Vampire King of the Goth Chicks

From the Journals of Sonja Blue

Nancy A. Collins

The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says lounge. The johns are always backing up and the place perpetually stinks of piss.

During the week it’s just another neighbourhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies. Not a Bukowski among them. But, since the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea change come Friday night. The bar’s clientele changes radically; growing younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven’s booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. Still not a Bukowski among them.

This Friday night’s no different from any others. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the kerb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands as they talk among themselves. Amid all the bad Cure haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.

Normally I don’t bother with joints like this, but I’ve been hearing this persistent rumour that there’s a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such rumours for myself. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing, but occasionally there’s something far more sinister at the heart of urban legends.

The interior of the Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far stranger and more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I’m somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code.

I wave down the bartender, who doesn’t seem to consider it odd I’m sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn’t bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it’s not like I’m going to drink it.

Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low-down in places like this isn’t that hard, really. All I’ve got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I’ve developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once — sifting the meaningless ones aside without even being conscious of it most of the time, until I find the one I’m looking for. I suspect it’s not unlike how a shark can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from miles away.

“… told him he could kiss my ass goodbye …”

“… really liked their last album…”

“… bitch acted like I’d done something…”

“. . .— until next pay day? I promise you’ll get it right back…”

“… the undead. He’s the real thing …”

There. That one.

I angle my head in the direction of the voice I’ve zeroed in on, trying not to look at them directly. There are three of them — one male and two female — apparently in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypal Goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie and wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily applied make-up doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she’s probably a natural dishwater blonde.

Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she’s shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with an ornate tattoo at the corner of her left eye, which I’ve been told is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than as tribute to the Egyptian gods. She’s wearing a man’s riding derby draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.

The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle and a leather jacket. He isn’t wearing a shirt, his bare breast bone hairless and a tad sunken. He’s roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-coloured hair out of his face. It doesn’t take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat Tanith, and that the boy is Serge. The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann-red hair and a nose ring. She is Shawna.

Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for sign of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. Oddly, this piques my interest. I move a little closer to where they are standing huddled, so I can filter out the Marilyn Manson blaring out of the nearby juke-box.

Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she’s being goofed on or not. “Cmon — a real vampire?”

“We told him about you, Shawna, didn’t we, Serge?” Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elbow. Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.

“His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He’s 300 years old,” Sable adds breathlessly, “and he said he wanted to meet you!”

Despite her attempts at post-modern death-chic, Shawna looks like a flattered schoolgirl.

“Really?”

I can tell she’s hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won’t take much more work on the trio’s part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather-clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats then set out after them.

As I shadow them from a distance, I can’t shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Although I seem to have found what I’ve come looking for, something’s not quite right about it, but I’ll be damned (I know — I’m being redundant) if I can say what.

In my experience, vampires avoid Goths like daylight. While their adolescent fascination with death and decadence might, at first, seem to make them natural choices as servitors, their extravagant fashion sense calls far too much attention to them. Vampires prefer their servants far more nondescript and discreet. But perhaps this Lord Rhymer, whoever he may be, is of a more modern temperament than those I’ve encountered in the past.

I don’t know what to make of this trio who seem to be acting as his judas goats. Judging by their evident enthusiasm, perhaps “converts” is a far more accurate description than servitors. They don’t seem to have the predator’s gleam in their eyes, nor is there anything resembling a killer’s caution in their walk or mannerisms. As they stroll down the darkened streets their chatter is more like that of mischievous children out on a lark — say t.p.ing the superintendent’s front lawn or soaping the gym teacher’s windows. They certainly aren’t aware of the extra shadow that attached itself to them the moment they left the Red Raven with their fresh pick-up.

After a ten-minute walk they arrive at their destination: an abandoned church. Of course. It’s hardly Carfax Abbey, but I suppose it will do. The church is a two-storey wooden structure boasting an old-fashioned spire, stabbing a symbolic finger in the direction of heaven.

The feeling of ill-ease rises in me again. Vampires dislike such obvious lairs. Hell, these aren’t the Middle Ages. They don’t have to hang out in ruined monasteries and family mausoleums any more — not that there are any to be found in the US, anyhow. No, contemporary bloodsuckers prefer to dwell within warehouse lofts or abandoned industrial complexes, even condos. I tracked one dead boy to ground in an inner-city hospital that had been shut down during the Reagan administration and left to rot. I suspect I’ll have to start investigating the various military bases scheduled for shutdown for signs of infestation within a year or two.

As I watch the little group troop inside the church, there is only one thing I know for certain: if I want to know what’s going down here, I better get inside. I circle around the building, keeping to the darkest shadows, my senses alert for signs of the usual sentinels that guard a vampire’s lair, such as ogres and renfields. Normally vampires prefer to keep their bases covered. Ogres for physical protection, renfields — warped psychics — to protect them against psionic attacks from rival bloodsuckers.

I reach out with my mind as I climb up the side of the church, trying to pick up the garbled snarl of ogre-thought or the telltale dead space of shielded minds that accompany renfields, but all my sonar picks up is the excited heat of the foursome I trailed from the Red Raven and a slightly more complex signal from deeper inside the church. Curiouser and curiouser.

The spire doesn’t house a bell, just a rusting Korean War-era public address system dangling from frayed wires. As it is, there is barely enough room for a man to stand, much less ring, but at least the trapdoor isn’t locked. It opens with a tight squeal of disused hinges, but nothing stirs in the shadows at the foot of the ladder below. Within seconds I find myself with the best seat in the house, crouched in the rafters spanning the nave.

The interior of the church looks appropriately atmospheric. What pews remain are in disarray, the hymnals tumbled from their racks and spilled across the floor. Saints, apostles and prophets state down from the windows, gesturing with upraised shepherd’s crooks or hands bent into the sign of benediction. I lift my own mirrored gaze to the mullion window located above and behind the pulpit. It depicts a snowy lamb kneeling on a field of green and framed against a cloudless sky, in which a shining disc is suspended. The large brass cross just below the sheep-window has been inverted, in keeping with the desecration motif.

The only light is provided by a pair of heavy cathedral-style candelabra, each bristling with over a hundred dripping red and black candles, flanking either side of the pulpit. The Goth kids from the Red Raven gather at the chancel rail, their faces turned towards the pulpit situated above the black-velvet-draped altar.

“Where is he?” whispers Shawna, her voice surprisingly loud in the empty church.

“Don’t worry,” Tanith assures her. “He’ll be here.”

As if on cue, there is the smell of ozone and a gout of purplish smoke arises from behind the pulpit. Shawna gives a little squeal of surprise despite herself and takes an involuntary step backward, only to find her way blocked by the others.

A deep, highly cultured masculine voice booms forth. “Good evening, my children. I bid you welcome to my abode, and that you enter gladly and of your own free will.”

The smoke clears, revealing a tall man dressed in tight-fitting black satin pants, a black silk poet’s shirt, black leather English riding boots, and a long black opera cape with a red silk lining. His hair is long and dark, pulled back into a loose ponytail by a red satin ribbon. His skin is as white as milk in a saucer, his eyes reflecting red in the dim candlelight. Lord Rhymer has finally elected to make his appearance.

Serge smiles nervously at his demon lord and steps forward, gesturing to Shawna as Tanith and Sable watch expectantly. “W-we did as you asked, master. We brought you the girl.”

Lord Rhymer smiles slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

“Ah, yesss. The new girl.”

Shawna stands there gaping up at the vampire lord as if he were Jim Morrison, Robert Smith and Danzig rolled into one. She starts, gasping more in surprise than fright, as Rhymer addresses her directly.

“Your name is Shawna, is it not?”

“Y-yes.” Her voice is so tiny it makes her sound like a little girl. But there is nothing childlike in the lust dancing in her eyes.

Lord Rhymerholds out a pale hand to the trembling young woman. His fingernails are long and pointed and lacquered black. He smiles reassuringly, his voice calm and strong, designed to sway those of weaker nature.

“Come to me, Shawna. Come to me, so that I might kiss you.”

A touch of apprehension crosses the girl’s face. She hesitates, glancing at the others, who close in about her even tighter than before.

“I… I don’t know.”

Rhymer narrows his blood-red eyes, intensifying his stare. His voice grows sterner, revealing its cold edge. ”Come to me, Shawna.”

All the tension in her seems to drain away and Shawna’s eyes grow even more vacant than before, if possible. She moves forward, slowly mounting the stairs to the pulpit. Rhymer holds his arms out to greet her.

“That’s it, my dear. Come to me as you have dreamed, so many times before…” Rhymer steps forward to meet her, the cape outstretched between his arms like the wings of a giant bat. His smile widens and his mouth opens, exposing pearly white fangs dripping saliva. His voice has been made husky by lust. “Come to me, my bride…”

Shawna grimaces in pain/pleasure as Rhymer’s fangs penetrate her throat. Even from my shadowy perch above it all I can smell the sharp tang of blood, and feel a dark stirring at the base of my brain, which I quickly push aside. I don’t need that kind of trouble — not now. Still, I find it hard to look away from the tableau below me.

Rhymer holds Shawna tight against him. She whimpers as if on the verge of orgasm. The blood rolling down her throat and dripping into the pale swell of her cleavage is as sticky and dark as spilled molasses.

Rhymer draws back, smiling smugly as he wipes the blood off his chin. “It is done. You are now bound to me by blood and the strength of my immortal will.”

Shawna’s lids flutter and she seems to have a little trouble focusing her eyes. She touches her bloodied neck and stares at her red-stained finger for a long moment. “Wow…” She steps back, a dazed, post-orgasmic look on her face. She staggers slightly as she moves to rejoin the others, one hand still clamped over her bruised and bleeding throat. Tanith and Sable eagerly step forward to help their new sister, their hands quickly disappearing up her skirt as they steady her, cooing encouragement in soothing voices.

“Welcome to the family, Shawna,” Sable whispers, kissing first her cheek, then tonguing her earlobe.

“You’re one of us, now and for ever,” Tanith purrs, giving Shawna a probing kiss while scooping her breasts free of her blouse. Sable presses even closer, licking at the blood smearing Shawna’s neck. Serge stands off to one side, nervously chewing a thumbnail and occasionally brushing his forelock out of his face. Every few seconds his eyes flicker from the girls to Lord Rhymer, who stands in the pulpit, smiling and nodding his approval. After a few more moments of groping and gasping, the three women begin undressing one another in earnest, their moans soon mixed with nervous giggles. Black leather and lace drop away, revealing black fish-net stockings and garter belts and crotchless underwear. At the sight of Shawna’s pubic thatch — mousy brown, as opposed to her fluorescent red locks — Serge’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He looks to Rhymer, who nods and gestures languidly with one taloned hand that the boy has his permission to join the orgy.

Serge fumbles with his ornate silver belt buckle, which hits the wooden floor with a solid clunk! I lift an eyebrow in surprise. While Serge is thin to the point of emaciation, I must admit the boy’s hung like a stallion. Sable mutters something into Serge’s ear that makes him laugh just before he plants his lips against her own blood-smeared mouth. Tanith, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips pulled into a lascivious grin, reaches around from behind to stroke him to full erection.

Serge breaks free of his embrace with Sable and turns to lift Shawna in his arms, carrying her to the black-draped altar, the other girls quickly joining in. There is much biting and raking of exposed flesh with fingernails. Soon they are a mass of writhing naked flesh, giggling and moaning and grunting, the slap of flesh against flesh filling the silent church. And overseeing it all from his place of power is Lord Rhymer, his crimson eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he watches his followers cavorting below him. To his credit, Serge proves himself tireless, energetically rutting with all three girls in various combinations for hours on end.

It isn’t until the stained-glass windows of the church begin to lighten with the coming dawn that it finally comes to an end. The moment Rhymer notices the light coming through one of the windows the smile disappears from his face.

“Enough!” he thunders, causing the others to halt in mid-fuck. “The sun will soon be upon me! It is time for you to leave, my children!”

The Goths pull themselves off and out of each other without a word of complaint and begin to struggle back into their clothes. Once they’re dressed they waste no time hurrying off, taking pains not to look one another in the eye. It is all I can do to suppress a groan of relief as the last of the blood cultists lurches out of the building. I thought those losers were never going to leave!

I check my own watch against the shadows sliding across the floor below me. Now would be a good time to pay a social call on their so-called “master”. I hope he’s in the mood for a little chat before beddy-bye.

Lord Rhymer yawns as he makes his way down the basement stairs. What with the candelabra he’s holding and the flowing opera cloak, I’m reminded of Lugosi’s Dracula. But then, Bela Lugosi is dead.

The basement runs the length of the building above it, with a poured concrete floor. Stacks of old hymnals, folding chairs and mouldering choir robes have been pushed into the corners. A rosewood casket with a maroon velvet lining rests atop a pair of sawhorses in the middle of the room. An old-fashioned steamer trunk stands on end nearby.

I watch the vampire lord set the candelabra down and, still yawning, unhook his cape and carefully drape it atop the trunk. If he senses my presence, here in the shadows, he gives no evidence of it in his manner. Smiling crookedly, I deliberately scrape my boot heel against the concrete floor. My smile becomes a grin when he spins around, eyes bugging in fear.

“What —? Who’s there?”

He blinks, genuinely surprised to see me standing to one side of the open casket balanced atop the sawhorse. I’d already caught the telltale smell of it when I first entered the basement, but a quick glance into the casket confirms what I already knew: it’s lined with earth. I reach inside and lift a handful of dirt, allowing it to spill between my splayed fingers. I look up and meet Rhymer’s scarlet gaze.

“Okay, buddy, what the hell are you trying to pull here?”

Rhymer squares his shoulders and pulls himself up to his full height, hissing and exposing his fangs, hooking his fingers into talons. His red eyes glint in the dim light like those of a cornered animal.

I am not impressed.

“Can the Christopher Lee act, asshole! I’m not some Goth chick tripping her brains out! You’re not fooling me for one moment!” I kick the sawhorses out from under the casket, sending it tumbling to the floor, spilling its layer of soil. Rhymer gasps, his eyes darting from the ruined coffin to me and back and again. “Only humans think vampires need to sleep on a layer of their home soil!”

Rhymer tries to regain the momentum by pointing a trembling finger at me, doing his best to sound menacing. “You have defiled the resting place of Rhymer, Lord of the Undead! And for that, woman, you will pay with your life!”

“Oh yeah?” I sneer. “Buddy, I knew Dracula — and, believe me, you ain’t him!”

I move on him so fast it’s like blinking. One moment I’m halfway across the room, the next I’m standing over him, his blood dripping from my knuckles. Rhymer’s lying on the basement floor, dazed and wiping at his gushing mouth and nose. A set of dentures, complete with fangs, lies on the floor beside him. I nudge the upper plate with the toe of my boot, shaking my head in disgust.

“Just what I thought: fake fangs! And the eyes are contact lenses, right? I bet the nails are theatrical quality press-ons, too…”

Rhymer tries to scuttle away from me like a crab, but he’s much too slow. I grab him by the ruff of his poet’s shirt, pulling him to his feet with one quick motion that causes him to yelp in alarm.

“What the fuck are you playing at here? Are you running some kind of scam on these Goth kids?”

Rhymer opens his mouth and although his lips are moving there’s no sound coming out. At first I think he’s so scared he’s not able to speak — then I realize he’s a serious stutterer when he’s not a vampire.

“I’m n-not a con m-man, if that’s what y-you’re thinking. I’m n-not doing it for m-money!”

“If it’s not for money, then why?” Not that I haven’t known his motivation from the moment I first laid eyes on him. But I want to hear it from his own lips before I make my decision.

“All m-my life I’ve been an outsider. N-no one ever p-paid any attention to m-me. N-not even m-my own pparents. N-no one ever took me seriously. I was a j-joke and everyone k-knew it. The only p-place where I could escape from being m-me was at the m-movies. I really admired the v-vampires in the m-movies. They were d-different, too. But n-no one m-made fun of them or ignored them. They were p-powerful and p-people were afraid of them. They c-could m-make w-women do whatever they w-wanted.

“W-when my pparents died a c-couple of years ago, they left m-me a lot of m-money. So m-much I’d n-never have to work again. An hour after their funeral I w-went to a dentist and had all m-my upper teeth removed and the dentures m-made.

“I always w-wanted to be a v-vampire — and now I had the c-chance to live m-my d-dreams. So I b-bought this old church and’s-started hanging out at the Red Raven, looking for the right type of g-girls.

“T-Tanith was the first. Then came S-sable. The rest w-was easy. They w-wanted m-me to b-be real so b-badly, I didn’t even have to p-pretend that m-much. B-but then things started to g-get out of hand. They w-wanted m-me t-to — you know — p-put my thing in them. B-but m-my thing c-can’t get hard. N-not with other p-people. I told them it w-was because I w-was undead. So we f-found S-serge. I-I like to w-watch.”

Rhymer fixes one of his rapidly blackening eyes on me. His fear is beginning to give way to curiosity. “B-but w-what difference is any of this to y-you? Are y-you a family m-member? One of S-serge’s ex g-girlfriends?”

I can’t help but laugh as I let go of him, careful to place myself between Rhymer and the exit. He staggers backward and quickly, if inelegantly, puts distance between us. He flinches at the sound of my laughter as if it were a physical blow.

“I knew there was something fishy going on when I spotted the belt buckle on the Goth studmuffin. No self-respecting dead boy in his right mind would let that chunk of silver within a half-mile of his person! And all that hocus-pocus with the smoke and the Black Sabbat folderol! All of it a rank amateur’s impression of what vampires and vampirism is all about, cobbled together from Hammer films and Anton Levy paperbacks! You really are a pathetic little twisted piece of crap, Rhymer — or whatever the hell your real name is! You surround yourself with the icons of darkness and play at damnation; but you don’t recognize the real thing even when it steps forward and bloodies your fuckin’ nose!”

Rhymer stands there for a long moment, then his eyes suddenly widen and he gasps aloud, like a man who has walked into a room and seen someone he has believed long dead. Clearly overcome, he drops to his feet before me, his bloodstained lips quivering uncontrollably.

“You’re real!”

“Get up,” I growl, flashing a glimpse of fang.

Instead of inspiring fear in Rhymer, all this does is cause him to cry out even louder than before. He is now actually grovelling, pawing at my boots as he blubbers.

“At last! I k-knew if I w-waited long enough, one of y-you w-would finally come!”

“I said get up, you little toadeater!” I kick him away, but it does no good. Rhymer crawls back on his belly, as fast as a lizard on a hot rock. I was afraid something like this would happen.

“I’ll do anything you w-want — give you anything you n-need!” He grabs the cuffs of my jeans, tugging insistently. “B-bite me! Drink my b-blood! Pleeease! M-make me like you!”

As I look down at this wretched human who has lived a life so stunted, his one driving passion is to become a walking dead man, I feel my memory slide back across the years, to the night a foolish young girl, made giddy by the excitement that comes with the pursuit of forbidden pleasures and made stupid by the romance of danger, allowed herself to be lured away from the safety of the herd. I remember how she found herself alone with a blood-eyed monster that hid behind the face of a handsome, smooth-talking stranger. I remember how her nude, blood-smeared body was hurled from the speeding car and tossed in the gutter and left for dead. I remember how she was far from dead. I remember how she was me.

I can feel myself trembling like I’ve got a high fever. My disgust has become anger, and I’ve never been very good at controlling my anger. And part of me — a dark, dangerous part — has no desire ever to learn.

I try hard to keep a grip on myself, but it’s not easy. In the past when I’ve been overwhelmed by my anger I’ve tried to make sure I only vent it at those I consider worthy of such murderous rage. Such as vampires. Real ones, that is. Like myself. But sometimes… well, sometimes I lose it. Like now.

“You want to be like me?”

I kick the grovelling little turd so hard that ribs splinter as he flies across the basement floor and collides with the wall. He cries out, but it doesn’t exactly sound like pain.

“You stupid bastard! I don’t even want to be like me!”

I tear the mirrored sunglasses away, and Rhymer’s eyes widen as he sees my own. They look nothing like his scarlet-tinted contact lenses. There is no white, no corona — merely seas of solid blood boasting vertical slits that open and close, like those of a snake, depending on the strength of the light. The church basement is very gloomy, so my pupils are dilated wide — like those of a shark rising from the sunless depths to savage a luckless swimmer.

Rhymer lifts a hand to block out the sight of me as I advance on him, his trembling delight now replaced by genuine, 100 per cent monkey-brain fear. For the first time he seems to realize that he is in the presence of a monster.

“Please don’t hurt me, mistress! Forgive me!”

I don’t know what else he might have said to try and avoid his fate, because his head comes off in my hands right about then.

For a brief second Rhymer’s hands still flutter in their futile attempt to beg my favour, then there is a spurt of scarlet from the neck stump, not unlike that from a spitting fountain, as his still-beating heart sends a stream of blood to where the brain would normally be. I quickly side-step the gruesome spray without letting go of my trophy.

Turning away from Rhymer’s still-twitching corpse, I step over the ruins of the antique coffin and its payload. No doubt the dirt had been imported from the Balkans — perhaps Moldavia or even Transylvania. I shake my head in amazement that such old wives’ tales are still in circulation and given validity by so many.

As I head up the stairs, Rhymer’s head tucked under my arm, I pause one last time to survey what is left of the would-be vampire king of the Goth chicks. Man, what a mess. Glad I’m not the one who has to clean it up.

This isn’t the first vampire-wanna-be I’ve run into, but I’ve got to admit he had the best scam. The Goth chicks wanted the real thing and he gave them what they thought they wanted, even down to retro-fitting the church with theatrical trapdoors and magician’s flashpots. And they bought into the bullshit because it made them feel special, it made them feel real, and, most importantly, it made them feel alive. Poor, stupid bastards. To them it’s all black leather, lovebites and tacky chrome jewellery; where everyone is eternally young and beautiful and no one can ever hurt you ever again.

Like hell.

As for Rhymer, he wanted the real thing as badly as the Goths. Perhaps even more so. He’d spent his entire life aspiring to monstrosity; hoping that given time his heart-felt mimicry of the damned would either turn him into what he longed to be thorough sympathetic magic, or that his actions would eventually draw the attention of the creatures of the night he worshipped so ardently. As, indeed, it had. I was the real thing all right; big as life and twice as ugly.

But I was hardly the bloodsucking seductress Rhymer had been dreaming of all those years. There was no way he could know that his little trick would lure forth not just a vampire — but a vampire-slayer as well.

You see, my unique and unwanted predicament has denied me many things: the ability to age, to love, to feel life quicken within me. And in retaliation against this unwished-for transformation, I’ve spent decades denying the monster inside me; trying — however futilely — to turn my back on the horror that is the Other who dwells in the dark side of my soul. However, there is one pleasure, and one alone, I allow myself to indulge. And that is killing vampires…

And those that would become them.

Dawn is well under way by the time I re-enter the nave. The whitewashed walls are dappled with light dyed blue, green and red by the stained glass. I take a couple of steps backward, then drop-kick Rhymer’s head right through the Lamb-of-God window.

The birds are chirping happily away in the trees, greeting the coming day with their morning songs, as I push open the wide double doors of the church. A stray dog with matted fur and slats for ribs is already sniffing Rhymer’s ruined noggin where it has landed in the high weeds. The cur lifts its muzzle and automatically growls, but as I draw closer it flattens its ears and tucks its tail between its legs and quickly scurries off. Dogs are smart. They know what is and isn’t of the natural world — even if humans don’t.

Last night was a bust, as far as I’m concerned. When I go out hunting I prefer bringing down actual game, not faux predators. Still, I wish I could hang around and see the look on the faces of Rhymer’s groupies when they find out what’s happened to their “master”. That’d be good for a chuckle or two.

No one can say I don’t have a sense of humour about these things.

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