet.

"Shoes keep me from feeling the grass."

"I see we will never agree on this subject," he told me resolutely, "but I am quite happy to sit on this bench and enjoy the scenery from here."

"Grown-ups are always happiest when they're sitting." I accused. "A bunch of lazy, useless beings that do nothing but get in the way."

That seemed to perk the lounging doctor's interest, "Get in the way of what, Valérie?"

My tongue fell suddenly mute though every nerve in my body seemed to recall the persistent hassling of maids as they brushed and dressed me, scrubbing at my face and pulling at my hair. Forever working to tame the unruly little girl that wanted only to run and climb in the open air.

"Society is a rigid place, filled with rules of conduct," Dr. Fabrini said as if reading my thoughts, "Those rules can be overbearing and, for some, overwhelming, Valérie. Yet, to co-exist peacefully with our fellow humans, we each must learn to follow them."

The doctor looked me over as if deciphering some hidden code. At that moment I hated him for his self-proclaimed insight and knew for the first time since our meeting that Alvise Fabrini stood in mortal danger of getting too close.

Getting no response from me, Dr. Fabrini continued to push.

"Have you been told the story of your birth, Valérie?"

I threaded my fingers through an opening in the lattice, restraining the desire to break through it and tear down the walls that separated me from outside.

"Or... should I say- the story of your mother's death?"

I could not help it. The thin pieces of wood disintegrated in my hands, the latticework shredding as I stood, my hands ripping through the screen, tearing it asunder. My eyes only saw red. I remember panting and trying to catch my breath, the world suddenly spinning around me.

My mother had died giving birth to me.

From the depths of my soul I began to scream. I did not even notice the approach of the muscled orderlies. So intent on my rage, I did not register the first hands on my limbs. Only when their strong grip began forcing me inside the stiff, starched, canvas uniform, did I step back from my fury. But by then it was far too late.

I had killed my mother by sliding from her womb. A murderer at birth.

In a moment of stillness, as they pulled the buckles tight, I glimpsed Dr. Fabrini's slight figure walking across the lawn towards the house. I tried to call his name, but the opening of my mouth proved the opportunity they needed to gag me, forcing the metal bit between my jaws, knocking me silent.

A movement at one of the windows caught my attention. I froze, letting them continue to bind me, gazing upon the man in the tall window. The figure looked different from my last image of him, but with a smile and a tear I looked once more upon my father's distant face.

Bound in canvas, my struggles were useless, so I conserved my energy, letting them carry me into my room. I lay still on the floor for hours, then the men came again with the needle, and I fell asleep despite my efforts to resist.

With my rage diminished, I counted the days of my punishment.

One, I determined in future to curb my temper.

Two, I debated at length the trigger of my rage; the mention of my mother.

Three, I lay on my side, weeping for my mother's life, so cruelly torn from her by my arrival.

Four, I tried to rid myself of the name, "mother", but to no avail. I had killed her, and my father must have detested me despite his efforts to love.

Five, I sat as much upright as I could, shuffling against the wall. "I killed my mother," I said under my breath, for a whole day.

Six, I had used up all my tears, and my throat swollen by continual confessions.

On the seventh day, I woke, yet again with no restraints or gag.

Being tested once more, I determined to pass. I looked up at the tall dark observation windows. My father could be up there.

I sat up, and pushed myself back against the wall, watching the door. On cue, it opened, and the two orderlies entered. One carried a tube and a funnel, the other the mug of liquid.

"I will drink by myself, if you please," I said, holding out my hand for the mug.

They left me alone, and I sipped the warm liquid until I had finished it.

The door opened again, and Dr. Fabrini stood in the doorway. He extended his hand to me, and I rose, and obediently put my wrist into his grasp.

The morning felt colder than before, and thick dew lay across the grass. I gasped as I struck my foot through the myriad of droplets for the first time. We headed for the gazebo, and I noticed with shame, the new wood in its construction.

"I'm sorry." I looked back at the house where father had stood just a week before, but the window stood empty.

Dr. Fabrini took no notice of my apology, but turned to me, and grabbed my other wrist. Slowly he pressurized me so sit with him on the wet grass. The two orderlies stood behind me, pressing their hands on my arms and shoulders, pushing me into the grass I loved.

When I seemed sufficiently restrained, Dr. Fabrini smiled. "What provoked you? What sent you back to this imprisonment?"

I could not help myself, the words were out of my mouth before I knew it, their release eased by the doctor's soft tones. "I killed my mother."

He blanched visibly. "Valérie; you did not kill your mother."

His words were an icy smack upon tender flesh. Were it not for the orderlies bearing down on my shoulders, I would have carved a trench through Dr. Fabrini's throat then and there. After so much meditation, so much soul-searching to come to terms with the truth he had the gall to inflict hope.

"Of course I did." I rebutted with as much restraint my building anger would allow.

Those crystal blue eyes remained calm as a reflecting pool, "Who has told you this? Your father assures me he has not mentioned the incident."

"I heard the whispers between the chamber maids... they called me demon."

"The gossip of bored women, entertaining themselves with torrid tales, Valérie," he shook his head sorrowfully, "And your father?"

"Father never spoke of it; not that I recall."

"Between the servants' loose tongues and your father's clamped jaw it is no wonder you were left to draw truth from such bitter lies."

"What do you know about it?"

Dr. Fabrini's gaze tightened, his eyes turning a fierce gray like a gathering storm, "Tell me first what you have heard; word for word if you can."

Word for word; the story came back to me like a recurring nightmare, "Heavily pregnant, Mother took walks every day. One morning, still weeks away from delivering me, the servants heard screaming from out in the garden. By the time the servants found her, her belly had been ripped open, intestines spilled and her womb split asunder. They say I clawed my way out of her, ripping through her stomach, tearing her apart from the inside, torn to shreds like a carcass devoured by carrion birds."

"And it was you - her unborn babe, no teeth in your tiny head, not yet ready to taste her first breath, the nails on your tiny fingers still soft - who managed such a monstrous act? You, with no nails stronger than those blades of grass you collect? This is what you've heard and believed, Valérie?"

"It's what they believe!" I made to leap to my feet but the orderlies pressed their combined weight down on me. "It's what Father believes as well. Why else would he have never said differently?"

"Your father failed you in that, my dear girl, and I have no compunction about saying it. He allowed grief over his lost wife to better his judgment and cloud his perception of the events."

A sting of tears flooded my eyes, "So, Father does despise me..."

"He does not despise, Valérie – he fears you. And he is ashamed of himself for that fear."

"It's me he's ashamed of."

I hung my head and allowed the sobs to come freely. Dr. Fabrini let go my wrists and pulled me to his shoulder, stroking my hair and rocking me the way my mother might have done had she lived to hold me in her arms.

"My dearest Valérie," He crooned into my ear, his breath puffing against the side of my head. "You imagine the exact opposite of what actually happened."

I felt my strength rise, and tensed my muscles for my bursting free of human hands. Then I heard a voice, albeit a very distant one.

The truth illuminates.

My rage instantly cooled, my concentration channeled elsewhere, searching the surrounding garden for the source of the words. I looked over Dr. Fabrini's shoulder from the distant forest to the nearby hedgerows, but to my chagrin, I could trace nothing, but Dr. Fabrini still talked to me, his soothing words wafting into my psyche, forcing me from my search. Perhaps the words had come from him.

"...they found you in the alley behind the house. Gallons of blood surrounded you, but there you were, your cord bitten through, lying in the damp cobbles. A wonder you were alive. They could only identify you as the child of Constance Berthier by this..."

Dr. Fabrini produced a glittering object from the deep pocket of his white coat. Dangling from a long, gilded chain hung an ivory pendant, surrounded by a shiny gold border. Embossed within the oval, lay the delicate silhouette of a woman's face. I spread my hands and the good doctor placed the fine object within them. He then pushed at a tiny clasp with his thumb and, delightfully, the oval separated into two halves. Behind thin glass on either side lay a small, fading photo. The man, though his face looked smooth and eyes youthful, I recognized instantly. The woman I had never before seen but I knew her just as surely.

With the tip of my small finger, I traced the outline of each face as if the tactile connection could bring them to me in that garden. As I took in my mother's countenance, the whisper from the trees thundered all around me.

The truth illuminates!

I looked to Dr. Fabrini, clearly he had not spoken nor seemed to have even heard the mysterious expression. At that moment I knew the voice spoke for me alone and did not question that fact. Just the thought brought me odd comfort; same as the lovely locket as I placed it around my neck, claiming it as my own. It proved such a grander prize than any blade of grass, and I would not be deprived of it by any means.

"What of my mother?" I asked.

"Gone, my dear; the locket was all that remained of her... besides a newborn daughter, of course." His hands smoothed my face. "Her body was never found, Valérie. But you did not kill her. Another claims that cruel deed."

I doubted his words but not the sincerity behind them. I could hear father's voice in Dr. Fabrini's, and I knew it to be true.

The truth illuminates, Valérie!

This time the words, hurled so loud into my head, startled me. The nearby trees were bare of anything resembling a human figure, but my caller lay out there, bidding me to come. Overwhelmingly, I knew a driving need to answer the plea.

I shot upright so quickly, I threw off my two orderlies, throwing them back onto the wet grass. They quickly regained their former positions, but neither held me quite as tight as before. I'd seemingly won a contest, and they knew I could best them. But my struggle against the orderlies had broken Dr. Fabrini's trust.

He leveled a disappointed glare at me, and presented his palm. Instinctually, I clutched the locket.

"We do not reward such behavior, Valérie. Give me the locket; it will be returned to you in due time if you prove so deserving."

"This is mine." I said in a measured, yet warning tone.

His demand became sterner, "The locket, Valérie."

My voice hardened to match, "This is MINE."

I suddenly felt the injection in my shoulder. I raged against it, throwing my human chains asunder, and took a few steps towards freedom, and my unseen ally. Then I stumbled, hindered by the strong drug coursing through my system. I felt the hard contact of stone against my chin, and surged against the bonds, instantly lost in pain and suffering.

In my addled brain I heard conversations of 'Uncle', 'Doctor, and 'America'. I have no idea how long I stayed this way.

The SS Coronata

When I eventually came to my senses, the padded walls of my room had changed to bare wooden planking. I knew that Italy lay far behind me, the air smelled full of salt, and the floor beneath my bed rose and fell rhythmically.

I tried to sit up, but of course, I lay bound by stiff canvas and leather again. I looked down my body and became instantly alarmed by the bosom presented to me, mere inches from my eyes. I shimmied within my bounds and felt the strange lumps of flesh strain against the hard canvas.

I had breasts.

But when had I grown them?

As I slowly shook the last vestiges of the drugs from my body, waves of despair swept over me. I knew that years had passed since my days in the garden with Dr. Fabrini. I thought of the lost times, and my savior within the woods. Long forgotten, way back in my distant past.

As I took in the details of my new world, I wondered exactly how long I had lost.

The door opened and my eyes darted to the opening, my head held by the cloying mask. To my surprise, a woman entered. She stood dressed in black from hat to toe. Stiff black dress, no color at all.

"Ah, you're awake."

I nodded as much as I could, knowing my speech would be hampered by the bit drawn through my mouth.

"My name is Sarah, and I am your nurse." She walked over to the bed and leant over me. A cold look passed over her face. "If I unfasten the mask, and you misbehave, I will whip you. Understand?"

Again I nodded. I had no doubt of her conviction to carry out her threat.

Carefully she unbuckled the mask, and to my surprise, removed it completely. The old one had been part of the restraint; this new mask sat separate from the canvas suit.

"Where am I?" My voice sounded strange, I almost didn't recognize it. There was a low timbre to it, which I had not heard before. I dreaded the next question, but I had to know. "What year is it?" My question felt strange on my lips, but I knew I would not like the answer.

"We are aboard the Coronata, and it is June 3rd, Eighteen Seventy-three."

I lay for a second, letting the information settle in my confusion. "Four years."

Sarah gave me a questioning look.

"It's been almost four years since I remember anything," I said softly, contemplating the length of my 'lost time.'

"Well, Valérie, you are under the care of Doctor Xavier Mortence now, and I am taking you to him."

"Where are we going?"

"We are sailing to his home in Providence, Rhode Island; to the United States of America. We shall be aboard ship for about four weeks, and I have no intention of having you bound and gagged all the way."

I gasped. "You're going to free me?"

Sarah gave a smile that betrayed itself. She bent down low, so close that I could smell her breath. It glimpsed that beneath her pleasant demeanor lay a heartless side that I did not care for. "I'm no novice at this, girl. I will free you by stages. I will trust you until you deceive me once. If you abuse that trust, I will bind you for the duration."

I nodded. "I understand."

"One more thing, we will cease conversing in Italian, and begin lessons in English."

I nodded meekly. I would be one more arrow to my bow. If I intended to break free in this new country, it would serve my purposes to learn the language quickly.

The single bed in my cabin consisted of an iron frame, with a hard mattress; Sarah pulled me more upright, and arranged pillows under my head and shoulders. She then fastened a collar round my neck which she padlocked to the metal headboard. She followed the same steps with my wrists, then began to unfasten the straitjacket at my feet.

As my legs came free, I flexed my toes, and gasped at the shooting pains. My legs were longer than I remembered, but much thinner, and covered in nasty red sores.

"Oh, we shall have to do something about that," Sarah said, her fingers moving my legs apart, looking with some displeasure at my condition.

It took a week of bathing and lotions to ease the sores, but it took longer than that to get strength back into my legs. Four years of being bound to a bed will atrophy the muscles to a significant degree. Over the weeks at sea, Sarah's ministrations got results, and I kept to my side of the bargain, not letting my rage manifest itself. Our English lessons were constantly apace, and we used little else, except where I did not know the English equivalent.

In two weeks I walked fairly steadily, and I got allowed on deck for thirty minutes each day.

Despite the lost time, the confinement, and the unknown destination, I became fascinated by the sea. I watched it for hours, its constantly changing moods and colors.

One evening, after supper, I noticed a rat in my cabin. I put my novel on the bed, and moved to trap it in the corner. It raced back and forth, but I found it no match for my speed. I pounced on it, and in doing so, broke its front leg clean off.

My nostrils flared; I smelt fresh blood. With no way to stop myself, I lost my inhibitions and bit into the flesh behind its head. I sucked the fresh blood into my mouth and almost cried out with joy. The warm liquid tore through my body like any drug I'd ever had, and I felt ebullient beyond belief.

It proved a brief episode in an otherwise boring journey, but I repeated it three more times before we reached America. Each feeding built my strength; a fact I kept hidden from Sarah to the best of my ability. I had terrific plans for the day my feet once again touched dry land and I became ever more certain that their restraints could not hold against me at my best.

Twelve hours before docking Dr. Mortence made his first appearance in my cabin. I'd pictured him exactly in my mind's eye: squat and balding with scrubs of white hair above each ear, as well as a thick bushel growing out of each. A pair of round, gold-trimmed spectacles perched at the end of his bulbous nose, which glowed red, marred by enormous pores.

Despite a thick German accent, he spoke to me in decent English, "As always a pleasure to see you, Valérie."

From his greeting I realized I must have seen the man before, dozens or perhaps hundreds of times. As I looked at his eyes, a flash of memory tore through me; little wonder his odd toad of a man seemed so familiar to me. Immediately, I felt swept away in a rush of déjà vu, each vision more clear than the last.

The ship's cabin around me fell away and I remember being restrained in a heavy, wooden chair. Some metal contraption engulfed my head and I could feel the sensation of a million stinging tentacles abrading my skin while the buzz like a hive of wasps dug into my ears.

Only one sound rose above the insistent hum: a man's demanding voice, "Recite."

Instinctively, I stumbled back, as far away from Dr. Mortence as the small room would allow.

"What happened to Dr. Fabrini?"

By his suddenly diminished posture and elaborate exhale, I suspected I'd asked this very question on many occasions. He slid a glance to Sarah, who remained stiff-backed and expressionless at my side.

"We are back to square one, I see." He said more to the nurse than to me.

"Traveling has had an ill-effect on her, Doctor."

Dr. Mortence waved off her excuse and leveled a pair of red-rimmed eyes on me, "The question serves only to deny the answer. You know the truth, Valérie. Now admit it to yourself. Recite."

"I don't know what you're talking about." My voice trembled as if to betray a lie.

His eyes narrowed, seeing through the casing of my skull and into my mind, "But, you do, child. Think... think back to the day in the garden..."

As if just remembering it should be there, my fingers went in search of the locket and found it, miraculously, still in place. Time ran backwards, pulling me through the lost years to my last lucid moment before waking on the ship; Dr. Fabrini holding my wrists, the heavy orderlies pressing down on my shoulders, the needle boring into my muscle.

Strange images, more surreal than any dream, blinked through my consciousness and faded again like the snuffing of a flame. I reached for the trail of memory as it wisped through my fingers, only to leave me with empty hands.

Like a blackened wick, a dark truth remained where the fire had sparked. Alvise Fabrini was dead.

And I had killed him.

As the vial of tranquilizer got pumped into my body, I sucked his blood through an artery in his neck. The orderlies' hands tried to separate us, but my strength proved much greater, locking us in a final embrace as I drew his life-force from him. My last image as the drug closed my eyes was father in the window, his hands on the glass, shaking his head and crying.

Fear is worse than death itself.

Death is but a cheat on the life it replaces.

Life is fleeting, a vision of Heaven.

Heaven is the lie that replaces fear of the unknown.

I don't know where the prose came from, but Dr. Mortence narrowed in on me, moving so close he could touch. "I know that you can hear it, Valérie," he said. He circled me, looking over his glasses, staring into my eyes. "Recite!"

He stopped in front of me. "I know you can hear the voice!" he roared. His spittle hit me across my face. "It follows you now, much more strongly than before. In fact, the farther you get from its source, the stronger it will become."

Despite my strong will, I still shook at his words.

Fear is worse than death itself.

The English words made perfect sense to me, the accent of the speaker, somewhat French in origin. I wanted to tell Dr. Mortence of my revelation, but shied away, keeping my information close to heart. He leant closer. His nose now touched my own.

"I know you can hear the voice," I felt the vibration of his speech enter my head. "You have told me before, many times. I don't know why you resist this one small thing. There's no need to worry."

I had endured nearly four weeks of English lessons, and now, flashed across my mind in an instant, I felt it more as a first language rather than a new one. "The voice is in English," I said. I watched as a slow smile invaded his face. Gradually he stood away from me. "She has a French accent." Dr. Mortence walked backwards until he bumped into the wooden paneled wall. He tilted his head slightly, as if he still heard echoes of my words. "Perhaps middle French, near Lyon perhaps."

I gasped. Mother's family from Lyon, her roots in the Massif Central, in the house of Berthier.

"Ha!" Dr. Mortence roared, shaking the very fabric of the room. He dashed forward again, grabbing my face in his sweaty hands. I tried to hide my knowledge, but he must have seen a spark of my attempted deception. "You recognize her! You recognize her!"

"Berthier." My mind told me. "Constance Berthier is my mother's name." I'm not exactly sure if I'd ever heard the name before, but I knew it as my mother's maiden, family name. "Berthier, of the house of Louis-Alexandre Berthier, Marshal of France under Napoleon."

My mouth fell agape, my eyes searching for reasons why I should know this.

Dr. Mortence spun in circles, laughing as he did so, then suddenly fled the room, grabbing Sarah by the arm, dragging her out into the corridor. The large door slammed behind them, leaving me in my cabin, confused and afraid.

I had parted the curtains into a dark part of my mind which had been hidden for so long, and now felt petrified to repeat the process. Confused at my sudden insight into the English language, I tried to stop thinking at all, only to have the space filled with all sorts of gibber-jabber, which scared me more. Poetry in flowery English, dark and dainty prose, diary entries, and songs all spun in my head, competing for recognition and volume.

"Go away," I said out loud, the words strange and almost unbidden, but still the maelstrom of voices threw snippets into my mind. I held my head with my hands, pressing hard against my skull, trying to shut out the barrage, but instead it grew. I turned to the wall and hammered my forehead against the paneling, sending shards onto the floor, then, just as I thought my head would surely burst asunder...

It stopped.

"I am Valérie Marneffe Berthier Lidowitz." I addressed the room. The timbre of my voice had changed to a smooth lilt. I now recognized the inflection of French in my otherwise clear English. I wiped the splinters of wood from my forehead and stood straight. "My father is Pieter Lidowitz, assistant to the Russian Ambassador to Rome." I smiled at my newly found knowledge, confident in its authenticity and its impeccable source; my mother; Constance Louisa Berthier.

They had met at a Paris function in 1856, and fallen in love immediately.

I accessed my mother's memory like I would read a diary.

It felt the best day of my life, and I spun slowly in the cabin, my bare feet burning on the rough floor. And as I lived with her to the end, it felt also the worst day of my life, knowing that our lives had been torn apart on that fateful evening in Florence.

~ ~ ~

I can't say the next three years passed in the wink of an eye.

Dr. Mortence, and my supposed 'uncle', Dr. Calloway, used me as both a pincushion and a firing board. I lived under the influence of one drug or another most of the time, and with the arrival of a Chinese herbalist, Wang To, they took turns in practicing their particular 'specialties' for weeks at a stretch.

They were all under the belief that I could access not only my mother's memory at the time of her death, but somehow her spirit had followed with me, and I could delve into it too. Initially I thought them utterly mad, but as the time passed, some clues began to surface in my memory which I couldn't easily explain away.

It seems that I had been named Valérie Marneffe after a character of dubious morals in a novel by celebrated author Honoré Balzac. Mother's memories of him are quite confused, but I recognized many instances where they seemed to be quite intimate. He died in 1850, before mother met father, but it seems that he left quite a legacy behind with her.

Mother had married late in life, just after her thirty-ninth birthday, but it had been through choice rather than chance. She caroused Paris as a wealthy socialite for many years, dropping her grandfather's name at every occasion. Even fifty years after his exile, the name of Napoleon Bonaparte exuded a certain notoriety and mystery.

This information, I drip fed the doctors, but they always wanted more.

Although my rage never manifested itself in America, I remained a prisoner, always under some physical shackle. As I neared my eighteenth birthday, I began to question both the validity and longevity of their study of me. To my surprise, at each pressing for freedom, the terms of my captivity constricted rather than diminished. After one such outburst, my walks in the gardens were immediately quashed, and weeks later, when I questioned their confinement of me, my door suddenly became locked between 'treatments'.

I began to wonder if they intended to release me at all, or keep me prisoner into their dotage.

I remember quite clearly the night the world changed.

In my dark room, on the cusp of the last round of drugs, I felt hands upon me. Not medical hands, you understand, but the definite pressure of male hands, rubbing on my bare shoulders and downwards toward my breasts. I gave a willful shrug, and the hands vanished into the night, not to return. The air held the unmistakable odor of Dr. Calloway, supposedly my uncle.

Under the care of Dr. Mortence at the time, he would inject me each afternoon, then question me relentlessly for hours. In the darkness, after the next such ministration, I felt the male presence again, pressing my skin, and touching my breasts through my bed linen. This time when I feigned waking, he did not leave. Emboldened by my docility, he pushed his hand inside my shift.

"What?" I lifted my head, but the room was completely dark. I heard footsteps on the carpet, and the closing of the door.

Valérie, you are safe here no longer.

When I awoke, the next day, I determined it would be my last with these jailors, and prepared for escape.

Because I had been free of any rage since the ship three years previously, my bindings were flimsy, designed for the Doctors use rather than my restraint. When Sarah untied me to give me breakfast, I sprung.

I had intended just to run away, but my swing with the porridge plate proved heavier than I'd intended. I hit the poor woman directly over the eye, bursting her eyelid wide open, and causing her to stumble backwards onto the floor, where she lay, unconscious. With frantic fingers I untied the buckles on my legs and jumped from the bed. I only meant to punch her, but for some reason I stopped, my fingers reaching out to touch the blood seeping from her wound. I raised my finger to my lips and licked.

It tasted better than any honey.

I fell to the floor and instinctively pushed her head to one side, diving past her high collar to puncture the artery I knew to be there.

It only took the slightest suction and blood flowed freely into my throat.

Easy, you don't want to kill her.

I drank, letting the warning wash away unnoticed.

Valérie!

I jumped up, and looked round the room.

Forget the meal. Get outside! Run!

Knowing my mother's words held far more importance than feeding, I hurriedly wiped my mouth with a bed sheet, and took off.

I ran free, for the first time in my life.

The world seemed far bigger than anything I might have imagined, always having been shut away in dark corners. I had encountered an endless garden and I took my time exploring it, touching, smelling and tasting all that I could, fearless of ridicule or punishment. A bounty of living creatures provided for my every need; I never went hungry or naked. I never longed or went unfulfilled. For those all-too brief years of liberty, the red veil lifted and my vision cleared of rage. My inner self lay in peace. Only my precious locket and the wisp of my mother's voice through the trees kept me company through those years.

But right before my eyes, as I roamed this wild new country, the world changed; it grew and yet somehow become smaller. As the new Americans expanded to cover every spare inch of earth I got pushed deeper and deeper into the backwoods until little backwoods remained. With a growing concern, I knew I was not like these people. Young girls became old women; yet the reflection that greeted me in the clear crystal brook never aged. In time I came to muse that I had, in fact, been killed in my escape attempt and it seemed merely my ghost that wandered the forest and spied on the mangy settlers.

I watched them at a distance. Their English sounded rough and ineloquent, as jaded and unrefined as the people who spoke it. They went about their lives caught in a trance. Day in, day out the same, unbroken routines. Women bent over washboards, scrubbing at the ever-present grime. Men with their tools and weapons, building and tearing down. Useless and endless drudgeries.

They traded time for coins. In the end both were lost. From my safe vantage I watched young children take up the yoke of their parents' legacy, knowing they would carry it through all their short years until they too became too old to drag it another inch. Most would succumb to the abuse inflicted on their feeble bodies before they ever got the chance to enjoy the fruits of their efforts. And so the next generation would spring up and do the same. Civilization had snared them, snagging their very souls, imprisoning them within a life of monotony. At first I hated them. Later, hatred softened to pity.

Dr. Fabrini's voice sounded in my head often, "You have an innate distaste for anything man-made, Valérie." I could not deny the truth behind his indictment.

Their intrusion did afford me one luxury I hadn't enjoyed since my early years in Florence. No more scrambling for rabbits or rats, I now had a veritable pantry of large, fleshy beasts to draw from, all conveniently penned for easy pickings.

On a sultry summer night, the moon full, bright and yellow, I eased into a farm. The good, civilized folk were asleep in their shelters. I hadn't eaten for some days and my craving for the rich, viscous bovine blood felt at its peak. When even the shuffling of the dogs had finally ceased, I edged in closer to the boundary between my world and theirs.

The farm was small, and I thought it unguarded. I'd barely sunk my incisors through the cow's thick flesh when I heard the explosion off in the distance.

The bullet ripped through my back and out my chest.

Growing Up the Hard Way

When I awoke the following morning, I flinched backwards, blinded by a burning torch as it lowered to my would-be funeral pyre.

Once again the red veil covered my eyes. To this day I can still see every face and hear the screams of encouragement; they'd caught their demon, and I would pay the price of capture

I snapped my bonds, and jumped over the fire, right into the heart of the crowd. When the frenzy lifted and the family lay at my feet, my vision cleared again and peace restored. Surveying the carnage, I knew I had at last done a good deed in freeing the trapped from their wretched existence.

But I had done more than free the occupants of the farm.

I had alerted one man's attention, and it would be the bane of my life for many, many years.

As I stood in triumph over the bodies of the slain, it seemed a boulder had been smashed into my side. The world lost focus, and I struggled against the direction and speed of my travel. Carried faster than ever before, my legs and arms flailed in the air, his arm grabbed me by the waist, hurtling through the night. I grabbed at my bonds, only to find strong fingers. I struck at the wrists expecting them to splinter like so many before, but the man shrugged off my blows.

We sped through the night, then came to a stop, near a small house, dark and imposing.

"Be still," he said as he dragged me inside. I tried to hit him, but it seemed that he deflected every blow; the man simply swatted my protests away.

I fell in a heap on his bed, discarded there like a piece of trash.

He looked thin, his slender frame belying the strength within. He would never be considered a handsome man, but he had an aura of power that scared me more than a little.

I dashed for the open door, suddenly laughing, but my mirth died in an instant when he appeared from nowhere and barred my escape. He lifted his hand to my neck, passing the backs of his fingers around my throat.

"On the bed, girl," he said, then tore a huge strip of my dress, from neck to lowest hem. It seemed he had no patience for my contrition, for he lifted me up with one hand, throwing me back onto the bed covers. He walked over to his dresser, where he began to unbutton his coat. "My name is Amos Blanche."

Again I hastened to the door, but once more he miraculously barred my way, ripping my dress again, and sending me flying.

I sat on the bed, my arms over my bare breasts, panting in shock.

"My name is Amos Blanche, and you are mine tonight; just give up the struggle."

"You are no normal man." I readied my feet for another attempt.

"And you've got little enough clothes left," he said, grinning maliciously, indicating the possibility of the open door. "Next time you will lie stripped, and I will feast on your nakedness. Tonight, girl, you are mine, and trust me, I will have you."

I looked at the oil lamp, and thought of it as a decent weapon. I lay far nearer than he. I leapt from the bed, but he met me mid-bound, knocking the wind from me, and with one stroke completed his promise to divest me entirely.

"Very nice," he looked at me with such longing, I nearly cried out in terror, my arms unable to cover myself completely. His shirt dropped to the floor. I began to retreat, but when my legs hit the bed, I knew I had nowhere left to run. As he advanced to me, I held my hands up in my defense, but he caught them in one strong grip, binding them behind my back.

"Please, no," I said, my voice breaking and shaky.

Pushed back onto the bed I struggled to little avail; he seemed to have muscles of iron. He kissed and caressed me, calling me 'his baby,' assaulting my body with his lips, tongue and fingers. I fought most of the way, but his strength surged way beyond my resistance. For once I actually tried to channel my rage, but it would not surface.

"You were meant for this, my lover," he said when his fingers finally entered me, painfully breaching through my maidenhood with neither finesse, nor care. Then he drew back and I saw a 'man' for the first time, erect and threatening. With a look of some contempt he plunged himself into me, his hips slamming onto mine. The pain felt almost unbearable, and I tried again to summon the rage which had invaded my body in times of crisis, but felt no response.

Let it happen.

Ah! My mother's voice.

"Why?" I moaned loudly. "He is killing me!"

Let it happen.

I felt a strength build inside me. Not enough to throw him from the bed, but as if my mother lay beside me, holding my hand through my ordeal.

Amos Blanche worked unperturbed by my lack of defense, his attention elsewhere.

This is a fleeting moment. You will emerge a butterfly.

Despite the force of his entry, I found my body responding in a way I'd never felt before, almost as if the rage did build, but very slowly. As Amos worked above me, my attention held within myself, and I saw the mechanics of the rage change for the first time.

Then he began to build up the speed of his stabbing, holding himself above me, and his mouth opened wide. I instantly knew the meaning of fear. His incisor teeth had grown to a terrible size, larger than the biggest dog. Suddenly he dropped, pulled my head to one side and struck my neck with open jaws. I reeled, expecting pain, but instead gasped in awe as the blood coursed through my body towards my neck.

Continuing to plough his manhood inside me, he sucked the lifeblood from my neck, and I enjoyed every second.

"Oh, you are a natural!" he roared, straining his head above me, the blood dark and black in the lamplight. He took his hand from binding mine, and tore across his wrist with his teeth, ripping his veins asunder. I looked on with astonishment as the blood began to drip onto my body.

Then I smelled his blood, and at last the rage within me began to grow. I readied myself to kill this little man, then felt completely frustrated when it didn't happen quick enough. I shook my head, trying to channel the anger, and gave an exasperated gasp when still it built up far too slowly to save me.

I still lay in pain. He still thrust inside me with desperate strokes. I could see his face grimace, ready for release. I screamed, frustrated that my rage would arrive too late.

At that moment I felt my mother move my hands, grabbing Amos's wrist and pulling it to my mouth. I resisted every inch of the way. Then the first touch of his dripping blood touched my lips and my struggle seemed gone forever. Knowing my destiny, knowing my desire, and knowing that I had bonded with my mother, I sucked like never before, and his thick, creamy blood coursed down my throat like the sweetest honey.

The ecstasy flowed from my mouth, to my body, then to my loins, clutching round his manhood with a grip of iron.

I erupted in pleasure, the feeling flowing from head to toe with my mother still holding my hand.

Amos Blanche collapsed and shriveled inside of me. For a split second, he seemed soft, weak and vulnerable. I seized on that moment.

Clamping his head between my hands, I cracked the old man's neck easily as if he'd been a squirrel. I pushed the dead husk off my body and it rolled to the floor with a pleasing thud. For a long time I remained sprawled atop the cot, wanting the sensations rolling through me to quiet.

Instead they redoubled in strength and a surging energy fired in my veins.

His corruption of me had been complete. My body had been awakened to a new longing, falsely induced but rampant nonetheless. I brought my fingers to the place of his intrusion, realizing I lay engorged with need. I took ownership of my craving, feeling at once empowered and ashamed.

As I moved myself to climax, that still, serene voice assured me it was right and good to work the desire through to fulfillment. In doing so, a hunger like none I'd ever experienced, roused and rallied. I dropped to the floor, dug my teeth into the dead man's shoulder and sought to drain him dry.

An eerie laugh broke through my frenzy.

"I can see I made a good choice."

Before I could react, his fingers were wrapped in my hair and I suddenly felt held in place by his steel grip. Amos Blanche encouraged me, almost gently, as he brought my arm to his mouth and took of my blood while I drank from him. Soon our mouths were locked; he took me by the waist and moved me over him. I joined with him freely, a willing participant in my own destruction.

"Do not hold back, girl," he told me and I didn't.

My abuse upon him proved as reckless and unyielding as he had been to me. Any other man would not have survived my ministrations. I watched his agony and reveled in it.

Sweating and panting I released everything.

"What am I?" I demanded.

A pair of glassy eyes stared up at me, unseeing. The back of my hand met his jaw square and the eyes immediately cleared.

"What am I?"

A sickening smile, laced with venom, looked back at me. "You are mine."

Again I swung. Again he smiled.

"I have already killed you once. Don't think I won't do it again."

"That which kills us makes us stronger, my dear."

Amos rolled us over, pinning me at the shoulders. I could feel him already regaining vigor inside of me. I felt ready to take it but would have my truth first.

Despite my defenselessness, I sneered up at the man, "Tell me or I will strangle it out of you."

"You already know what you are," he said soothingly, "you are the thing of nightmares. I have watched you as you watched them; skulked behind you all those years you skulked in the shadows. I have witnessed your lust for destruction, girl, and now I have made you invincible."

He moved himself inside me, and I lost my resolve to understand instantly. For the moment it seemed enough to hear aloud that I was indeed what I'd always believed myself to be. The cravings, the rage that set me apart and made me different were now acknowledged and even admired. I was a monster. But, for the first time in my life I no longer felt afraid of myself.

I don't know how long we stayed in that cabin, feeding upon one another's lust for both blood and sex. A time of madness and violence when the savage within me took full reign and the man who released that savage proved nearly her equal. I would never say I loved Amos Blanche; to me he lived as a tool to be used for my own purposes. He undoubtedly felt different; to him I lay subservient, his creature, his plaything. It seemed the way of the world.

By the time we embarked from his dreary cabin I'd learned to embrace the passions and hungers every other man in my life had sought to squash from me. Winter lay upon us.

So for the first time in my life I knew my name, and what I had been since the moment of my birth into this world: a vampire. A monster of bloodlust, driven by cravings no normal person could understand.

For most people, this knowledge would have driven them wild. For me, I embraced a calmness that settled my childhood, dimmed my infancy, and explained my adolescence. It came as an admonition and an acceptance of innocence. I could have not lived different if I'd tried any harder.

A tiger cannot suckle at a pig's teat for long; one day the realization would come that it was indeed a tiger, and the mother's breast becomes meat, not milk.

Amos treated me badly. His appetite for sex seemed incredible, and he would 'rape' me for hours each night, or at least I let him think so. In truth I secretly enjoyed our joining's, wallowing at last as I had been born to do.

He taught me to hunt, and my prey were no longer animals penned in fields, but people of my choosing, lithe healthy men, who rushed headlong into my arms to meet their destruction. Amos shared my prey, joining us on the bed, ready for the moment of release, then we feasted together.

Amos taught me vampire speed, and I immediately took to flight once or twice each week, running the moon washed countryside, feeling a great strength infest my body, and reveling in the freedom.

Once, Amos picked the prey; a nubile girl, no older than me, and for the first time, I seduced one of my own sex, learning as we caroused the taboo structure of that manner of love. Amos watched for hours, then joined us on the bed. I looked on, detached from the fray, struck with awe as he tore into her willing flesh, driving his manhood for hours. We ended her together, feasting from both sides of her neck as she slipped into darkness.

Amos told me his story, how he had been turned in Europe, and fought his way across to America, despite being hunted both on shore and aboard ship. For years he had planned an assault on the nearby town, and now, it seemed, with me as a Lorelei, he had the means to begin to create his empire.

But the world of the vampire is full of fear and balance, and it seems we exceeded the latter, and after only a few of the locals were taken, we were chased from our humble cabin.

We moved west to the town of Albany, and took up residence in a fairly decent apartment. I used my vampire speed to steal from the pockets of the rich, and in the larger town, we passed many years in complete anonymity, never becoming too prominent, never too much in the limelight, and certainly never getting caught out like before.

We culled humans from the surrounding countryside, and like the cleverest of dogs, never shit on our own doorstep.

In Albany, I became aware that I held a particular charm with the young men in the town. After a while, suitors would come calling on me, ignoring the presence of the older Amos; this proved to be a grave mistake on their part.

It set up our routine for many decades. Every ten years or so, we moved our place of residence. Once into Boston proper, and then into the growing conurbation of New York.

In the mid nineteen thirties, living outside Philadelphia, my mentor finally began to manifest his growing vision of empire. Until that time, he seemed quite happy with my lone companionship, but slowly he grew dissatisfied with riches alone. He began to dream of power, and that meant instead of culling for food, we began to turn humans into vampires. I first heard the term 'Philadelphia Crusade' at that time, spoken by Amos like some declaration of war. It meant nothing to me then, but little did I know that I already played a tiny part of it.

Like some modern day, dark messiah Amos Blanche grew his following one convert at a time. His message seemed clear: hatred for all mortals. His method of inclusion remained unchanging: brutal, vicious force coupled with agonizing sex. Much of the time I noted nothing in the way of foresight or insight in his numerous acquisitions. Though he touted his own intellectual prowess, I felt seldom impressed or inspired by what appeared a random cross-section of American youth.

This was a time of hardship for my adopted country. As the glistening new world plunged into an era of adversity and hopelessness, Amos' resources were accumulating. Unaccustomed to the trappings of wealth, he wore his lavish lifestyle like a pin on his lapel, shining it in the eyes of the hungry and desperate. Association with Amos Blanche meant escape from the dismal world collapsing around them. There were many takers. But every one that joined became tainted by the darker side of the vampire existence, and a total disregard for the sanctity of human life.

Like Amos himself, I too got fat off the impoverished. Although I looked no older than twenty, I strutted through the new regime like a whorehouse madam, content in my position as the 'old lady' of the company. But as the Blanche troops slowly amassed and new ranks got assigned, it came as no shock that the more valuable positions were entrusted to the males of his brigade. Men ran the world outside, and Amos needed a male army to continue his advancement. As each new addition rose in the ranks, they tested me in turn, but none could master my will. Few came even close to matching me. Amos turned the boys into men and I slapped them back to boys again.

As the thirties passed, Amos and his followers came to respect me as the force of nature I was born to be. For many of the early years I had endured his attention to my body. At last he realized the power of my fist.

Growing Tired with Life

On the 26th of July, 1939, as I turned eighty years old, news began to filter through to America of the struggle of the Jews in Germany, and my thoughts were increasingly of my mother and father, both now long dead. No sooner had I began my ruminations, when they were cruelly interrupted.

On the morning of 1st August, a veritable typhoon of violence hit our household.

I lay taking a leisurely bath, when I heard the sound of breaking glass outside in the hallway. I did not have time to act. The bathroom door burst open, and two strange men filled the doorway. One looked hardly more than a teenager, but the other stood tall and striking. If I hadn't been in so much shock, I might have looked upon him differently, but anger boiled in my veins and I screamed at them. "Get out!"

To my surprise, they vanished, but reappeared looming over my bath, one holding my arms by my side, the other pushing my head and torso under the water, his strong hands clasping over my windpipe. I struggled against their holds, but to no avail; they were immensely powerful. The bathwater lay clouded with fragrant salts, but as I fell into darkness, I looked up into his misty eyes and realized I was being murdered by two vampires.

Two strangers.

It wasn't the first time I'd died. Sex with Amos lay fraught with such danger, and many times I'd passed out under him, his fingers squeezing my esophagus as this stranger had done. But this would be the first time I'd drowned, and it felt quite alarming.

I awoke with a loud gasp, throwing myself upright in the now cold, stagnant water. I threw myself over the side of the bath and emptied my lungs onto the tiled floor. Sick and water cascaded from my lips in such a volume, I wondered how much a body could hold.

When I sat back, exhausted, the house remained quiet, and the low yellow light of evening passed limply through the single window.

I rose, shivering from the cold water, and donned my thick toweling robe. One figure lay in the corridor, his head completely removed, his features turned against the dark oak trim. I walked slowly to the main room of the house, ready for flight. Two more bodies lay there, both beheaded, both discarded recklessly to the floor.

I headed for Amos's room, to find him tied to the bed, his head still on his shoulders, a long knife embedded in his chest. He lay dead, the dagger having passed through his heart. A letter sat on his belly, and I crossed the room to read it.

Amos Blanche.

You have been served a warning.

We are a patient species, and have no need to bring attention to our kind.

Your latest foray into the public consciousness has been stopped.

Do not let it happen again.

G.

I folded the letter and replaced it on the bed. Then I pulled the knife from Amos's chest. Blood sputtered from his mouth as he gasped his first. I rolled him to his side until his convulsive breathing quieted, fearing he might choke on his own vomit.

Never before had I seen Amos Blanche the way I saw him at that moment; curled on his side, blanket clutched in a white fist. With misplaced sympathy I reached for his shoulder, comforting him. As he rolled again to his back I saw a dark light burning in his eyes. Immediately I realized he did not need my pity.

"Survivors?" he demanded, a feral rasp to his voice.

"Only you and myself from what I've seen."

Amos' lip curled into a snarl, "Good. We rebuild again- this time a thousand fold more deadly than before."

My fingers found the small piece of paper and I presented it to Amos with trembling hand, "They say this was just a warning. If we continue to push..."

"If?" he spat the word at me. "There is no 'if', my dear Valérie. We will rebuild."

I rocked back in shock. "Who's 'G'?"

"Pah," Amos spat. "An immigrant Romanian upstart from Miami; thinks he knows how to run a vampire cadre. He doesn't know shit."

I thought of the man who had choked me, his handsome face had looked somewhat Romany.

Amos proved as good as his word. Brick by brick he laid the new foundation. And he had learned well from his first excursion. Amos Blanche no longer opened his door to strays, accepting whatever the ruin of humanity stumbled his way. He took to actively seeking out his conquests, devoting valuable resources to their finding; looking for humans who boasted a darkness as natural to them as blood thirst to vampires.

Amos had a good eye for the work, but we both knew he needed a male pied piper to seduce the cream of the young girls to the fold.

And Amos Blanche liked young girls.

So to keep the story continuity, we pause Valerie's story (Original Sins) for a moment to tell a far more detailed account of the tale of the pied piper; the boy Amos had picked to seduce the females to his vampire pack.

This is a two voiced tale.

April writes as Alan Rand.

Ian writes as Valerie Lidowitz.

We hope you enjoy...

Vampires Don't Cry: The Turning of Alan Rand

By Ian Hall and April L. Miller

I had no idea why Valérie Queen-of-Homecoming Lidowitz would be inviting me out for a milkshake after school. The note had been stuffed into the crack of my locker, folded all prettily into an origami swan and smelling of some too-sweet perfume. And there at the bottom lay her flowery signature, all in big, scrolling letters:

Valérie from home room.

XO!

"Yeah right," I said, crumpling the counterfeit love note and chucking it into the nearest trash bin.

Probably that Clark Dugan; he constantly tried to get under my skin. Some of the Littleton High student body had too much time on their hands. Not me- stopping to unfold that swan put me three minutes behind schedule and marching band try-outs wait for no man. Clutching my clarinet case, I dashed off to the auditorium before Mr. Schuster crossed my name right off the list.

But yards away from the double doors, a white, fuzzy sweater stretched tight over a generous bosom intercepted my intended trajectory. Valérie was a tall girl and my outstretched arms were perfectly level with the bumps she took no trouble to conceal.

"Hi, Alan," she said, arching her shoulders, successfully jutting her bust out that much further, "I thought I might run into you here. Did you get my note by any chance?"

Well of all the childish nonsense. So, Valérie participated willingly in Clark's little set up. I'd been willing to give her the benefit of the doubt that her signature had been forged. No such luck. Pretty Valérie had a bitchy side, just like everybody else.

I lowered my gaze and lifted my clarinet case, "I'm late for try-outs; will you please excuse me."

I made off to one side but Valérie moved quick, very quick. If she wasn't the fastest thing on two legs then I'll be dead duck. Side-stepping in a blur, she cut me off.

My glasses had slipped down the bridge of my nose. I pushed them in place and looked straight into her flirty eyes.

"What is it you want from me, miss?" I demanded.

She giggled, tiny little bubbles bursting in mid-air. Extremely annoying.

"That milkshake for starters, Alan Rand."

"Excuse me but I've got better things to do than be bothered with anymore pranks by your band of rabble-rousers."

I went to push past her, but Valérie shot her hand out at my chest. That little tart seemed as strong as she was fast. For certain my sternum would be bruised.

Before I could protest, her brown eyes silenced me. As she spoke, the scent of her breath- far more subtle than the rancid perfume had been- wafted toward me, temporarily stifling my senses.

"You want to meet me at Harvey's Drug at four-thirty for a milkshake, Alan Rand. Don't disappoint me."

As she flitted off, I all but forgot about marching band try-outs and found myself greatly anticipating our upcoming rendezvous. I wondered at my own lack of propriety. A girl that forward with a boy? Mother would never approve.

The power of vampire pheromones would never cease to amaze me. Even after almost ninety years of their usage, the sheer fact that men would just cave in completely lifted both my confidence and my ego. Even vampires have feelings.

I looked at my quarry, shaking his head, wondering what had struck him. Amos had been clear with his instructions. He wanted Alan delivered subservient, but not turned. For some reason beyond my comprehension, Amos Blanche, my boss, wanted to do the act himself. And that made me question the whole deal.

In Amos's empire, 'turning' usually got associated with sex, and I knew that Amos wasn't that type of guy. To try and get inside Alan's head, I'd thought of a date at the soda parlor. Neutral ground. Knowledge meant power, and if you fell behind, you got left behind. Below Amos, I sat as number one girl, and had been for almost eighty years. I looked eighteen, the perfect bait for high school urchins like Alan Rand.

I lit a cigarette and crossed the road outside the school. Alan's date gave me almost an hour and a half free, and I fancied a bite to eat. Even though my body no longer actually needed the nutrients, the act reminded me of the old days. And it helped me blend in.

The newspaper vendor on the corner shouted about the Dodgers owner, Walt O'Malley, taking the team from Brooklyn to Los Angeles. How they'd be ready for the 1958 season, how New York would be bereft of good baseball. Oh, the humans loved their sport. It seemed all so tedious; I could recall when there wasn't any kind of sport.

Now, I stood in the middle of a new century, I had waltzed past two world wars, and I could still turn heads like I did back in the day.

Valérie Lidowitz felt a force to be reckoned with. Talk about an old head on young shoulders.

"Keep at it, my boy," Mr. Schuster said, "Maybe next year..."

Once again the marching band director determined I wasn't quite up to snuff. Next year? I graduated in June. Slamming my clarinet case shut, I stomped away from the auditorium. I, Alan Rand, had officially run out of 'next years'.

I noted the time as I dialed the combination to my bike lock: twenty minutes past four. Mother would have supper on table precisely at five-ten. Even at top speed my Trent Tourist couldn't get me across town in less than twenty minutes. Harvey's Drug lay five minutes out of my way; considering the time it would take to order and then consume our confections, I couldn't hope to get home before five-twenty. It seemed all quite unacceptable- mother would be ill-at-ease with such a deviation from the routine.

My mind made up, I decided to forego my meeting with Valérie and set off directly for home. Yet, as I coasted down through the park, heading due north, my bike seemed to steer itself east. Before I knew it, I stood astride the bar of my Tourist, staring at the large glass window looking into Harvey's Drug.

Valérie sat at the counter, waggling her fingers my direction. I thought to leave, but- through no will of my own- dropped my bike haphazardly on its side and went in.

"Glad you made it." She gushed.

"I cannot stay." I answered, rigidly, "I'm expected home."

Valérie leaned up to me, "You can stay for a little while, Alan Rand."

To my own amazement, I took the stool next to hers and repeated the words back, "I can stay for a little while..."

"How did try-outs go?"

"Not well, I'm afraid. Apparently my fingering leaves something to be desired."

Of all the inappropriate gestures- Valérie placed her hand right on my knee, "I think your fingering is extremely desirable."

I nearly fell from my stool, "Miss! Please refrain from physical contact!"

Valérie only proceeded to inch up to my thigh, "Relax, Alan. There's no need to be uptight."

Uptight? How dare she? "You have misinterpreted my intentions for coming here if you believe such behavior is acceptable," I said harshly, picking up her hand and carefully depositing it back into her own lap.

Her smile, I will admit, looked beguiling, "Then why are you here, Alan Rand?"

The question threw me aback for I had no viable answer. Oddly enough, I began to feel as if I'd been brought there against my own free will.

Avoiding Valérie's provocative leer, I slid free of her roving hand and got to my feet.

"I made a mistake," I told her, looking at my watch, "And now I'm overdue."

Valérie stood, uncaring of any stirs her action would cause among the other patrons, coming in to stand offensively close. She slid her hands round to my bottom, and pulled us tightly together.

"Yes, Alan Rand- I'd say you're long overdue." Smiling, she let me go.

With no way of hiding my disgrace, I stalked to the door, heads turning to glare as I passed. I felt I'd come to the bottom of this little game; Valérie Libidowitz, drawing me into a meeting only to falsely, and publically, seduce me.

I could not get away from the vile girl fast enough.

Oh Mister Prim-and-proper.

I watched him get on his dark green bike and, standing on the pedals for traction, take off down the high street. His bum winked at me, bobbing from side to side. He did have a delightful ass.

I finished my milkshake in my own time, despite the recriminatory stares from some of the drug-store clientele.

As usual, I reported my progress to Amos, and felt surprised that he paid so much attention. "Why Alan Rand?"

He looked at me, and I seemed to remember every time he'd touched me, all at once. My skin crawled uncontrollably. "He's the new face."

I shook my head. "I don't get it."

"Valérie, my dear, you're a hundred years old. Of course you don't get it. It's a young girl's thing. Ask any of the other kids at school who the school 'looker' is." He advanced on me. "Young movie goers don't flock to see Clark Gable anymore, he's old news. The girls liked James Dean, they're changing their tastes. This new Elvis Presley is the same. For us to keep the girls interested, we have to change our new face too."

"But he's a complete prig!"

"And we have a lifetime to knock that out of him. Alan is perfect, trust me."

"But Amos, he's a wimp."

"Oh, he'll be fine. I'll find a cruel streak inside him, if I have to put it there myself."

Then and there, in the deep gleam of Amos' eyes, I saw the plan. In Alan Rand, Amos had his lure, vampirism the medium, and a whole new batch of fresh bedfellows for Amos surely the goal; young ones, lured by the new 'pied piper'.

I pitied the girls, yet felt glad that my age now put me beyond such punishments.

"Get him interested, Valérie. That's all you have to do. Get him sniffing between your legs, and leave the rest to me."

As I headed for my house, I realized that proved easier said than done, because for some reason Alan had ignored all my usual opening moves. So I set to the indirect, choosing the oblique pathway. I set out to glean his interests, his goals.

Turns out he didn't have any. On the surface Alan Rand seemed a very private person; no real friends, a true loner. No girls either; not one girl in the school could claim that he paid them any attention at all.

My investigation had lasted all of two hours, using a bit of speed between interviews.

I determined to get closer, and that meant peeking through the keyhole, so to speak. I ran over to his house, and found a nice bush to hide behind, whilst I ear-wigged on the conversation inside.

As suspected, dinner lay set by the time I made it home at five-twenty-six. I had gravely miscalculated the extra time my detour would cost; pumping pedals while sporting an engorged penis made for slow progress- uncomfortable at that, I might add. Fortunately, the physical exertion had alleviated that issue. Yet the slow pace had created another.

Mother sat perched at the head of the table, empty plate before her, hands folded pristinely in her lap. As always, she'd prepared three place settings: one for herself, one for me and the third for my deceased father. As I approached the dining room, Mother's eyes were as vacant and perplexing as the empty chair Father had once occupied.

The sight of roast beef, surrounded by new potatoes and baby carrots roused my hunger. Yet, I knew there lay little chance I would be partaking of any of it tonight.

"Would you care to explain yourself, Alan?" Mother's words jabbed at me like a fork.

"I had try-outs today, Mother," I held up my clarinet case as proof of testimony.

"Yes. I recall. Try-outs were to end at four-thirty, Alan. Did they go long?"

The lie bobbled in my throat, but I choked it down like a hunk of dry bread. It would have been a useless gesture; certainly Mother would be calling Mr. Schuster to confirm my alibi had I resorted to one.

"They ended on time." I stated flatly.

"Then I see no reason why you should be sixteen minutes late for supper, Alan."

"I was careless, Mother. It won't happen again."

Mother rose from the table, a motion so graceful not even the chair got disturbed by it. The light from the overhead chandelier glinted off the smooth surface of her favorite strand of pearls- the ones Father had given on her birthday the year of his death. Mother never failed to wear them at our evening meal.

Her coral-pink dress fluttered as she seemed to float over to me, expressionless. Though she came only to my shoulders, Mother's presence filled the room from wall to wall. I felt but a flat shadow in her midst.

"Careless?" she replied, a million accusations wrapped in two syllables, "How so?"

I tried to be both as honest and vague as possible, "I stopped to talk to somebody and lost track of time."

"Who were you talking to?"

My tongue swelled in my mouth. Each of my acquaintances had been boys handpicked for me early on; mother knew each of them, their families and phone numbers. Any accomplice to my tardiness I could name would be verified, my falsehood exposed immediately. I had to take that chance; for, in this instance, the truth would carry a far greater punishment than the lie.

"Trent Coombs." I had to force the name passed my lips, knowing once it hit the air there would be no taking it back.

Mother turned on her heel, toward the kitchen telephone. Dutifully, I followed. Each spin of the dial seemed to take an eternity. Like a chameleon changing color, the pitch of her voice lifted and peeled with a charm reserved only for strangers.

"Lorraine? This is Sophia Rand."

A deep chill set in her eyes as Mrs. Coombs confirmed her worst suspicions. I felt the familiar shiver on my neck as she set the receive loudly back on its cradle, sounding all the world like a gavel pounding on my sentencing.

"Trent came down with the measles two days ago, Alan; he's been restricted in his room ever since."

A flash of something malicious tugged at the corners of Mother's mouth; she seldom smiled and it when she did, it never boded well for me. Reflexively, I took a step backward.

Stupidly, I fumbled for another lie if only to delay the inevitable, "I didn't mean Trent; it was Ralph..."

"Who is she?" Mother's eyes sparkled, I stood caught in them like a deer on the highway.

I spoke the name robotically, "Valérie. Valérie Lidowitz."

I never even saw her flinch, let alone reach for the phone. Mother swung the receiver into my cheek, connecting with my jaw in a resounding crack.

Smoothly she turned as the stars cleared from my vision, collecting the plates in a tidy stack and setting them on the counter. The platter, roast and all, cleared into the trash can unceremoniously.

"I am never to hear of this girl's name in my house again; you are not to go sneaking around with common whores behind my back. You will not bring shame or scandal down on this household."

I took Mother's berating without retort, no declaration of innocence. In her mind, my guilt lay absolute, no defense would be permitted.

"You are dismissed, Alan."

My face still burning from the blow, I turned toward the dining room, passing by the now-empty table.

"Mind your manners, young man." Mother called behind me.

I halted at the chair that used to belong to my father, "Goodnight, Sir."

I got an ear-full at the window. Mrs. Rand ran a tight ship; seemed she wore the pants in the family, too. For all her ranting, Mr. Rand hadn't made a peep. Okay. So, I had a bit of a mama's boy on my hand, but nothing that couldn't be cured by the intervention of another strong female influence. So Alan responded to assertive women. I could do that.

Next day, I made sure that I paired up with him in Physics. Just boring Newtonian stuff, but we were all given different assignments, and set off to different parts of the school to 'experiment'. With our clipboards in our hands, Alan and I went off to clap at walls and measure the sound of the echo with a stopwatch.

Well, to say that Alan played the evasive card would have been an understatement. Each time I tried to insinuate myself into the experiment, he would wiggle out of reach, and still take readings. We were finished our experiment with half the period left, and he led the way back to the science department 'to write up his results'. What a twat.

I decided to up the ante. I excused myself to the restroom, where I took off my bra, and stuffed it behind a stall. I unfastened a few choice buttons, then I strutted back to the empty class, and went for him.

Grabbing his wrists, I put his hands directly on my thin blouse.

"What do you think of these, Alan?" I asked, moving his hands around. I knew he could feel my nipples; they were as hard as erasers. He pulled at my hands, but I kept his palms on my tits, then I slipped one of them inside. Once actually on my flesh, he seemed to stop his objections and just kept them there. "Do you like these, Alan? All women have them; some big, some small."

I fished at his zipper and he backed away from me. Luckily the long laboratory desk stopped his retreat, but he still didn't take his hands out of my blouse.

Just then four of the class came storming into the classroom, and we got caught, not that I minded. Alan did though, but he made such a fuss of retrieving his sweaty hands, it made the situation worse, emphasizing rather than hiding what he'd been doing. The two girls made coo-ing noises, and the two guys just watched us extricate ourselves, hoping for a glimpse of my tits.

"They're a bit like your mom's, aren't they?" I whispered in his ear as he went back to his paperwork. The look he gave me could have turned milk sour.

Home room on Thursday proved insufferable. News of my earlier encounter with Valérie in physics class had spread throughout the school; a fact Valérie seemed all-too pleased with. She'd made a show of smiling flirtatiously, even winking in my direction all through class. Many of our classmates took notice; it never ceased to amaze me how quickly senior girls could be reduced to giggling seven-year-olds, especially when it lay at my expense.

I made haste after bell to get to my next class, but Valérie's freakish speed paid off for her again. She touched my sleeve as I pressed through the hallway.

"Aren't you even going to talk to me, Alan?" her seductive tone teased.

I kept my eyes forward, toward the sanctuary of Mr. Steam's biology lab. If I could make it there, unscathed, the rest of the day should pass smoothly; dearest Valérie then only became a problem contained to only two periods of the day. I planned to keep it that way.

"It's time to get to class, Valérie," I clipped, no inflection in my tone.

To everyone's apparent awe and my fervent humiliation, she proceeded to thread her arm through the hook of my elbow, smiling broadly. More than a few spectators, jaws gaping, craned their heads to watch the popular cheer-leader on the arm of the school whipping boy. For some of my acquaintances, Trent Coombs for one, this would have been a dream-come-true moment. For me, it felt like my worst nightmare.

Valérie brushed the knuckles of her hand down the purple blotch on the side of my face, "What'd you do, sweetie?"

"It's not your concern." I said.

"Of course it's my concern; whatever happens to my Alan is my concern." Her voice held the coo of a woman engaging an infant. I found it reprehensible to say the least.

Trying not to let my admonishment carry to the ears of our onlookers, I spoke in a near whisper, which Valérie seemed to have no trouble hearing.

"I am NOT 'your' Alan and would appreciate it if you would cease with this petty prank, Valérie."

She more lifted and carried me rather than pushed me into the wall of lockers. Her lips brushed my ear as she spoke, her sweet-mint breath curled up my nostrils, dizzying me.

"This is no prank, Alan Rand. If I say you're mine; then you are mine."

Then she kissed me. Although her lips were sour and dry, her tongue darted into my mouth like an invading snake. Despite my initial reaction to flee, she intoxicated my senses like some cheap, distilled whisky. A gathering of students formed a horseshoe around us, some making whooping noises, others gasping in horror.

Leaving me breathless, Valérie released me from her kiss but lingered close to my ear, "So, don't fuck with me; just accept it."

I felt myself dropped to my feet as the bell rang and the students scattered like mice. Like the rest of them, Valérie, as well, vanished- nearly in the blink of an eye. Left alone in my disgrace, I stumbled toward biology class, hoping only to make it through the day without another such encounter.

"I think he bats for the other team," I reported to Amos that evening.

"I'm sure you'll be able to convert him, my dear."

"The boy has an iron cherry; he's not gonna let me pop it."

"You've been awfully persuasive when you've needed to be, Valérie."

Amos didn't even glance up from his paper. He took a kingly puff off his tobacco pipe, the smoke curled around his bent head, burning my nostrils. Anyone who didn't know my boss as well as I did might assume he didn't care one way or the other. I knew better.

"Alan's your problem, not mine," He jiggled his glass in the air, the ice clanking like a toneless bell, "More whisky, Sheldon."

Amos's odd hand-servant jumped out from the shadows and began filling it at once. Sheldon's dumb eyes seemed as free-floating as the ice cube. He saw to his task then faded away back into the wall.

"You see," Amos said, sipping casually, "each of us has our job to do, Valérie. Sheldon's is to see to my comfort and he never fails me."

A disembodied voice cut over Amos's, "Oh, no, never, Sir."

Amos continued as if Sheldon hadn't spoken, "Because failure to perform one's assigned job is not an option under my employ. Nor is quitting."

I took the not-so subtle threat to heart, remembering too clearly what became of the vampires that did fail Amos Blanche. My boss didn't forgive often and dealt punishment both severely and permanently.

Without another word of protest, I left Amos to his paper and went to place a phone call.

Bereft of band practice to flee to, I made straight home after school, relieved only by the fact that Valérie hadn't reared her head again throughout the remainder of the day. Despite my timeliness, I found Mother still in an ill-temper as I spread my homework out over the table and dunked my head into my studies.

In a perfect posture, she lowered herself upon her chair, waiting in loud silence until I lifted my head to acknowledge her.

"Your father and I are very disappointed," she began.

I looked to the empty chair, then to Mother, "I know. Again- I am very sorry for yesterday. It won't happen again."

She paid no attention to my apology, "I called Mr. Schuster this morning, Alan, and he gave me some very disturbing news."

My mind reeled at what she might be referring to. It came as little surprise that she had called the band teacher to verify that I had, indeed, shown for try-outs. However, since I'd been truthful in that regard, could not fathom Mr. Schuster would not have backed my claim.

I hesitated to ask, but saw no way around it, "What disturbing news?"

"That yet again you have failed to make marching band. A fact you kept hidden from me."

"I did not intend to keep it from you, Mother; there simply was no opportunity to tell you last night."

"Yes, since you were out running around with your little harpy, you left very little time for me or for this conversation."

Suddenly, my pencil felt oddly heavy. My head ached. My nerves wore thin. I remembered the expression on Mother's face from many years back- the night Father had admitted to a fleeting indiscretion with my fourth grade teacher. Father's infidelity had worn grooves into Mother's complexion; each crevice severely deepened as I sat before her now. She wore the face of a woman cheated. Somehow the baton of my father's sins had been passed down to me.

I repeated the words I remembered Father saying as we sat at this same table some nine years ago, "There is no excuse for my actions. I made a mistake. It won't happen again."

The lines in her face did not soften. Her unforgiving eyes slid to the vacant chair across the table as if Mother spoke in silent communion with Father's omnipresent ghost. I could only imagine Father's voice in her head, pleading my case, begging for leniency. I knew there would be none.

The shrill peel of the telephone's ring stirred her out of that private séance. As she left to attend it, I felt the air in the room lift and for a short moment I could breathe again.

My reprieve was short-lived. Mother's voice, usually so calm and measured, reached a crescendo as she berated the caller with accusations, insults and threats. There could be no questioning as to the identity of the misfortunate party; Valérie, my apparent mistress, had taken her little game to my front door.

Mother returned to the dining room with fire in her eyes and a metal spatula in her hand.

In an instant, Alan Rand and his mother quickly become a thorn in my ass. I slammed down the receiver, so hard the phone chimed a complaint. I'd never heard language like that coming from the mouth of a mid-aged, mid-class housewife. This woman certainly seemed no Holly Homemaker; no wonder Alan had gotten wound so damn tight.

I turned to find Amos had snuck up behind me, Sheldon at his side like a trailing mutt.

"Lovely woman," Amos observed with a nasty gleam in his eye.

"You heard that?"

"It would have been difficult not to."

"So, you see what I'm up against? You're asking me to make a man out of some boy that's still suckling from mama's tit."

Amos smiled like I was some pathetic simpleton, "Precisely, my dear. Once we get the nipple out of his mouth, he'll be looking for another breast to latch onto. You see, Alan Rand is not the problem, Valérie; it's the mother."

"Am I just supposed to slit her throat or something?"

"I believe we'll leave that job to Alan. Once we're in his head, he'll be more than anxious to stain his hands with her blood."

I nearly came unglued, "I can't get through to him!"

"You will." Amos said, almost sympathetically, "You will get through to Alan and I will get through to Mrs. Rand."

I tried to control my shaking before it became visibly noticeable. Amos had decided to become personally involved in the acquisition of Alan Rand? Not only did that mean Alan was more important to the Blanche "movement" than I could have imagined; it also meant I had scrubbed the job.

"Give me another chance," I practically begged, "I'll get to him."

Amos looked cold, menacing, "We're beyond that now, Valérie. After Alan Rand is securely under my control, we'll figure out what do about your fiasco."

Sheldon pressed his hand over a nasty giggle.

As they turned away from me, I swallowed my pleas and apologies. It seemed already too late.

"Your mom's a real fire-breathing-dragon," Valérie mused, leaning over me as I secured the lock to my bike.

I stood, aggravating the already-screaming muscles of my back, to find her smiling wickedly. I thought to rip my shirt open, expose the bruises from the lashing she had caused me. However, there could be little doubt my suffering would only excite Valérie's cruel intentions.

"Please refrain from calling my house again." I told her instead.

She slinked closer, "Mama's gotta learn some time that her little boy's all grown up."

"My mother is not your concern."

"Sure she is. If she tries to keep you from me, she sure as hell is." Just like the day before, Valérie rubbed her hand over the side of my face, tracing the oblong bruise. Her fingers were cold but somehow soothing. "She did this to you, didn't she?"

I went to pull her hand away, but she caught my wrist as stealthily as a frog's tongue snatches flies out of the air. Valérie gripped tight, her fingers a hard shackle, digging into my flesh. My disgust in the girl boiled inside me, rolling out in a barely-controlled form.

"You did this to me," I seethed, "Why can't you just leave me the fuck alone?"

A light came over Valérie, an epiphany, "Now I know why he wants you. It's not your face, Alan Rand... it's your nasty, angry little heart."

I struggled against her vice-grip, but could not get free, "What are you talking about? Who's 'he'? Who wants me?"

She answered with a smile, "Meet me today behind the bleachers, Alan Rand. Immediately after school. Don't be late."

At last Valérie released my wrist. It throbbed to life as the blood rushed back into my hand. Even before the sharp, needling tingles subsided Valérie Lidowitz was out of eyesight, vanished as if she'd never been there at all.

I made sure Alan sat tucked away in school and met Amos at the Rand house at ten a.m. sharp, per instruction. He looked calm in his cruel, superior way. That didn't bode well for Mrs. Rand or for me.

No sense putting it off. I walked to his car and tapped on the window.

"Good morning, Valérie."

A pleasant smile greeted me. Amos seemed in a good mood. Why wouldn't he be? The old son-of-a-bitch would never break a sweat over knocking around some old lady. She was easy pickings, and Amos was one twisted vampire.

"Are you ready?" he asked, getting out of his car.

I wasn't even close to ready. Not that I could say that out loud. Ignoring the butterflies in my gut, I nodded robotically, "Of course."

We walked up the drive and to the house. Already the sound of the vacuum hummed through the thin walls and the smell of lemon disinfectant smelled thick on the other side of the door. The old broad liked to keep up appearances. I rang the bell. Alan's mom arrived seconds later.

"Yes? Can I help you?" she asked.

"Sophia Rand?" Amos began immediately. "My name's Corcoran. I'm a county school inspector, and we've had a report of your son, Alan, being involved in an incident; smoking at school."

Her hands went straight to her face, covering her mouth. "Oh, there must be some mistake. Alan would never do such a thing."

"Oh, Miss Abercrombie here was a witness, I'm afraid." Amos's tone sounded very convincing. "Would you like to invite us inside? Not perform the drama on the steps, so to speak; too many prying eyes."

"Oh, yes, why don't you come in, Mister Corcoran, and you too, of course, eh, miss?"

Passing her in the hallway, Amos dropped the act. "I'm not really a school inspector."

"What?" Her face showed nothing but confusion as she let us walk past her.

"You will say nothing." Amos said, speaking close to her face. She nodded meekly. Amos walked into the living room and sat in a large armchair.

"Time to bring her under," Amos said, and I pushed Mrs. Rand towards him.

I kept my head down throughout the day, finding much relief in Valérie's strange absence. From class to class I went, bothered by nobody and unencumbered by the trifling drama my affiliation with the homecoming queen had caused the day before.

By seventh hour, I felt nearly human again. I'd even been grateful for the burden of physics and calculus homework to keep my mind focused and occupied once at home. My satchel felt delightfully heavy, even though it strained my aching back, as I made my way to my bike after school. I'd all but forgotten Valérie's mandate to meet her behind the bleachers; not that I'd ever had any intention on showing up.

But, just like the meeting at Harvey's Drug, my bike seemingly steered itself in the direction of the rendezvous point. Valérie sat waiting for me, dressed in a slinky skirt, tight sweater and bobby socks. Her shoes had already been discarded and she took no concern what might be buried under the sand.

Dumbfounded at myself, I dropped my bike on its side and blurted out the question I should have known the answer to, "Why am I here?"

Valérie tinkled a laugh, "You're here because I told you to be here. Now come sit beside me."

I felt drawn in by her command like a fish on a line. I knew Mother would be watching the very seconds on the clock, but it seemed I had no choice but to take my place at Valérie's side.

"Take this. Drink it."

She handed me an opened bottle of beer. I sipped its pungent flavor, nearly gagging.

"Don't you want to know where I've been today?"

"No."

"Paid a visit to Dragon Mama."

My stomach churned violently; I thought for sure I'd be sick. Valérie motioned me to drink by the tilt of her head. Obediently, I lifted the bottle to my lips.

"Such a charming woman; we became fast friends."

"You shouldn't have..."

Valérie shushed at me. My mouth went instantly mute.

"Did you know that she still thinks your dead daddy is hanging around the house? Some sort of eternal penance for his worldly misdeeds from what I gather. Lovely Sophia believes your dad's soul is some indentured servant, forever at her side, making up for screwing around with Miss Knickerson after parent-teacher conference."

Valérie lost herself in an indulgent laugh, while I sat as unmoving as some petrified mummy. I could only imagine the expression frozen on my face.

"You will always tell me the truth, do you understand?" Amos patted his lap, and she shook her head violently. "Sit on my knee!" he snapped.

Deliriously, Mrs. Rand walked the three steps to close the distance, and sat politely down. She smoothed her skirt on her lap. All done in the best of propriety.

"Where is your husband?" Amos asked.

"He's dead."

Amos smiled over at me; I felt a shiver run down my spine. Alan's dad dead? Another shortcoming had just surfaced in my part of the operation. I cursed silently. We weren't just dealing with Alan's psycho mother; we also had his dad's ghost to contend with. And I should have found it out before.

He stroked her back as if she were some scared kitten. Amos's voice sounded very soothing; even I felt the hypnotic affect. I stood, a fly on the wall, as Amos worked his magic over her.

"How did he die?" he asked.

"Silly bastard gassed himself after he had the affair with the schoolteacher; Kelly Knickerson. Well named, I'll tell you. Seems her knickers were round her ankles quick enough."

"Gassed himself?"

"Two cars running in the garage all night." She looked at the door out of the living room. "Little coward couldn't stand that I knew; couldn't face me like a man would have done."

"He couldn't bear to live a lie- could he?"

Her dazed eyes became confused, "Living a lie?"

"The lie that it was you he loved, you he wanted. It wasn't the truth of the affair you hated him for- was it? It was knowing that every night he laid beside you in your bed was a lie."

Sophia's expression twisted from one of a broken-hearted widow to that of a scorned lover.

"He deserved to die!" she seethed.

Amos smiled over at me conspiratorially. He turned to Mrs. Rand. "And now you've been living with your own lies too, haven't you, Sophia? Tell them to me..."

Mother had gone to great lengths to hide the family scandal, including launching a terror campaign against Miss Knickerson that ran her out of Littleton before the affair went public. I couldn't fathom how she would come to confess her private humiliation to some campy slut that'd come calling for her son.

"She told me everything, Alan." Valérie said, confirming that which I could not believe. "How Barney fell in love with your fourth grade teacher, how they snuck around for weeks until Sophia caught him red-handed at the no-tell Motel one town over."

If Valérie held any sympathy for my childhood trauma, it wasn't evident in her recount of it. With callous detail, she continued through the history, watching me for reaction.

"Even after your father confessed and threw himself on Sophia's mercy that old bitch was relentless; even brought you in their marital issues, made Daddy tell you everything. But, even falling from grace in his son's eyes wasn't enough for your mother- was it, Alan? For the next year she hounded him relentlessly; no matter what he did to make it up to her, your mother was bent on making his life a living hell."

Valérie drank deeply from her own bottle, then grinned thoughtfully, "Poor, Barney. Poor, horny Mr. Rand. Wifey kept at him until she drove him right back into the arms of the other woman. I mean- why not? If you're going to do the time you might as well commit the crime."

She nodded toward my bottle. My elbow bent of its own accord.

"Barney wasn't just fucking this lady either, Alan- he really loved her. And he paid dearly for that the night he told your mom he was leaving her. Sophia tells the neighbors he slipped in the garage and banged his head on the cement; and tells nobody how the next morning she tried to asphyxiate her little boy."

The glass bottle clanked against my teeth, my hand trembling as I choked down the next swallow. And listened.

"I guess Sophia thought she could exact her final revenge on him by hurting you."

"Your husband did deserve to die," Amos said, matter-of-factly, "You gave him a good home, a good life and he tossed it all aside. The ungrateful bastard. And you loved him, didn't you?"

She nodded.

"Why don't you show me just how much you loved him?" Amos's grin beamed purest evil.

Sophia's face changed as Amos gave her the command. Initially, she looked confused, as if she couldn't remember, then she began to smile. Her face seemed to shed the years like a snake, and she started to strip her blouse off, wriggling her ass on Amos's lap.

Now Amos rules his minions by the use of sex and violence, usually together, but his tastes ran to younger girls than Sophia Rand. I wasn't sure how he would reciprocate to her pushing herself on him.

It seems I needn't have bothered.

When she discarded her bra, Amos simply used her. It wasn't pretty, but thankfully it wasn't as long as his usual exploits. By the end, all she only wore a rucked-up underskirt and a smile.

Sophia's smile had changed though. Amos may have been untypically quick, but he hadn't been gentle.

Then suddenly she stood up, puppet-like, and walked out of the room. Her smile had gone, replaced by something I couldn't describe; just much colder. Puzzled, Amos motioned that I should follow her.

Sophia Rand had made a tidy time capsule of her bedroom; photographs of her dead husband were everywhere, photos of the two of them together, one with him in a uniform. I could see where Alan got his looks from; this guy had been a bit of a hunk.

Sophia crossed to the bed, and pulled back the pink and blue comforter. She carefully picked up a pillow, and held it in front of her.

"Little shit." She said under her breath. "Your turn now."

I had to slip out of her way as she quickly made for Alan's room, still clutching the pillow to her bare breasts.

As I followed her to his bed, I exhaled in shock. She pounced on his bed, holding the pillow down onto his, she cursed, issuing a constant litany. "Your turn now. Your turn now."

The scales fell from my eyes and I suddenly saw it all. The dark secret from Sophia's past, the reason for her resentment.

I tensed, even my heart did not beat, as I recalled that morning. Mother coming toward me, pillow held as a weapon. I struggled at first, fists pounding on the mattress below me, legs kicking. Realizing I could not fend her off, even through my terror, I forced my body limp. I held my breath for a very long time, until she removed the pillow and- without pausing to shed a tear for me- left my room.

There I waited until the police came, running out of my sanctuary and into sight of my now-hysterical mother. The display of emotion abruptly ceased as she took in the sight of me. The authorities had seen me as well. Alive. For what they could tell, unharmed. Mother's opportunity to blame my demise on Father had been missed, his body stretched out and covered on a gurney wheeling toward the ambulance.

I felt safe. For the moment.

Valérie considered me the way one would a caged hamster, "With breeding like yours, it's no wonder why Amos thinks you'd be a great addition to our ranks." She sighed, bored by my trivial tragedy. "Anyway. Mama Dragon's not going to be a problem for you anymore, Alan. She's been... neutralized."

I gasped back to life, much the same as the day Mother suffocated me. My ears filled with pressure as the blood raced to my head.

"Don't worry- she's not dead. She's just been given a new perspective on parenting."

At last my still tongue loosened, "What did you do to her?"

"All I did was listen," Valérie said with an absent shrug, followed by an unctuous grin, "I thought about doing you a favor and end her despicable existence but Amos thought that was a job best left for you to do."

"Amos who?"`

"Amos Blanche, Alan. Your new daddy."

Though the name held no meaning for me, its sound sent a shiver down my spine. Some odd intuition told me I'd better not forget the name.

"He's still with her- Amos is. Thought she was deserving of a bit of... corporal punishment."

I felt my jaw fall slack. Valérie responded to my parochial reaction with a nudge of her elbow into my side.

"C'mon, Alan, a sadistic shrew like your mom is probably enjoying every twisted, painful second of it. And she'll be alright; may walk funny for a few days but other than that..."

Images of my mother, violated in such a fashion, flooded my mind. I wanted to race to her aid, defend her honor and mine, but found myself firmly planted on the sandy bed beneath the bleachers.

"Sophia!" I clipped, watching her with the pillow. "Stop that, right now. Come through to the living room."

It took her many seconds to cease pressing the pillow onto poor Alan's bed.

I followed her back to Amos, who had thankfully straightened himself up. "There's more, Amos. She's hiding something."

Amos walked up to her, and literally breathed up her nostrils. "Tell us the truth, Sophia. Not what you think you remember, tell us the total truth."

She turned to him, but her eyes were not focusing.

"Sophia." Amos said quietly. I'd never seen him so intense. "Strip away the lie that you've believed for years. Tear down the story that you've told your friends, your family." His voice whispered the words, he almost breathed the past part. "Forget what you told the authorities. What actually happened that night?"

I expected emotion, but her face remained calm. "He came back from that woman. I could smell her on him, even through the whiskey on his breath." She glanced at the door to the garage. "He said he was going to leave me." A sneer fleetingly passed over her face. "But he was never leaving my house again. I was going to see to that. I had to keep him here. He sat on that chair, and told me he loved her. Told me!" she almost screamed the last, pointing at the chair in which Amos had used her.

"I had to keep him here." She walked to the chair. "He liked whiskey, so I fed him more; I poured it down his throat. I didn't even undress him; I wanted him fully clothed. I opened his flies and sucked his... thing... that night, just to keep him hard. Just to keep him interested. I tasted her there too." Sophia casually strolled to the door to the garage. "Then I sat on him and fucked him as he drank the whiskey I poured into his glass. He might have loved her, but that night he fucked me." Her face turned suddenly peaceful. "It's amazing how knocked out a man will get after sex and alcohol. It was no problem to drag the bastard to the garage."

She stopped, then slowly her hand came up to her mouth. As if she'd faced the truth for the first time in years.

"I laid him on the cement and started up both cars."

Her hand fell to her side, as she looked at the opening to the bedrooms.

"He was there."

"He was where, Sophia? Who was there?" Amos said, his face animated, caught up in the story like me.

"Alan was in the doorway. He'd seen it all."

I stood, breathless, letting the import of her revelation settle on me.

"Sit down, Sophia. Say nothing, do nothing." Amos commanded quietly.

We looked at each other.

"What a story." I said, at last having seen the complete family dynamic. "No wonder Alan's fucked up. If he saw everything, the sex, the whiskey, the car."

"And then she tried to cover it up by murdering her only son," Amos said with an obvious appreciation for the demented woman.

I shook my head. "It's a wonder he made it through at all."

"He's perfect." Amos said. He stood up, and crossed to Sophia. His hand caressed one breast, then the other. "She's perfect."

Then he turned to me.

"Valérie, get to Alan, get him a bit heated up. Give me a couple of hours, then bring him here."

"Yes, sir," I sped out of there like a bullet. I didn't want to know what Amos intended for that poor woman, but looking into my darkest soul, I had a good idea. And it wasn't going to be pretty.

Valérie's hand found my thigh, groping in a harsh yet slow massage. At least I had the self-possession enough to flick her away.

Her responding laugh sounded bitter and degrading, "My god, little boy, do you even know what thing between your legs is for?"

Valérie leaned over me, pausing only to saturate my senses with her inebriating breath, "I've been sent to show you. Like it or not, your first lesson starts now."

She worked her fingers over me, stimulating the appropriate reaction, and tugged the zipper down.

"Wow. Not such a little boy after all. I might just be able to have some fun with you after all, Alan Rand."

She descended upon me. For a moment I sat paralyzed once again. Valérie's ministrations produced sensations in me that shut down my mind; I felt all body, driven by the desire of my flesh. Yet, as my senses returned, disgust in her and the violation of me overwhelmed any other sentiment.

Just as Mother dealt pain to cower me, this profane creature used pleasure to dim my wits, control me. As Valérie turned her head to expectorate, I grabbed hard to the back of her hair, crushing my beer bottle against the bleachers. With one jagged edge, I gouged into her jugular, letting her blood ark in a terrific spout, then and dropped her head to let the rest drain into the sand.

Well of all the dirty lowdown tricks I'd ever witnessed, I'd never had one like this; neck stabbed while giving head. I looked at my watch. Thankfully only an hour had passed, but more to my constant gratitude, my body hadn't been discovered. That would have put the cat amongst the pigeons.

I looked around; no sign of Alan.

I set off for the sports building; I had to find a mirror, find out what damage he'd done.

The changing rooms were quiet, and to my surprise, he'd only cut my neck once. A deep scar and still pretty red, but I knew it would heal very quickly.

I whizzed to Alan's house, and found Amos waiting in the car outside.

"You're early," he said it like an accusation.

I flashed my new injury, "He got away from me." I quickly told Amos of the beers behind the bleachers.

That earned a delighted smile from my boss, "Very, very good. You've earned your pay for the day after all, Valérie. Our Alan may be immune to your charms but you've managed to un-cage the beast within."

Dirty, haughty bastard. I wondered if that's what this had been about all along. Just to stir Alan's survival instinct, Amos had seen fit to put my neck on the line, literally.

"He's coming now," Amos said, glancing in his rearview mirror.

I crouched behind the driver's side but I needn't have bothered; Alan looked distracted beyond belief. Blood showed clearly on his shirt, and on his arms and sleeve. As he threw his bike onto the lawn, I'm not even sure he had his zipper pulled up.

If it hadn't been my own murder I might have felt some semblance of sorrow for the boy. But I'd had his come in my mouth when he'd tried to cut my head off with a jagged bottle. I still felt a little pissed.

I got up to make my way to the house. Amos waved me down.

"Give them a few minutes," his smile looked horrific, "there's about to be a family reunion of sorts and we shouldn't deny Alan his last moments with his dear mother."

I walked through the door to find Mother sprawled out over the living room floor. Her dress had been discarded; only a clinging slip shrouded her from the waist down, damp and torn at the seam the entire length of her thigh. The stench of her defilement hung over her like a cloud. Her favorite strand of pearls snapped from around her neck, the little beads littered all around her head.

"Mother!"

I shook at her until she stirred, eyes fluttering open as if coming to from some drunken stupor. She rose to a sit, taking no care to cover her exposed breasts or even seeming to take notice.

"Alan?" she breathed my name like she barely recalled it.

"Yes, Mother."

A smile, one broad and affectionate, played across her face, "How was school?"

Mother rolled to her knees, dragging herself up to stand by aid of the sofa. There she stood for a long moment, clutching the couch for support, until her vertigo passed. Turning toward me, her eyes roved over my blood-stained garments.

She giggled, "You've messed your shirt."

I pulled my eyes off her breasts and peered down the length of my body. Red blotches had soaked through the fabric and dried it to my chest. I'd urinated myself and there remained a tell-tale trail of wet running down my inner thigh. By her passive acceptance, I might as well have been covered in grass or mud.

"Did you win?" she pressed, still smiling.

The word sounded foreign, "Win?"

"Whatever sport you were playing to have gotten you in such a state."

Sport? A shadow of a memory flashed through my mind, it seemed more like the remnants of a dream; somewhere back in my childhood there had been a time when I'd been allowed out to play like the other boys. As I recalled, I'd had an aptitude for street hockey.

"Yes, Mother," I lifted my chin proudly, thinking of my opponent lying dead under the bleachers, "I scored the winning point."

"Good for you, Ally! Keep it up- someday you'll be great!"

"Yes, Mother, someday I will be."

I stood in awed fascination, reunited with the mother I had known before Father's betrayal snatched her away from me. Indeed, she seemed to see me as the youngster she used to dote over. Even her words of empty encouragement denoted the resurrection of a woman long-dead.

Mother stumbled toward me, "Come on, now- off with those dirty clothes. We'll get you put to rights before your father comes home and sees your mischief."

She winked at me, a willing accessory to my deception.

"Yes." I agreed stupidly, "Father would be displeased if he found me in this condition."

It seemed a strange play we were performing, and yet here I stood, stripping my clothes when she stood in front of me, almost naked. Mother tapped her foot playfully and waited as I stripped down to my underwear, holding out her arm like a butler while I hung my ruined shirt and trousers over it. I wondered at how long she would scrub at the bloodstains.

"Good. Now get into the tub and be quick."

I turned to walk down the hall, when the doorbell announced a visitor. I froze in my steps, wondering if anybody might have seen me pedaling home, covered in blood. Wondering if Valérie's body had already been found.

Still half-naked, Mother scampered to the door excitedly. I remembered a time when she would delight in company. It seemed that old enthusiasm had returned.

A diminutive man, gray of hair, stood in the doorframe. Even from where I stood, his presence bespoke a power his small frame could not account for. Without invitation, he side-stepped my mother, his crinkled face displaying great pleasure in the awkward circumstances he'd found us in: each of us nearly naked, reeking of dried-on fluids.

"Have I interrupted a family bonding moment?"

Mother seemed oblivious to the man's incendiary jest. I, however, took the full brunt of the insinuation. I felt the heat of embarrassment flush my face.

"Forgive my crudeness," he said, coming further into the house, "I don't believe you know who I am. Of course, your mother and I have already met."

A flash of confusion lighted Mother's eyes. Only then did I fully realize that for her, the last nine years had never happened. Even the abuse she'd suffered earlier in the day had been wiped from her mind. I had no doubt left to me as to his identity.

I spoke his name as if his coming had been prophesized, "Amos Blanche."

Another form pushed past my loitering mother, "But, you can call him 'daddy'."

Valérie stood at the man's shoulder. The hole in her neck had healed, leaving only a star-shaped scar; even that appeared to be fading before my eyes.

"Yes, baby, it's me." She leered.

The old man checked her with a wave of his arm. Valérie seemed to fade as quickly and completely as that scar. He wasted no time getting to the reason for his visit.

"Do you know what your strength is, young man," Amos asked, motioning for me to come forward. Despite my embarrassment at my state of dress, I couldn't help myself from complying. "It's your hatred- hatred of all that lives and breathes. It was that hatred that kept you alive the morning your mother came to kill you; the same hatred that stabs at the throat of a helpless girl that just wants to suck on your dick."

Amos motioned for my mother. Like me, she answered to his bidding without pause.

"Problem is, boy, your hatred has no place in the human world. It sets you apart, makes you an outcast. In their world, your hatred is your downfall. In my world, it will elevate you to heights you could never dream of."

He turned toward Mother, "Fetch your best knife from the kitchen, Sophia."

Without hesitation, she dropped the bundle of clothes to the ground and trotted away, her breasts bobbling as she went. I watched her go, knowing I could not prevent whatever was going to happen.

"She's really very affable now," Amos said delightedly, "I'm sure we'll find her quite docile throughout these proceedings."

A moment later, Mother returned with a carving knife. A blade I knew well, as it had been shoved under my chin on more than one occasion; most recently for tracking dirt over the freshly-steamed carpet.

Mother stood expressionless, silent and still as a mannequin, posed in a straight posture with the tip of the knife pointed downward.

"Sophia," Amos said dispassionately, "Give the knife to Alan, please."

With a bemused expression, she handed it over.

"Alan, would you like to plunge the knife into her abdomen?"

I shook my head.

"Not after all those beatings?" Amos approached me. "Not after she's slapped you, beat you, whipped you?"

It seemed that every one of the scars on my body began to hurt simultaneously. I began to boil, and Amos knew it. He pressed all the right buttons, and I allowed him.

"Go on. If you want to, you can get your revenge now."

I gripped the handle tightly, and placed the tip just above the elastic waist of her slip.

"Go on, Alan; be a man." He stood now so close, his breath buzzed in my ear. "Revenge for years of battery. Revenge for putting that pillow over your face. Revenge for murdering your father!"

I pushed hard, and felt amazed at how little resistance met the blade. I thrust the length of it through her soft belly. Her face grimaced at the pain but she did not cry out. Blood poured from the cut, soaking into her cream underskirt.

"You see," Amos said empirically, "hate makes such heinousness possible, leaving no room for mercy or reason for justification."

Amos rounded on my mother, "Again, Alan."

I dislodged the knife only to repeat the infliction in a fresh spot. At Amos' silent prodding, I did the same twice more. Her usual grace abandoned her as she pulled herself from the blade, and slumped onto the sofa. Blood now flowed onto the blue flowery pattern.

Amos smiled over my mother, folded in half and bleeding, as if letting me in on some inside joke. I dropped the knife onto the carpet. It splashed blood in tiny spherical droplets.

"There is no limit to what you can mete out if the measure of hatred within you is great enough," Amos said to me, "And I believe that you have such a degree of hatred inside you that you may just invent new ways inflicting pain that even I could not fathom, Alan Rand."

The sound of my full name spoken aloud washed over me in a bizarre, calming tide. Like Mother, still hunched over in that compromising position, I lay under a spell. As I took in the measure of her, bleeding and leaking, I felt as though a chord had been snapped, detaching me from her suffering.

Amos waved his hand out to Valérie, presenting an offering, "This one is yours, Alan Rand, to do with as you please."

Like a lamb to the slaughter, she stepped up, disrobing.

"How do you want to take her?"

I, too, moved forward, stopping only long enough to pick the knife up again.

It wasn't nice, and it wasn't pretty, but I'd put up with worse from the old guy standing watching. Alan Rand didn't have anything on Amos yet; probably never would be. Alan just launched himself at me, his penis finding its home between my legs like a pro. I half enjoyed it until he started poking my neck with the knife. I remember hearing Amos talking one day; 'that which kills us makes us stronger'. I believed it then. I had to.

To give myself willingly to the slaughter took a lot more than I'd thought it would.

To my relief, after he'd started with the knife, darkness fell quickly.

"She won't stay dead, you know." Amos said, standing over me as I admired my handy work.

Valérie's corpse lay in a bloody heap on the carpet. I had allowed her to pleasure me as my first cuts tore through her abdomen. Yet, it did nothing to stifle my arousal once her dead fingers released their grip. I took everything away from her then; all her beauty, her charm, the very breath in her lungs. Only the promise that I could soon do it all again brought more satisfaction.

"Do you know what we are, Alan Rand?"

I smiled, "You're monsters. And I'm one of you."

Amos' appreciation was evident. As Mother laid dying, and Valérie reviving, we gathered at the table for a cup of tea and a long conversation.

"Sit here," I said, pulling out the chair that had once belonged to my father, "It's the place of honor."

In silent rapture, I sipped and listened intently to Amos Blanche's account of vampires, the intended uprising, his rise to power with me in his wake. My neck ached for his bite; the promise of it stirred in me urges Valérie could not begin to.

Amos must have detected my excitement, "If there is anything that concerns me about you, Alan Rand, it's your lust for power."

My teacup clanked and fractured as it slipped from my astonished fingers, "I don't understand. I thought that's what this was all about- dominance, power..."

"No, Alan," he shook his head disappointedly, "this was about violence; violence for its own sake, an outlet for that hate you harbor."

"Violence is power." Even to my own ears I sounded like an impetuous child.

"It is only one form of power; the type of power a small boy wields as he holds his magnifying glass over the ant hill," Amos poured another cup, "but, I see in you that you would never be satisfied with such useless endeavors; you and I are of one soul, Alan Rand- we both desire power over the minds and wills of others. Something, I believe, we each inherited from our disdainful mothers."

I stole a glance toward the sofa. Mother issued another soft cry, blood now trickling from her mouth. It wouldn't be much longer. So, I returned my full attention to the more important matter at hand.

"I should think you would appreciate such a shared trait." I said diplomatically.

Amos' brilliant eyes regarded me shrewdly, "Not where it might interfere with my plans, young man."

"I would never move against you!" I pled, hoping he could feel my sincerity from across the table.

"To be certain, I will make sure to put certain safeguards in place."

"Safeguards?"

Amos lowered his cup, his posture changing from conversational to business, "I will change you myself- a practice I usually reserve for tender females, such as Valérie here. In so doing, you will become my personal possession, Alan Rand; you will be beholden to me for the remainder of your existence and utterly incapable of disobeying my will."

My body became charged with eagerness, "I wouldn't disobey you now, Sir. Use me as you like- I will follow you until the end of time!"

"I know," he said tiredly, "and it is such a waste to make a promising ram into a meager sheep. All the same- you will serve me well."

Amos rose and I followed. Mother had stopped moving, her bowels had already expended their last and the faint cries had gone utterly silent.

"We must move quickly before she expires."

I shrugged frivolously, "I believe she already has."

"There's still a slight pulse; I can hear it."

As I bent low, straining to hear what he did, Amos advanced on me like a lunging tiger. His arms clamped around my midsection, his fragrant breath in my face, I fell limp like a lover in heated embrace. It felt the greatest ecstasy as his fangs sank into my throat, suckling the blood from my artery. I never wanted the moment to end.

As I grappled with my arousal, Amos pulled away from me and offered up his own wrist. The taste of sex and violence and power mingled together, everything Amos Blanche had promised me.

I drank while my mentor grappled with his own arousal. Once both my need felt satisfied, Amos turned me again toward my mother.

"Drink from her quickly. Feed. She doesn't have much time."

I sat in the corner of the room, nursing my newest cuts, determined that he'd not take me like that again.

Alan implored Amos to turn him, to transport him to immortality.

He sounded sickly sweet, and Amos lapped it up like a thin, disheveled puppy dog.

I know that Amos thought he turned me, all those many years ago, and that technically I should be beholden to the thin wiry man, but I lost something that afternoon, and it wasn't just Alan's use of the knife.

As the two got down to the carnality of the ritual, I lost interest, instead taking in Sophia's bewildered expression, as she too looked on.

When my boss forced his own blood down Alan's throat, forming their bond, part of my beholding to Amos died quietly.

As Alan severed his mother's throat, and sank his mouth to the crimson wave, I closed my eyes.

(Now fleetingly back to Valérie's story, (Original Sins) for a quick look at the newest of Amos Blanche's acquisitions.)

Over the next ten years, he boasted such despicable acquisitions as Hannah and Barton Lynch, Sheldon Newell and in due time Alan Rand. In my mind I questioned the validity of every one; they did not seem to have the qualifications necessary to grow our group successfully, but they shared one basic quality; hearts of purest black.

During that time a young, charismatic womanizer by the name of Donny Kelp became entangled in Blanche's net. It turned out that Donny had courted a friendship with a certain politician's daughter, and Amos required leverage.

(Thus begins the story of Donny Kelp, who appears later in Vampire High School. Ian writes as Donny Kelp, the boy with the face fit for the big screen. April writes as Valérie, the disenchanted vampire who had turned him.)

Vampires Don't Cry, New Blood: Donny Kelp

By Ian Hall and April L. Miller.

Pennsylvania, December 1958.

Seems that being a vampire, and keeping up the appearance of normality were one and the same thing.

SLAP.

Another clatter across the forehead, this time nearer my temples.

"I thought you were smart!" her voice hurt more than her open hand.

SLAP.

It wasn't as though I could put up any resistance. My arms were twisted behind me by two of the College Football team, and since Valérie went on and on at me about the restraints 'we vampires' had to live under, I'm guessing that the football lunks were also turned.

Two days. I'm two days a vampire, turned against my will by the delectable slapping Valérie, and I'm already being reprimanded for making 'rookie mistakes'.

"How was I meant to know?" I pleaded between slaps.

Yup.

SLAP.

"You're meant to have some kind of idea!" she spat at me. I couldn't help but see the sexy side of the whole punishment. The more I sagged in the footballers' arms, the lower she leant over, the more cleavage I saw down the front of the cheerleader uniform. Not that I hadn't seen it before; two nights ago, in fact. We were doing it, full naked, when just at my moment- my moment- she bit my neck hard. It didn't actually spoil my enjoyment that much, just made it different.

And she left me. Wandering aimlessly in town, wondering why everything had changed. My senses were tingling, I felt weak, yet euphoric.

When I got back to the dorm, I slept for a whole day.

Then when everything had calmed down a bit, and a good sleep behind me, I got randy. I went down to the college and soon found myself a nice piece of neck to chew on. I thought I'd had it made. I just whispered sweet nothings in her ear, and she crawled all over me.

Shooting fish in a barrel.

So I did what any self-respecting guy would do, I dragged her behind the bleachers, and helped her get naked. Man, I felt pumped up to do something real bad. Her neck kind of presented itself to me, and I snarled at her. Then, just as I get my brand new fangs onto her skin....

I get grabbed by the football Jocks, right from in front of her, pulled to my feet, and dragged screaming across the playing field.

How the hell did I know there would be such a thing as vampire etiquette?

Not exactly a study course this semester.

Not exactly one of the evening clubs you subscribe to.

Not common knowledge at all.

New blood.

No different than New Money: undisciplined and uncultured. They came from nowhere and nothing; a bit of good luck-shake to the right hand, kiss the right ass- rags to riches type story. Their kind lacked wisdom and propriety. Decorum. Common goddamn sense.

A wild card like this Donny Kelp running loose would prove a liability to us all, especially me. Why Amos needed him on the payroll was beyond my comprehension. But, not my place to question. Only to recruit- and then to keep them in line.

I stepped back and looked at my handy work. Donny's made-for-the-silver-screen face looked a bit worse for wear. But, he would heal well before first class on Monday morning. Shame. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see that playboy crash and burn at his own game.

"I'm assuming we'll not be having any more trouble with you attacking humans at your discretion."

Predictably, Donny lifted a pair of sheepish eyes. His sad attempt at disarming me, I supposed.

"What do you expect me to do, Valérie? You turned me into this... this... killing machine."

For good measure, I re-introduced his cheek to the back of my hand, "That's right- I did make you what you are; and I can take it all away just as quickly. Is that what you want?"

In the past, I'd found this to be the part they resorted to begging for mercy. Donny Kelp, on the other hand, took me by surprise.

"Yeah," he said, "maybe it is."

"I gave him my best vampire stare, then hit him with the command tone. "From now on, you feed when I say. Right?"

He just nodded.

Amos may have had some use for Donny Kelp but he'd been my conquest, my subordinate. My blood had turned him and that put him under my control. As far as I was concerned, I'd do with him as I damn well pleased. Even if that meant starving the womanizing, chauvinistic arrogance right out of him.

Amos Blanche turned out to be nothing like I'd expected. When Valérie took me up to see 'the boss', I expected Raymond Burr or Jimmy Cagney or something. I didn't expect a thin, old gnarly guy who actually looked all of the two hundred years he claimed to be.

"I picked you for a purpose, Donny." He croaked like a two pack a day guy. I knew I needed to listen, so for once in my life, I actually shut up and said nothing.

Valérie sat in the shadows, a strange, lost look on her face.

Amos motioned to one of the football jocks, and he brought this teenage girl into the room. To say she looked scared would be an understatement. She struggled, but the jock held her firmly by the upper arms. A large gag kept her from making too much noise, but she screamed in there. Terrified.

"Watch and learn." Amos walked up to the girl, who watched him, eyes wide open, every step of the way. Man, did he get close. He carefully breathed into her face, then closer still, until his lips nearly touched her nose, breathing right under her nostrils. It happened slowly, but she did stop struggling.

"You want me." He whispered.

The girl emphatically shook her head.

Amos breathed some more, and her eyes never left his. "Take off the gag."

Releasing her arms, the jock undid the large knot behind her head.

She panted in his face, her breath ragged.

"Kiss me." Amos said.

I actually shook my head, never going to happen.

But to my shock she did. She kissed him. Nervously at first, then with so much building passion that she pulled him close, and began to rub herself over him like some cat in heat.

He pushed her away. "Take her to my room."

The jock actually had to pull her off.

Amos turned to me. "That!" he said pointing at the closing door. "Is how it's done!"

He came real close. "That is what you'll learn. It's the sole purpose in your miserable life!"

Bewildered by what I'd just seen, trying to relate it to my new "purpose", I stood utterly silent, squirming under the old man's icy glare.

"Wait outside." Amos said to me.

I've never been more grateful to leave a room.

It never came easy for me- watching the young girls presented before changing. I remembered all too well my great tussle with Amos; weeks of long agonizing sex. So long ago.

But Amos liked to be active when young, attractive females were chosen. The king declaring Prima Notre on the virgin's wedding night, he would be slow and methodical, but he would not be gentle. And he wouldn't turn her until the very end- until he'd raped her nearly to death. His way; establish dominance through suffering, and enjoy the process.

It wasn't enough that Amos sated his lust for violence through sex. He felt it imperative for all the male recruits to do the same. Socio-sexual stereotypes were harsh enough in the human world. Vampires- female vampires- lived in terror of their male superiors.

I rose through the ranks by proving to Amos my bones were no more made of glass than his. What he dished, I took and never broke- never once. At least not in front of him.

It only took four decades enduring his brutality, but eventually the whip at my back got thrust into my hand, and I became the woman that men feared. I showed my recruits the exact measure of mercy Amos dealt his- absolutely none.

Now a small enlistment of subservient males jumped to my beck and call. Mine, should ever the day come when Amos fell.

But my latest, Donny Kelp, seemed different; Amos had a specific task for this young man.

I scanned Donny's face as he watched Amos take control of the girl. Fear. Distaste. Anger. He didn't like what he saw. But then they never did at first. Eventually they all grew to embrace Amos' example, and to follow suit.

Once they had their first taste of that kind of total, elicit power they came around.

Bastards.

Amos favored me with a rare compliment, "You've outdone yourself, Valérie. He's just what we've been looking for."

To have such power over another human being had been incredible to watch, and to be honest, I couldn't take my eyes off them; Amos the thin old man and the new girl.

Then Amos told me to leave.

I only waited outside until the door a moment, when it opened again.

Amos's voice passed over Valérie's shoulders. "Tell him his task; I've got an exercise regimen to attend to."

In my mind, I could see the sickly sweet smile.

"Yes, Amos." She strode out into the corridor, and waited till the door closed. "Donny? My bedroom. Now."

I headed down the corridor at a fair clip, but still felt her breath on the back of my neck all the way. As I entered her boudoir and spun round, she'd already closed the door behind us.

Now, I like sex. I love girls, women, whatever. But I've never been used before, and it wasn't pleasant.

To be accurate, we didn't have sex, we rutted. I felt merely the implement she used to rub herself against. My initial feeling of lust soon quelled, and although I contributed nothing to the affair, she still took her sweet time. By the time she collapsed on top of me, satiated and soaking with sweat, I held nothing but disgust for the woman.

Then she slapped me. "That's what it's like!"

SLAP. Same hand, same place.

"That's what Amos's lifestyle is like."

SLAP. My brain felt like it ricocheted around inside my skull; a pinball on overdrive.

"He takes what he wants, and he feels no remorse. He deals pain and demands loyalty."

She held my face in her palms, looking desperately into my eyes.

"He is the pinnacle of vampire power in this area, yet he rules through hate and torture."

At last the penny dropped. I saw the moral in the tale, cottoned onto the reason for her torrid display. Although I flinched against another slap, I couldn't help trying to prove to Valérie that I was worth saving.

"He's doing it all wrong." I said.

"Of course he is." Valérie began to sob. "I'm sorry what I just did to you, Donny, but that poor girl along the hallway will be awake for hours. Her end is predictable, and he'll demand her supplication."

Valérie got up and sat on the side of the bed.

"The vampire hierarchy is fatally flawed, Donny. And I'm not the only one who has noticed. In the world of mortal men, men like Amos are a dying breed. Their leadership changes; survival of the fittest. But here, it is survival of the oldest, whether fit to rule or not."

"Because we're immortal, of course."

We both grinned. I had learned a valuable lesson, but I felt no nearer to knowing my mission.

I took my share of him and in my own time. Giving nothing back. By the time I relented, heaving and drained, Donny's hatred of me showed, blatantly evident in his expression. Good.

"The vampire hierarchy is fatally flawed, Donny. And I'm not the only one who has noticed. In the world of mortal men, men like Amos are a dying breed. Their leadership changes; survival of the fittest. But here, it is survival of the oldest, whether fit to rule or not."

Donny made some smirky, smartass remark.

"I may not be able to kill Amos Blanche; but if I'm successful his influence will die even if he lives to the end of time."

Donny, still naked, got up from the bed, crossed the room and lit two cigarettes. The first he offered to me. I took it eagerly, letting the smoke sweep into my lungs with a pleasing burn. Just like I'd done with Donny, I took my time to enjoy the physical sensation.

I noticed how he watched my breasts as my lungs expanded. Perhaps my new acquisition wasn't nearly as disgusted in me as I'd first believed. Composed and almost callous, Donny didn't bother to hide his valuation of me; though he kept any approval closely guarded. He wasn't a whelp, whining for a bone. Donny seemed to be a man who knew how to be one.

False lust took a turn toward genuine admiration. I began to see Donny Kelp in a new light. Perhaps the first potential rival to Amos' dominion I'd ever come across. The man I'd been looking for.

His next words proved me right, "What is it that you want from me, Valérie?"

Valérie dressed quickly. "First of all, I want you to realize that being a vampire isn't just about sex and greed."

I nodded.

"I need you to acknowledge that there is another way, a higher calling to our place on this earth."

I nodded again. "I had wondered about that. I mean, where does God come into this?"

She gave me an awkward look, then shook her head. "We need to change your name." Valérie had dressed, and I still felt kind of numb after her sex attack. "I mean, what the hell kind of name is Donny?"

"Short for Donovan."

"Never heard of it. Sorry, you're going to be re-invented."

I shook my head. "Why do you have to change my name?"

"Because you're going away for a while." Valérie began to pace the room.

"What about my mission; my task?"

Valérie's expression changed. I'd glimpsed a thoughtful side to her now, a calculating side I hadn't seen before. "You, my dear, were going to be Amos's step up in the world. You know Tracy Kennedy? It's my job to train you to turn her, bring her into the vampire fold. That's your mission. You were to take your place at her father's side. That would enable Amos's rise into the political arena; as if he doesn't have enough power already."

She pulled her long boots on. "But if I have my way, he'll never get to dip his toe into government. I have a few phone calls to make. I have a new identity to engineer, and you have to go into hiding for a few years."

"Years? What about my family?"

"Say your goodbyes. If you stay here, under his power, Amos will tear them limb from limb just to keep you on your toes. It's his way. Your disappearance will be their saving grace. He hand-picked you, Donny; either you leave the state, or I've got to organize a tragic accident for Tracy Kennedy. Amos is not getting into the fucking White House."

"How will I live?" I asked. I sat on a full-ride scholarship to Penn State; other than that- not a dime to my name. She expected me to walk away from the life I'd been building for myself, that's bad enough, but to do it empty handed?

"I can arrange whatever you need; don't worry- you'll want for nothing. But you need to leave soon, to set this in motion."

"Not quite that easy, Valérie. There are some things we're going to have to discuss before I go anything."

For a split second, I thought I'd have another encounter with Valérie's back hand. Instead, she folded her arms and gave me an "I'm listening" glare.

Shit. It already felt cold outside, and the first sprinklings of snow drifted through Pennsylvania; nineteen-fifty-nine would be an interesting year.

Turns out my apprentice seemed nowhere near as free and easy as he'd appeared from the outside. Donny Kelp refused to assume his new identity and new life before a few conditions were met. First and foremost: his mother and younger sister needed to be made safe from Amos Blanche and his crusade.

The drive from Penn State to his squalid home town, Oak Peak, should only have been forty minutes under optimal conditions. However, conditions were far from optimal. The first heavy snow fall of the year had gained momentum. Roads were slick, visibility next to nothing. Donny drove at a snail's pace, still under the assumption that skidding off the road and down the embankment could end his fragile life. He hadn't yet come to terms with immortality.

I just let him drive. I'd always hated the winter and to think I'd live through hundreds-possibly thousands- more of them made me envious of the humans' short life span. Once I'd broke free of Amos Blanche's rule, I'd move on to warmer climate; a land of perpetual summer.

Throughout our prolonged expedition cross-state, Donny illuminated me on his personal history. I guess he labored under the impression I cared.

"...after my father died, my mother had to get out and work for the first time in her life; had to get two jobs just to make ends meet. Cassie was only three and I was thirteen, so I spent pretty much every waking minute taking care of her. I was more of a dad to her than a brother. Poor kid flipped out when I went off to university..."

I nodded my head every once in a while out of sheer politeness, though I only absorbed about half his saga.

"So, if I'm going to do this- I need your word, Valérie."

I got shaken out of my stupor by the mention of my name, "Hmm? What's that?"

"I need your word that they'll be taken care of: financially and whatever else. I want my mom and sister set up good—set for life. You've got the resources, right?"

I'd been clutching a canvas bag filled with stacks of twenties; last count it amounted to nearly a hundred-grand. Just some walking-around money. One thing about being over a hundred years old: you had something to show for it. A drop in the bucket for me, but it would do more than appease a single mother, scratching to get by.

"Your family will be well provided for," I told him, un-cinching the drawstring to the canvas bag. Donny's eyes became round with awe, "As long as I have your word that you'll do exactly as I say from here on out."

Donny pulled up a long driveway, the cement pitted from wear, to a stucco ranch-style that hadn't seen a new coat of paint or had its gutters cleaned in far too long. The sight of that house gave me an insight to Donny Kelp that his hour-long monolog never could have; no wonder the guy fucked everything in sight and smoked like a chimney. For Donny, college had proved both his vacation, and an escape route; a four-year-long sabbatical from playing "man of the house".

Maybe that's why he didn't put up too big of a fight. I'd claimed Donny Kelp as my ticket out, and maybe I was his.

Soon as we walked through the door, a young girl with brown pigtails bounced up and threw herself into Donny's arms. His mother, looking weatherworn, rose heavily from an olive green sofa and came to greet him as well.

Before she got two feet from me, I caught a whiff of sourness vaporing off her skin- ill, very ill; some sort of cancer. By the look on Donny's face I knew he smelled it too. I could only hope his inexperienced senses wouldn't identify the source of the strange odor or I'd never be able to pull him out of that house while his family still lived.

The journey north proved terrible. I hate driving, but worse than that, I hate silent passengers. The snow made for bad conditions, and I knew my tires were not good. I felt the car shift me feet so many times, I'm sure we half skated to Oak Peak, rather than drove.

Valérie didn't help. She sat quiet for most of the journey, when I could have done with a bit of encouragement. A bit of 'you're-doing-the-right-thing'; a pat on the back.

I felt so nervous, I started to blab my life history, my hopes and fears, but I'm not sure she heard me. Or if she heard my words, they never passed into her conscious thoughts.

After too many hmm's and yeah's, I decided that I wanted something more tangible. I mean, I wasn't going to get a written contract or anything, but I wanted some assurance.

"I need your word that they'll be taken care of: financially and whatever else. I want my mom and sister set up good—set for life. You've got the resources, right?"

Valérie said and did nothing for a very long moment, then she began to open a bag on her lap.

"Your family will be well provided for." She said, inclining the opening of the bag towards me. Inside lay the biggest pile of money I'd ever seen. I shifted my eyes quickly back to the road. There seemed no point in being killed, so close to my family being rich. "As long as I have your word that you'll do exactly as I say from here on out."

"No problem, Valérie. I just need them cared for, you understand?"

She nodded her head as the first sign of Oak Peak appeared in the salt-streaked windscreen. "You'll be safe underground and your mother and sister will be fine."

I drove the last few miles in silence. I had my new ID in my back pocket; I hadn't even looked at the thing. Valérie had meant it to be the key to my new life, but I had problems shaking off the old one.

All the reassurances or money in the world couldn't have prepared me for the wall of stench that hit me when I walked through the door. The house stank of rotting meat, coming from everywhere. I couldn't pinpoint the source.

Bubbling through the air of death, Cassie fussed her exuberant self, and suddenly the thought of not seeing her again, made me doubt my commitment to Valérie's plan.

I kept a mantra going through my mind as they exchanged pleasantries; 'Mom's dying, the money will set Cass up for life'.

"I'm Darlene," Donny's mom introduced, extending a shriveled hand out to me.

"Valérie."

"Is that your girlfriend?" The girl, still clutching her brother round the neck, asked with a curious glance to me.

"Mind your manners, Cass."

I'd never seen the devil-may-care Donny so uncomfortable; I decided to make the most of it. With a wink and a smile, "I don't mind, hon."

The child giggled and wriggled down from Donny's hold, coming closer to inspect me. Human children were so fearless; I instantly took a shine to little Cassie Kelp.

"Are you staying for supper?" Darlene asked, emphasizing every other word with a cough. The cancer sat in her lungs; by the smell of smoke trapped in the walls it came as no surprise.

"Actually, Mom, I can't stay long," Donny started to tear up; I sat still for a moment, thinking I'd lost him, "There's something very important I need to talk to you about. Cassie... go wait in your room for a few minutes..."

Reluctantly, his sister grabbed a collection of dolls from the coffee table and trotted off down the hall. We all seated ourselves around the smelly living room. Before Donny could back out of our deal, I decided to appeal to his protective nature and his mother's greed, dumping the mountain of cash out where the Barbie dolls had been moments ago.

Darlene's eyes widened and her cough picked up along with her pulse, "What's all this?"

"I have to leave town for a while, Mom... this money is for you and Cass- to take care of you while I'm gone."

"H-how long?"

He looked at me, I nodded imperceptivity as possible- my deal had been proposed as a lifetime commitment, sure to outlive both mother and sister. Far as I felt concerned, nothing had changed.

"I don't know for sure, Mom. Quite a while." Donny picked up a rubber-banded stack and handed it to his mother, "But, you'll have this..."

"Bit lot of good that's gonna do me when I'm in the ground," she threw it back on the pile with the rest, "I'm dying, Donny... and we're not talking years. It's months at the outside. You need to come back home and look after Cass before I get to the point where I can't."

Donny had made the connection between the odor and his mother's health. I could see it register in his eyes.

"I don't know how you came across this money, Son," Darlene's tone sounded brutal with judgment, "But, this house serves Jesus, and whatever deeds brought you that worldly wealth... I just pray they haven't cost you your soul."

Mrs. Kelp's condemnation of Donny's gift might as well have been a wooden stake. He trembled; I mean, a vampire, trembling. I took one final leap of faith that I hadn't picked the wrong successor to Amos Blanche's throne.

"It's not like that," I cut in, "Donny hasn't broken any laws or done anything immoral, Darlene. In fact- it's just the opposite; your son is embarking on a mission of good. If he's successful, many souls will be saved- including his own... and maybe even mine."

My words left the woman cold as stone, "All I know is I might not live to see Christmas morning and you've got a ten year old sister that needs looking after. No amount of money in the world's gonna change either of those facts."

The doorbell rang, and Cassie came bounding into the hall. "I'll get it!"

"Right, honey." Darlene smiled at the retreating figure. "You have to protect her, son. In a couple of months, you'll be all she has left."

Darlene broke off into a coughing fit so violent I never heard him approach. I turned to the door just as Amos Blanche walked through.

"Don't even think about it, Valérie." His words cut across the room like a scythe.

I'm not sure what she'd had in mind, but she sure stopped in her tracks.

"And all this cash lying around." Amos walked into the living room, the two familiar football jocks close behind him. "You'd think people would be more careful with their valuables." He flipped a couple of the bundles. "This your whole life savings, Valérie?"

She shook her head.

"Tell him to stand still and say nothing." Amos said. "Tell him."

Valérie reluctantly turned to me. "Stand still, Donny. Say nothing."

I wasn't sure exactly what to do, but when Amos took Cassie under his arm, I went for him. Well, my thoughts went for him. I stood exactly as still as before, while my mind raced across the room to my sister's defense.

"Such a nice child." He crouched low, running his hands over her shoulders, her sides.

NO! I screamed, but of course, I'd already been silenced.

"Such a pity that I like my girls with more ... juice."

With a twist of his hands, he twisted her neck painfully to the side. Then leant to her and drank deeply from her extended throat.

My mother screamed, throwing herself at Amos. His henchmen intervened; holding her, maliciously, just inches away from Cassie's dying eyes.

Amos rose from Cassie's limp frame, and let her fall to the floor. He nodded to the jocks, who both tore into my mother like ravenous wolves.

"I don't eat rancid flesh," Amos sneered. "But she'll do for these two."

I stood in silence, as my head protested so much I thought it would burst.

"Run, Donny." Valérie said.

I felt the shackles suddenly leave me, but to my surprise, run seemed to be the last thing on my mind. I grabbed a large brass cross from the dinner table and took a step towards Amos.

The jocks had placed themselves between me and Amos, but they needn't have bothered.

Clutching the cross as an axe, I felt change wash over my immortal skin. Light shone on me- or maybe through me. I stopped in my tracks. Rage turned to calm, almost as if an invisible cloak enveloped me. All my life, I'd rebelled against my mother's beliefs; now standing, cross in hand, I felt as small as I'd ever been.

And yet larger than Amos and his minions put together.

I watched Donny's transformation; it happened in the twinkling of an eye. The rage that had suffused him dissipated like mist. He looked down at the crucifix in his hand as if the little figure of the man nailed to it had animated and spoke directly to him.

"You didn't pick me," Donny said to Amos Blanche, a wild, fearless smile overtaking his expression, "He did."

Donny laid the cross down atop the pile of money his mother had so fervently rejected. Without so much as a glance to me or his fallen family members, he held his arms out to Amos as if waiting for shackles.

"There's nothing you can do to me now, Amos Blanche," he said, "in taking their lives, you've left me no reason to fear death. And you can be sure of one thing: I will never be like you, I will never take a human life and I will never do your bidding."

Like Jesus being led to His crucifixion, Donny surrendered himself peacefully to the guards barring him from Amos Blanche. Even knowing the fate that awaited me in Amos' torture chamber, I smiled as I watched him go.

Donny Kelp had gone off to die; I only hoped that the new identity in his pocket, Jackson Cole, would one day rise up in his place.

I began to cry. But not tears of pain, tears of joy.

I looked at Amos and his henchmen; Valérie included, and knew that I stood above them and their petty earthly dealings.

I raised no objection when they led me away. They drove me back to Amos's house along the snowy roads at a frantic pace, but fear never entered my mind.

I raised no hand in defense as they punished me that night, or the subsequent others.

They tried to force me to drink human blood, but I refused. They even poured it down my throat by force, and I threw it back up at them. The beatings were so bad, I thought I'd die, but vampire bones fix much quicker than humans'. Every morning, I'd be whole again, ready for another round.

Every night for two months, Amos drank of Valérie's blood, vampire feeding from vampire. And every night, he did it right in front of me. For the first week she stood defiant, then she gradually became quieter, sullen, until at last, she lay little more than a husk. On the sixty-first night, Amos fed from her supine form for the last time. As he sunk his teeth into her throat, Valérie finally died, crumbling into dust onto the cell floor.

At her death, I felt nothing, but I rose from the room, and slowly walked to my room.

I knew enough about vampire 'beholding' to know that technically I'd been freed.

Donnie Kelp had been released from Valérie's spell.

The next morning, darting past the usual football guards, with my new ID still in my back pocket, Jackson Cole ran.

And I ran as a vampire, blinding speed, the towns passing by me in droves.

At first I could hear the jocks behind me, their panting echoing my own, but they didn't have my incentive, my will to survive.

After an hour of running, I found no pursuit in sight, but I kept going. The country passed as a blur, until I realized that the landscape had completely changed.

In place of the chilly February Pennsylvania morning lay a desert sunrise. I felt the warm sands under my blistered feet.

I had run until the soles of my shoes were worn away.

In surprise and wonder I found myself looking at colored desert sands and distant mountains. Donny Kelp had died, left behind in Pennsylvania. I felt in my pocket for my new identity, the driver's license that Valérie had given me, seemingly so long ago, and knew Jackson Cole was never going to be bothered by Amos Blanche again.

(And now back to Valérie's story (Original Sin) to close this section.)

Amos announced his new drive for power as his 'crusade', but having seen his previous attempts, I moved my attentions in one direction – getting out from under Amos's jackboot.

For some time I had known of the ability to make men see what I wanted them to; almost a hypnotic capacity which I had honed for some time.

When I sided with Donny against Amos, and he took my blood nightly, I knew my time had come.

It took me sixty-one days to disguise my physical state to the degree of atrophy I needed for my biggest deception. From day one, as Amos drank from my neck, I held back some of my strength. By the end of the second week, I feigned half strength, but actually grew in both power and vitality.

As Amos drank each night, he reveled in his supposed triumph, and allowed the chinks in his armor that I needed; cracks that let my veil cover his eyes, those dull conceited eyes. I wept inside for Donny, forced to witness my apparent destruction, but I knew that I needed the partnership between Amos and Donny to be complete for me to put my plan into action.

Each night I clenched the muscles in my neck tighter, stymying the flow of blood to his lips. By the end of the month, hardly a trickle passed into Amos's mouth, but still he sucked, trying to drain me.

Each night, as Amos reveled, his gaze locked to Donny's, I clouded his eyes more, my control over him becoming stronger. Sometimes as he nuzzled my artery for more, he came so close that I could breathe directly up his inflamed nostrils, my power growing each day. Not that I ever thought I could defeat the man in a straight fight, I just needed his eyes to be elsewhere when I performed for the final night. I needed Donny to play his part. I needed the performances of a lifetime.

On the sixty-first night, Donny leant close to our embrace, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, his skin a deathly grey. I knew that this would be the evening of my escape.

I breathed into Amos's face, then did the same to Donny. "I die." I said repeatedly. "I crumble to dust." I whispered softly. Their attention seemed so rapt on my declining condition, neither heard me. "I crumble to dust." I gave a gasp, then fell limp in Amos's grasp. "I crumble to dust."

With every fiber of my being, I thrust the image of my body crumbling into their minds.

Amos stood up, letting me fall to the wooden floor. Donny gave a gasp of disgust, and stalked from the room in a dark temper. For a moment Amos looked down at me, and I held my breath, too frightened to move. Then he shrugged and walked away, the footsteps in the hall getting quieter as he returned to his den.

For minutes I lay in silence, not entirely convinced that I'd gotten away with it and deceived the old man. I listened with all my might, but the dull chorus of the horns of faraway trains proved the only sound, their long plaintive tones announcing my victory.

I allowed myself the beginnings of a smile; I'd achieved success over one of the oldest vampires alive.

I silently got to my feet, and crept to the door, stealing a look out into the corridor. The dark hallway beckoned, and my feet took to the left, away from Amos's room. I couldn't take the chance of saying a proper goodbye to Donny, but silently wished him well, and with a trembling hand, gripped the handle of the main door.

In a second I stood outside.

South.

In a minute I passed out of the main streets of town, and racing down the street. The setting sun lay on my right, and I kept it there as I did fifty miles without stopping.

Looking for Romanian vampire in Miami proved a simple enough task, we do have the keenest of senses, and we also emit a subtle musky aroma. In two days I located the man who had drowned me in the bathtub. He seemed to be the owner of a small Romanian restaurant. Small round tables, covered in white and red checkered cloths, filled the room.

The room was busy, but he noticed me immediately. He weaved past the tables and sat opposite me. His dark features held no trace of feeling, but his brown eyes bore into mine. "What brings you to Miami?"

I smiled, trying to keep my emotions under check. This man had killed me once, and by the look of the attentive staff, he expected some kind of trouble. "I thought I'd catch some sun. You know, it gets kinda wet in Philly." I extended my hand over the table. "My name is Valérie Marneffe Berthier Lidowitz."

His brows furrowed slightly. "A mouthful indeed." He shook my hand carefully, his grip loose and wary. "Gheorghe Kovács. I run things down here. You can call me Georgie."

"Pleased to meet you," I smiled.

"Did Amos send you?"

My smile deepened. "Let's just say Amos and I no longer see eye to eye."

"But you are beholden to him; he turned you."

"I was a vampire from the moment I was born," I said, clasping my fingers together on the bright tablecloth. "I was never beholden to him, or any other."

And thus we end this small glimpse into Valérie's story, the full version of which you can read in Vampires Don't Cry: Original Sins.

In the full two-voiced novel, Ian writes as Theresa Scholes, a new vampire in Amos's cadre. April writes as Valérie Lidowitz.

Not only are they taken into a new world of vampire training, but they also must face their old boss... Amos blanche.

We hope you buy and enjoy.

Now, from the days of 1958 -59, we fast forward you to the present day, with the first four chapters of Vampire High School. Alan Rand has been forced to change his name to Alan McCartney, and is living in Gregor, Arizona.

The Visiting Cheerleader

(Present Day, Gregor, Arizona.)

It all started on Friday evening; football night.

The first high school game of the season, the excitement ran high, and there were kids milling around everywhere. The visitors, nearby Everton High, hadn't arrived in numbers yet, so the area was a sea of white and crimson. Flags, jackets, shirts, balloons; we had it all. The Gregor Academy marching band rehearsed near the main entrance, doing dips and the well-rehearsed shimmies, the final practice before taking to the field at the start of the game.

I knew my best friend, Alan McCartney, marched somewhere in the middle; he's first clarinet. Great guy, he's got a bunch of the greatest friends, and he plays clarinet and guitar. Girls melt at his feet most of the time. Everyone wished they were Alan.

I've known him for just over a year.

The school band wears white with burgundy trimmings, (Mrs. McCartney always complained about washing Alan's uniform) and the white uniforms shone like fresh snow in the early floodlights. I stood, waiting for the cheerleaders who normally followed the band; I mean, a guy's got to have some entertainment in his life.

The band turned, doing a boogie version of the school's anthem, (Go Hawks!) when the music slowly fizzled to silence. The band began to run in all directions, like someone let off the stink bomb of a lifetime. The musicians evaporated from the center out, and I just watched in fascination as some stampeded towards me to safety.

I jumped up on a low wall and clung one-handed to the black lamppost like that guy in "Singing in the Rain."

When the rout died, standing alone on the concrete were Alan and a visiting cheerleader, in a way too tight embrace.

Snogging like dervishes.

Well, at first I thought they were kissing. She had her back to me, and I couldn't see much of anything at all.

(I heard later that she marched with him, holding his hand down her top; so he wasn't playing much clarinet. Then she got kinda passionate and started to drill his neck).

So there they were, standing in a crazy, tight embrace. She had one hand rubbing his crotch, while she feverishly chewed at his neck. This chick had the cutest butt you've ever seen, long blond hair - everything a guy could want. And her butt wiggled as she munched on my best friend's neck.

I began to get a wee bit jealous, when I suddenly knew something wasn't quite right. In fact, it felt as wrong as it could possibly be.

Alan dropped his clarinet - his pride and joy. His folks had paid a fortune for it.

The ebony tip hit the concrete with a loud 'popping' sound, and shattered, sending shards of black wood and silver parts in all directions.

Then the cheerleader turned around to face me. Her mouth and lips were covered in blood, and her teeth shone a bright white. As she turned, I saw Alan's neck. Man, no matter what stain fighter Mrs. McCartney used, she wasn't getting that color out in a hurry.

"Mandy," I hissed, remembering her once visiting the school. I didn't know her full name, but I knew they had an off-and-on thing going on.

My best friend's white tunic hung in shreds from his bare shoulder, and a mass of the deepest red spread from his neck to his balls. The blood stain got worse as my mouth opened, and arcs of deep ochre pumped rhythmically from his neck, the dark red pulses flashing in the spotlights.

"Help!" I roared, but it did more harm than good. Hearing my cry, Mandy let Alan go, and he fell to the ground like an empty suit.

Mandy caught my stare and flashed me a fleshy-bloody grin, then ran off as fast as her pretty legs would go.

Man, her tits bounced real good.

Yeah, I know I'm going to take some ribbing for that observation, but there are a few facts to learn before jumping to the wrong conclusions about me.

My name is Lyman George Bracks, but due to a mop of shaggy ginger hair, everyone calls me 'Red'.

It's the ultimate teenage curse; worse than zits or halitosis. Yeah. Laugh now, but you don't have to deal with it every day.

I do.

I know I'm destined to never get to first base with any girl anywhere, because they've already been warned off by their friends for even thinking about dating a 'ginge.'

Yeah, laugh.

So, yes, I did check out Mandy's tits as she ran away.

I waited 'til the last of the retreating bandsmen had passed, then I ran to Alan's side. I knelt down on the grey stone and lifted his body onto my lap. The blood still pumped from his neck, but not with as much pressure as before, and I knew that wasn't a good thing. I looked around, and gasped; so much blood already spread outwards from his body onto the concrete. I put my fingers on the wound, and pressed as hard as I could. Despite my pressure, it still surged through my fingers.

"You'll need replacing in the band," I joked through my tears. "When your throat's ripped out by a visiting cheerleader, you're not likely to be returning to the Gregor Academy marching band. At least not anytime soon."

Go Hawks!

I thought of the opponents from Everton High, a town ten miles west.

I lifted my eyes to see the crowd gathering round me. A hundred cell phones were dialing 9-1-1. My voice trembled. "Man, this is going to put an edge on the age-old rivalry."

Hi. My name's Mandy. Mandy Cross.

Being a vampire's not necessarily all fun and games. Sometimes it kinda sucks. Pun intended. First of all - you're technically dead. Secondly - you have to eat your friends. Thirdly - after a couple snack attacks, you don't have too many friends left. Least not the human ones.

And if that's not bad enough - then to be a vampire and have your unbeating heart ripped right out of your chest, thrown to the ground and marched over by some fanged Don Juan...

If you're buying into that fire crotch's BS about Alan being all Mr. Wonderful, then you're just as lame as he is. Pick up Gregor Academy (Vampire High), turn it upside down, and shake. Not one of the jerk-offs that falls out will know the real Alan McCartney like I did.

The guy was a total douche.

And he had it coming. If you just skip over all the chapters written by that effing red-headed retard, I'll tell you the for-real story. Of course, if you like being a loser, then skip my parts and listen to the Ginger-bred Man, the King of Loser-Town.

BTW—he totally checked out my rack as I ran away. What a geek.

Last summer turned out to be a very rough time for me.

I should have been a senior at Everton High this year; the school for regular kids; the ones who haven't been forced to drink vampire blood, killed, and then came back to life.

Like I said...last summer was not a good time. I'd spent my junior year being all into this total jock named Craig. I was seriously in love with this guy; we did it and everything. But, as soon as summer hit, he hooked up with some other chick and like, totally just blew me off.

BTW- that other chick just happened to be my BFF, Cami. Spoiler alert: Cami is now fish food.

That was one of the things so totally awesome about getting in with a real-live vampire. Alan was all, "You don't have to take s-h-i-t from anyone; your soul is already gone, so it's not like you can go to Hell or anything."

But, it's not like I just went, "Oh, cool. I'll become a vamp so I can tear out Cami's throat." In fact, it took a long time for me to make that decision. Not that Alan didn't work overtime to try and convince me it was worth the gross blood-sucking and even getting bitten. Seriously - that dude was so stoked up on plasma half the time, who knows if he really believed what he said.

His VH buddy's gonna try to tell you Alan was all cool and stuff, such a nice vampire and wouldn't hurt anybody. Like I said before, though, I'm the one who really knew him. He'd jump through my bedroom window at two in the morning and have red Kool-Aid stains all over his face. Except it wasn't red Kool-Aid. We pretended, so I wouldn't totally hurl. But, for real, it was... feline blood. Yep - that a-hole drank cats! One of my cats even. Mr. Stinky; may he rest in peace.

That's how Alan and I met, in fact. I felt so depressed that summer that I couldn't sleep like, at all. So, I'd go out to the gazebo in the middle of the night and just kind of, you know, chill. One night I sat there, ironically, reading Vampire Diaries by L.J. Smith, when I heard a rustling in the hydrangeas behind me.

I dropped my book and ran for the back door. I don't know why I did this - total brain fart - but, instead of running inside, I just flicked on the flood lights and stood there like a dum-dum.

I made that kissing sound you call cats with. "Stinkmesister, is that you, baby? C'mere, Stinkyson..."

I watched in like, total horror as my sweet little Persian came limping out from behind the hydrangeas. Two stumbling steps later and he fell over, dead as a dodo. I freaked and then launched into some weird Superwoman mode.

The rake just, like, leant up against the house so I grabbed it and went to town on the bushes. I swung, and hit something that couldn't have been bush. Next thing I know, this dude is like, popping up from behind the plants, blood all over his face and holding up his hands like I was gonna arrest him or something.

"Okay! Knock it off," he said.

I totally slugged him with the metal part of the rake. The pointy things went right into his temple and he dropped. I felt so pissed about my cat that I didn't care; I went to Mr. Stinky and tried CPR.

Of course, Mr. Stinky stayed dead. But the guy with the rake for a face didn't. He crawled at me like a snake, all yellow-eyed and bleeding. Then he grabbed my ankle and bit. It only took a little blood for him to heal.

Anyway, that's how Alan McCartney and I met for the first time.

The cops were called of course, I mean, a hundred-piece marching band has at least fifty cellphones tucked in pockets and bra cups, but that kind of stuff takes a while to arrive. I knelt in the growing pool of blood and held him and cried. I could tell by the sea of white trouser legs that the rest of the band had gathered back around, but there was no, "Let's do what we learned in First Aid." That bitch had hit a big artery, and I couldn't see a way back.

Alan lay in my arms, either very dead, or dying before our eyes.

Trust me, for all my inattention at first aid classes, I felt certain.

In two minutes he'd bled out totally. I knelt in his shiny red-ochre, and probably ten others stood in the same growing pool.

Then, bursting through the silence like a firework on the Fourth of July, Grant Porteus hit the first notes of 'Last Post' on his cornet. I knew it would be Grant without looking up. Alan was pretty well liked, and Grant was the kind of guy who knew instinctively the right thing to do - always.

For all the hundred or so kids on the concrete, you could have heard a pin drop as Grant's plaintive tune rang out into the evening.

The ambulance eventually came. Its siren pierced the silence, and the band parted reluctantly to let the paramedics through.

They didn't attempt resuscitation, though, they just nudged me out of the way, wrapped him up, lifted the body onto a gurney, then left.

The police came and like school kids all over the country, the band kind of dispersed, standing in guilty groups, most having nothing to say.

A few did something very strange, and they all did it in the same way. In the midst of all this weirdness, it got suddenly weirder.

They bent down to the pool of blood, ran their forefinger in it, and licked it clean. I counted them; six altogether. I knew them all; counted them as quasi friends; friends by association with Alan, no more.

I didn't ask. I just observed. But I took mental note of the names of 'the six.'

Soon, a cop tapped me on the shoulder and asked me questions.

"Mandy something," I answered. I wanted to mention her tits, but I just closed my eyes and remembered them.

"Do you know her?"

"She came to school once."

"Here? To Gregor Academy? When?"

"Last week. I don't know." I must have looked like a real wacko, but he took my name and told me they'd be back for more questions later. "Alan spoke to her. That's all I know."

With the front of my shirt and my jeans all covered in his blood, I kinda wandered around aimlessly after that.

"Tonight's Game is Postponed," the big electronic scoreboard read ten minutes later.

I looked around for a friendly face, but found none. Girls were crying, but each of them seemed to have someone with them, and I wasn't bold enough to intrude.

I looked for 'the six', but they were conspicuous by their absence.

In the depths of my loneliness, I decided to go home. I set out for the gate. I walked past the school sign when I spotted Dorothy Squires sitting on the curb. She's one of our cheerleaders, and sat so low, her knees were high in the air, her already-short skirt bunched up at her waist. She wasn't crying, but she looked pretty beat-up.

"You ok?" I asked.

Okay, I'd blurted out the dumbest thing, but I wasn't really expecting an answer anyway, she's a cheerleader, and they don't talk to the likes of me.

She looked up at me and presented a grim smile, lips closed. Then she stuck her legs out onto the road, and smoothed her skirt down. It was too late for that kind of modesty; I'd already seen her white knickers lots of times on the field. She's a cheerleader for goodness sake.

"Hi, Lyman," she sniffed, then pointed up to my bloody clothes. "You're covered in his blood."

Lyman, the name hit the back of my brain in microseconds. She hadn't called me 'Red.' No one called me Lyman, except grown-ups.

"You need anything?" I asked, hoping a grope wasn't out of the question. I had nothing else; no cigarettes, no gum.

Dorothy got unsteadily to her feet. "You guys were close, huh?"

My tears started without warning. I felt a fool until she came close and hugged me. I was bloody from head to toe, but she still pulled me close. Not to lose a chance to feel those goodies against my chest, I hugged her back, but the tears didn't stop, even though I wanted them to.

My friend had just died, and here I stood, getting farther with any girl ever. And Dorothy Squires was a cheerleader!

She held me, then, stepping back, looked up into my eyes. Man I thought we were going to kiss. I moved forward like the awkward geek, and she instantly held a waving forefinger in the air between us.

No kiss then.

She shook her head slightly, but for some reason I focused on the swaying finger.

Yes, it was the bar to our kiss; but it was more.

Her nails were manicured, her fingernails varnished white.

But under the nail, arcing back and forth like a metronome, winking at me like a sliver moon, lay a wet ridge of crimson.

The white-nail part had been licked clean, but under her fingernail, Dorothy Squires had Alan McCartney's blood.

Okay. Back to me - Mandy.

There are lots of things humans think about vampires that are just totally false. Let's get them out of the way right now.

First myth: Vampires like, totally "disintegrate" in the sunlight. Give me a break. Really? You're telling me that you believe if this supernatural predator came at your throat, all you'd have to do is raise the shade and kill it off?

Not so much. Vampires troll the nights when they need to feed only because we've got amazing see-in-the-dark vision and humans don't. It's much stealthier to catch prey that can't see you back. But yeah, we can totally come out during the day, too.

Oh...and garlic. Kind of one of my faves, people. Especially with pasta and mushrooms. So, that's another myth I'd like to shoot down. Crosses don't burn us. We don't wear black capes, we don't have unfolded wings on our backs, or turn into bats.

All that's totally bogus.

I'm doing you a favor by telling you all this, by the way. I mean - I could just let you clutch your garlic and wait for the sun to come up then snatch you as you bend down to get your morning paper. So, now you're not really any safer but maybe a tad wiser.

So...after that totally bizarro introduction...

Alan started coming to see me. A lot. He kept saying stuff like, "I've never met anyone like you before." I totally thought he meant 'cause I'm so smart and all that; but, turns out he was just really into my ass.

Not to be stuck-up or anything, but I did gymnastics for like, eight years and then cheerleading for three; so yeah, my ass is pretty killer. And, I have to admit, I dug the fact that this vampire dude was into me.

Mom used to tell me all the time that I have some "bad boy complex." Like, whatever, Mom. Rolling eyes.

Anyway...he'd been coming around for a couple weeks. We'd sit in the gazebo under the moonlight, listening for cats. That dude could hear something like a block away. When he got one, I'd just have to close my eyes and pretend I was in the rainforest or something. Once he'd gotten all fed and mellowed out, we'd have some really nice conversations.

I remember one of those talks like it happened yesterday...

"Mandy?"

I'd been waiting out there for a while. Right when I was about to give up, Alan came.

He had this really sexy voice. It sounded like violins playing through the pouring rain. Dreamy-like. When I heard it, I felt suddenly warm.

"Hey," I replied. "Thought you would never show up."

"What is it you humans say? Wild horses couldn't pull me away?"

I felt confused. "I never say that."

In addition to that melodic voice, Alan had an angelic face. Kinda round like a baby's \- but his eyes were deep and intellectual. I could tell he'd already fed plenty that night 'cause his cheeks were super pink and his lips rosy and glossy. Kissable for sure.

"What kept you?" I asked.

"Just some vampire business to take care of. You know how it is."

"Nah. Not really."

Just then he kinda brushed my bangs out of my eyes. He had an icy touch but his skin felt so soft. I remember him tracing my mouth with his finger. I thought at that point he was going to finally kiss me. Instead, he got all sullen and just stared out to space.

"You're lucky you don't," he told me. "Things can get a little gory on my side of the fence."

"What? Did you like, kill somebody tonight or something?"

I forced a laugh into my words, but deep down I really dreaded the possible answer. Alan turned me on; I can't even begin to lie about that. But, truthfully, he kinda scared me, too.

My question caught him off guard. He looked at me with this like, challenging expression on his peaches-and-cream face.

"What if I had, Mandy? What would you think of me then?"

I got all sick to my stomach. I totally didn't want to give off the vibe that I was super down with this killing-people racket. But, I also didn't want to piss off a vampire. So, I played it cool.

"You're a vampire, dude...I guess that comes with the territory."

His glaring look became a lot less intense. "I hate to say it, but sometimes it does."

"So...is that what kept you? Did you...kill somebody tonight?"

Alan's cool eyes got real narrow and he pulled his gaze from me and stared down at the ground. I was scared for sure; but, I also just felt really bad for the guy. I mean - what must that be like? Having to kill people just to survive?

I put my hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Whatever you've done..."

And then the big dork shot this fangy grin up at me. "Gotcha, sucker! It was midnight madness bowl - unlimited games from eleven to two at Ten Pin. Me and the guys dominated the alley."

That kind of pissed me off. I mean, I thought we were having a bonding moment. So, I swatted him on the head.

Of course, it wasn't until afterward that I realized I'd just like, totally hit a freaking vampire. Seriously- I almost wet myself. Luckily, he laughed.

That's when we started to get all cuddly; for the first time he really put his arms around me and it felt awesome. We were quiet for a while. Probably would've been best if I'd just let it stay quiet, but I can be a dork that way. After a while I asked the question that had been floating around in my brain.

"So...have you? Ever killed a person, I mean?"

He didn't really say yes or no; kinda danced around the subject if you ask me.

"Death is just one more state of being, Mandy Cross. A mortal losing their life is no more tragic than a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. It's not gone; just turned into something else."

"You mean if I died you wouldn't be even a little sad? You just be all, 'Oh... there goes Mandy; now she's a butterfly.'"

Alan laughed. It sounded like those wind chimes that are made out of seashells. "Don't you worry about that, Mandy Cross," he told me. "When you're ready to become a butterfly, I'll be the one who teaches you how to fly."

"What do you mean? Like me becoming...one of you?"

"If by 'one of me' you mean immortal and invincible, then yeah. I mean - if given the choice...why wouldn't you?"

"What about all that 'gory side of the fence' stuff?"

"I was screwing with you! Trust me - if you ever really want to learn how to live, you're gonna have to learn how to die first."

The Gregor Six

I went around to Alan's house the next day just to say 'hi' to his mom, but I couldn't walk up the path to the front door. I stood for a few minutes, tears welling up in my eyes, looking at the hundreds of flower bunches tied to the white fence, then I left.

It was all very sad.

I still had a couple of Alan's CDs and felt guilty about not returning them, and I had one of his, you know, girlie magazines. Well-thumbed, handed down for years.

I hung around our coffee shop, either to get a private moment or to meet Dorothy Squires. I'm not sure which. Either one would've been good in my book. Whatever I was there for, it didn't happen, and I had to go home on Saturday night alone.

My mom made macaroni and cheese with bits of bacon and onion, just the way I like it, with sliced tomato on top. I knew she'd done it just to comfort me, but I didn't care. I loved her mac 'n' cheese.

But whatever happened over the weekend, I still had the image of Dorothy Squires's bloody finger. Whatever strange club they belonged to, suddenly 'the six' were seven in number, and I felt determined to get to the bottom of it.

Monday at school, we were all given a speech at assembly, then the nearest and dearest got a roster of times to be at the school nurse's office; seems like a grief counselor had been brought in, and we were ordered to attend.

I went through the morning classes with little thought. Cafeteria lunch headed towards a similar mediocrity, until Squires approached my table.

"Can I sit down?" she asked.

It was quite the honor to get a cheerleader at your table, and I dreaded the imminent grief counselor, and I would take any distraction. "You're a cheerleader, Dorothy," I said sarcastically. "You can sit anywhere you like."

She waltzed past my chagrin and sat down anyway. "How you doing, Lyman?"

Her breasts giggled when she sat, and I must admit, I looked around at the guys looking at me enviously. "I'm fine, Dorothy. It'll just take time to get used to, not having a best friend anymore."

"Yeah, Alan's a hoot."

Wow, she still spoke of him in the present tense. Man, that just sounded weird.

I allowed my lunch to get cold, just sitting opposite her. I felt I could almost get a hard-on watching her talk. Dorothy was a very pretty girl, not shallow-skin pretty, but real nice.

A bona fide girl-next-door.

I can't remember much of the conversation, really. But I know when she left, she touched my hand and it sent shocks of electricity into me.

We had a date.

Coffee; six pm that night.

At my allotted time I sat outside the nurse's office waiting for the grief counselor. When Billy Tankard came out, as white as a sheet. He nodded to me, "Red," but breezed off without further comment. I shivered slightly, Billy was a member of 'the six/seven.'

"Next!" A shout came through the open door. After I'd sat down, he said in a very bored voice, "My name is Marc Brennan. I'm here to offer you counseling regarding the recent events at Gregor Academy."

Go Hawks.

Marc Brennan turned out to be not your typical grief counselor. For a start, the lights were out and all the shutters were closed against the bright daylight outside. It was pretty dim inside. "Lyman Bracks?" he read from a sheet.

"Yes, sir." I had no idea that people could read so well in the dark.

"Lyman, were you a good friend of Alan's?"

"Yes, sir. We were the best of friends."

He leant back and suddenly pulled the shutters open. I blinked at the unexpected light, but just about fell back off my chair when Marc sprang forward, looking carefully at my eyes.

"You can tell a lot from a reaction to light," Marc said, but I stared at his manic look, unconvinced of his motives. "Grief manifests in a myriad of ways."

"You don't say." Ok, it wasn't the most polite answer, but he was behaving very weird.

"Hot flashes?"

"No."

"Feeling depressed?"

"No." I paused. "Apart from my best friend being ripped apart and bleeding to death all over me."

"Hmm. So you rushed to his aid?"

"No one else did. He died in my arms, and Everton bitch Mandy fuck-stitch was no-where to be seen."

"She's the one who...."

"Ripped Alan's neck off and left him to bleed to death!" Anger grew within me. I was getting a little pissed at this man pretty quickly.

"And how do you feel about that?" He sat back in his chair, as if he'd just asked the golden question.

But his look of triumph slipped past his straight face, and I suddenly 'got it'. I'd been played like a violin. We'd got to the point where I'd break down and ask for a hug.

He looked into my eyes for the great answer, the one that would prove from his 'myriad' of textbooks if I was grieving correctly or not. I decided that I wasn't going along with his little play, and determined to de-rail the process.

"Man, she had good tits."

He looked at me up and down, shook his head, then handed me a business card.

"Get out."

I even smirked as I left the office.

For the first time in my life, I'd been ever-so-slightly badass, and it had been so much fun.

Alright...I'm going to fast-forward a couple weeks to July ninth. Alan and I had been just hanging out in my backyard up 'til this point. Lots of talking, absolutely no necking, and definitely nothing more interesting than that.

That night was a big deal to me 'cause of the party at Jackson Cole's house; the first time any of my friends had remembered my existence since Craig dumped me for Cami. Not that Jackson and I were tight or anything, but we moved in the same circles. His party would prove as good an "in" as I figured I would get for a while.

If I intended to face my senior year with any dignity, I had to show my face at Jackson's house. Besides, I felt pretty sure that if Angelina Hanklin and Myra DeSuza were around, I could totally start a rumor that Cami gave Craig syphilis and have it spread all over town by dawn. The rumor, not syphilis.

Only thing - I didn't want to have to go alone. So I figured, what better revenge than to show up with some hot, mysterious guy from another school? Everybody'd be all like, "Whoa, who's that?" and "Check it out - Mandy's totally moved on and traded up." I could even play Alan off as a college guy and get away with it. I mean, since he's a vampire, he's definitely way older than me anyway.

So, we got to Jackson's house around ten-thirty. Alan had to make sure he'd sucked down a couple cats so he wouldn't be tempted by a roomful of drunken teenagers. But, that was fine; I didn't mind being late 'cause then I didn't look desperate to be there. It all worked out.

Everything was pretty much as I figured it would be when we walked in. Lucy Crain had her tongue hanging to the floor, drooling over my date. Same with Jennifer Spivy and Della DiMaggio.

Alan played it so cool, too. As soon as he noticed them gawking, he offered me his elbow. I hooked my hand through it and we totally floated right past them like they weren't even there.

When Jackson Cole came up to us, it all got a bit weird. He virtually ignored me, and got all bro-mantic with Alan.

"Hey, man, what's going on?" Jackson said to Alan, and then they did that fist bump thing.

Alan became a total "dude" at that point; it got annoying. "Hey. Same ol' shit. Nothing new..."

Like, seriously? I stood right there holding his arm, and last I checked, I qualified as something "new." Whatever. I just stood there and listened while the two of them exchanged a bunch of words that said nothing at all. The conversation ended as weirdly as it started, though.

"See ya around, man," Jackson said, then another fist bump.

That wasn't the wildest part. Next thing, Alan got like this super serious - I'd even say intense - look on his face. Then he leaned into Jackson. I got interested at this point but had to strain to hear 'cause Alan kept his voice all low n' stuff.

"Don't be a stranger, Jackson Cole. Remember - there's a place for you at Gregor. It's where you belong."

Jackson looked all offended for a sec, but then changed his face into this blank smile. Obviously not a real smile, but rich kids in Everton are pretty plastic most of the time.

"I'm doing just fine where I'm at," he said back to Alan; then he just scooted off into another room.

I was curious, so I stuck my nose in Alan's business. C'mon, who wouldn't?

"What was that all about? How do you know Jackson Cole? Far as I know, his family only moved to Arizona a year ago..."

Alan gave me this really sharp look, like the matter was not open to discussion. It actually felt a little terrifying. Vampires can be real assholes when they don't want to talk about something.

But, Alan being Mr. Cool-n-Smooth, in the next instant he totally chilled. That pretty smile of his came back; but it didn't look all that much more genuine than Jackson's had.

"Let's go outside. The smell of hemoglobin is starting to choke me."

I followed him through the house. He held my hand and practically dragged me but, nonetheless, I got off on all the sideways glances. Personally, I dig that kind of attention. Before I knew it, we were at the sliding glass door that led to Jackson's (a-freaking-mazing) backyard.

"How you doing so far?" he whispered, opening the door to the back patio.

"So far, so good."

That's what I said, but inside I turned to Jell-O. I mean, Craig and Cami were bound to be lurking around somewhere. Seeing them together might just throw me completely overboard - y'know?

Alan totally got it without me having to say anything. "Don't worry about a thing, Mandy Cross. This is your night."

He swept his hand and motioned for me to step out first. I did; and it felt like falling down Alice's rabbit hole. I felt sick and dizzy and all that. But, there was nothing I could do about it - they'd seen me, too.

Craig and Cami were sitting on the edge of Jackson's pool, dipping their feet in and snuggling up all close. Soon as I spotted them, Craig slid like six inches away from Cami and looked down at his feet.

A little late for that. The cat had kinda already sprung out of the bag. Loser.

Then, as my ex-BF and ex-BFF were sitting there, pretending they hadn't seen me, Alan stepped across the threshold and up to me. He put his arm around my back and kissed my cheek. You should have seen how Cami's eyes popped out of her head! It was classic.

After that I felt a lot more in the groove of things. I went right up to the pool, directly across from them, plopped off my sandals and copped a squat, stirring up little waves with my kicking feet. Alan snatched a couple beers from a cooler and joined me.

Cami got up and left. Craig followed after her like a wimpy little puppy. I remember just sitting there, grinning to myself. Then to spoil my euphoria, Alan kind of shot me down.

"So...that's it? That's all you wanted to accomplish?" he asked me, all judgy and mean.

"Yeah. I know Cami. It's totally pissing her off right now to see me happy. I mean, she's probably not even into Craig; just likes the idea of taking something that belonged to me."

"In my opinion, if she's really that kind of person, you're letting her off way too easy. What do you think? Now Cami's gonna spend the rest of her life regretting that she crossed you? Please. If anything, she'll just dump Craig and invite me skinny-dipping just to outdo you again."

I knew he was right. Cami's favorite thing to do was humiliate me. I think that's why we were friends in the first place.

My mom used to tell me, "Keep your friends close and your enemies' way closer." Cami was the closest enemy I'd ever had.

"So, what do I do then?" I asked. "I mean - just once I'd like to be the one who comes out on top. Maybe I could get Craig back from her..."

Alan looked like he felt embarrassed for me. "You're thinking like a high school girl, Mandy Cross. C'mon...you're better than that, aren't you? Think long-term. How could you get back at Cami so bad she'd never recover?"

I put all my brain energy into coming up with something big - bigger than stealing her boyfriend. Bigger than syphilis.

"Well...there was this one time we were drunk and she totally tried to kiss me; Cami totally has this lezbo side to her. I pinky-swore I'd never tell, but desperate times call for desperate measures..."

I left out the part where I kissed back; that didn't seem important. I wasn't gay, after all; just wasted.

"Um...that's good if you want to give every guy at this party a serious boner. But again, think long-term. I bet you can do better."

I gave up. "Seriously, dude. I don't know what you're getting at. Just tell me - how can I get back at Cami in a monster way?"

Alan pointed at something over my shoulder. I turned my head to find Cami and Craig going at it on a blanket not ten feet from me. She totally rubbed his thingy and then grabbed his hand and put it up her shirt. It felt like somebody had just thrown sand in my eyes, and like a retard, I couldn't even look away!

My heart just shot out of my chest. My hands were balling up into tight little fists. I could feel the blood rising to my face.

"Pay attention to what you're feeling right now," Alan told me, drilling into me with those intense eyes of his. "You know there's only one way to get her back for what she did to you. Your body knows, but your mind keeps blocking the thought out."

The words totally bypassed my brain and came right out of my broken heart. "I'm going to fucking kill her."

Alan smiled. "Now you're getting it."

"Did he do the sudden light thing with the blind?" I asked her.

Dorothy nodded.

Everything had been going fine 'til then. I bought the coffees, and we had a small, cozy table near the back.

"Yes, he did that. I don't know why."

"He acted pretty pissy and weird to me," I began, "talking about what we are supposed to go through. I still think the whole counseling thing is hogwash from the start."

"I know what you mean."

Somehow the subject got changed, and we talked about music, and sports, and the ethics of cheerleading. Harry Potter. The whole thing turned out to be quite a fun time.

Then her phone went off.

She looked at the number. "Sorry. I do have to take this."

She got up and went quickly outside, where she had an animated discussion for a few minutes. She came back in with a sheepish grin. "I have to cut this short. Sorry, Lyman."

I wanted to scream, "NO!" but I just smiled, and said, "Hey, rain-check, right?"

"Of course." Then she leaned down and did something that had never happened before. She kissed my cheek and smiled at me. Smiled.

A girl had kissed my cheek. And it wasn't my mom. Hell, she wasn't even related to me!

And then she had gone, walked right out the door.

The world seemed to go out of focus for a while, and I didn't care. I looked round the room, but no one had noticed. Bummer.

I went home that night with a spring in my step. It was only ten blocks to my house, and I'd pass Alan's. Maybe see his mom. As turned the last corner, I seen a huge moving van parked outside. Men were taking stuff into the van already. I walked up the path, and looked in the open front door. "Mrs. McCartney?" I yelled.

"Not here, son," a rugged man yelled from the kitchen. "She's already moved her clothes out, we're following tomorrow."

"Moving?" I balked. I thought it way too soon to be moving. "There hasn't even been a funeral yet."

"She couldn't stand the idea of being here one moment more," he said, coming towards me with a large taped box, marked 'kitchen.' "She took off this morning."

"Where to?"

"Florida." He looked at me for a second, then a penny seemed to drop. "Are you Lyman?"

I stood, shocked into silence for a second. "Yeah, Lyman Bracks."

"Excellent," he said, passing me to hand the box to a guy already up in the back of the truck. "I have something for you. Mrs. McCartney labeled it."

Rather than follow him, I just stood at the doorway. When he returned, he carried Alan's Fender guitar case. He held it up to let me see. The label definitely said Lyman Bracks, with my address.

"I was going to deliver it, but since you're here."

I took the handle, and sure enough, it felt heavy enough for the guitar still to be inside.

"Thanks," I said meekly, but he'd already walked away.

I suddenly felt very sad. I stood in this bare-walled, echoing house; no goodbyes, no hugs. No, 'Take care, Lyman' - nothing.

I turned from the empty walls and walked back down the path to the sidewalk. A girl knelt by the gate, propping up a small bunch of roses.

She stood up. "You're 'Red', aren't you?"

I looked at her. Gregor Academy uniform; white blouse, white cardigan, short burgundy skirt. From somewhere I recalled her details. A junior, and although I knew she was relatively new to the school, I'd definitely seen her before. She also looked pretty, cute eyes, nice legs, after putting it all together, she kinda had everything.

"Yeah. Who's asking?"

"Mary-Christine Muscat."

"Like the wine?"

"That's me. You were a friend of Alan's, weren't you?"

"Yeah. How did you know him?"

"Oh, I'm on clarinet. A bit down the food chain from Alan, but I'll probably get a place on the band because of this. It's just awful." She brimmed up, and I just stood there wondering what the fuck I could do to get out of there fast. Then she took a step forward and hugged me.

An inch or two shorter than Dorothy, but, man, she smelled nice.

In my head, I thought, "Alan had to die to get me some attention?" Then my body started to react to this sweet little number. I pushed her away slightly - mostly because I got the beginnings of a boner. Man, I was in a bad way.

"I'm sorry, Red." She wiped her tears with her sleeve. "You can walk me home if you like."

"Where do you stay?" If anything, I felt just a little annoyed at her presumption. I had been in the middle of a grieving moment.

"Just around the corner from you. Cherry Avenue." She took my hand and began to walk. I had to follow to keep my hand on the end of my wrist.

But I was holding the hand of a very pretty girl. I even sneaked looks around to see who could be watching.

"We just moved here from Milwaukee last month." She smiled up at me, and damn, she had a nice smile, too. I hadn't noticed that before. "My dad works for Unicorps."

"Wow," I said, genuinely surprised. "So does mine!" Unicorps was one of the bigger industrial employers in the town.

"Cool." She walked jauntily beside me. "Do you play?"

"Play?" I must have looked like a complete dick. I walked along the road with a Fender Telecaster guitar case, and wondered what she meant. Dummy. I couldn't play any more than two chords. The guitar thing had always been Alan's.

"Yeah, like a musical instrument... the guitar, duh!"

I gave a feeble grin. "I just got it today."

"Wow, cool!" she gushed all excited for me. I couldn't bring myself to tell her it used to be Alan's; although the idea of another hug tempted me.

She stopped, took one step to the side, one step up. Seems we were already at her gate. I fleetingly wondered where the time had gone.

She turned. Because of the short step, we were suddenly at eye level. We still held hands, real close.

Oh, God, I suddenly realized that it was serious kiss time. She looked directly into my eyes, obviously waiting for me to do something. This had never happened before, but then again, I'd never walked with a girl holding my hand before.

It was kiss time, and I wasn't ready, I awkwardly held a guitar case in one hand, and had a case of five thumbs for the other.

She grinned, leaned forward, and came right onto my mouth. Nice kiss. Then at the end, she dipped her tongue between my lips, like a snake tasting the air.

I felt quite overcome. Strawberries. Despite her not eating anything on the walk home, her mouth and lips tasted of strawberries. And her tongue had been the sexiest thing ever to happen to me.

Mary-Christine walked up her driveway, looking over her shoulder, grinning like a Cheshire cat. She'd done her part, she'd hooked the fish. Now all she had to do was reel it in.

Oh, and in case you were wondering; I felt under no illusion, I knew I was the fish. And if she'd reeled that moment, I would have gone willingly.

Please. Give me an effing break, people. I mean - haven't you ever said you were going to kill somebody? How many times have you really gone out and done it? I'm guessing like, zero. And if you're reading this on Death Row, then hey, you've got my sympathies.

We're fast-forwarding again - this time, only a couple of days.

I'd left Jackson's party a complete spaz. I bawled and cussed people out; I wrote "Cami's a ho" on the wall with my fire engine red lipstick. Seriously - I'll never be invited back to Jackson's ever again, and he's the only dude I know with a pool and a hot tub. So that really blows.

But, anyway...Alan walked me home. Usually at this point, a friend would be trying to calm their (justifiably) upset friend down. Only Alan just kept whipping me up more.

"You're just going to let her get away with that?" he said to me. "That's so chicken shit. That girl just completely humiliated you back there; first she shit on you and then she rubbed your nose in it. And you're just gonna freak out and run away with your tail between your legs? Fucking pathetic, Mandy Cross. I thought you were better than that."

I'd been plucking leaves off low-hanging branches as we walked. I dunno - it's just something I do. After Alan said that, I took the whole bunch and threw them in his perfect little face.

"Go to Hell!" I shouted.

That's when he gave me the most messed up look I'd ever seen, and got all mocking, "I've already been to Hell and back again. Good people, good food. If I thought you could handle it, I'd bring you there sometime. Too bad you're just a messed up little drama queen; all claws and no scratch."

Right then, Alan just kind of vanished on me. It wasn't like zappo he vaporized. More like he just moved so fast my mortal eyes couldn't keep track.

I stood, stamping my foot, kinda pissed, I mean, he could have done something to calm me down.

Then he didn't call the next night; I admit that I did wait in the gazebo 'til three. The next night, I gave up by midnight and went to my room.

I lay under the covers, already in my PJ's, when I heard a tap on my window. This was pretty freaky since my bedroom's on the second floor. But, Alan clung to the house like a spider with one hand and knocked on the window with the other.

It stood open and he could've swung in anytime - or so I thought. So, I didn't even bother getting out of bed. I just stared him down from across the room.

"Aren't you going to let me in?" he asked.

"Duh...it's open. What do you want, an engraved invitation?"

Alan smiled all big and happy. "Just a verbal invitation would be fine."

I crossed my arms over my chest like a pouty little girl, "You can come in."

He did that super-fast-moving thing again; super-quietly, too. Seriously, he could have been a freaking feather.

"Don't you remember anything from Vampire Diaries? I can't come into a home unless I'm invited."

Okay, I'd forgotten that part, but it wasn't like I'd actually paid much attention to the freakin' thing. It thought it just a dumb book; at the time I didn't know I was reading a manual for how to live around vampires.

"Interesting how you had no issues getting into Jackson's house the other night." Okay - I decided to pry again. So sue me.

"I've been there before; dinner parties n' such. The McCartneys and the Coles go way back. Like...way, WAY back."

I think my heart pretty much froze up at that point, "What exactly are you saying?"

Alan gave me a cute face and shrugged all innocently. "You can never be sure who your neighbors are."

"So...Jackson's a..."

I totally freaked out. That seemed to make Alan mad. He got all huffy.

"Yeah. Say the word: vampire. And so am I. So what?"

"So...nothing." I said, "Pardon the crap out of me, your highness. I'm not used to the idea that people who live two blocks from me are the living dead."

He backed off after that; kind of made fun of me a little. "Now you're thinking of zombies."

"What's the diff? I mean, vampires aren't really alive, right?"

Alan sat on the edge of my bed. The small light from my bedside lamp gave off just enough of a glow to make his flawless face dreamlike.

"Depends, Mandy Cross. What's your definition of 'alive'?"

I pulled my answer right out of my ninth grade biology book: "Something that grows, moves, and eats."

"Okay. By that description you're saying that an amoeba is more alive than I am."

"If the definition fits..."

"Yet- I think. I have emotions and opinions...a sense of humor; an amoeba has none of that. Sure - the amoeba grows; that's something I'll never do again. As I am now, I'll be forever. But! I do move, Mandy Cross..." He came in really close to me; I could feel his lips on my throat as he spoke, "and I certainly do eat."

I felt like I couldn't breathe, overwhelmed with this total sense of dread. Like any minute he could just sink in and drain my life away. I wouldn't be able to stop him. What's weird, though - it also proved to be a kind of turn-on.

"And an amoeba couldn't do this."

Alan brushed his lips up against my neck with the softest, most delicate kiss. I instantly wanted more - a lot more. But that's all he gave up just then.

My head felt all foggy, like I was drunk. He noticed.

"That's vampire pheromone," he told me, obviously enjoying my loopy-ness. "Helps to sedate victims; makes them a bit more willing."

"You should bottle it." I rubbed my eyes until tiny stars burst in them, "It's good stuff."

Again, Alan got super close to me. This time, I inhaled all my lungs could handle of the sweat-perfume coming off his skin.

"Mandy Cross," he whispered.

His breath curled around my senses like a net. I was snagged and being pulled in.

"I could make you do anything I wanted to right now."

I felt about ready to beg him to let me do all kinds of stuff to him when Alan backed completely off. My whole body tingled...especially down there. Seriously - I'd done it eight times with Craig and he never had me close to being that worked up. Now I knew why guys got so pissed off when girls "teased" them.

So, I figured I'd take matters into my own hands. I dropped the spaghetti straps of my nightshirt down and slipped the top to my waist. Alan looked at my naked breasts like you'd look at a painting in a museum - nice...but no touching.

It seemed I sat there for ages while he just scored me with his eyes.

I felt humiliated. I pulled my top back up.

"Okay. So, you didn't come here for that. What do you actually want, Alan?"

"I want everything I just saw, Mandy Cross...and more; and I want it with you," he told me with this really serious tone. "But, you're mortal."

I felt really pissed. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Alan made for the window. He dropped a nice little bomb on me before he leapt out, though.

"Don't you see? To me, you're the one who's less than an amoeba."

Conflict of Interests

I didn't sleep much that night. I lay on my bed and imagined Dorothy's breasts on my chest, then Mary-Christine's. I got so worked up, I had to masturbate. I woke up around two in a cold sweat, the dream of them both together still so fresh in my mind. I couldn't help it; I did it again that did it. I fell asleep immediately afterwards, totally exhausted.

I mean, I had a case of female overload. I awoke a mess, tired, listless, and when mom suggested I take a day off, I resolutely refused and sleep-walked round the corner to the bus stop. Well, who stood there but perky Mary-Christine.

That sure as heck woke me up.

We chatted the whole way about school, and music, and television, and celebrities; it proved quite a mind meld.

My first class was English, and Alan's empty desk sat next to me as a reminder to us all. I tried to put all negative thoughts behind me and spread out a bit and wallowed in my stud-ness. I handed in my homework, and breezed through 'til lunch. Dorothy sat next to me again, and I caught Mary-Christine out the corner of my eye, sitting with friends.

It seems that Dorothy's major dialogue centered on cheerleading, and considering her being a year older, talking to Dorothy kinda paled in comparison to Mary-Christine's conversation. But Dorothy definitely had the better tits. Well, from what I could see at least.

We arranged to meet at the coffee shop again, at six, and she'd make sure that no one would phone this time. I decided to go straight home at three-thirty and change. I mean – this was our second date and I was still dressed in school burgundy.

I chose a nice leather jacket and, at the last minute, pulled a black wool hat over my red locks. I looked in the mirror; all in all, quite a change from the red-headed geek.

I set off down the road, my head in the clouds when I heard a call behind me.

"Lyman!"

I turned to see Mary-Christine.

She came bubbling up to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. She smelled of strawberries. "Where you off to?"

"Coffee shop."

"Cool. Can I walk with you?"

Okay, come on. She didn't ask if we could go together, she just asked if she could walk with me. What could I say?

Well, we reached the coffee shop in good time, chatting easily all the way, and were fifteen minutes early. I kind of leant against the wall outside, and Mary-Christine stood with me, still bubbling, still perky. We were standing next to a kind of sticky-out window, sort of hidden from the street in a way, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dorothy walking our way. With a guy.

"Crap," I said under my breath, looking at Mary-Christine, then Dorothy again.

Mary-Christine followed my gaze. "Are you here to meet her?" Mary-Christine asked. "You sat with her at lunch."

I turned, expecting a slap or a fit of pique or something. She just giggled, and pulled me into the wall, out of sight of the approaching couple.

Well, my body pushed Mary-Christine into the wall, and every bit of my body felt her presence. She grabbed me by the collar and pulled me closer.

"This is fun," she hissed, and started planting kisses on my lips and nose between more giggles.

It might have been fun for her, but I stirred, like, down there.

Mary-Christine was still kissing me when Dorothy got real close. I heard their footsteps and the sound of conversation.

"...don't care. It can't be that difficult." I recognized the guy's voice as Jim Creary; one of 'the six/seven', so automatically already in Dorothy's friend group.

"I don't want to," Dorothy replied.

Mary-Christine had stopped laughing, and eavesdropped too.

"We don't care, Dee," Jim said in a hissy kind of way. "We need to find out what Alan saw in him. There must be some reason he kept him around."

"But, Honey, I only want you."

"It's only a kiss, Dee. Do it and find out what he tastes like. We'll know more then."

She paused. "Okay. Only for you."

"That's my girl."

Then a silence, which could only have been a kiss. Then I heard the coffee shop doorbell go, and assumed she had walked inside.

Their whole conversation had been an eye-opener, if ever there was one. For some unknown reason the 'seven' wanted to know about my 'taste', and although I kinda liked the idea of being kissed by Dorothy, I didn't like the idea of being used.

I looked down at a silent Mary-Christine, expecting to have to explain the whole thing, but she had a serious look on her face.

"Don't go in there," she said. "Stay here with me."

Oh crap, I thought. Jealousy had reared its ugly head within two days of me having two girls...marvelous.

"I mean it, Lyman. Don't go in there. She's going to kiss you and taste your blood; that's not good."

"She's going to kiss me, not bite me." I tried to pull myself away, but she still held on tight to my jacket collars.

I struggled with the whole situation, and it probably showed.

I thought of Dorothy licking Alan's blood, and now Jim Creary wanted her to kiss/taste me.

So, I gave myself a shake, and I did what any red-blooded male would have done.

I went for the biggest tits.

"I gotta go in, Mary-Christine. I said I'd be here," I hissed at her. "I can't stand her up."

"Fair enough." With a theatrical flashing of her fingers, she let my collars go. "Your funeral. Just don't let her kiss you."

I turned, and Mary-Christine grabbed my hat from my head. "Disguise."

My red hair erupted on my head like the biggest afro in the world.

With more regret than I thought I'd be feeling, I walked through the coffee shop door.

The date actually turned out to be good fun, considering she'd pledged herself to Jim Creary just minutes ago. We chatted for a while, and I caught a few glimpses of Mary-Christine outside doing the shaky finger "don't do it" sign, and tried not to laugh.

"Do you want to walk in the park?" Dorothy eventually asked.

"Sure," I replied.

I enjoyed her machinations in a detached way, watching her maneuver her way to holding my hand, then sitting on a park bench, then going to kiss me.

I wanted to stop her and asking why she wanted to taste me, but when she got close, and breathed on me, I lost all will to say 'no.' I slipped my hand round her waist, feeling the underside of her breast on my arm. Within seconds we were necking, our tongues diving into each other's mouths. I felt utterly intoxicated by her.

Then, suddenly, she bit my tongue.

"Ow!" I yelled, and pulled away.

Dorothy screamed.

I ran my tongue round my mouth a bit, and it seemed to be all there, but she'd bit it hard. I could taste the blood in my mouth.

Dorothy, on the other hand, did not react the way I'd thought she would. After the scream, she jumped up, holding her mouth, spitting on the sidewalk. "It burns, dammit!" Then she spat at me. "That burns, you bastard!"

I saw Jim come running up to us. He didn't look in a good mood. "What the fuck happened here?" Dorothy pulled him back from me. "What happened, Dee? What did he do?" he almost snarled at me.

"It burned, Jim," she seemed close to tears. "It burned."

Jim's face paled slightly, and he backed off a few steps, helped by Dorothy's pressure. "You stay the fuck away from her!" he spat at me, but the force of his presence had gone; his blustering held nothing but an empty threat, and we both knew it.

He'd gone from confident 'I'll knock your head off' jock to 'we've got to get out of here' scardy-cat in seconds.

The two walked away without looking back. I don't know who dragged who.

I sat, flummoxed.

I don't know who that pointy-toothed, blood-sucking dork thinks he is. I'm not even as good as a G.D. amoeba? Oh, in case you're not offended on my behalf...be offended for yourself. 'Cause he was talking about all humans. Not that it matters to me anymore, but I was still human at the time.

Wasn't it enough that he'd killed my cat? Now I was expected to take insults, too? Needless to say, I didn't want anything more to do with Alan after that. The next night he came back just like nothing had happened; I sent him away and kept the window shut, locked and secured with one of those wooden things you put in the slidey part.

But Alan McCartney's jerky-ness proved persistent; he came by my window every night.

And I could only keep the shunning treatment up for about a week before I caved. What can I say? With Cami otherwise occupied, it promised to be a lonely summer.

The night after I started talking to him again, things really got bizarre. He brought me a present. It is kind of a gross story but don't judge until you hear the whole thing...

Alan sat outside, knocking on the glass; usually I'd just ignore him but this time I looked up. He had this little box - like the size you'd put a coffee mug in - all wrapped up in like Christmas paper. Bow and everything. His eyes were all sad and puppy dog at me, so I crossed the room and let him in.

To be truthful, I felt really glad to see him. I'd missed that vampire like nobody's business. But, I still totally refused to let myself smile at him. I had to fake the straight face, but I felt determined to make him believe I was super mad still.

"I brought you something," he said, holding up the box.

I totally pouted at him, "What is it?"

"Open it and see."

Okay. Curiosity got the better of me. So, I grabbed the box and took it over to my bed. I still didn't smile. Didn't even thank him.

My mother taught me to make a wish as you untied a bow from a present. I closed my eyes and wished for something fancy, sparkly, and expensive. Boy was I way, WAY off.

You're not going to believe this. Lying there, all curled up and dead, lay this gross, brown mouse. I freaked! I dropped the box, screamed, and jumped up on my bed - like those old ladies you see on TV, standing on the table 'cause there's a mouse running around. That was me, 'cept, of course, this mouse wasn't running around.

So, naturally, my parents bust in and they're all hysterical because I'm hysterical. Soon as the door opened, I realized that they were gonna catch me with this dude in my room in the middle of the night. You should have seen their faces.

My mom went for me, climbing up on the bed and putting herself in front of me like a shield. She yelled stuff like, "Stay away from my daughter, you pervert!"

Dad went right for Alan, arms out like he intended to rip him in two. But, Alan...Alan was a vampire.

I think you get what that means.

Before I knew what had happened, right there in front of me and Mom, Dad's head went rolling across the floor like bowling ball. Blood went everywhere, squirting in crazy arcs all over the place. I don't know what Mom thought she would do; I guess she'd gotten too freaked out to know herself. But she jumped right off my bed and swooped up Dad's head like she was gonna reattach it. That's when Alan got her.

It was over in seconds.

Their corpses looked just like two mannequins that had been taken apart. And blood had been fired everywhere.

I threw up all over my bed.

Alan came and got me. He pressed my head in between his hands, trying to get me to look at his eyes. All I could do was scream and try to push him away - not that it did any good.

"Calm down, Mandy Cross. This is a good thing; the best thing that could have happened to you..."

"The best thing?" I roared across the half-inch gap between our faces. "You just killed my parents!"

I didn't get out the rest I tried to say (like, "You mother fucker! I'm going to fucking kill you!") because of the vampire pheromone he hit me with. The words stayed in my head, tumbling around like marbles in a can.

Next thing I knew, Alan pulled my face into his shoulder. Once the vampire stuff he sweats got to my nose, I went limp. Then, as I kept breathing it in, I went all the way from crying fitfully to grinding myself against him. I could totally feel that he enjoyed it, too.

"I want you to do something for me, Mandy Cross. Are you listening?"

I wanted to bite him. How weird is that? A human who's just dying to bite a vampire? But, I could do nothing besides moan and nod my foggy head. He could get me to do anything at that point. And he freaking knew it.

"Taste this."

Alan had the mouse in his hand. He bit into it until a bead of red popped up from the brown fur. He brought it to my lips. I can't believe I'm telling anybody this, but, I did it. First I felt a little shy about it; I just dabbed the tip of my tongue into it. Then Alan grabbed me by the butt and pushed me against him; he felt so hard down there, and I was physically hurting to get it.

So, I sucked on the wound and a bunch more blood came out. I don't know how else to put it - it was like drinking sex. I'd never had an orgasm before but I did then; and I knew exactly what it was. No mistaking. The most powerful thing I'd ever felt. I almost fainted.

"And that's just a fucking rodent," Alan whispered so velvety; once his voice hit my ear, I came again.

"Cats, dogs...they're even better. The bigger the kill, the more exciting the flavor."

Then he looked at the pieces of bodies flung out all over my room. "And you want to know what's best of all, Mandy Cross?"

I almost started to squirm away, tell him off, and just let him tear me apart too. But, Alan breathed into my face. It was like that stuff his skin secretes times ten-thousand.

Since they were my parents, I tried to say no. It was a pathetic try, though.

"I'm not a vampire," I told him.

"Not yet..."

Alan bit into his wrist just like he'd done to the mouse. The smell of his blood hit me like a bouquet of roses, all powerful and sexy. When he brought his wrist to my mouth...I couldn't get enough. I sucked 'til my jaws were sore.

Then he swept up a bunch of my hair, holding it painfully tight. I'll never forget the way he stopped - just for a sec - and looked me in the eyes. He smiled like he'd just won a prize. I felt his fangs sink into my neck. The intense pain felt freaking amazing; I never wanted it to end.

It did end, though. Kind of like a spinning ride that doesn't just gradually slow down – instead, it just all of a sudden stops and leaves you totally disoriented.

When he pulled back and looked at me, his eyes were dark and evil. His malevolent smile seemed straight out of my worst nightmare. And I didn't need a mirror to know I had the same dark eyes and the same wicked smile. That's when I realized what had just happened.

I'd been changed.

Alan turned my head to make me look down at the bits and pieces sprawled over my bedroom floor. They weren't anything to me right then; just body parts.

Blood. Food. Red pools, glistening, all liquidy, made my whole body surge with hunger.

"Let's celebrate your rebirth, Mandy Cross."

Alan took me by the hand and stepped off my bed to where our feast lay spread out. It was an all-out banquet.

Mary-Christine came over to the park bench and sat down. "Not what you expected to happen?"

I looked at her with a very blank expression. I felt emotionally numb. "I sat through it all. But I still don't get it."

"I did tell you not to let her kiss you," she crossed her legs and kicked the top one in some kind of weird rhythm, "didn't I?"

"Yeah, yeah." I wasn't really interested in her thoughts on the subject. If it wasn't for the fact that I felt physically listless, I would have stormed away. As it was, my stomach began to bubble, and I felt a hurl coming on.

I looked at Mary-Christine, and she nodded in the sure knowledge that she knew what was happening.

"Turn your head left."

I did so.

"Throw up."

Oh, boy. I did that, too.

It seemed to come from my toes, one huge gutful of everything I'd eaten that day, straight onto the beautifully manicured grass at the side of the bench.

"How did you know?" I asked, but Mary-Christine had already grabbed me by the arm and guided me to the path.

"We have to walk." She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a can of what could have been cola.

I looked at it groggily. I still managed to walk, but began to struggle after a few moments; a headache was developing quickly, and I felt decidedly dizzy.

Mary-Christine opened the can, then forced it to my lips. "Drink. Trust me."

I chugged the first mouthful, then almost spat it back out again. "It's beer!" I protested. I had tried the usual American beer, but this tasted different; very thick, very creamy. I went to hand it back to her, but the gremlins inside my body had other ideas; for some reason, I suddenly decided that I needed it, for whatever purpose. I gulped it like the sweetest nectar.

Daylight, seventeen years old, and I was drinking BEER in public. In the arms of a cute sixteen-year-old girl, after making out with another one! Man, my life had changed.

"It's the yeast," Mary-Christine informed me. "We found it real good for settling you down after what you went through."

I turned to her as I tossed the can into a nearby trash can. Bang center - three points. "What I've been through?"

She turned me towards the exit of the park. "That's for another day," With a shake of her head she closed the subject.

"No, no, you don't," I stamped my foot into the pavement and attempted a halting maneuver, but she just simply walked on, dragging me with her. She had some considerable strength in her small frame. "Ok, I'll walk with you."

"I'm taking you home," Mary-Christine said simply. "There's no time to explain now, it's almost seven, and I have to get home. Mom will be pissed if I don't."

"Explain?" I asked, trying to get back into the script, but feeling overwhelmed.

"Tomorrow, be at my house at nine."

"But tomorrow's Saturday!" Although I didn't like sports, I still kinda watched football on silent television as I played music, played computer games and vegged.

"You want me to explain, don't you?" she grinned, and I lost all will to protest further. She was cute. And it wasn't just the alcohol talking.

We walked a fair distance in silence, then turned the corner to her house. She did the same step up onto her path and turned.

This time her tongue slipped into my mouth much quicker than before, and it lingered. Mine snaked round hers like two eels in an oily bag.

Tomorrow, nine o'clock.

When I got home, I felt so exhausted; I fell asleep on top of the bed.

Mom came in when it had gotten dark and cajoled me to strip and get under the comforter.

No dreams.

Up like a lark at seven.

Mom gave me the weirdest look over my cornflakes, but just watched me leave.

Mary-Christine stood waiting by the gate when I arrived, just three minutes past nine, and with her infectious smile, I felt instantly invigorated. The family SUV stood in the drive, and we both got inside.

"Where are we going?" I asked, not altogether comfortable meeting one of her parents.

"Flagstaff," she said as her mom approached with her handbag, ready for shopping.

"What's there that's so important?"

"Nothing really, you'll have to wait and see."

Oh, wonderful.

The next twenty minutes seemed like an interrogation. I sat in the backseat, and there were no lights trained onto my eyes, but it seemed like an interrogation all the same. Her mom smiled, but behind the façade, the questions were solid.

What subjects? What music? How old? What do I want to be? My majors? What college? Alan McCartney? Dorothy Squires? Guitar? My dad in Unicorps?

Boy, was I glad when we got to our destination in Flagstaff, and the SUV pulled up downtown at the old library.

I followed Mary-Christine inside and I quickly found myself at the microfiche section. She pulled a chair over so we could share a screen. It had been frustrating not being able to talk in the car, and I looked forward to some kind of explanation.

"Let me do it my way," she said. I nodded, just happy with moving forward, no matter at what speed.

She selected our local paper, the Gregor Newsletter, and began to flash through the issues. Slowing down, she lingered on a headline.

Local Student Drowns in Fishing Hole

"March, 2010," Mary commented. "Do you remember?"

"I remember it pretty well," I said. "Quite sad really. Only child; Billy something. But he was two years above me, it didn't mean much at the time."

"William Reid," she said. "The parents left Gregor just days after; seems they couldn't take the media hype."

The next headline.

Reid Family in Tatters, Head for New Life in Nebraska

"So what am I taking from this?" I asked.

"Just remember the basics facts right now; you'll be taking a test later," she grinned and spun the dial as the screen raced past my eyes again.

Drunk Teens in Highway Collision

I'd almost forgotten about that one. "Yeah, nasty business. Car went under a semi. If I remember correctly, they were in a bad way."

"That's one way to say it." Mary-Christine spun the control.

Highway Crash; Parents Ban Press from Details

"The parents decided not to talk to the press in any way." She put her hand on my knee. "The families both moved away immediately after the incident."

"And what am I looking at here?" We were sitting very close, and her perfume had been blowing me away all morning. She had her hand on my knee. I looked down, her fingertips were literally twelve inches from my boner, and she wanted me to have cogent thought processes? "I'm finding it hard to concentrate."

This was going to be a difficult morning.

At the time, it didn't matter that they had been my parents. Just like Alan said about the amoeba thing...

I mean, if you're rolling down the highway and see some dead deer off in the shoulder, you might think, "Aw, poor thing." But, you're not gonna pull over - shovel in one hand, rosary in the other - and give it a proper burial. If anything, you'd tie it to the roof of your car and cart it off to make venison. That's how it is. Vampires see dead humans the way humans see road kill.

Except without the "poor thing."

So we gorged ourselves on what had remained of Sybille and Harvey Cross. Alan even made it seem like a cool circle of life thing. Just like they'd brought me into my human life, their blood now transitioned me into my new form as a vampire. He'd gone so far as to call my mom's blood "mother's milk."

We didn't stop until we'd drained both corpses of every drop. You know how you get all tired and bloated after you've eaten way too much? It's not like that for a vampire when we drink blood. I felt totally alive, more energetic, more fit than ever before.

And I was strong. Really strong. Alan and I got two big duffel bags that my family used when we went camping. We put Sybille's parts in one bag and Harvey's in the other. I could lift them both with no problem. I could've held them over my head and thrown them like a mile down the street. But, Alan was being all sweet so he carried one bag and gave me the other.

We took them down to the lake and weighted the bags with heavy stones. And with not a word spoken, we threw them into the water and watched them sink.

Afterwards, we climbed up the cement incline under the pier and just kind of watched the water rippling under the moon. Out of nowhere I got hit with this overwhelming remorse, thinking how I'd never see my mother again, never hear any more of her lame advice. I started to cry then - hysterically.

Alan just leaned in until I caught another whiff of his sweat. Yeah, I was a vampire too now; but that stuff still worked on me. I went calm again. Super calm, to the point where I couldn't figure out why I'd gotten so upset. Then he walked me home.

"It's a new life for you, Mandy Cross. Don't waste your time mourning the old one."

Those were the words he left me with at my front door; I begged and pleaded but he refused to stay with me. He said it was important I learn to let go of my human "inclinations," including the need for constant company. Whatever.

I spent the whole night all alone in the house my parents had been murdered in. Several nights, in fact, waiting for Alan to show up again. Without his sweat to calm me down, I was a wreck the whole time.

Alan did come back. But he wasn't alone.

Hannah and Barton. I never knew their last name. According to Alan, all I had to know was that they were my new mommy and daddy.

The only thing they had in common with my parents was age. Both my parents had been blonde, tall, and thin. Hannah had stringy, icky-brown hair and was shaped like a muffin. Barton was thick, short, and bald. So much for the idea that all vampires all beautiful. These two were butt-ugly from top to bottom.

Alan moved them in like he owned the place. Oh - and of course he had an air-tight explanation for the whole thing.

"This is how vampire families are formed; you can ask Jackson if you don't believe me, same thing happened to him some sixty years ago," he said. "Hannah and Barton were both turned before they had any kids. Since vampires can't procreate, when a young vampire ends up orphaned, couples like them just go in and take their parents' place. Instant family!"

I didn't like the idea at all. I didn't like Hannah and Barton and I REALLY didn't like Alan just assigning a family to me. It's not like I was some lost puppy that you could just adopt out.

"I don't want them here! This is MY house and I get to say who lives here."

Alan treated it like it was totally no biggie. "Would you relax? It's just for appearances! It's not like these people give a shit what you do or where you go. You're still a free agent, Mandy Cross; but you can't be a seventeen-year-old, living alone, with no adult supervision, and not raise any eyebrows."

"You're worried about raising eyebrows?" I roared at him. "My mother has been in the PTA since I started Kindergarten! Everybody knows Sybille Cross. Everybody! I'm pretty sure when that little wart-looking woman shows up trying to impersonate her, someone will notice."

He got all rude on me then. "Duh. Hannah's not going to go around saying she's your mom. You just need to invent a story that explains why your parents aren't around. You can say they went to Africa to do missionary work for a year...and Hannah's your aunt. People will believe it."

"She doesn't look anything like my mother, you 'tard!"

Alan laughed, which made me feel totally stupid. "Every beautiful woman has an ugly sister. Trust me - it's not that far-fetched."

I could tell he'd already worked that whole lame story out in his head. That made me crazy irate, like Alan had planned this whole thing out the night he killed Mr. Stinky (remember - that's my cat), and I was the pawn in his game.

Even though I was spitting-mad (like my mom used to say), I tried to be reasonable with him.

"Shouldn't becoming a vampire come with some amount of independence? I mean, I can do anything I want now, go anywhere. To heck with sticking around this crappy town, going back to that crappy school. What does a vampire need with a high school diploma? Besides, I can't be in this house anymore, Alan...it's too...heavy..."

All that got me was another round of him laughing at me.

"C'mon, Mandy Cross," he said, stepping up real close so I could smell him. "You don't want to run off and be one of those weird nomad-vamps, no connections, no home base. That's not a solid life; believe me - I know."

"So, what? Those strangers you have squatting in my living room are suddenly my family now?" I pouted, big time.

"We all are. All the vampires in this community - we're all family. I'm practically your brother now."

I did not like the sound of that at all. I mean, I'd been waiting all this time just to get Alan's tongue in my mouth. Even just standing near him made me crazy-hormonal. Forget Craig - Cami could totally have that loser. But Alan...he made my head swim.

Brother? I don't think so...

Just to remind him that we were, in fact, not related, I stepped up a little closer to him. I hoped my vampire-sweat would affect him the same way his did me. I put my mouth right up to his and pressed our lips together. The second we had contact, I was desperate to get all of him.

He let me run my hand over his chest, then down to his pants. He let me undo the button and zipper and exhaled like he was excited when I dropped down to my knees. I didn't even get to see it before he yanked my head back by my hair.

He was breathing hard even though I hadn't even started yet. "I think I hear your mother calling you."

I looked over and Hannah stood in my doorway. Like any guy who'd just got caught about to get a BJ, Alan went for the window and was gone in a flash.

I was pissed.

"What do you want?" It sounded more like a cat's hiss than my actual voice.

Hannah came at me like an attacking lion. She smacked me so hard I rolled onto my side. Her eyes were red and ferocious. I may have been a vampire too, but I knew she could tear me apart if she wanted to.

"You've got a lot to learn, little girl." Then she smacked me again.

The Myth Takes Hold

After another three cases, I sat and looked at the screen. "So there's a pattern."

"Very much so."

It felt difficult to concentrate with Mary-Christine so close, but I did my best. I put my analytical brain in gear, knowing that while Mary-Christine constructed a case around Gregor students, she was also talking about Alan; my friend.

I narrowed my eyes, and put the facts together. "Okay, this is how I see it; teens come here, attend Gregor Academy, then if they die - which it seems there is a huge pattern of - the families leave in a heartbeat."

Mary-Christine's face lit up like a beacon, and like every dog that's done good, I would have accepted a treat from her fingers.

"That is lesson one," she said. "Now I've got to take you to the next level." Mary-Christine stood up and dragged me to the reference section. She sat me down at an empty desk, and returned moments later with a thick volume: Encyclopedia Britannica, V-W.

"Can't we use a computer?"

"Not today."

She snuggled beside me and flipped the pages.

Vampire, Vampirism.

I looked at the page in disbelief, then at the solemn face beside me. "You can't be serious."

"Deadly."

"It's a novel, for goodness sake; Mary Shelley."

"Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, Lyman," she chided. "Bram Stoker wrote Dracula. But he didn't write it just from his head. He took the idea from myths and legends, hundreds of years old. Read."

I didn't want to actually give the idea any credence, but Mary-Christine sat beside me, all cute, and her leg was touching mine. All the way along the thigh.

So I read some more.

About the myth, the legends, the immortality, the curse, and the cures and protections.

The article went into Slovak and Russian legends of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, then some cases, the eighteenth century.

I sat there, not knowing what to do. I couldn't denounce Mary-Christine as a nutcase, she was far too important for that, but I couldn't exactly believe her, either.

"Well?" she asked. Her wide-eyed expression looked full of hope, expectation, but she did frown when I didn't immediately take up her gauntlet.

I tried hard to come up with an argument that wouldn't send her running away from me. Then it came to me in a flash of pure genius. "I'm not convinced."

I sat for a second, half expecting her to storm out. But she smiled. "Ok, mister hard-to-convince skeptic. Let's ramp this up a notch."

This time we did go to the computer section.

"Tell me the only way to kill a vampire," she said. "Come on, tell me. Let's see if you're paying attention."

I easily remembered the encyclopedia articles; I really am a good student. "Wooden stake through the heart, head chopped off and never returned to the body, or complete incineration."

Mary-Christine nodded her head. "I'm impressed, Lyman Bracks. Impressed." She leant over, looked from side to side, and then gave me a kiss. I'd never had a kiss in a library. It felt kinda secretive, almost forbidden. I decided right away that I liked it.

She started into the internet, looking at a copy of the Manchester Review.

March 16th, 1996. Manchester, New England. Michele Newman Killed in a Car Crash with Two Other Teens.

Michele looked a kind of mousey sixteen-year-old.

"Pay attention, Lyman. When vampire families lose a member of the family publically, they can't just pop up the next day saying, 'Sorry, we made a mistake, all the witnesses were wrong, our kid actually made it through those bone-breaking injuries, and here he is, fit for school on Monday.'"

The next newspaper dated from 2005, Washington state.

Eugene Herald, July 23rd, 2005. Eugene, Washington. School Camp Tragedy: Six Killed in Cable Car Collapse.

To my shock, there was Michele Newman. Same girl, slightly different hairdo, but it was definitely the same girl. The caption under her picture read Corrine Phillips, same age.

Mary-Christine watched my reaction closely. "It's very rare for a vampire to have two public deaths, and have the pictorial details recorded. What you're looking at now, is just the very tip of the iceberg."

I sat in silence for a moment. "So the kids from Gregor Academy. They're all alive somewhere else? Different names?"

"Mostly. The ones in the car that went under the truck are toast. No heads."

She pulled me close. Her breath always enticed me. Strawberries. She looked at me with so much affection, it felt difficult to look away.

Man, she was cute.

"There are three kinds of people in this world, Lyman. There's the general population - 99.999%, there's vampires, and there's us - the hunters." I sat open-mouthed. "Just like there's vampires, there's also the alter-vampires. We call ourselves 'Helsings' just out of deference to old Irishman Bram Stoker. You have been tasted by a vampire, Lyman Bracks. She tasted your blood and said it burned. That, my dear Lyman, is undeniable fact. You, Lyman Bracks, whether you like it or not, are a Helsing."

I hadn't seen Alan in a few weeks after he moved his watchdogs into my house. Never saw much of Barton, either; that would've been fine 'cept he spent most of his time in my dad's study, smoking his cigars and drinking his scotch.

Freaking Hannah dominated my whole life. She seemed hell-bent on making me a "suitable" vampire girl. I'm not even sure what that meant. Basically I was expected to wait on her and that useless-pig-of-a-husband of hers; a Cinderella with fangs.

And of course, the longer Alan stayed away, the less of a vampire I felt. Looking at pictures of Sybille and Harvey...mom and dad...would make me cry. I couldn't believe the things that I had been able to do to them; it was crazy, but I wished Alan would come back, let me sniff him to chase all those old human feelings away.

He didn't, though. Not for a long time.

One night - it was nearly August and school beckoned - Hannah dragged me out of my bedroom and into the downstairs study. Barton lounged out on my dad's leather recliner. He looked kinda pale and a compress lay over his forehead. I was so stoked at the thought he might be dying of some vampire cancer or something. Turned out he was just super hungry and being all emo about it.

"You've done your father a disservice," Hannah said to me in that ultra-proper, bitchy tone of hers. "True vampires cannot thrive on the blood of beasts and fowl for prolonged periods of time."

First of all, Barton wasn't my "father" and I would never, ever call him that. Secondly, so the freak what? Like I cared if he didn't like the food I brought him. Mom had once told me, "Don't blame the delivery guy if you're still hungry after you've eaten the pizza; if you want something satisfying, you gotta get off your rump and cook it yourself."

Of course, I was scared to death of Hannah, so I didn't say any of that.

"Alan lives on cats and he does just fine," I said simply.

But even that got me a backhand across the face. "Never contradict your betters, girl. Bring us a worthy meal tonight or suffer the consequences."

I'd never killed a person. Alan had been the one to slaughter my parents; all I'd done is drink their blood and sink their bodies into the lake.

Even though I wasn't supposed to care about humans, and they were little more than livestock with iPhones, when I went out that night to finally catch one, I felt totally sick to my stomach. But, I knew if I didn't do it, Hannah would beat the living crap out of me. I wasn't about to give her reason to do that again.

The street was dark under the overhanging tree branches, but, my vampire eyes cut right through the night. And my hearing - it was like freaking sonar! This beetle landed on a leaf and I totally heard it loud as a firecracker.

Scents were coming at me from all directions; I isolated one: blood. Human blood. Of course there were lots of humans around, but this one stood out in the open - less than a mile away. So, I sprang toward that smell, moving so fast the world looked like smudged chalk as I ran.

Turned out hunting raccoons and squirrels had been excellent practice; I'd learned how to use all my new vampire skills against a much wilier, stealthier prey so taking down a slow-moving, dim-sensed human should prove pretty easy.

When I was only a quarter-mile down the road I started to get hungry. The blood smell was overwhelmingly enticing. My first kill may not make it back to Barton. I closed in on the house and finally got my first sight of them. They were not what I expected.

Out on their front porch, enjoying the quiet summer night, I found a woman cradling a small bundle of blankets protectively. She sang to it.

Two parts of me went to war: new vampire desires against old human sentiments. I mean, my stomach was rolling with the most painful hunger I'd ever experienced. But my heart was breaking. All I had to do was close my eyes to see me there on that porch, wrapped up in my mom's arms...

It took everything I had in me, but I ran off - beyond where the smell could lure me back. I ended up two towns over, on a secluded stretch of railroad tracks.

Combined smells of blood, whiskey, and pee hit me hard; it was gross and totally killed my appetite. I'd go home unfed but not empty-handed.

The homeless dude had a nasty sheet thrown across a tree branch for a tent. He looked passed out drunk and it was so easy. And I was merciful and quick; just a yank and it was done.

I threw his head on the tracks, figuring the first train would obliterate it and that'd be that. I slung his decapitated body over my shoulders. He felt as light as a freaking feather.

When I presented him to Hannah and Barton, I wasn't really expecting a "thank you." I also wasn't expecting what I got.

Even though Barton had lunged off the recliner and pounced on the body, taking every drop for himself, Hannah was obviously furious with me.

"This is an insult; you bring this defiled corpse? This human's body was rotting long before it ever died. And you took the head off; it's lost most of its blood already! Not a suitable offering to your father..."

That's when I lost it. "He's NOT my father!"

Before I could see her coming, Hannah had me on the ground with her hand at my throat. I really thought it was all over then.

"You have been given to us, little girl," she said, squeezing my windpipe, "so help me - you will learn your rightful place."

As always, the punishment was brutal and relentless. The last thing I think I did before I passed out was scream for Alan. He didn't come.

I felt torn.

On one side, I'd been told about a world of Vampires and Helsings. A world of complete fantasy, which I had to agree, had some pretty convincing facts lying around the place.

On the other, for the first time in my life, I had a cute girl on my arm, and I didn't want to make fun of Mary-Christine by deriding anything she told me. She was the best thing to happen to me, and I could totally see the two of us doing it one day.

So, of course I did what any red-blooded male would have done.

I went along with everything she said.

Now, don't get me wrong, I analyzed every piece of proof she showed me. I didn't swallow it without reservation. Science is my major at the Academy, and I knew how to look at experiments, and how to stack facts, to look for proofs, to verify her theory. Or contradict it.

So I let her continue with her 'evidence,' determined to either find absolute proof sometime in the future.

Before we'd left the library, she'd brought me up to date with five cases of double public deaths which, to be honest, fitted into Mary-Christine's theories. I mean, they didn't prove them beyond belief, or blow my mind or anything, but it seemed strange how well the facts fit.

We were standing outside, waiting for Mary-Christine's mom, when I made my own connection. I suddenly realized that I had possible vampire facts of my own. "The Seven," I said, lifting my head to look at her. "The Gregor Seven."

"What?" Mary-Christine kissed me to shake me out of my stupor.

"Eh. Seven students, all seniors." As I spoke, I couldn't believe I actually said the words. "They all stuck their fingers into Alan's blood and licked it."

"When?" her eyes were wide and animated.

"After he died. After the ambulance had taken his body away."

"Who were they?"

I slowly closed my eyes and ticked off the names in my head. "Sharon Jones, Jeff Fielding, Billy Tankard, Elizabeth Wanrowski, Jahred Sykes, Jim Creary, and of course, Dorothy Squires."

Mary-Christine's face lit up like a Christmas tree. She hugged me and we kissed some more. "Man, you're a natural."

I grinned and patted myself on the back just for noticing. But one thing niggled at my subconscious. "So why were me and Alan friends?"

"That, I don't know."

I had an idea. "'Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.' That's Sun-Tzu, from the 'Art of War.' I dunno what class I learned it in, but I remember."

I spent my journey home sitting in the back seat, answering seemingly dumb questions from Mary-Christine's mom, and dwelling on Alan's friendship. It couldn't have meant nothing at all to him, surely; he gave me his guitar, for goodness sake; he didn't need to do that.

When we got back to Gregor, Mary-Christine and I went up to her room 'to study,' and the weird thing was, we actually did. I mean, sure, we fooled around as we did it, but we did study.

She had a huge computer, and between necking sessions, we looked into the backgrounds of 'The Seven' with little or no success.

"How about the girl who killed Alan?" I said, suddenly excited. "We've heard nothing of her since the incident. I assumed she'd been arrested, but we don't know."

"What's her name?"

"Mandy something."

"Oh, that's great," Mary-Christine chided, with a huge grin on her face. She tapped away at the keyboard, soon had the Everton High School roll on the screen. "Junior or senior?"

"Senior, probably."

"Mandy something. Okay, Mandy Cross! Got her." Mary's fingers swept over the keyboard. "I'm doing a cross-reference. That's funny; a 'Cross' reference."

We laughed 'til the tears ran down our faces.

"No siblings, just an only child." Mary-Christine wiped her eyes with her fingers. "Mother Sybille Cross is a housewife on the PTA. There's a pic. Father is Harvey, an attorney at a law firm in Everton."

So we checked the Everton Journal for Mandy Cross, but got nowhere. We even checked every edition since the murder, but there was no mention of it anywhere.

"That doesn't make sense," I said. "She murdered Alan. We all saw it. There were police on the scene. The ambulance took him away. There were hundreds of witnesses."

"Hold on a second. I may have something." She flipped open her cell phone. "Dad? Hi. Look, Lyman and I have a question for you."

I couldn't believe she actually called her father. I mean, I still sat at the edge of this conspiracy; not committed and stuff, and she was going to talk to an adult about it.

"Why would there be no mention of Alan's murder in the papers?" she asked into the phone.

My face burned kinda red, just being there.

"Right, there's also no mention of Mandy Cross anywhere, you know, in papers and online. Yeah, she's the girl that killed Alan."

Pause.

"Oh, ok. I'll explain." She hung up. "That makes sense. Ok, Lyman, dad says it's simple. The vampire family tells the cops they'd like no publicity for scandal's sake. The newspaper follows the family's wishes; local papers can do that kind of thing much easier than national ones. That takes care of that part. Now, the Mandy Cross thing is explained by a 'silent APB.' It's an APB, but it's done on the down-low, so the killers think they got away with it, but the APB is all secret and stuff. Dad says that the Cross house has been deserted for some time. The cops are around there now, still searching."

"So your dad is a Helsing?" I asked slowly and somewhat reluctantly.

"Yeah. It's why we're here. Mom too, but she's into the investigation side."

"So you're a Helsing from their genes?"

"Yes."

My parents had moved here to Gregor when I was ten, dad landing a nice job with Unicorps. Before that, we'd lived across state in Leverton. "So is Helsing-ness only transferred by birth?"

She shook her head, and I sighed with relief before she answered.

"No, some just happen. And it's more than coincidence that Helsings happen in places of high vampire occurrence."

Somewhere deep in my mind, a penny started to drop. I pushed her from me, and looked at her. I wasn't totally happy at the doubts rising to the surface. "You've only been here a month."

"Yeah."

"But you knew all those local cases in the library."

She just grinned, slightly shaking her head. "I don't know where you're going, Lyman."

"Well, how did you know all that local stuff if you've just got here?"

She leant in for a kiss, and I certainly wasn't going to stop her. "That's easy, kiddo. I had to study them before we arrived. Gregor has a problem with vampires, and we're the solution."

I realized with a grim shake of my head that my girlfriend considered herself Buffy-the-fricking-Vampire Slayer. I didn't know if I felt scared or cool.

Or a bit of both.

I mean, Sara Michelle Gellar is hot stuff!

I ran away the next night. It seemed totally unfair; I mean - that was MY house. But Hannah and Barton had taken over. I needed to find Alan and tell him what they'd done to me. He'd make them leave. I hoped, at least.

I could only think of one place to go for help, since I had no freaking clue where Alan lived. So, I jumped from my bedroom window and skulked behind the rhododendrons until I felt sure Hannah wasn't gonna pounce on me or something. That crazy chick had me under like, house arrest; after I brought the "unsuitable offering" home, she was super furious with me.

But, I felt pretty sure the coast was clear so I made my way down the block, keeping in the shadows. Jackson's house was a cookie-cutter of mine and his room was on the second storey, too. No prob. I could totally climb like a spider now; and so I got to his window without breaking a sweat.

He was up. Duh. Vampires are pretty much always up.

Jackson sat bent over his guitar, practically making love to the thing. A pair of gigantic headphones were clamped over his ears, plugged into the amp. It took a few taps on the glass to get his attention. When he finally did see me, though, he really didn't look that surprised.

Still, I flashed him my new fangs like they were some kind of backstage pass. Jackson shook his head at me, all disapprovingly, and came to let me in.

"I wondered when you were gonna come by," he said.

"So you know what happened to me then?"

Jackson totally scolded me, "Don't give me that crap - what 'happened' to you. You made a choice, Mandy...a really stupid, fucked-up choice."

I shook like I was cold; but, it was August, so it must have been nerves or something.

"Don't be such a dick about it," I said. "It's not like you didn't make the same choice."

"No - I didn't, actually."

Jackson was a big guy, kinda square-shaped. His face was cute, but a little on the pudgy side. He had long, dark hair and kept it in a braided ponytail. A lot of girls at school really liked him; probably 'cause he had that cool musician vibe. I always thought he came off as snobby, so we never totally connected even though we usually ended up in the same places at the same time. Right then I wondered if I'd made a lame call, thinking I could go to him.

He just kind of left me hanging there while he poked around in his closet. After a few minutes, he brought out this ancient-looking box and handed me a yellowing newspaper from the 1960s. It was called the Philadelphia Singer – it looked like a tabloid, and the front page headline read: "Vampire Sightings Surge!"

At first I rolled my eyes at it; then I totally remembered - wait...vampires are real. Duh. So, I read the first few lines of the article.

"Missing persons reports continue to pile up as Philadelphia's finest scramble to respond to nightly reports of vampire sightings. Terrified witnesses testify to spotting cloaked figures lurking in shadows, attacking pets and people alike. Bodies, drained of blood, have been found in rural fields as well as urban alleyways. Nine people remain unaccounted for..."

"So, you were one of the nine?" I asked.

Jackson took the paper back, refolded it, and placed it in the box so carefully it might have been a kitten. "Before the thing had passed, they'd changed over two-hundred all together in Philly and surrounding towns. I was one of the last to be taken - and not by choice, Mandy. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time..."

"What? They just snatched you up?"

He plopped down on his bed. Jackson's whole face changed then. He'd always been so superior (at least I thought so) but now he just looked tired.

"Back then - late fifties into the early sixties - an underground movement started within the vampire community. It wasn't like it is now where you've got little cells of vampires, mostly broken down into nuclear families. It seemed more like the goddamn vampire mafia; one family in particular was led by Amos Blanche. And whatever you do, remember that name."

"Amos believed that vampires had taken a backseat to humans and we should take our 'rightful place' as the dominant species. I mean, he had it all planned out with vampires taking over and breeding humans for food...like cattle. It would have thrown the whole balance off. There's a reason there're more lemurs than lions, Mandy. If predators ruled the world there wouldn't be any world left, y'know. "

"So, Amos failed," I said. "I mean obviously...there're still plenty of humans around."

Jackson nodded sadly. "He failed. But not before putting up a good fight; part of which was recruiting new vampires and brainwashing them according to his agenda. Amos's followers slaughtered humans left and right; most of them for food. But, those of us who were young and strong enough...and impressionable enough...were changed. Against our will."

"How'd it end? How'd they stop Amos?" I felt like a kid hearing a scary bedtime story.

"Blanche shined a big spotlight on the vampire community; not a good thing. A bunch of the bigger families - we're talking hundreds to each clan - rose up against Amos, put a stake through him, and either converted or destroyed his recruits...depending on how loyal they were to his cause. Eventually, human-vampire relationship all went back into balance and the 'Philadelphia Crusade' is forever lost in the pages of that tabloid."

It was hard to come up with something to say. I did my best but it felt wrong just coming out of my mouth. "At least you ended up okay..."

Jackson's jaw got really tight and his eyes burned like miniature flames. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Mandy! I watched my ten-year-old sister and my mother as the life was drained out of them. Then I got dragged away from my home and Amos Blanche himself turned me. I spent the first two months of my vampire existence being tortured under a whip because I refused to do his dirty work; I vowed before that son-of-a-bitch ever bit into me that I would never take a human life and I never have."

I felt floored. "You haven't ever drunk human blood?"

"Not a fucking drop."

Jackson pointed over to a cage on his dresser; dozens of little white mice with pink eyes were crawling all over each other.

"And I won't even take one of them until I absolutely have to," he told me, all proud.

"What about Alan?" I asked carefully, "Was he around back then?"

"Yeah," Jackson said with an angry clip to his voice. "We were both turned by Amos Blanche; he a little bit sooner than me."

I knew the answer, but asked the question anyway, "Was he like you? Did he refuse to work for that guy?"

Jackson looked at me like I was stupid. "Give me a break. Alan had a fucking boner for Amos Blanche...and for killing. He didn't just do it to stay 'alive'...your buddy killed because he liked it.

"The only reason he wasn't destroyed after Amos got taken out was because he gave an Academy Award-worthy performance; he convinced the families that he felt true remorse. Angela McCartney vouched for him and took him under her wing; It's such bullshit; he's never changed, Mandy. Alan and his cronies are a bunch of vampire thugs."

"Cronies - what cronies?"

"His little followers at Gregor Academy...AKA Vampire High."

"Vampire High?" now I was about to freak out.

Jackson looked like he felt sorry for me then. "He hasn't told you dick, has he?"

"I've barely seen him since he changed me." I started to tear up at that point. "He brought these horrible people to my house...Hannah and Barton..."

His eyes got big and alarmed. "Holy shit. I know those people - they were at Amos's right hand through the whole thing...especially Hannah. We all thought they were destroyed along with him. You know what this means?"

I didn't know. And I didn't want to. But, Jackson told me anyway.

"Alan's picking up where Amos Blanche left off. He's recruiting."

We hope you've enjoyed our introduction to the Vampires Don't Cry world we've created.

Now for a free look into Ian Hall's new Connecticut Vampire series; a modern vampire from Hartford, Connecticut is catapulted back in time to Tudor England.

"21st century vampire Richard DeVere never intended to become a time traveler. When he is mysteriously catapulted back five hundred years into the dawn of the Tudor age, he suddenly finds himself in the reign of King Henry the Seventh. It's safe to say that he's abruptly shaken out of his comfort zone. Despite the physical advantages afforded a vampire, he feels strangely vulnerable in a medieval world where wooden stakes and arrows are the norm. He knows he must adapt if he is to survive the turbulent and barbaric times."

A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court

By Ian Hall

Present day, Hartford, Connecticut

Bam. I got a full-fist hit at Fallon's face, and I know I heard bone break. He sneered at me, clutching my arms, trying to move his grip to my head. I twisted away in response. Fallon and I had butted heads so often, my vampire boss had given me the go-ahead to take him out the next time we crossed paths; tonight, either Keith Fallon was going to crumble to dust, or I would.

I'd been a vampire for six years, and we'd run headlong into each other as many times; one vampire group against the other, Connecticut versus Massachusetts, Hartford v Boston.

Basstin.

The neon lighting of downtown Hartford spun around us as we danced together, snarling our death threats, throwing each other around the outside of the State Capital building, seemingly indifferent to a visit from the police.

Not that we couldn't carry out the death threats, I mean, vampire against vampire is a dicey and deadly game. I felt his knee strike my thigh; oh, if I survived the conflict that one would leave a bruise. After a minute of struggling, I recognized Bushnell Park, and got bounced off a few trees for my inattention to the actual fight.

Bam, I slammed him into the Soldier and Sailor's Arch, his shoulders taking a heck of a pounding on the cold hard stone.

Apart from the sounds of our struggle, the area remained deserted. Then he bared his teeth at me, pulling me close to his grasp. "Hartford fuck!" he hissed at me, closing in on my neck.

"Masshole!" I counteracted my Bostonian counterpart with a twist that sent us into a spin, taking my face away from his. Oh and did we spin.

I mean, I can run over a hundred miles an hour, so imagine our dual speeds. The air crackled, and as we spun we seemed to lift off the ground, our momentum gathering until a loud hum mingled with our cries and filled my ears.

I moved my hand from his shoulder to strike, but the centrifugal force made the blow difficult. I sensed the end was near, then gradually pulled him closer and closer; one of us would taste blood tonight.

Then SNAP!

Blackness.

And silence.

Unknown date

Bedchamber

Never being known for any outward bursts of emotion, I pressed my back against the cold stone wall and swallowed hard.

What the heck had just happened?

Still sweating from my fight, I panted quietly, allowing my breathing to return as close to normal as my current circumstances would allow.

Illuminated by a duet of candles on either side of the rather grand bed, the dimly-lit room before me looked quite austere. Apart from two antique drawer units, the room lay bare and dusty.

I did the usual anti-panic measures; I pinched myself, I slapped my cheek lightly, then I spoke.

"Hello?"

My voice sounded dull, with no trace of echo, the bare stone walls absorbing all its energy.

Everything seemed perfectly normal.

Except of course, that seconds before I had been in a dark Connecticut alleyway, spiraling in mortal combat with Fallon.

We'd been spinning so rapidly, my head still felt light and disorientated.

I felt pretty weirded out, I can tell you.

I took a step towards the light, alarmed by the loud crunching of my cowboy boots on the straw strewn on the smooth stone floor. Rough under my feet, like the walls; not tile. Sensing movement outside the room, I stopped to listen; footfalls outside the door. I flattened myself against the wall again, sidling towards the darker corner, my boot soles again scraping against the straw and the rough surface below.

The door burst open, and a gangly teenage boy raced in, barefoot, aiming himself at the bed. His long nightshirt trailed after him like a milky Superman cape.

"I shall not write another letter, not one!" he screamed, landing with a considerable thump on the bedding. Considering the advances in mattress manufacture, I could have made some recommendations. I mean, this bed just didn't give anything under his aerial assault; the bedclothes could have been made of cement.

An arm stretched inside the room, and pulled the door closed. "Goodnight, your highness."

Oh boy, not only a cold, dark bedroom, but a brat to contend with.

"Me solum relinquatis!" he yelled over his shoulder at the closed door.

Wow, that surprised me for a comeback. I know Latin when I hear it. At eighteen, I'd done a year's work placement at a lawyer's firm back in Farmington, Connecticut, and although I didn't know exactly what he'd said, it had sounded pretty good.

Then he began muttering under his breath, his hands tightly clasped.

Praying? Even under the illumination of the candles, it was difficult to tell.

Then he confirmed it by rolling over onto his back and crossing himself. With a petulant breath aimed accurately at each candle, he threw the room into total darkness.

In minutes, the sounds of light snoring drifted across the void.

I sighed in relief.

Keeping my back to the wall, and considering the debris on the floor, I moved as quietly as I could along to a heavily curtained window, and slipped behind the thick dark drapes. My fingers met a cold stone lintel, and I recoiled in shock; man, the stone felt icy cold. The windows were misted completely, and it took me several minutes to get clear a patch, then let it dry so I could see outside.

It looked as dark as pitch from my window to whatever horizon existed. I could vaguely see the tops of trees, and a long, sliver of a moon behind some dark scuffing clouds, but little else. No artificial lights to give me a clue of where I had ended up.

Nothing.

Keeping behind the curtain, I lifted a foot and dragged my boot off. I flinched as my foot returned to the floor though; even through the dried grasses it seemed that every surface in this house felt cold!

With my boots in my hands, I proceeded to creep across the room, still crunching with every step, and headed for the door. Thankfully there were no creaky floorboards to contend with, but the stone did feel icy under my bare feet.

I turned the handle, conscious that I'd be silhouetted from the bed, but certain if I was discovered and the alarm raised, my vampire speed would take me out of any trouble. As I held the door ajar, the corridor beyond looked relatively dark, and candles high on the wall at regular intervals gave a semblance of light. Grasses and dried leaves of many kinds covered the floors here, too. A man sat on a stiff-backed chair right by the side of the lintel, his head dropping in weariness. I gave a deep breath and sped away, paying him little attention, leaving the sleepy man to contend with the now-open door.

Once around the corner I slowed, my breath going before me. I walked along corridors of closed doors, listening carefully at each. It seemed that either the whole floor had gone to bed, or the brat had left the party early.

At last I came to stone stairs leading downwards, then onto a wooden minstrel's gallery, overlooking a room below. I crept forward to see three occupants crowded around the remnants of a huge fire. Logs burned red in the stone hearth. I looked at the flickering candles on the high candelabra and the taut rope anchored below, holding it in place.

Stone walls loomed high above me, heavy wooden trusses held up a dark, smoke-filled ceiling; this was indeed a castle.

In the room below, two women wore huge dresses, Elizabethan or something; definitely renaissance festival garb. The single guy, in dark doublet, tights, and still wearing his feathered hat, sipped at a small glass, and encouraged his companions to do the same. A long sword hung from his waist, almost to the ground.

"The Prince will be sleeping before he knows," the elder woman giggled as she spoke. "I lace his evening drink with my 'special' mixture every night. Have done for years." She looked on the portly side, not really my taste, but she had an engaging smile. Her brown hair was pulled severely from her forehead, resulting in a bun arrangement behind.

"Then we can retire to your room?" The man nudged the side of her exposed cleavage.

They both giggled. The younger woman, more a girl really, smiled politely.

"But, my dear Sir Clive, what would your wife think?"

Sir Clive laughed in an exaggerated way, perhaps more influenced by the drink than I'd first thought. He looked older than the ladies, maybe fortyish, and although his wide-brimmed hat hid most of his features from my high position, his bushy black beard and mustache held a peppering of grey. "Why, Mistress Phillipa, she would think naught, as she has no notion I still manage ink in my quill!" And he chortled at his own joke.

The ladies pretended to blush, exchanging glances, but did not disengage from his company; in fact they allowed Sir Clive to top up their glasses.

The younger girl looked by far the prettier of the two, slim and willowy, she wore her fair hair in a ponytail, looking far less austere than Phillipa, but she stayed silent, except to laugh, which they did a lot. Looking down on their considerable cleavages, my vampire hormones started to come to the fore. Bare necks meant a meal, and these two had placed themselves firmly on the platter.

"Perhaps we can encourage young Eleanor here to join us?" He nuzzled closer to the young girl.

"Oh, I am quite certain I could entertain you on my own." Phillipa checked him, moving protectively towards the young girl; sixteen, seventeen maybe.

Sir Clive gave a huge grin, satisfied that his strategy had worked. "And how will you entertain me?" He leant close to her bosom, breathing low onto her pale skin.

His whiskers must have been tickling, for she moved instinctively away. "Oh, trust me, Sir Clive, I can be very inventive."

I mentally pleaded with Mistress Phillipa to take Clive away, leaving Eleanor in my grasp, but it seemed that after hooking her fish, she gave little concern to its further capture. After finishing their drinks, taking Eleanor by the hand, a grinning Phillipa breezed past the poor man, leaving him languishing in their wake.

"Perhaps another time, Sir Clive."

They disappeared below, and I heard their footsteps on a staircase. Turning, I raced to the door behind me, just in time to see the pair pass by.

"And that, dearest Eleanor, is how we get free drinks at the end of the day." They both giggled into their hands as they passed, neither of them giving my open doorway a second glance. "Cook cannot complain if Sir Clive is pouring."

"I understand, Mistress." Eleanor voiced her opinion in a strange, lilting accent; the first time I'd heard her speak. Her voice lay heavy with regional English overtones I couldn't easily place.

"I hope so; it could lift you in station one day."

I followed, one corner behind, and watched them bid each other goodnight, then enter different rooms. I memorized the location of both Phillipa's and Eleanor's doors, then retraced my steps back past the minstrel gallery door to find another staircase downwards.

Once on the ground floor, I began to map the structure in my mind, while continually looking for some idea of where we actually were. To my astonishment, I began to realize that the building lay devoid of all modern appliances.

No electricity outlets, no phones; in fact, no invention past the sixteenth century. Smoky candles provided the only method of lighting, and log fires seemed to be the only heating source.

The entire floor seemed deserted, Sir Clive obviously having already removed himself for the night.

Then I also noticed another notable omission; clocks.

No timepieces of any kind whatsoever.

My mind had already jumped to a conclusion that would be difficult to fathom, but then, going from a vampire struggle to a dark bedroom also beggared my belief system.

I followed my nose outside into a dark courtyard, and then inside again, landing in the kitchen.

Yup, totally stone age.

Still no electricity, but also no ducting for the wood-burning stoves that lined one long wall. I looked behind them, and found nothing. The smoke from the stoves would rise into the rafters high above. I looked up for some sign of a chimney, but again came up wanting.

I walked back outside to the courtyard. In the darkness I could make out an archway, and a road beyond. No gate barred the arch, but two soldiers stood on either side. I retraced my steps past the kitchen, and back into the building where the apartments lay.

With my mind in turmoil, I raced back upstairs to Phillipa's room, listened at the door, then slipped inside. I raced to her bed before she could even think of shouting an alarm, and clamped my hand over her mouth.

"Mistress Phillipa." I looked deep into her eyes and allowed my vampire breath to pass over her face. "I mean you no harm, do you understand me?" Confident my pheromones would calm her, turning her submissive and pliable.

Captive in my hands, she nodded, her eyes blinking at me.

"I need answers to some questions, and I don't want you to call out, okay?"

Her brows furrowed, seemingly unable to understand my instructions fully. She looked from my face to my Pink Floyd T-shirt. "You wish me to remain silent?" She spoke quietly through my fingers.

"Yes," I said finding her sudden obtrusiveness annoying. I mean, come on, my Connecticut accent wasn't that difficult to understand. "Just answer my questions. Where are we?" I relaxed my hand from her mouth.

"Why, good sir, we are in my bedchamber."

I shook my head in frustration. "What place is this? What building is this?"

She looked at me like she'd seen a madman, her eyebrows all furrowed low on her pretty plump face.

"I came in off the road, lost in the darkness." I strove in my mind to become more 'period', more old fashioned, for it seemed she only understood that mannerism. I thought of an Amish community, and tried to affect such an 'olden day' cadence to my speech. "I only wish to be told where I am."

"Why, sire, you are in Ludlow Castle."

Well, I'd been in Connecticut for many years, surrounded on all sides by English-sounding place names, but Ludlow had never been mentioned. "What county?"

She looked at me oddly. "I believe we are in Shropshire, sire."

"Never heard of it."

She flinched from me. "Beg pardon, sire?"

"Why, Phillipa, I have never heard of a Connecticut county called Shropshire."

She began to edge away from me, despite my grip on her body. "Sir, you speak strangely, your dress is... strange, and you press me for answers which I seem not to have."

I moved closer, holding her head in as gentle a vice grip as I could. "I'm getting fucking sick of this 'Olde Worlde' bullshit!" I railed through clenched teeth. I let my breath slowly cascade over her face. "Tell me the truth, Phillipa, only the truth. Do you understand?" She nodded, her eyes clouding somewhat; her last resistance to my questioning now extinguished. "Where are we?"

"Ludlow Castle, sire."

"And where exactly in the world is Ludlow Castle, Phillipa?"

She paused. "In England, sire, near the Welsh border."

Crap; not the answer I'd expected.

I felt a twitching in my body as my mind dealt with the information. What she'd told me seemed beyond the pale, beyond my imagination. And yet I'd travelled from the grip of a spinning vampire to being alone in a dark bedroom, and I did not question that.

But a question loomed in the dark of my subconscious, one which surfaced quickly as a realization dawned. "What year is it?" I asked, my lip already trembling, anticipating her reply.

My captive looked to be crumbling before me, even under the control of my vampire breath, scared out of her wits. "It is the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and one, sire."

My turn to crumble. I tried to think rationally, but found the processes unavailable to me.

"Sleep, Phillipa, forget me," I said, letting her head rest back onto the firm pillow.

Even my vampire requirement to feed from her neck lay forgotten as I picked up my boots and walked bemused to her door.

1501.

Shit.

1501?

Consolidation

I made my way silently down to the courtyard, then sped under the long archway between the two drowsy guards, across a further larger grassy courtyard, and through the open main gate. Houses lay immediately beyond these outer walls, and carried on down the hill, but I soon left those behind me. The wet ground under my bare feet woke my consciousness still further, and the bracing cold air filled my lungs as I raced faster, putting miles between me and the dark cold walls of Ludlow Castle.

Eventually my feet hit water, and I suddenly found myself out of my depth in a dark river.

Startled out of my need for flight, I turned around, swimming back for shore. Finally my feet found the pebbled bottom and I walked from the river, my clothes soaking, my body shaking with nervous energy.

Slowly, I began to process. Nowhere in my flight had I seen any form of artificial lighting. No roads to speak of, nothing of modern construction.

I sat on the grassy riverbank, my head in my hands, trying to make any sense of the situation, and found that only one possibility, no matter how implausible it seemed; I had indeed travelled through time and space, and ended up in England in 1501.

With the slowing of my heart came the rationality required to deal with the situation. I needed clothes, and I needed pretty good ones. The choice of serf in this day and age would not be good for my survival. Vampires die from wood through the heart and beheading, both of which are part and parcel of Tudor times; I'd seen enough evidence on television.

I needed an identity. I needed a backstory, and I needed some kind of safe haven in which to hide, gather my thoughts, and settle myself down.

Then I had to find a way back to the good ole USA.

"Ludlow Castle," I said out loud against the gentle trickling noise of the river. "No shit."

I sat beside the cool water, realizing that I'd lost my boots somewhere on the flight from the castle.

"Damn," I said, shaking my head. If anything I could recall about the period, footwear hadn't been high on the technology side. Not that my cowboy boots would have fitted in anyway.

Then I pondered the period, trying to recall anything which would help me re-orientate myself in these strange, distant times.

England, 1501 meant King Henry the Eighth or thereabouts. Queen Elizabeth? I cursed myself for not paying more attention at school or even to the Tudors on HBO. The White Queen on Starz had been popular, but I had no idea if it had been close to 1501.

Connecticut had one of the biggest Renaissance Fairs in the country, but I hadn't even been since I was a kid.

And that was back in the eighties. So much for my education.

I'd been 'turned' back in 2000, just a few months after my twenty-fourth birthday; initiated into ranks of the immortal, and as a vampire I would remain twenty-four years old until someone put a stick through my heart, turning me to the finest dust.

Oh yeah, and isn't it a strange turn of irony that puts Jonathan Rhys Myers as Henry the Eighth on the Tudors on HBO, then casts him as Dracula, the most famous vampire. Then me, a vampire, ends up in King Henry's time.

My scattering of glances at the television didn't help me now, but my priorities seemed to be settling in my mind; food, clothes, and information. Those would aid my survival more than anything else.

If the year actually turned out to be 1501, then everyone carried swords and such, and edged weapons were detrimental to a vampire's health.

Stripping my Floyd T shirt and tossing it to one side, I walked from the river and made my way away from the water, following the rutted roadway I'd strayed from. Turning left led back to the castle, so I began to walk. My head felt light and I knew I needed to feed, but I also needed to calm myself down, to begin thinking rationally. Ludlow Castle had proven itself a known quantity, and seemed as good a place to start as any.

As I walked, the sky slowly began to lighten, signaling the beginnings of dawn. Thank goodness modern vampires don't get burnt by sunlight; I don't know what I would have done just having a life at night.

Then I smelled smoke. I stopped in my tracks, and found the wind direction. A walk of less than a half mile through woodland brought me to a small house. Cottage style, shutters on the windows, with either mud or stucco used to finish its rough walls. Smoke drifted through the thatching high on the roof; no chimney then.

The increased levels of my vampire senses started to rise to the fore. As I approached the house, noises from within became evident. Then I caught the slight smell of cooking. Porridge, maybe, certainly nothing meat-based.

"...pasture today." I heard as I neared the door. The words were thick with accent.

"Yes, papa." A female voice, young, but maybe not too young.

Sensing nothing to alarm me, I knocked on the door. "Hello?"

I heard movement inside, then the door opened slowly. A man stood in the doorway, his hands clutching a pitchfork, aimed at my throat. "Argh?" I moved back from the sharp tines. Even the serfs proved dangerous in 1501.

"I'm lost," I said slowly. "I seek directions to the castle."

The man's face and clothes looked filthy, his hair uncombed and uncut. Perhaps seeing me unarmed, he lowered the pitchfork. "Argh, ye be lost a'right." He moved back and waved me inside. "Gentry, Elsie, the gen'lman be gentry."

On initial impression, the inside of the house looked as unkempt as the man's hair, but once properly inside, it appeared just to be cluttered and disorganized. A central fire burnt on the clay floor, a large pot suspended above it.

"You been robbed, sire?" the man asked, pointing to my bare, bleeding feet.

"Yes," I immediately replied, latching onto that particular detail, as it fit my predicament so well. "Robbers, they took everything."

"Kept yir pants, tho' I see." He pointed to my wet black jeans.

"Aye," I said, getting into the structure of the language. "But naught else."

"Wat be yir name, sire?"

"Richard," I replied truthfully without any thought. "Richard DeVere."

"Well, Master DeVere, we can offer ye porridge, that's all." He ushered me away from his daughter stirring the pot at the stove, her eyes seemingly intent on her task, yet still catching glances at me. "Per'aps you'd like to get out o' yir trews, an' get 'em dried out?"

I'm glad that I'd kept my wits about me, because as I nodded and looked to the back of the one-roomed house, I saw movement behind me, and ducked quickly. A large staff whistled over my head; so close, I felt it brush my hair.

I snarled at the dark recess of the room and dragged a youth from the shadows. One punch to the forehead sent him reeling, his body limp, back into the darkness.

I turned to find the pitchfork being thrust at me, and slipped quickly to one side, catching the shaft as it passed. Two blows to the man's neck felled him to the ground where he lay still.

I turned to the girl, Elsie, to find her brandishing a dull-looking knife and a ladle.

"Don' you be hittin' me now," she said, fear flashing over her comely features.

"I don't want to hurt you, Elsie." I advanced slowly towards her, stepping over her father's body. It took little coordination to snatch her 'weapons' from her small hands, leaving her defenseless and shaking before me.

I leant closer. "Sleep, Elsie. Sleep."

She slumped instantly to my instruction and my vampire pheromones, and I caught her under the arms, laying her down on the smooth earth floor.

I looked around the room. These lowly people had realized my precarious state, and tried to kill and rob me for what I had left. Being killed just for your pants wasn't my idea of safety, so I began to search the house for other people, and anything else to help my situation.

Of course, I found nothing.

I stripped, and hung my sodden trousers and underpants by the fire, standing naked in front of its warmth. At first the material sizzled, but soon became dry enough to wear comfortably. As I buttoned up the fly, I noticed that the beginnings of an erection had started unbidden. Probably the result of having an unconscious woman lying nearby.

I knew in my heart that I had to feed, the requirement manifested itself as a distinct tremble in my hands as I searched the place some more.

Confident that the father and boy were still out for the count, I turned to my recumbent prize. Elsie looked about sixteen, maybe younger, perhaps older. I mean, what did I know about the girls from this time period? Very plain. I mean, so plain she almost looked ugly.

Her one-piece garment covered her from neck to ankles, but one quick lift told me all I needed to know; apart from the many layers, nothing would interfere with a quick hump. Yet on closer inspection she seemed dirty, not only her hands and face, but everywhere else, too. I put my face close to her hairy sex and caught whiff of a foul odor.

"Oh, no."

I recoiled with a distinct grimace across my face. So, since having sex with this unknown girl didn't seem to be on the cards, I would feed avoiding the usual additional sexual stimulus.

Without waking her up, I stabbed my sharp canines into her bare neck, found her carotid artery immediately and drank deeply. She stirred slightly from her induced slumber, but did not fully waken. When I had drunk my fill, I licked her wounds clean, my saliva closing the two small puncture wounds immediately.

I gave a wry grin. Seemingly, if I wanted sex in this time period, I'd have to look for it further up the food chain. And that meant getting myself up the food chain, too.

With this aim I strode back to the road, and resumed my trek towards the castle.

Before long, the sun began to rise properly, and as I walked, I mused my situation. If I actually had been transported to the 1500s, cleanliness wasn't exactly top of everyone's list as far as I could remember. In fact, I seemed to recall a trivia fact; Queen Elizabeth having a bath twice a year. And I had no idea if sexually transmitted diseases held any danger for me at all. I'd never thought about it back in my own time.

And there I stood, already differentiating between the two time periods, and making the whole time-travel thing official.

Time travel problems also weighed on my mind. I mean, wasn't there a problem with paradoxes if you travelled back in time; killing butterflies and all that stuff?

I heard horses behind me, and sprang to the side of the road, hiding in a ditch behind a thicket of bushes. I watched as two military men rode closer, then guided by one, they reined their mounts to a halt, drawing their swords as they did so.

"Come out!" the nearest one snapped, pointing his sword directly at my head. "I watched you hide, do not try my patience."

I slowly got to my feet and stepped through the thicker, longer grass onto the dirt road. Looking up along the shining sharp blade, I became a little more aware of my own mortality here, back in these earlier times. Again, I decreed that I would seek a quick rise in station so that I too would wear one of these wonderful weapons at my waist.

"Richard DeVere, my lord," I offered before being asked. "I got accosted by brigands a few miles back. I intended to seek refuge or assistance at the castle."

The man with the drawn sword kept it leveled at my head. "Where do you hail from? Your accent is not familiar."

"I am from the Netherlands, your lordship." I wasn't telling lies; I'd just skipped a few generations, then I recalled the older name. "From Amsterdam, Holland, sire."

"Ah, the Low Countries."

I nodded, cataloguing the name like many other newly gathered factoids.

"We await the arrival of a new tutor for the Prince. Are you he?" The man waved me onwards, but showed little intention of giving me a ride on his horse.

This seemed to be no time for hesitation. "Yes, I am the Prince's new tutor."

"Ah, in that case, well met." He sheathed his sword and offered me a hand, pulling me behind him, where I rode, virtually on the horse's rump. The constant slapping of my ass onto the horse proved immediately annoying, but it proved better than walking, and I'd found my first step-up in this primitive time.

It took most of the morning to get to within spitting distance of the castle walls again, high on a wooded hill, but at least I now had two acquaintances as I neared the shadow of the great sprawling fortress, Robert, who I rode behind, and Alfred.

"I will present you at the gatehouse," Robert said, letting me to the ground, where I flexed my protesting legs against the morning's cruel posture on the horse.

As we neared the main entrance, a man with a bunch of scrolls under his arm exited and almost bumped into me. The scrolls fell upon the ground, bouncing and rolling on the grass.

"Master Linacre?" Alfred came to attention. "We rescued this one on the road, he is the new tutor."

"Sorry to be in the way." I crouched, picking up one of the scrolls to return it. "It was my fault entirely."

The man straightened himself and pulled on the collar of his long, dark coat. "You, sir, are late. I am Thomas Linacre, your overseer."

"I'm sorry..." I repeated, not knowing how much more the man intended to admonish me, nor knowing exactly what title to give. He looked school-masterish in the extreme; thin, awkward, and short-sighted, although he wore no spectacles.

"No apologies accepted." He pushed scrolls under his arm, leaving me holding three, and waved me inside. "The Prince has been without a tutor for four days already. He will need a much firmer hand now that his betrothal is imminent. Who knows how long we will be able to exert an influence after that." I followed the dark-haired man through the archway, muttering over his shoulder at me, then across a large interior grassy area, heading towards a stone arched bridge over a moat.

Now that looked cool. Yes, the inner, taller part of this castle was protected by a real, live moat. I caught a glimpse over the side of the low stone wall. Dark green water mirrored my face back.

Inside these 'secondary' higher walls, the noon sun did not touch much of the cobbled courtyard, moss extended from every fissure, almost carpeting the stony ground. "Spain will launch its spies, and King Henry will tighten the cordon round the Prince until he is even more stifled."

I followed in silence, taking the offered information that Linacre provided and processed it as quickly as I could, grasping at any straw of information gleaned. His thin lips seemed to move constantly; his version of a nervous twitch.

King Henry. Okay, I cataloged that away. That meant King Henry the eighth, so the Prince would be his son. In my mind I fast-forwarded through all seasons of the Tudors on HBO. Sadly, the only images that had stuck in my head had been the bedroom romps. Damn my own hide.

"Rescued?" The man suddenly stopped, turned, and looked at me properly. "I just realized the guard had said, 'rescued'. What happened to you?"

"I was robbed by brigands, sire," I said, kinda getting into the sire, lord thing, hoping I'd got it correct. "I perceive that I still have not collected my wits fully."

"Brigands?" His eyes opened wide, perhaps taking for the first time the fact that I stood stripped to the waist, and shoeless. "And you were not killed?"

"I got away, sire." I indicated my bare feet. "But they stole my boots. And everything else, of course. But I miss my boots."

He changed direction, and led me to another courtyard door.

"We will get you sorted out," Linacre said, pointing to my bare chest and trousers. "We cannot present you to His Highness in that state, can we?"

Developing my new persona took a bit of doing, but I felt good about my progress so far. I'd gone from knave to Prince's tutor in a day.

I just wish I had something to teach him.

1501

Royal Tutor

Given the choice between doublet and tights, and a long scholarly robe, I chose the former, deciding that the close-fitting clothing would give more scope for the addition of weaponry. I did keep my black jeans though, the pockets would be my contribution to 'modern' life.

I stood in Thomas's chambers being fitted by women who studiously avoided my gaze. I assumed them to be either servants or maids. Eleanor produced a sweet sherry as another woman measured my body as I drank. Although young, she did have a hint of coquette as she tried to catch my eye. When I walked out of the room maybe three hours later, I certainly looked the 'part'; I sported a dark blue doublet with wide, airy sleeves, my own jeans and almost knee-high boots; not as good as the ones I'd lost, but good enough, and better than barefoot. All topped off with a crappy tousled cap.

"His Royal Highness will be finished with his devotions by dinnertime," Thomas said, constantly adjusting my clothing, constantly casting disapproving glances in my direction.

'Devotions'. I stored the information; Roman Catholic England.

Crap. Why didn't I pay attention in school?

"I would be privileged to have your introduction, sire." I followed Linacre out of his chambers, leaving the throng of servants behind.

"I have no title, Master DeVere; hence no reverence need be bestowed upon me." We moved swiftly across the courtyard, and before we entered the intended door, it opened and a young man walked out.

"Oh!" He reeled back in alarm, "Sorry, Master Linacre."

"Ah, but well met indeed!" He bowed slightly. "Master Rhys, I present Richard DeVere, the new tutor to His Grace, the Prince. Richard, this is Gruffydd Rhys, soon to be a Knight of the Garter."

Dark-haired, with sharp bearded features, Rhys looked an athletic man; he no doubt rode and exercised regularly. His black velvet doublet was laced with lines of gold embroidery and sparkly gems. "Welcome to Ludlow!" He formally bowed low, then advanced to shake my hand. "Here to tutor, huh? What subjects do you have in mind?"

Oh Crap. Suddenly under the spotlight, I decided vagueness to be my best policy. "I offer a broad range, Master Rhys." I began to formulate a better, more pertinent answer when he patted me on the shoulder, cutting off the necessity.

"And that is exactly what we need, Linacre; broad strokes. The Prince has had enough of the classics; he needs a look at the world around him, an introduction to life."

Then, as quick as he'd been introduced, he strode across the courtyard, his sword clanking behind him.

"Does Master Rhys hold much sway?"

Linacre smiled contemptuously. "He is a family friend. His father, Sir Thomas Rhys, fought with King Henry at the battle of Bosworth Field. He is from the Welsh side of the Tudor family."

I began to firmly catalogue each factoid as it arrived at my ears.

Inside the castle, we entered yet another door, heading upwards by stone spiral staircase to the level I had become familiar with. I passed by the opening to the minstrel's gallery, then past my first bedroom, eventually to a bare room, lined by dark crimson velvet drapes, lit by the opening of two small glass windows.

"This is the Prince's schoolroom," Thomas said, pointing to two desks against the inside wall. If you wait here, I will ensure that he attends shortly."

With a swift reversal of his body, he waltzed out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

So I would be the new tutor to the Prince, King Henry's son. I had obviously been expected, but therein lay a problem; the true tutor would probably be on his way to the castle as I stood pondering. Ignoring Linacre's instruction, I set off at vampire speed towards the main gate.

"How many main roads are there to the castle?" I recognized Alfred from earlier.

"Just two, sire," He pointed off to the south. "The one from London, an' the north road that you came in on this morning."

"Thank you."

I set off south through the town, and once out of sight, picked up speed, stopping everyone on the road, and asking their destination and purpose. None took my questioning amiss, but I didn't come across the tutor either. I travelled maybe a fair distance, then I did the same on the road north, although I doubted this direction of travel. Even from Ludlow, the condition of the road north left a lot to be desired. To my reckoning, I'd travelled along each road about thirty miles.

I returned to the castle, cleaned the mud from my new boots and got back to the schoolroom before the Prince's arrival. I used my time to look at the books there, but to my astonishment, most were in either Latin or Greek. Only a few thin volumes of poetry had been written in English, and I despaired of what I would teach the young man.

Moments later, the door opened and in walked Thomas Linacre, and following, almost under the man's arm, stood the young 'brat' from the night before.

"Ah, you are here." Linacre nodded, then made a huge sweeping move with his hand. "Your Royal Highness, may I present your new tutor, Richard DeVere."

The boy bowed his head slightly, and I did my very best Hollywood King Henry HBO dip in return. "Your Royal Highness."

"This is Prince Arthur, Prince of Wales, and first in line of succession to King Henry, the Seventh of that name."

Seventh? Oops, I'd got that wrong. I reeled under the new information.

Prince Arthur was a gangly young man, around fourteen years old. His pale complexion made him appear very frail; not the outdoor, horse-riding man like Rhys. His lengthy nose and the straight locks of reddish brown hair, cut low bowl style, only emphasized his long face.

He wore a one-piece frock thing, in brown and gold, belted at the waist, but something just looked out of place. Despite being Prince of Wales, the Prince did not look altogether 'richly' attired; his sleeves were clearly worn at the cuffs, and trails of torn material at the foot of his robe touched the stone floor at his feet. Considering his standing, the whole outfit looked very second-hand.

A small black cap, with a large broached cluster of gems sat across the top of his head.

"I shall leave you two alone to get acquainted," Linacre said, and left, closing the door behind him.

Arthur walked to one of the desks by the window and sat down on the very basic chair. "Linacre tells me you were robbed this morning."

"Yes..." I paused. "Your highness? I'm not sure what to address you as. I'm sorry."

He gave a slight smile. "Highness is fine, but boring after a time. 'Your Grace' would suffice, since we are to converse."

"Thank you, Your Grace." I nodded, then, rather than talk to him, I decided to try to get him to talk to me. "I am a stranger in these lands, and if it pleases you, would have you tell me what news is current."

"Hah." He actually broke into a small smile. "There is only one news. Now that Perkin Warbeck is finally forgotten. My betrothal." I waited for him to continue, and in the small pause, the smile drained from his face. "In two weeks, when I am fully fifteen, she will be at last on her way to me."

Oh crap, he'd stopped. "Does she travel far this time, Your Grace?" Constantly trying to second-guess someone certainly kept you on your toes.

"Oh, she will sail from Spain with an entourage never seen before, Master DeVere. Catherine of Aragon will be mine, betrothed since we were two years old." But although he spoke the correct words, there seemed no passion behind them, almost as if he dreaded the whole thing.

"When did you see her last, Your Grace?"

He turned to me, and a solemn expression blanketed his face. "I have never met her."

Oh my. Fourteen years old, walled up in a cold castle, betrothed to a girl he'd never laid eyes on.

Suddenly the door burst open, and a young girl and a younger boy raced in. Both had similar reddish hair, and I presumed they were Arthur's siblings.

"Arthur!" The girl set about the Prince, waving and dancing round him. "We are to go to London!"

The younger boy, while obviously a few years younger, stood almost as tall as the two children at the desk.

Arthur seemed less than enthusiastic about the announced move. "Margaret, we have had news before, but naught comes of it."

Only when he'd spoken did the girl pay any attention to me. She stopped, and curtseyed low, spreading her skirts wide. "I did not see you, sire, please forgive me."

I bowed, but noticed that she kept my eye. Impertinence lay inside this rather attractive young teenager, and I wondered what she'd be like in a few years.

"Princess Margaret, at your service, sire."

"He's Richard DeVere," Arthur said as the younger boy gave me a short, yet well-rehearsed bow. "This is my younger brother, Henry."

Again, I bowed to a child. "Your Grace."

Then, without warning, Henry tapped Margaret on the side, and ran from the room, all semblance of formality gone. Margaret left the room in a statelier manner. I don't quite know how she got through the doorway without incident, because her eyes never left mine; a true minx in the making.

"They never take anything seriously," Arthur said with some derision. "They have no need for constant decorum, no sense of weight on their shoulders. I am Arthur Rex, the next king of England, and I can never play along the corridors. I am not even allowed to run, for goodness sake."

"But surely, Your Grace, since you are the heir, you will have privileges?" I went to the door, my feet crunching on the grasses on the floor, and closed it.

Arthur seemed to sink further into a depression. "I have only restrictions, Master DeVere. I cannot run the corridors for fear of tripping. I cannot play outside for fear of assassination or capture for ransom. I cannot even go riding for fear of accident." He stood and stepped to the window. "All of these things and many more are forbidden to me by my Lord, Henry the King."

As he spoke, I suddenly realized the import of a name.

Could it be possible that Henry, the boy who'd just played tag, would be King Henry the Eighth? I mean, he had the red hair that I remembered from some painting in my mind.

But Jonathon Rhys Myers didn't have red hair in the Tudors; damn my historical knowledge being dictated by HBO!

I followed my reasoning. If this were true, that meant that Arthur, the boy in front of me, would perish, and probably quite soon. I mean, I'd never studied English history, but apart from the mythical Knights of the Round Table, I'd never heard of a true King Arthur.

Like an episode of "Quantum Leap", I suddenly wondered if perhaps I'd been sent as a true 'Sam Beckett' to save Arthur, and to save the world from the ghastly reign of King Henry the Eighth. But of course, to do that would be to change history beyond belief.

Then another penny dropped; wasn't Catherine of Aragon, King Henry the eighth's first wife? And yet here she was, betrothed to his older brother. Oh shit, I sat in the middle of a maelstrom of history, and I needed much more information.

"Master DeVere?"

I snapped back to reality to find the Prince staring at me.

"I'm sorry Your Grace, the robbery; perhaps it took more out of me than I'd first realized." I shook my head slightly, and feigned a headache. "Perhaps I should lie down for a while. May I be excused?"

Arthur waved me away, and I swiftly left the room, bowing as I went.

I walked down the cold stone corridor with considerable resolve; I'd fed, but now I needed three things: Background information, a weapon, and to catch the real tutor before he set foot in the castle.

I set off to find someone who could help.

Doing another run along the roads looking for the oncoming tutor, I accosted many people, and asked each of them just one question, gathering information by the bucket load. After they'd answered my 'stupid' questions, I left them shaking their heads at the apparent stupidity of the crazy man.

By the evening I had a better grounding of the period...

King Henry VII was indeed forty-five years old, and rarely seen in this part of the world. He lived ostensibly in one of his many palaces around London with Queen Katherine. He'd survived various attempts at rebellion and treason, the latest by the afore-mentioned Perkin Warbeck just two years ago. Henry stood as a popular King, having brought peace and stability to the country and they wished for the best with the oncoming union of England and Spain by Arthur's forthcoming marriage.

My head reeled as I confirmed the year as 1501, but more accurately the month was July, and unseasonably cold. No one seemed absolutely certain of the actual day's date, but it had past the twenty-first, most knew that.

King Henry had four surviving children, and I'd met three of them, the other, Mary was only five and not allowed the freedom of the castle as yet.

Henry's idea of getting Arthur ready for the throne seemed to be locking him away in Ludlow Castle, and hoping he 'hardened' up a bit.

Fiery Margaret and later Mary would be used as pawns in marriage alliances, and Henry (supposedly to become Henry the eighth) lay destined for a life in the church.

I returned to the castle as the sun set over the far wooded western horizon, feeling a little stronger in my general knowledge than I'd started the day.

Late July, 1501

Highwayman

The next morning, I rose early and set off on my roads again. I'd 'borrowed' a sword from the guardroom, both for my own protection, and to dispatch the forthcoming teacher. Using my vampire speed, I almost got as far as Shrewsbury to the north, then raced down the south road nearly to Hereford.

Just outside the market town, I met three men; one rather thin, gaunt individual, and two armed guards. I knew before I even reached their side and asked the question that the wiry man was my replacement; he exuded an aura of scholarliness that made the questioning almost redundant.

Before he could even blink an eye, and with little thought of the consequences, I ran the sword up through his heart, twisting the thin blade as I did so. But as I turned ready to face the two guards, the 'strange' began.

The world shimmered. I kid you not. Like interference on a television screen, the whole world shimmered, rippling in a kind of yellow hue. The earth seemed to shake, the ground trembling under my feet. Pains of cramp hit me in the stomach, rippling through my gut, making me slightly nauseous. When the effect stopped, maybe two, three seconds later, both horsemen were riding hard at me, swords drawn.

I slipped to one side, still partially disorientated by the 'shimmering', and raised my sword above my head more by instinct than design. Clash! His strike almost broke the sword from my grip, the blow shuddering up my arm to my shoulder.

As a modern vampire, part of an organized vampire group, I'd killed before, you know, back home in Hartford, Connecticut, so I had no qualms actually doing the deed, my problem today would be getting into a situation where I could regain the strategic high ground.

I turned, but the soldier proved faster. He'd obviously dismounted as he passed, and his sword was almost at my head before I knew it. I swiped it away with mine; again the rattle of swords jarred me. I needed just one avenue, and luckily I got it right away. I slipped vampire-quick to his side, past his sword arm, and our chests touching, hit him right on the temple with the handle of my weapon.

Thankfully, he crumpled to the ground.

I turned to see the second man had retained his mounted position. Sweeping down on me, his horse charged right at me. I could see no other way to end the foray; I moved to one side of his charge, and slashed my sword across the front of the horse, cutting sinew, and encountering bone. The horse toppled forward, throwing the man head-over-heels onto the road.

Suddenly, the 'shimmering' started again. Not as bad as before, certainly, but a definite curtain of fuzziness before my eyes. I ran to the man's side, but he'd broken his neck in the fall, and lay dead on the road, his head at an awkward, grotesque angle.

Bammo. More earthquake effects and ground shaking; I reckon it took a good ten seconds for this round of shimmering to clear.

I crossed to the unconscious man, and finished him off, again, my sword slipping between ribs, through his heart. I needed no witnesses to my duplicitous position in the castle.

Again! The shimmer!

And again, not as bad as when I'd dispatched the tutor, but the effect really felt disconcerting; a pale yellowness filled the air, and again the ground shook under my feet, making me feel unsteady, off balance.

Bringing myself to think of priorities, I pulled all three bodies off the road, far into the woods to the west. Once satisfied I'd not been spotted, I fed from the tutor's neck before stripping the clothes from his body. I had to kill the horses, too, as they might have found their way back to their stables and raised an alarm.

The tutor's books in a satchel on the horse proved useless, all in Latin, unreadable to me. But he had a pouch, not too many coins, but all small, and mostly all gold. I slipped the pouch into my pocket and left the scene. I even threw my own sword away, some miles closer to the castle, determined that none of the day's events could be traced back to me.

I walked some of the distance in contemplation of the 'shimmering' effect.

Obviously linked to death in this time, I pondered the possibility that the shimmer was an announcement of time being changed; history being rewritten by me. But of course, I'd not altered time so much that my own birth had not occurred. Or so I rationalized.

I mean... I was still here. In 1501.

That left the actual scale of the 'shimmer'. Perhaps the death of the teacher caused more of a shimmer than the soldiers, as he would have proved of more influence in history. It made sense to me at the time.

Back at the castle, I had time to explore the outer grounds for a while before heading towards the schoolroom. Between the outer wall and the inner moated part of the castle lay a large grassy area, almost like a big park. These grounds had a jousting rail, archery targets, and a set of posts, all fairly well chopped with sword blows. Built against the round outer wall, lay stables, and the barracks and guard house flanked the main door to the town.

As I walked, I noticed that at one end of the jousting rail, two servants helped Prince Henry onto a fair sized horse. Once he'd been secured to the beast and supplied with a lance, he galloped to the center, where he hooked a circle of rope. Considering his age, the boy showed considerable skill. I clapped, and turning to see me, he bowed from the saddle.

Margaret waved from the small gallery which stood to one side of the jousting rail.

I returned the gesture, then bowed slightly.

I crossed the arched stone bridge over the dirty water of the moat and into the central part of the castle. At the center of the cobbled courtyard stood a tall, round tower. As I approached the arched door to the tower, I was suddenly startled by Prince Arthur leaving. He stopped, was taken aback, then fought to regain his composure. "Master DeVere, good day to you."

"And to you, Your Grace." I bowed. "Tell me, what is the purpose of the tower?"

He stepped to one side and motioned me inside.

"It is the Chapel of the Lady Mary Magdalene," he said, following me inside. "I take my devotions here each day."

Inside the round tower, the walls were draped with the most exquisite tapestries I'd ever witnessed. I recognized biblical scenes of all descriptions, and directly opposite the door, a small altar, and a high-beamed cross, upon which lay a wooden sculpture of Jesus, his arms stretched wide, his head raised in final pains.

"The tower was built by the Normans," Arthur began. "Some time in the eleventh century. The King says it is attributed to Hugh De Lacy, whoever he was. The Knights Templar would have worshipped here before and after the crusades."

I noticed again that he spoke of his own father as 'the King'; so impersonal a relationship from son to father.

"The Normans invaded us in 1066, Frenchmen in our history." I stood in silence, just grateful for more information, however pertinent to the current situation. "The King lived in France for a while, exiled to that barbarous land. One day I will ride at the head of an army and take back what is rightly ours. I will invade France."

Once again, he spoke the correct words, but his voice held little conviction, almost as if he practiced the phrases to impress his father. I couldn't see him leading a procession, much less an army.

"Shall you join us at dinner tonight, Master DeVere?" he asked, leading me out of the chapel.

"I would love to."

"Then join us in the main hall when Cookie rings the bell."

I bowed as he walked away across the cobbles. He didn't look back.

"What are your first impressions?"

I turned to see Thomas Linacre standing close, looking up from a book. I wasn't certain of the political situation here, and it seemed impertinent to offer anything. "It's early days."

"Hmm, an interesting turn of phrase."

I looked at the book, still open in his hands. "Enjoying?"

He offered it to me, and I glanced at the pages. I recognized Greek verse. "Where did you learn Greek, Master Linacre?"

"In Italy," he answered, accepting my returning the book. "Florence and Genoa. How about you, Richard, where were you educated?"

"Arnhem," I said, quickly remembering my World War Two movies. "And in Remagen." I hoped that he hadn't been to either town. But it seems I needn't have worried; he closed the book and again asked me my first opinions of the Prince.

"He's intelligent, yet withdrawn," I began. "And I'm not certain that the King's idea of keeping him wrapped up in cotton wool won't come back to haunt him or the country at a later date."

"Ah, yes. I have also noticed a reticence within him. I only started as tutor two months ago, so our relationship is not as solid as it could be."

"Princess Margaret had news of their being called to London."

"There have been rumors in the past. There are flutterings that Catherine, his intended, will soon sail from Spain. The wedding and the nuptials will be the talk of the country for some weeks."

"And will we accompany the Prince to London?" I asked, quietly thrilled at the prospect.

"Oh most certainly; it will be in the days before the ceremony that we will be required most. We must see to it that their majesties are fully congruous. If you know what I mean."

I tried to think of poor Arthur in the act, but my mind couldn't get round the prospect, and I didn't think it proper to make the joke to Thomas.

"We shall have to see what develops."

"Indeed."

We hope you've enjoyed this 'sampler' of our vampire world.

Here's a reminder of our list of vampire books, available in paperback and eBooks everywhere...

Vampires Don't Cry series...

Vampires Don't Cry: Original Sins

Vampires Don't Cry: Blood Anthology

Vampire High School (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 1)

The Helsing Diaries (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 2)

The Rage Wars (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 3)

Blood Red Roses (Vampires Don't Cry: Book 4)

Connecticut Vampire series...

A Connecticut Vampire in King Arthur's Court

A Connecticut Vampire in Queen Mary's Court

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