7 comments/ 10954 views/ 4 favorites To Search in the Shadows By: StephenThorn It had cost Ruth nearly all of her inheritance and hundreds of hours of time, but at last she thought she'd found her Grail. So many ads in the underground newspapers, so many trips across the world to search the fetid dark alleys and the shadows of high society's brightly-lighted towers. She'd followed leads in fourteen countries and over fifty cities, towns, and hamlets. Every one had been a disappointment. Frauds or psychos, most of them, with the occasional goon in black lipstick and a cape thrown in to spice things up. But none had been a real, honest-to-God vampire. Her cynicism had grown with every wannabe and charlatan until she was almost ready to give up and admit defeat. But not yet. Not quite yet. They were out there, somewhere, gliding like phantoms through the chill, velvet nights. They had to be. The legends were too worldwide, too timeless and culture-spanning to be only tales for frightening children or fodder for B-movies. Every nation's history spoke of them, usually in hushed whispers. The names changed with the languages; vampire, nosferatu, lilitu, rakshasa, eyelik, lamia, wampir, wurdulak, and so many others. Different names, different legends, but always there was the thread of truth -- pulsing a bright, hot, living scarlet -- connecting them. She could sense the reality of the folklore. They had to be real. She knew it, down deep in her gut, just like she knew she belonged with them. Her heart felt their call on every night breeze, heard it whispering to her in a siren song that lured her with an all-too-real hunger for the moon's silvery caress. Hers was not the daytime world, with its brutal and burning sun. Not the world of men. Instead Ruth longed for the muted colors of evening, the world of sleep and slumber for all but her and her kind. Her people; the citizens of Night, who passed the ignorant and blissfully unaware human herd as a falcon that flies high overhead -- undetected, unseen, silent in its search for prey. She knew she was one of them, except for some freakish accident of fate that had clothed her in warm and living flesh instead of the pale, cool skin of the Undead. Ruth's thoughts were interrupted by a bell, and the sign at the front of the cabin lit up, admonishing the passengers to buckle their seatbelts and put their trays in the upright and locked position. Then she heard the captain's reassuring voice, saying that the weather in Houston was overcast and there was a light rain falling, and that the local time was 11:00 pm, in case anyone needed to set their watch. "We should be landing shortly," he added. "Thank you for flying with us and we hope to see you again soon." Ruth buckled her seatbelt and checked her watch absentmindedly. Just over two hours until she was to meet Russell. If he showed up at all, that is. Ruth picked up her rental car at the terminal and dropped her suitcase at the Econo-lodge room she'd reserved. She checked her shoulder bag, making sure she had all the gear she might need -- if things went very wrong -- for her rendezvous: bottle of pure garlic oil, flashlight, silver crucifix, make-up compact, foot-long stake of ash, vial of holy water, several wafers of the Host, and a .357 magnum revolver loaded with semi-wadcutters (just in case Russell was another all-too-human rapist, like that freak in Madrid that she'd had to castrate with a broken bottle when he attacked her). Then she removed the steel mesh collar from her valise and slipped it around her slender throat. Not just a fashion accessory, it was last-ditch protection. It locked shut with a satisfying click, and she dropped the brass key into the right cup of her bra. She eyed the silvery chain mail choker in the mirror. "Might not stop 'im," she said to herself, "but it'll slow 'im down a bit." Then she donned a turtleneck blouse to hide the steel choker, put on her coat and walked back into the drizzling rain to keep her appointment. Finding the bar wasn't easy. Even the cabbie she'd questioned had never heard of the place. But he knew where the street she wanted was and from there it was simple. It was an unobtrusive little hole in the wall, with only one neon beer sign in the window to mark its site and purpose. She parked down the street and eyed the place for a while. Customers came and went, seemingly a bit low on the economic ladder but not overtly threatening or remarkable. Satisfied that she wasn't walking into a trap, Ruth slid from her car and headed for the bar. She passed through the door that opened onto the street, and there was another door beyond. It was plated in black-painted metal, with big rivets protruding from it. As she opened it, bright purple lights stung her eyes. Loud music banged in her ears, making them ring. The interior of the bar was nothing like the outer façade. Rock music thudded against her like a wind as she passed into the crowded room. Almost immediately, she was surrounded by warm, sweating, dancing bodies. A live band was abusing their instruments in a beat-heavy parody of music at the far end of the room. The lead singer was a scrawny scarecrow with electric blue hair who seemed about to swallow his microphone as he screamed incoherently into it. Ruth made her way to the bar. Three mixologists, two men and a woman, labored behind the wooden barrier. All three wore white dress shirts and black bow ties, and the shirts of all three were dark with sweat. They were obviously operating at top speed, but still barely keeping up with demand. It was several minutes until the woman asked Ruth for her order. As she sipped her daiquiri, Ruth scanned the crowded room. A young bunch, mostly twenty-somethings, with a few older chickenhawks around the perimeter. No Goths or anyone dressed like Bela Lugosi, she noted. That was good. Showed some promise. But where was Russell? "If that SOB stood me up," Ruth whispered, letting the unfinished murmur die in the noise-laden air. "I didn't." The voice at her elbow surprised Ruth so badly that she nearly dropped her glass. When she looked to her right she found a man on the stool next to hers. Immediately, she sized him up. He wasn't much to look at; approximately forty and slightly chubby, with thinning hair and big, round glasses perched on his somewhat feminine nose. He smiled, his perfect teeth glittering in the neon. "Sorry, Ruth. Didn't mean to scare you. I'm Russell," and he held out his hand. His voice had a slight accent. Not Texan, nor Mexican, but something close. At least, thought Ruth, he's not using a cheesy imitation Transylvania accent like that schmuck in London. "Hi, Russell," Ruth returned, taking his hand. "I wasn't sure you'd really show." Something wasn't right. The thought hit in a moment: his hand was warm. "Oh, I wouldn't have missed this. Been a very, very long time since I met anyone with your particular...desires." His eyes locked with hers and something deep inside Ruth realized that the sounds of the room were suddenly becoming very distant and fuzzy. For several seconds she stared into his bottomless gray eyes, knowing she was being pulled into them but somehow being unable to care. It was Russell who finally looked away, turning his head and bringing his free hand up to rub his eyes as though he had developed a headache. "Damn...sorry about that. Force of habit. After a hundred and fifty years..." Ruth shook her head and the fog cleared away. The band's clashing chords returned, seeming louder than ever after their conspicuous absence. "How did you do that," she demanded. He released her hand. "Look, I'll explain later. For now, let's get out of here. All this young blood makes it a bit hard to concentrate. We can talk outside where it's quiet." Ruth watched Russell stride away, paying attention to the way the congestion of people parted two steps ahead of him as he walked. She followed him almost without realizing she was doing it. They stepped into the cool night air of the quiet street, and she noted that he was wearing khaki pants and a Dallas Cowboys shirt, along with Air Jordan sneakers. He leaned back against the brick wall of the building and inhaled deeply. "Smell that, Ruth?" he whispered. He closed his eyes and his head tilted back as he crooned, almost to himself, "Smell the living blood pulsing in the wind? Houston is a big, vital, delicious city. It's full of life and strength and the mixed blood of Mexicans and Indians and Europeans...burning hot and sweet. You've never tasted anything like it. But you will, once you've crossed over." "Very poetic, Russell, but let's get down to brass tacks. Before we proceed, I have to know for sure that you're really a . . . well, what you say you are." She took two steps back and slipped her hand into her bag, curling her slim fingers around the checkered, wooden butt of the pistol. She'd questioned his belief, so if things were going to go bad, it could happen right now, and very quickly. "I've dealt with too many phonies to just accept your word for it." "Of course, of course," he smiled. He opened his eyes and turned to face her. Again, Ruth felt those gray eyes touch her mind, but this time she was prepared for it. "Sorry, but it won't work now. I'm aware. You won't surprise me again. I can fight it off." "Smart girl," he chuckled. "Okay, so what now? A test of some kind?" "Exactly. Go in there," and Ruth pointed to a shadowed alley that opened onto the street. "Oooh, aren't you full of good ideas," he responded, his grin widening. Then he turned his back to her and suddenly he wasn't there. Instead Ruth was staring at a twisting knot of silvery mist that vanished before her eyes. Fear splashed like ice water down her spine and she instinctively pressed her back into the wall. Her eyes darted from shadow to shadow, searching for Russell. Then he stepped out of the alley. It was still Russell, but different. His clothing had changed, and he was now wearing black denim jeans, a wine-red dress shirt and leather biker jacket. He was no longer chubby and balding, either, and his glasses were gone. Now he was taller and muscular, his chin dark with a well-trimmed beard. "Well, c'mon," he urged her. "Whatcha waitin' for?" Ruth stepped into the thicker darkness of the alley. Sour smells of garbage reached her nose. Russell was standing in the alley, looking perfectly at ease as he floated about eight feet above the dirty, wet pavement. He spread his arms and floated down, landing soundlessly before her. "Well, Teach," he laughed, "did I pass?" "Neat trick. But not that impressive. Magicians do it all the time," was Ruth's reply. "You'd be surprised how many magicians are really one of us," Russell said. "After all, who else can get away with wearing a cape nowadays?" He grinned at the joke, his teeth shining ivory in the gloom. "I thought the cape thing was just Hollywood stuff." "Hollywood got a lot of stuff right, Ruth. Most of it is just by accident, really. But the cape is helpful to us. Makes flying easier, for one thing. For a younger Vampyre it's also an aid to transformations. Takes a lot of concentration to shape-shift, at least until you get the hang of it, and that can take centuries. The cape helps to focus your concentrative energies, to help you envision the change you want. It's a crutch, and some never let it go, even after they've mastered the technique." Ruth stepped closer to him. Her grip on the pistol had relaxed, but instead she had grasped the crucifix. "So what else did Hollywood get right?" "Most of it, actually. There's a lot of stuff they never tell you in the movies, though. Old legends from Europe that wouldn't sell in the theatres. Stoker knew them, but since he didn't use them in 'Dracula' they didn't get the publicity." "For example?" "Oh, that if a bird flies over -- or a cat or wolf jumps over -- an unburied corpse then the body will rise as a Vampyre, that we can see in an entirely different spectrum from humans, stuff like that. But that bit about being unable to cross running water? Bullshit. We can walk over a bridge just as well as anyone else." "And is that how you changed your appearance? Another thing Hollywood forgot to mention?" "Not exactly. It's a form of mind control -- like hypnosis. We can alter our image to a certain degree so we blend into the scene or get closer to prey. It's protective camouflage. It's not so much an actual change in us as a change in how we permit humans to perceive us. Again, it's a thing you learn to do over time." "You certainly seem to have the answers, Russell." "I came over in the 1800s. Had a lot of time to practice since then." "Then you won't mind if I conduct a few tests? Just to satisfy myself you're the real McCoy, you understand." "Long as you don't mind answering my questions in return." "Fair enough. Let's get started." Ruth stepped closer to him, fishing her makeup compact out of her purse. She snapped it open and held it close to Russell's face. "Breathe on this," she ordered. He complied, exaggerating and panting loudly so she couldn't help but hear. The glass did not fog. "We don't really need air, Ruth, unless we're talking. And when we do, it's not moist and warm, like your breath is. We're cold, Ruth, very cold, except in some . . . important ways." He took her hand and pressed it against his cheek, almost like a lover would. The flesh was cold, as he'd said, but pliant and soft. Then he turned her hand so she could see herself in the compact's small mirror. "See what life looks like, Ruth," he said, "then look at me in the mirror." She turned it slightly until it reflected the gray alley around them. "You don't cast a reflection," she told him, as if he didn't know it yet. "Nope. Another thing the movies got right. Not in a mirror, water, on shiny metal, or anywhere else. We're spirits, and spirits don't have reflections." "What about crosses and garlic?" "The garlic works on us like an open sewer works on you. The stink could make you sick, but you can survive it. Now if a human eats a lot of it, their blood will taste bitter and could make us puke, but that's about it. The cross is only a piece of jewelry. It's your belief in it that makes it a weapon. Otherwise an atheist Vampyre would be immune to it." He stepped closer to her, close enough that she could feel the chill from his body caress her warm skin. "Now, my turn. Tell me, Ruth-who-searches-in-the-shadows, why did you want to find us?" "Curiosity. And money. If I can do an interview with a real, genuine vampire, and prove it, the book I'll write will be on the best-sellers list for years." He stared at her for a long second, then shook his head. "Okay. You want our meeting to be full of lies, then we're done." He turned as though to walk away. "What do you mean?" she asked. Looking back over his shoulder, he frowned sadly. "Ruth, I feel every pulse of your heart. I smell the blood as it races through your veins, and I can see it inside you, like a spiderweb of red cords under your skin. You can't lie to me without physiological changes in yourself and I can see them happen. Vampyres are excellent lie detectors." Then, with motion too fast for her to react, he spun and grabbed her at the elbows. His hands were like frost-chilled vises, pinning Ruth's arms to her sides. Frightened, she struggled to pull the cross from her bag, but her arms wouldn't move. Angrily, Russell snarled at her. "Don't lie to me, Ruth. You're not writing any book. Tell me the truth! Why did you seek us out?" For a moment she fought with herself. It was hard to say the words. She'd practiced the song in her mind a thousand times, but now that the music was playing she couldn't find her voice to sing it. "I . . . I want to be one . . . one of you," she stammered. Immediately his demeanor softened. His angry mouth curled into a smile. He released her arms, and she felt a brief flash of disappointment that their touch was broken. "That's better," he purred. "Now that we have an understanding, why don't we find a more pleasant environment for our little chat? Maybe your room? After all, if I decide to grant your wish, you don't want your baptism to happen in this sty, do you?" "Not so fast. I'm not convinced you're the real article. Your hand was warm in the bar, after all." "Again, protective camouflage. I wasn't sure of you yet, either. So I changed how you'd perceive me, just like I did with the hair and glasses." He stepped back slightly. "But if you're not sure, then take out your gun and shoot me. Right here," and he pointed at his sternum. Ruth was wary. "How'd you know I had a gun?" she asked. Russell shrugged. "I'd have brought one." - Chapter 2 - The ride back to the Econo-lodge was tense. Little was said, and the rhythmic slapping of the windshield wipers filled the car, sounding like the beating of an ailing heart. Russell kept changing the radio station, allowing a few seconds of a song to play and then switching channels again. It was irritating Ruth but she kept her tongue for most of the trip. At last, she couldn't stand it any longer. "Do you mind not doing that?" she griped. "It's driving me nuts!" Russell just chuckled as though at a private joke and switched the radio off. "If you're planning on being a Vampyre, you'd better learn how to handle frustration better. One of the reasons there aren't so many really old ones around is that the centuries of routine gets to 'em. They get bored with immortality. Next thing you know they're outside, standing on a hill as the sun rises, committing suicide. Or they get sloppy. Then they don't cover their tracks well and some self-anointed Van Helsing pounds a stake between their ribs." Ruth stared straight ahead, watching the streetlights rush past. "So Hollywood got the immortality right, too?" "Pretty much, yeah. We live 'bout forever, unless somebody kills us. We don't have diseases, but we can starve to death if we don't feed regularly." "Feed . . . on blood?" No matter how often Ruth had confronted this idea it still gave her a creepy hitch in her belly to think of it. "Absolutely on blood. That's it. We can swallow other food but can't digest it. It comes back up shortly afterwards. It took me awhile to get used to my new diet, but it was all psychological. When you feed for the first time you'll be so hungry that you'd swallow a fat porcupine ass-first if it would make you feel better. And that first time . . . man, it's like losing your virginity SHOULD have been. When your fangs sink into that warm, pliant flesh and the first gout of hot, coppery life spurts across your tongue . . . good God, it's the most wonderful . . . nearly every Vampyre I ever knew had a tremendous orgasm right at that moment. You've never felt anything like it before, Ruth. I promise, that night you'll know why they invented the word 'ecstasy'." "And afterwards? Do you get that same rush every time you . . . feed?" "Not so powerfully, no. But you still get high on it. You can get sort of jaded in a decade or two, I guess. But you won't mind. About that time your body is fully acclimated to its new condition and you become sexually mature." She turned, looking at him in the darkness. "Sexually? Vampires screw?" "No," he laughed. "Humans 'screw.' What we do is so far above mortal sex that you can't imagine it. Your body can't comprehend the feeling. Imagine the best lover you ever had. Take every orgasm they ever gave you and roll 'em into one blazing, shattering, perfect moment of time. Got it? Now, think of what you're imagining as a penny Chinese skyrocket. Compared to that, sex as a vampire is like the Hiroshima bomb!" "In the movies; when a vampire bites the girl she looks like she's in the throes of ecstasy. Is it like that?" "Damned with faint praise. Hollywood almost got that part right, but they stopped way short of the mark. Trust me, Ruth, two Vampyres together sexually is the most incredible, combustible, world-shaking . . . damn, this is getting to me. Gotta change the subject or I'll have a stake of my own to deal with." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What do you do, Ruth? When you're not hunting for vamps, I mean." To Search in the Shadows "That's all there is, really. My mother died two years ago and left me some money. I've been living off that and pursuing my dream ever since." She smiled at him. "Guess that sounds pretty selfish, doesn't it?" "Oh, I dunno . . . seems pretty level-headed to me. Find a goal and work for it. Isn't that what we're all supposed to have in life; a goal?" "Guess that's so." "And when did you decide you wanted to join the union?" "Huh? The what?" "Sorry. Little joke. When did you decide you wanted to be a Vampyre?" "When I was thirteen, I guess. I mean, all my life there were signs and stuff. I wasn't like the other kids. I didn't want to play outside in the daytime, liked the darkness better. Even had a big cardboard box with a blanket in it. I would lie in there and go to sleep, until my dad found out about it and threw it out 'cause he said I'd 'suffocate in that coffin'. Then, when I was twelve I found a copy of 'Dracula' in the school library. I stole it and read it over and over until it fell apart. That opened my eyes. I knew then what I was longing for. About a year later I went to my first away-from-home Halloween party. They played some scary videos and one of them was Bram Stoker's Dracula. I couldn't sit through the whole thing. When Dracula attacked Lucy I had to run to the bathroom. Everybody thought I was so scared I'd peed myself. But they were wrong. I had to go clean myself up from my very first orgasm." She stopped, hoping that he couldn't see her blushing in the darkness. "Geez, listen to me. I'm sorry, Russell. I just never could tell anyone the whole story before. Once I started telling you I just couldn't shut up. Felt good to get it out in the open, though." From the corner of her eyes she saw him smile warmly. "It's okay, Ruth. You don't have to be ashamed or embarrassed. I'm sure that was a very confusing time for you. I'm glad I could help get the weight off your chest." At that moment Ruth decided he was quite probably the handsomest man she'd ever met. They stopped for a red light and Ruth took a deep breath and changed the subject. "What about you, Russell? What's your story?" "I never wanted to be a Vampyre. But I didn't get much choice in the matter." His face grew sad then, and his eyes looked away, as though they were focusing on something far off in the distance. "In 1836 I fought alongside brave Texans in the Alamo, in San Antonio. We were all full of big dreams of a free Texas. One hundred and eighty of us against five-damned-thousand of Santa Anna's crack Mexican soldiers. But we held 'em back for two weeks. Then they finally breached the walls. It was a slaughter. We were all killed, near as I can figure. I was shot in the stomach and fell behind a woodpile. Wasn't dead yet, so I laid still and played 'possum. Hoped they'd think I was dead. For hours I watched the soldiers dragging the bodies of my comrades onto wagons and carting 'em away. Then they left, and all I had to watch was the buzzards circling overhead. I was too weak to move by then. By nightfall I was more dead than alive. Been bleeding all day and there wasn't much juice left in the jug, if you know what I mean. The soldiers had gone back to their camp for the night. They'd be back to finish in the morning. As I lay there I saw a man walking among the dead. He'd stop and bend low like he was inspecting the bodies, then rise and move on. It struck me funny that he wasn't carrying a lantern. Eventually he came to me. I didn't know what to do. He bent over me and I heard him whisper just one word: alive. Then he smiled and in the semi-darkness I could see he had fangs. Three nights later I awoke in an open coffin in a Mexican church. An old priest was giving me last rites. When I got up out of that box he was so scared he had a heart attack and died on the spot. He was my first meal. I've been hanging around the southwest and northern Mexico ever since." "What was a vampire doing at the Alamo?" "Some Vampyres never miss a war. We call 'em vultures. War's a buffet for them. Dying people everywhere, and the people responsible for clean-up generally aren't very careful in disposing of the bodies. So you can pretty much take your pick and nobody's going to notice whether a corpse died from gunfire or from being bitten and drained." Ruth wrinkled up her nose in distaste. "Damn . . . that's foul." Then she turned the wheel and guided the car into the Econo-lodge parking lot. "Here we are," she said. - Chapter 3 - Inside the room, Russell immediately sat in the stuffed chair in the corner. He slouched back, his long legs stretched out straight before him. "Nice little place you've got here, Ruth," he teased. "More homey than my place, I'll tell you that. Mine's absolutely a mausoleum." He grinned widely, the yellowed light of the bulb over the room's writing desk giving his teeth an unpleasant old-ivory tinge. Ruth's eyes never left him as she lowered her shoulder bag to the bed. "Funny man," she replied. Then her brow furrowed slightly. "Hey, aren't you supposed to have fangs?" "Not all the time, Ruth. Hollywood got that right too. They grow when we need 'em -- kinda like getting an erection. Don't worry, if I consent to bring you over I'll have everything I need to do the job." "If?" Ruth countered. "I thought it was a done deal, since you'd come back here with me. You're not going to chicken out on me, now that I've almost decided you're the genuine article, are you?" "Nope. But come on, Ruth, be realistic. What's in it for me? I mean, you get what you want -- eternal life, to join Club Undead, etc. -- but what do I get in exchange?" Ruth removed her coat, and turned down her turtleneck, noticing how Russell's eyebrow cocked upwards at the sight of her chain mail collar. She sat on the bed, facing him. "A free meal from a willing victim. What else do you want?" He chuckled softly. "Shit, Ruth, I could get a meal anywhere. In a city this big there's always somebody down the next street. With the sewers, tenements, empty houses, secluded places, dark alleys and deserted parks there's always somewhere to feed in peace and dispose of a body. But you forget something important -- the club is very select. We have to keep our numbers small, and we don't let just anybody in. It's the only way to protect ourselves. A few can hide and operate in secret, but if we got too numerous we'd be discovered. Then, with our existence no longer a myth, we'd be hunted down like wild dogs. I died once, Ruth, I don't want to do it again." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "And as for a free meal . . . Ruth, if I wanted your blood I'd just kill you and drain your still-warm body." This time when he grinned his eyes glowed a faint red, his smile cold and vulpine. Goosebumps skittered up Ruth's back but she kept her voice even by sheer force of will. "I don't think so," she said, her fingers brushing the steel collar she wore. Russell's eyes narrowed. "If I wanted to, Ruth," he said as he ran his fingers across the wooden table at his elbow, "do you honestly think you could stop me?" The question was punctuated by a sharp crunching sound as he effortlessly snapped a plate-sized chunk from the tabletop. Cold sweat broke out on Ruth's skin and she felt her belly tighten. Part of it was fear, certainly, but there was also excitement. Russell's strength, his aura of restrained threat, and his beautifully feral eyes had her snared. She swallowed hard. "Okay, then . . . so why did you come? If I'm just one possible selection on a city-wide menu, why did you agree to meet with me?" His wolfish grin softened, and although the flickering crimson faded from his eyes the hunger in them did not diminish. "If you become one of us, Ruth," Russell said, "you will learn so much. And if you're very, very lucky, you'll someday find someone who truly, honestly, deeply wants you to feed on them. Any Vampyre worth his salt can find prey and feed, but that is only one part of the existence. Oh, the hunt is exciting, the pursuit is wild, and the feasting is deliciously sweet, no matter who the entrée is. But when you find someone who aches for your fangs to taste them, who begs for the feel of your mouth draining the life from their body, only then can you taste the sweetest wine." Ruth's brow furrowed in confusion. Seeing this, Russell's smile faded. "It's not so hard to understand," he continued. "Ever have sex with somebody even if you weren't in the mood? Maybe some guy who demanded a blowjob, and you gave in because you didn't want to lose him, even though you'd rather have just gone out for pizza?" The girl's mind went back to the night of her senior prom. She was about to speak but Russell interrupted her. "Of course you did," he continued. "It happens to everybody, in one way or another. But if you really love the guy, and he really loves you . . . if his touch on your skin is more intoxicating than any drug, and just the smell of him makes you thirst for him . . . then you're glad to let him do anything he wants to you. And when you make love with him it's fireworks and volcanoes and earthquakes all wrapped up in one because you wanted it so bad it hurt! Same situation here. "Vampyres are more tuned-in to body chemistry than mortals, Ruth. Your emotions influence your blood chemistry. When you're frightened, your body pumps adrenaline into your veins -- when you're happy, you get a dose of endorphins, and so on. All those factors change not only how you taste to me, but how your blood effects me when I drink it. If you're mesmerized, like you were back in the bar, you're compliant, and your blood is fine -- a bit bland, but okay. If you're scared and unwilling, you taste bitter and acidic. But if you want it, Ruth . . . if you really, reaaaalllly want it . . . your blood becomes Napoleon brandy, molten honey, Spanish Fly, and pure Peruvian cocaine all mixed together. It's the sweetest wine, Ruth. And trust me, there's nothing in your human experience that comes close to matching the taste . . . or the rush!" He licked his lips hungrily, and Ruth noticed that a telltale bulge had formed behind the zipper of his pants. "I want to do it," Ruth whispered, almost as though she wanted to convince herself as much as she wanted to inform him. "I want to be one of you . . . undead, immortal . . . a vampire." "Then you're convinced I'm real?" he asked. "Just about. I have another test I want to perform, just for my own satisfaction." She reached for her shoulder bag and unzipped it. "After all, I'm literally taking my life in my hands, here." She brought out a silver hip flask. The sallow light of the room glimmered off the shiny metal, glinting off the simple cross engraved on the front of it. "Roll up your sleeve, Russell," she ordered. "Let me guess -- holy water?" "Yes. I'm going to dribble a bit on you to see what happens. According to the movies it should burn your skin on contact." She unscrewed the cap on the flask and waited while Russell pulled his left sleeve up, exposing his forearm. "I thought this might happen," he said. "Another thing Hollywood got right. Holy icons do burn us, if they're wielded by a believer." He held his arm out to her. "Go ahead, Ruth. I'm ready." His lips compressed slightly as though he were about to get a shot at the doctor's office, then relaxed. Ruth poured a trickle of water over his arm. Nothing happened. "You fraud," Ruth murmured. "You lying prick." She took several steps backward, her eyes angry and fierce. "You're not fooling anyone, Ruth," Russell said. "It wasn't blessed water, and we both know it." He lifted his arm to his mouth and licked the moisture from his skin. "I've been around long enough to know what holy water smells like, and that ain't it." Her eyes softened and she replaced the cap on the flask. "You're right. I filled it at the sink," and she tilted her head slightly towards the bathroom, "just before I came to meet you. I wanted to see what you'd do when I said I wanted to test you with holy water. Guess you passed." Russell raised an eyebrow. "Then you're convinced I'm the real article?" "Well, I would still like to expose you to sunlight, just for a moment or two, to see if you start to smolder, but . . . " He moved like a flicker of light. Immediately he was on her, instantly wrapping his arms around her and pinning her fists behind her back with one surprisingly strong hand. "No, Ruth," he growled, his voice suddenly guttural and harsh, a sound like a loaded hearse driving down the gravel road in a cemetery. "No more tests, no more delays." She struggled, suddenly scared and unsure. She tried to scream but her voice wouldn't come, as though the steel collar around her throat had cut off the sound. Russell's hand caressed her belly, and somewhere inside her she registered how cold and alien it felt, but she felt a warm flush spread through her as well. "Sweet Ruth," he murmured, and now there was something more in his voice. Something new had joined the harsh, gravelly snarl. She'd heard that indefinable tone before in men she'd loved. It was the sound of sexual arousal. "Don't be afraid, Ruth," he crooned, "you'll like what's about to happen." His hand crept up her body, slipping under her shirt until it cupped her right breast. Even through the cup of her bra Ruth felt the chill in his flesh, but despite the growing knot of shiny, fresh terror swelling in her gut her knees went weak. Her nipples swelled with want and her breath caught in her chest. "Oh, god," she gasped, and it was partly prayer for deliverance and partly the sound of desire. Russell chuckled softly and in the rustling sound Ruth heard flames flickering in some distant diabolical domain. Then the flames weren't so far away -- they were burning in her pelvis as her excitement overpowered her fear. Suddenly he gasped in pain. He yanked his hand out from under her shirt and muttered a virulent oath. On the side of his hand was an angry, red welt in the shape of a cross, its edges charred. A thin thread of smoke curled up from the seared flesh. Russell's lip curled into a feral snarl and he ripped the front of her blouse open. Between the mounds of her breasts was nestled a small golden crucifix on a thin chain. "No more, Ruth," he growled, "no more." His hooked fingers grabbed the chain and tore the cross away from her chest, throwing it across the room. It clinked against the mirror and fell to the dresser. "After tonight, Ruth, I promise you . . . you'll have no more need for that," he growled. Then he smiled, and the woman he held stared in wide-eyed horror as his canine teeth lengthened and became curved fangs. "Or for this," he finished, and his fingers grasped the steel mesh collar around her throat. The strong metal broke, the links falling to the floor like metal snowflakes. Ruth gasped for air. Her mind wanted to scream, wanted to cry out for help, wanted to scare the demon off of her, but she could only rasp hoarsely. "Please," she whispered. Then Russell's frigid, iron-hard fingers were stabbing between her breasts and grabbing the connecting strap of her bra. It tore with a ripping snap and her breasts tumbled free. Russell spun Ruth to face him, but his left hand kept her hands pinned behind her back. His right hand cupped her breast and he pinched her nipple between his thumb and fingers, making the hard, pink button sting, and immediately Ruth felt her vulva pulse wetly in the flutter of a small orgasm. She looked into his eyes and shuddered as she saw them glaze scarlet. Then his lips drew back, his fangs glistening wetly in the light. His head darted forward like a viper's, and she felt the burning pain as they cut into her throat. For a moment she stood on a precipice, and then blackness covered her. - Chapter 4 - Ruth swam through a beautiful land of gray shadows, her mind not fully aware, but her body was completely awake. Although her eyes were closed she seemed to be watching a thunderstorm because jagged forks of blinding, yellow-white lightning flashed back and forth through her retinas. The glowing bolts were firing up from her belly and searing through her brain like boiling honey. Her heart was hammering madly inside her chest and she could hear the sound of her labored, rapid, gasping breathing . . . and, as if from a distance, her constricted voice whimpering and begging and crying out over and over again as the lightning bolts stabbed through her pelvis. She was being racked by the most incredible, devastating series of climaxes she'd ever imagined. They tore through her with savage, brutal intensity, and left her broken and weak, gasping for air like a boated fish. But no sooner had one explosion begun to ebb away than another wave would crash down on her, sweeping her away again. She had no idea how many orgasms she'd had while she was unconscious, but she knew every muscle in her body was aching and her crotch was raw and burning. But she knew inside herself that she'd joyfully endure all that pain, and far, far worse tortures, before she'd willingly stop this insane, wild ride. She opened her eyes, and was almost perplexed not to be looking up into Russell's face. But all she saw was the shadowed ceiling of her hotel room. Now that she was awake, the pounding waves of her orgasms weakened slightly, and she could think. She felt incredibly weak, but through the haze of twinkling snow that filled her mind she could feel what her vampiric lover was doing to her. Struggling to lift her head almost made her swoon, but she could see him lying between her legs with her thighs over his strong shoulders, his face tight to her groin, as his tongue moved against her sensitive tissues. Then he growled, an impossibly deep and bestial sound, against her pelvis and she felt the curved ivory of his fangs rub against her clitoris. Immediately and involuntarily her body bucked upwards against his face, and another merciless and titanic climax slammed through her body. She felt the scream boil up from her gut but her throat was already so raw that the only audible sound was a hoarse, croaking whimper. Russell lifted his head, looking up across her naked body, and their eyes met. "I'm glad you're awake, Ruth," he said. "You've been out almost two hours. I was beginning to think I wasn't doing something right." Then he smiled. His face shone wetly in the gloom. "How was your introduction to Vampyre love-making?" "That . . . that was . . . you mean I'm a vampire now? That I've made it?" Ruth's throat hurt deep inside as she spoke. "Nope, not yet. I just bit you to seduce you. I wanted you to have a taste of what being a vampire is like before your baptism. I wanted you to want it -- to need and crave it -- more than you've ever wanted anything else in your entire life!" He smoothly disentangled himself from her thighs and then his form began to flow. In a heartbeat he had melted into a shimmering mist. Confused, Ruth watched as the mist began to move, almost like a living thing. It slithered up her body, spreading itself into a human form, and as she watched with wide and amazed eyes, it solidified again. Now Russell was lying on top of her, his legs between hers, his bare chest against her breasts. "Welcome, Ruth," he whispered, "welcome to the beginning of a whole new world of sensation and delicious freedom and perfect, unending, immortal life!" With that, he thrust forward and buried his erection in her. As mind-bendingly wonderful as the oral sex had been, the intercourse was even better. Ruth experienced the insane delight of atomic-level climax, every atom of her body shrieking in indescribable, blissful orgasm for a thousand lifetimes, all condensed and compressed into one billionth of a second and repeated endlessly, like a blindingly fast loop of film screaming through her cellular structure. It could have lasted a minute or a billion years, she did not know. There was no today, no tomorrow, no past or future . . . there was no earth, no sun or stars . . . no Ruth, no Russell, no life or death . . . there was only the explosive cum that had never known an origin and would never find an end. Every peak was only superceded by its next, and at the ultimate moment, when she innately knew if she flew any higher her wings would surely catch fire and burn, she heard Russell's voice calling to her, "Do you want it, Ruth? Swear it to me, beg to me to rip your throat open and drink your blood. Scream it, Ruth . . . this is the time . . . scream it to me!" To Search in the Shadows She did. With everything inside her she screamed his name and screamed her desire that he pierce her throat even as his iron-hard penis was piercing her spasming vagina. She screamed that she wanted to die and be reborn in his arms. She screamed for his kiss and for him to wallow in her blood. Ruth felt him stab deep into her belly, and felt his fangs rip into her soft throat. She knew the sweet pain of his penetration, and the flashing, burning heat as he pumped his sticky seed into her and the frigid icy loss as her blood gushed into his demanding, thirsting mouth. She knew Nirvana as her body ignited in an orgasm that went beyond physical, beyond mental, even beyond spiritual. She knew she was still screaming in joy, in pain, in expectation, in fear, and in triumph as velvet blackness enclosed her again. - Chapter 5 - The struggle to open her eyes was the hardest thing Ruth had ever done. Her body was ice cold, and when she tried to move she thought at first she'd been frozen solid because her limbs would not respond. So weak . . . so terribly weak. At the periphery of her vision she could see Russell's face. His eyes were glazed and glassy, the pupils like tiny black pinholes in the irises. He was lying beside her, propped up on one elbow and staring down at her. She tried to speak to him but her voice was completely gone. She didn't have the strength to make her vocal cords work. "Shhhh, Ruth," he murmured. "Don't try to speak. It's too late for that. It's over now. Just relax and let it happen. Death isn't so bad, really. I've been there; I know." Gently, he brushed the damp hair back from her sweaty forehead. "If it matters, you've given me the most wonderful experience of my undead life. Your blood was so pure and sweet . . . God, I'm high. I don't think I'll come down for a month! Thank you, sweet Ruth." He kissed her gently on the mouth. She managed a smile. Her pale lips trembled. She could feel a deeper cold, a chill paralysis like nothing she'd ever known before, settling in her arms and body. Already her legs were completely numb. "I know you have questions, Ruth," Russell said. His voice was soft, gentle -- almost sad. "You want to know how long it will be until we're together again . . . until you rise Undead. Your human body has to lie dead for about 72 hours while the changes occur. You'll be here in the hotel room until then, safe in the darkness. Then you'll be one of us. I'll come to you then and we'll go hunting together, you and I. You got your wish, Ruth-who-searches-in-the-shadows. Welcome to the club, sweet Ruth." But she did not hear the last few words. By then Ruth was dead. Russell placed his hand on her face, and gently closed her eyes with his fingers. Then he dressed and prepared to leave. He went through her purse and took her car keys. As he stood at the door, hand on the knob, he looked back at the cooling, naked woman lying on the bed. A single tear ran down his cheek. "I'm sorry, Ruth," he whispered. "I hated to lie to you. But I wanted to repay you for giving me the sweetest wine . . . the blood of one who wants, more than anything, to give it to me. So I wanted you to have peace as you died. But Hollywood didn't get it all right, Ruth. It wasn't the bite of a Vampyre that made me undead. It doesn't really work that way. Remember what I told you about birds? It was the buzzards, Ruth, circling over my corpse for hours on end." Then he turned and opened the door, hung the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign on the outside knob, looked back at the bed one last time, and walked away, closing the door behind him. END Stephen Thorn June 4, 2003 All Rights Reserved