Thunder exploded and blue-white lightning arced across the sky above the glass-and-steel thirteen story building which, with its two auditoriums and two wings housing guest rooms, sat smack in the center of downtown Boston — right off I-93, off of Clinton Street — where near the front entrance, a lone figure in scarlet, thigh-high leather boots got out of a car in the rain. She saw that the downpour hadn’t deterred the guests of the Renaissance Regency Hotel And Convention Center from opening their balcony doors, nor had it stopped them from hanging out on the balconies and relishing the rain. The thunder competed with the sounds of epic fantasy metal, rock and roll, dubstep, and — of course — filk music pouring out of their rooms. The lone figured judged this to be exactly as it should be; for this week only, the hotel was home to FantazmagoriCon XVIII, a grand bacchanal of debauchery and imagination — or was it more of “a hootenanny, or a shindig?” to quote Oz from Buffy — that would rage like a gamma-irradiated scientist for the next five days. And today was Friday, April the 10th, and it was 9:47 P.M.; Day Two. The lone figure in the crimson-red miniskirt, corset, and boots knew from personal experience that the con would be revving up its engines toward escape velocity, but that it would not have reached peak-madness just yet. Perfect timing on her part, to have arrived when she had. She stood in the rain and watched the balcony parties for a long moment with a grin on her face, remembering.
On a fifth-floor balcony above her, Wonder Woman — her star-spangled panties and her bright red corset standing out, her golden vambraces gleaming — made out with a drunken Spiderman. The blue and red ridges of his costume branched out from his spider insignia, a web of interlacing facets and honeycombs. The lone figure below — her eyesight much clearer than any normal mortal’s — could see the details of it even at this distance. She admired the job he had done crafting it. A lot of love had gone into that cosplay.
Heh. Now only if I was in costume, then I might be okay, she thought. Maybe just maybe, Ravenkroft won’t think to look for me here. Need to feed soon, though. Hopefully can do so without making too big of a mess, without drawing too much attention. God I hate to though. Not on one of these. Not on my fellow fen.
Across from Spiderman and Wonder Woman, a ruggedly handsome Han Solo in a black vinyl vest and holding a plastic blaster snogged a short-skirted Sailor Moon wearing (of course) a bright-blue sailor’s tunic complete with a red ascot. Below her, a few dorky-looking dudes wearing bedsheet togas egged on a Starfleet cadet in a scarlet dress uniform with white tassel braids on the shoulders and golden rank pips on his collar, as he chugged beer through a tube connected to a keg. Foam squirted out around his mouth and he laughed as beer sprayed all over him and his cosplay. His friends laughed and cheered as he held up his fists in triumph. “Oh yeah, oh yeah! Who’s the man!” he cried. He high-fived the guy behind him, who wore a black Darth Vader helmet. “The Force is strong with this one!” intoned Lord Vader. The cadet wiped his mouth, helped his friends grab another keg; one of the toga-wearers grabbed the tube, and the ritual began again. Yep, this sure was everything she remembered FantazmagoriCon being, alright. The lone figure walked through the hotel’s front doors, and into the throng of con-goers.
Jetta’s alabaster skin gleamed with raindrops, and her curly, jet-black hair coruscated down her back and stuck to her cheeks in wet ringlets. Her studded, crimson leather corset and matching miniskirt were soaked; the storm outside had done its due diligence in washing her dry-clean-only clothes. Which had not been cleaned in three years. Three years since Ravenkroft had taken her prisoner. Three years she had been couped-up in that house, a house she had once called home as a child. Three years of her father Viktor — or at least, the man she had once known as her father, but who had been taken over by his evil alter-ego, Ravenkroft Evolutior — poking and prodding her, injecting her with chemicals, and performing unnecessary surgeries on her, right there, in her old bedroom. Three years of him tying her to a bed and gagging her. Of him handcuffing her to said bed. Of him keeping her sedated so she could not cry out for help. And three endless years of waiting for him to make a mistake . . . the way he had earlier tonight. She had waited there, in her room, with one handcuff half-unfastened, listening with her enhanced hearing for signs that he had left the house. And then he had. And then, she had made her move. And had finally escaped.
Klingons with their ridged foreheads and their bat’leths. and Elves in woodland greens and earthen brows, carrying longbows, and Jedi, dressed in clerics’ robes and armed with lightsabers, all surrounded her. She could suddenly hear the jangling of acoustic guitars; the roar of the crowds in the dealer’s room and game room, where adventurers went in search of dragons’ gold, their fates determined by a roll of the die. Regrettably, she wasn’t here to partake of the fellowship of her fellow crazy fen. She had been a huge fan of sci-fi and fantasy in her life as a Mortal, and had come here every year with Gadget and Mystikite before their awful falling out over that bitch Zoë. But she was not here because she was one of these dear people whom she had missed since Ravenkroft had abducted her three years previous to this and held her prisoner and experimented on her . . . No. She was here — having escaped her prison earlier tonight while he was out doing . . . whatever — to hide and lay low for a few days. And, of course, to feed.
Costumed con-goers — and thus, potential victims — were everywhere, and she haphazardly steered her way around them to the front desk. Geeky conversations effervesced all around her:
“So who do you think was the best Doctor?” chattered a Chinese Dwarf to her right as she tried to get by. “For me it was Capaldi, hands down. Oh I know some people still say it was David Tennant, and God I had such a huge crush on him, although Whittaker was funny, and so whip-smart and amazing . . . I didn’t care for Chibnall’s aesthetic, though; I think he sucked as a show runner. It wasn’t Jodie’s fault. Jodie was ‘fant-ahs-stic!’ to quote Eccleston. But she could’ve been even greater. I mean, the first female Doctor! It could’ve been mind-blowing! But nooo. Chibnall.”
An African-American man dressed in a blue tunic and black slacks, his pointed ears jiggling as he argued with a petite blonde woman wearing a furry bikini and carrying a peacebonded spear: “So let me get this straight. You actually think the Hulk could defeat Superman, if he got mad enough. Come on! That is highly illogical! I mean, yes, Batman did it. But that’s only because Bruce Wayne has resources. And there’s prep time to consider . . .”
A short Hawaiian man wearing round glasses, black robes, and with a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, gestured exaggeratedly as he explained to his companion, a woman with a huge mass of curly red hair, wearing a dark green dress and carrying a bow and arrow: “Okay, listen. What you’ve got to understand is that I love Harry Potter. I adore J.K. Rowling. But Harry didn’t win against Voldemort because he’s a great wizard or even a mediocre hero. He won because of the dumb luck of wand mechanics!”
As Jetta squeezed by, still trying to get to the front desk, she heard, “Well, me personally, I don’t think Spike really deserved a relationship with Buffy. Not after he sexually assaulted her like that!”
She was almost there, almost there. She overheard a woman say, in a British accent: “What’s the average airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?”
The man next to her: “The African or European variety?”
The man holding hands with him: “Well, how about in a warp bubble?”
A third person: “Well how about in a warp bubble designed by Wesley Crusher?” Laughter, some of it her own, despite herself; that was funny.
She finally made it to the front desk, and heard a fourth voice: “Oh now you’re just being riddikulus!”
The tall, lanky clerk at the front desk had dark brown hair and almond eyes. He fidgeted in his rumpled, navy-blue suit and tie and looked haggard and tired. There were dark circles under his eyes. He bore a name-tag that read, “Neville.”
“Hi, welcome to the Renaissance Regency,” he said as she walked up to the front desk, forcing a smile at her. “How can I help you?”
“Hi — Neville,” she began.
“Yes,” he said, still forcing the smile. “And please don’t ask me if my last name is ‘Longbottom.’”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she said, and grinned despite the direness of her situation. “Sorry. I’d like a room, please, Neville.”
“You must be joking,” he said, with a small, disbelieving laugh. “I don’t even need to look at the computer. We’re full, ma’am. Sorry.”
Well that scarcely does me any good now, does it?” she said, letting out a panicked, pissed-off breath through her nostrils. It would do no good to take out her frustration on Neville, though. After all, he hadn’t filled the hotel with guests.
“My advice,” he said, “would be to find a friend here, and maybe bunk with them. Lots of people do it. Again, sorry I couldn’t help.”
“It’s . . . it’s not your fault,” she said, the anger subsiding and her heart slowly sinking into her stomach. What the hell was she going to do now?
To her left, two male and one female Ghostbuster, their outfits complete with intricate proton pack props that looked custom-built from various machine parts to match the look of the movies perfectly, admired a set of comic books laid out on a table attended by a short man in a tweed suit, bow tie, and red fez. Jetta overheard him remark, “I wear a fez now, fezzes are cool.” The woman next to him clomped by in metal boots and adjusted her silver-metal bikini bottom and armored halter-top. She picked up her rifle-like ray gun and ran a hand through her auburn hair, smiled, and put her arms around two young men wearing black suits and sunglasses. Their friend took a picture of them.
Jetta simply stood for a moment, unsure of what to do. Six yards away there stood a boy dressed as anime character Naruto Uzumaki — though his true surname should’ve been Namikaze. He ran a hand through his spiked yellow hair and fidgeted with the large metal plate attached to his headband; it had a spiral insignia engraved into it, and it bobbed up and down as he talked with a stutter. He wore a zip-up black-and-orange sweatshirt, orange sweat-trousers striped with black to match, and a dagger on his hip. The edges of the jet-black, Viktorian-era tea dress of the green-skinned girl next to him whirled as she pirouetted in place, laughing. The dress had shoulder pads and lacing, with long sleeves, and black ruffles at the cuffs. She was a lovely shade of emerald; a good makeup job, too — it covered her whole head, except for her raven-black hair, worn in a bun.
She had long legs, her figure made even shapelier by the pair of black, knee-high, lace-up leather boots that she wore. She had on a jet-black, knee-length satin dress with a slit up the right thigh, and a black satin top with long sleeves that terminated in black, lacy ruffles. Atop her head, she wore a tall, pointed, soot-black witch’s hat with a wide, round rim around it, and she carried a tall, crooked broomstick with a haphazard-looking mass of straw at the butt-end of it. Filling out the outfit. she wore a large, billowing black cape that extended down from her shoulders and the large black cowl she had mounted there. Her makeup was damn-near perfect, as well: Her skin gleamed a matte green color, a uniform emerald shade applied evenly, everywhere, to her face, neck, hands, and whatever other parts of her skin showed through. She didn’t look so much like Margaret Hamilton from the original Mystikite of Oz, but was the spitting image of Gregory Maguire’s Elphaba, from the fantasy novel and broadway musical Wicked: The Life And Times of the Wicked Witch of the West.
The green-skinned girl gave Naruto a friendly bonk on the head with her witch’s broom, and tipped her crooked black hat to the man they both animatedly spoke to. The green-skinned girl turned, and for a brief moment, she made eye contact with Jetta. Jetta blinked, held the girl’s eyes for a moment, and then the girl looked away, and back to Naruto and the three-hundred-and-fifty-pound Scottish man they were both talking to. Jetta knew he was Irish because of the bright green kilt, sash, and white shirt he wore, along with the golf cap with red poof ball on attached, and the bag pipes. Especially the bag pipes. Momentarily, he put the reed in his mouth and blew, giving the bag a giant squeeze. out came the loudest, strangest, yet most hauntingly beautiful, mournful sound Jetta had ever heard. He proceeded to play a jaunty, strangled melody on the pipes, and people nearby started clapping . . . and then doing little jig-like dances . . . and then he quit playing suddenly. Bursts of laughter and applause went up all around him as people were caught still dancing, and he took a short few bows and smiled.
Pretty and funny, but of no use to her. She needed a damn room! She wandered over to the ornate orange couch that sat against the wall, sat down her bags, and tried to think. She would have to try and meet someone. Was it her imagination, or was that green-skinned girl looking at her again? Staring at her, in fact? Did she know her?
She took a deep breath, and looked around. And then, it hit her. She was free. And she had chosen to come here, to FantazmagoriCon. Of all places. A warm feeling spread throughout her chest. Because at last, she had come home, in a way. These were her people. Or at least, they had been, before Ravenkroft had abducted her and locked her in that bedroom for three years, and turned her into . . . well, God, whatever the hell she was now. She looked down at her pale hands and at the sutures on her wrists and fingers. She knew from experimenting that her fingernails could extend into claws if she commanded them to. And that she had fangs, and that she needed to use them in order to feed on Human blood; she no longer craved or needed any other sustenance. And she knew that she was no longer Mortal, but damned near immortal. She knew this because Ravenkroft had told her this. She could heal from practically any injury, very quickly, save for being beheaded or injected with silver, because silver reacted with the compounds in her blood.
She had the most amazing healing abilities. And Ravenkroft had tested them extensively. Broken bones would practically reset themselves; even the most severe wounds would close within minutes; blood clotted almost immediately; bullets would pop back out of their holes as bones and organs re-knitted themselves; her body could fight off infections — within minutes — that would slaughter mere mortals. But as Ravenkroft had discovered in his “experiments,” she was not impervious to the agony that wounds could inflict; nor immune to the lingering memory of said agony. Nor was she immune to fear or terror. And, always, there was the horror of the Eternal Death that awaited just beyond the touch of fire, silver, or sunlight. But of course, those things could also be harnessed — in just the right measure — for the purposes of torture, as well. Ravenkroft had discovered this. Jetta shivered, remembering. God, how good it was to finally be free. She could hardly believe she was free, at long last. She kept having to pinch herself to remind her this was really happening.
She also had tremendously augmented strength and muscle control — she had picked up a car earlier — as well as speed, reflexes, and agility. Ravenkroft had done it. He had successfully turned her into what she had role-played at con as for years: A fucking Vampire.
Before Ravenkroft had abducted her, she had worked part-time at the school bookstore at Morchatromik University in Cambridge on a work-study program, studying theoretical physics, just like her father Viktor once had. She had hoped to one day be a teacher herself, like him. Previous to that, she had received a Master’s Degree in Electronics Engineering, and had been damned good at her job at Joe’s Radio Repair Shop. She could still remember the smell of melting solder; she had always loved that smell. It reminded her of her friend Gadget, and of her ex-boyfriend Mystikite, Gadget’s best friend. She and Gadget had slept together once, after she and Mystikite had broken up. Only just the once, though; it had meant more to him than to her; it had been his first time, after all. And it had happened right here, at FantazmagoriCon. The place she guessed she felt most at home. Why else would she have come here, right after escaping from Ravenkroft, almost on instinct? At least she would be able to blend in. Heh. A Vampire coming to a place where people are dressed up as Vampires. Yeah, I’ll fit in, alright. Now if I can just find someone to feed off of . . . But God, I hate to do it to one of these people. These are my people, after all. My people. Though I guess I don’t really even belong to the fucking Human Race anymore, now do I?
Jetta looked over at Naruto, the Scottish bagpipe-player, and the girl with the green skin — whom she saw chance another look at her; their eyes met for a second or two, and then the girl quickly looked away. She glanced at the threesome again, and they were all three looking in her direction now, and whispering to each other. The next thing she knew, they were all three headed in her direction. Jetta froze on the spot. What did they want?
“Er, hello there,” said the green-skilled girl as they came to a stop in front of her. “We are well-met along the path, fellow traveler. Might I inquire, what is thine handle? Methinks I’ve seen thee somewherest elst before . . .”
“Uh, who, me?” said Jetta, pointing to herself.
“Yes, you,” said the witch. “Who else would I be talking to?”
“Er, no one, I suppose. Who are you, again?”
“My name is Elphion,” said the witch, sticking out a hand meant for shaking. Now that she had gotten closer, Jetta could see that there were tiny, carefully-inscribed integrated circuit pathways drawn into her green make-up. “Get it? A cross between Evangelion and Elphaba. But my real name is Michele. My whole ‘nym is Elphion Imajica Dangerzone.”
“Er, pleased to meet you,” said Jetta, and shook her hand. “That’s a real mouthful. My name’s . . .” She blanked. Thinking quickly, she said, “Buffy. My real name’s . . .” She thought for a moment. “Unimportant. I just go by Buffy.”
“Oh, that’s fine!” said Elphion, and she smiled a pretty smile. It lit up her entire face, an angelic beam of light on her green features. “Lots of people use ‘nyms here because they don’t want to use their real names! Tell me, is this your first year here at con?”
“Er, no,” said Jetta.
“Excellent! Boys, we have a veteran on our hands!” cried Elphion to her companions. “Moreover, a homeless veteran!”
“Excuse me,” said Jetta, “but isn’t that a rather tasteless way to put it?”
“Oh we’re very tasteless, us three,” said Elphion. “The worst.” Her smoldering bedroom eyes — an emerald green, Jetta’s favorite eye color; because of course they were — were alive with fire as she looked Jetta up and down and smiled wickedly. “Allow me to introduce my compatriots in crime. This is Naruto Uzumaki and Phineas Highlander O’Brien, also known as the Scotsman Clad In Kilt Who Left The Bar One Ev’nin’ Fair. We just call him Phineas, for short.”
“Nice ‘nyms,” said Jetta, and she allowed herself a small smile in the midst of her anxiety. “I like the reference to the song.”
“Why, thankee lass,” said Phineas, in a thick — but obviously fake — Scottish accent. “I been meanin’ ter maybe change my ’nym to maybe Conner McCloud, or somethin’ rather catchy like tha’, y’know, ter be more in line with th’ whole ‘Highlander’ theme, but I’m likin’ the reference ter Chief O’Brien too much ter do that, ye know?”
Jetta smiled. “Right. Chief O’Brien was the man.”
“Aye, an’ I ‘ave the gift o’ technobabble to prove it. Cap’n! I think I ken re-route the hotel’s transporter buffer into a matrix o’ nano-cathode flux-coupling butt-plugs that — !”
“Er — ” began Jetta, and she grinned. “Yeeeaaah . . . I’m gonna go ahead and stop you right there.”
“Hi,” said Naruto, waving. He smiled a bashful smile and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Don’t mind me. I have — have — have — ”
“He has social anxiety issues,” said Elphion, by way of explanation.
“Ah, okay,” said Jetta. She waved back and smiled at him. “Hi, Naruto.”
“Anyway. I overheard your conversation at the front desk,” said Elphion. “Yeah, the hotel is full to the brim of its transporter buffer . . . or its Sorting Hat, take your pick.”
“Yeah, so it would appear,” said Jetta, her anxiety ebbing back. She chanced another look out the hotel’s front doors.
“Did you know?” said Naruto, speaking rapidly, but softly, “There’s a theory that the Sorting Hat is actually a Horcrux with pieces of the four Founders’ souls in it, so they could always be a part of Hogwarts. If that’s true, then there are four dead — dead — dead motherfuckers buried somewhere at Hogwarts who died so that students could always be — be sorted into their proper Houses.” He tittered nervous laughter, and then fell silent.
“So I figured,” said Elphion, grasping Jetta’s hand in hers, “‘here’s this beautiful woman. She obviously needs a room. And she’s obviously committed to Vampire fandom and has this great Queen of the Damned cosplay going on. Very subtle touches — I definitely approve. Tell me — are you registered yet?”
“Oh,” said Jetta, realizing she didn’t have a name badge or registration for the convention (and that everyone else had one), “no, I only just got here, and . . . my credit card was declined . . .”
“Eh, we’ll take care of that soon enough,” said Elphion. “Anyway. So I says to my compatriots, ’It’s a pity she can’t stay for all five days of FantazmagoriCon! Without a room, I mean. So, she should stay with us!’ So we talked it over — ”
“Righ’ lass, it’s already been discussed, y’see,” said Phineas. “We took a vote an ev’rythin’.”
“It was unanimous,” squeaked Naruto.
“ — And we decided amongst ourselves,” said Elphion, “‘Hey, why doesn’t she stay with us?’ We have room in our suite. Plenty of room. It has a comfy couch, and a comfy chair — ”
“‘Not! The comfy! Chair!’” cried Phineas, suddenly, as though in a great deal of pain and with no small amount of fear in his voice. Elphion regarded him for a moment with a raised eyebrow.
“Monty Python,” he offered, by way of explanation. A pause. “No-buddy? No-buddy got tha’? Ah well. Continyer on, Elphion.”
“ — And I even have some dry clothes for you to change into,” said Elphion, turning back around to face her. “I think they’ll fit you just fine.”
“Why . . . er, thank you,” said Jetta, taken aback with surprise. Why was Elphion still grasping her hand? “But . . . I don’t even know you. You don’t even know me. I mean, why would you do all that for someone you don’t even know? I could be an axe murderer. I could kill you all in your sleep!”
“I don’t need to know you, to know you’re a soul in desperate need,” said Elphion. She gripped Jetta’s hand a little tighter, and ran her other hand over her thumb softly. “You need a room and besides, you look . . .” She smiled at her with just a hint of seduction lurking behind her eyes. “Intriguing. So you can room with us, whoever you are. Alright?”
“Er, alright.” Jetta glanced down. The witch still had her by the hand. Had she wanted to — had she been in a violent mood — she knew she could have ripped the witch’s arm off and beaten her with it, given the augmented strength that Ravenkroft had given her. Or she could have simply bolted from the con and vanished. Her body had the speed of hummingbird wings; had she wished, she could’ve bolted across the lobby, and been out the doors and across the street in four seconds, a literal blur to the eyes. But something in Elphion’s gaze held her; she didn’t want to look away. Elphion was a delicious-looking woman with a slender nose, full lips, large eyes, and a soft chin; green skin and all, she looked amazing. And those eyes, a jade color deeper than the green of her skin; Jetta had always been a sucker for deep green eyes. This was it — she was the one. Elphion would not only provide her with a place to stay, but . . . she would be her victim for tonight. Her dinner. And perhaps not only for tonight, but the next several nights.
“But,” said Elphion suddenly, “in order to room with us, you must make an offering.”
“Er, an offering?” said Jetta.
“Yes,” said Elphion in a far-too-grim-to-be-serious tone. “An offering. You must offer to the Mistress of the Room something strange, wonderful, poetic or intoxicating. Booze is the easy answer to this, but I do love it when the guest gets . . . creative.” Then she smiled, and winked at Jetta. “I’m sure you’ll think . . . of something.”
Jetta could indeed think of something. But if she was going to feed on her, she would have to seduce her, properly. And then finally kill her on the last night of the convention. Otherwise she wouldn’t have a room to stay in for the full length of the con. Priorities. It wasn’t personal; and she hated to kill one so young and vibrant. She felt the guilt gnawing at her already.
Jetta managed a smile back at Elphion and said, “Okay. You’ve got a deal.”
Elphion smiled back. “Excellent. We’re in room 203. Come on, we’re headed there now. I need to touch-up my skin; it’s getting pasty.”
“Aye, an’ it’s a pleasure to be meetin’ ya, lassie,” said Phineas. Before Jetta could say anything else, he took her hand and kissed it. Jetta quickly withdrew her hand and wiped it on her miniskirt. “Well now! Aren’t ye the wee little OCD firecracker! Heh! I like ye already!”
“Uh, yeah,” said Jetta, not sure whether to grin or to grimace. “I’m honored.”
“Heya,” said Naruto with a small nod and a cheesy, attempt-at-cool smile. “My real name’s Jeff.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jeffrey,” said Jetta, and smiled at him. He blushed, and shrugged his head down a bit, as though attempting to hide it like a turtle might hide within his shell, though there was no place for his head to go but into his sweatshirt.
“I love your cosplay, by the way,” said Elphion. The four of them started walking toward the elevators against the far wall of the hotel lobby, with Elphion in the lead.
“My cosplay?” said Jetta. “Oh, right, the whole — ”
“Yeah, the whole Vampire thing,” said Elphion, nodding to her over her shoulder. “The fangs look great — I can’t even tell where your real teeth stop and those start. And your makeup job — it’s damn-near perfect. Your lips . . . they really do look blood-stained. And how did you get your skin so perfectly pale like that? And without showing any build-up or anything! And it hasn’t even smeared or run at all from the rain! Tell me — just for starters — what kind of foundation did you use?”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Oh, that. Well . . .” She smiled sweetly at Elphion and then her smile broke into a grin. “I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.” She put a finger to her lips. “Shh! Or I’ll hypnotize you, turn into a bat, and bite you!”
Elphion threw back her head and laughed. “Right, right! Abracadabra, I’m a bat!”
“Oh yeah?” piped up Naruto, in a perfect imitation of Bugs Bunny. “‘Well Abra-ca-pocus! I’m a baseball bat!’”
“‘You wouldn’t hit a bat with glasses on . . . would you?’” intoned Phineas, in his best Bela Lugosi.
Once again, despite herself, Jetta laughed, as did Elphion and the others. It felt good to laugh . . . but another twinge of guilt ran through her, this one stronger than the last one. She knew why it was there. Elphion was one of her people. So were the other two — they were of her people. They weren’t just another group of wandering vagrants, or gang members, or neo-Nazis, or street punks . . . No. They were fen. Part of the fandom family.
“No seriously,” said Elphion, “how the hell did you do it? I am so jealous of your mad makeup skills, Jetta.”
“I’ll . . . tell you later,” said Jetta. “Promise.” She looked back over her shoulder toward the hotel’s entrance again.
“Well c’mon!” said Elphion, grinning. “Let’s head to the room already. I’ve got a bottle of Aftershock with our names on it.”
They made it to the elevators, and Elphion punched the “up” button. The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Inside, a Klingon made out with a blue body-painted Delvian priestess in flowing robes of silver. As the doors opened the Klingon looked up and the two broke off their make-out session, startled. They both grinned sheepishly, and hurried off the elevator holding hands, the Delvian giggling. The Klingon shrugged at them on his way out, as if to say, Hey man, she’s my parmaqqay; what else am I supposed to do? The foursome then got on the elevator, the doors closed, Elphion punched the button for the second floor, and the elevator ascended.
“Aye, I’ll be glad when we get ta the room,” said Phineas. “I gotta straighten me underwear. ’Tis ridin’ up in the crotch, it is.” He glanced over at Jetta, then Elphion. “Er, not that either o’ ye ladies needed ter know that, o’ course.”
“Charming,” said Jetta. She turned to Elphion and shook her head, smiling; that guilty feeling was more pronounced, now. “Does he always broadcast these things?”
“Yes,” said Elphion. “We try to discourage him, but that only seems to encourage him. So we tried reverse psychology and tried encouraging him. But that only encouraged him further. So we gave up.”
“Aye, I’m incorrigible,” said Phineas. “Ye lads and lassies were usin’ the wrong word, ye see.”
They got off the elevator, and with Elphion in the lead, they got off, and headed down the second floor hallway. More con-goers in sometimes-amazing cosplay surrounded them on all sides as they made their way down the hall. Jetta grinned, too. She couldn’t help it; they were fun, this lot. She decided that she might have to make other feeding arrangements. Maybe. She wasn’t sure yet. Guilt gnawed at her already, and she hadn’t even done anything.
They made it to the room. Elphion inserted the white keycard into the door handle and opened the door.
“Whew!” she said, letting out a breath. She dug in the small refrigerator next to the couch and got herself a Coke. “You want one, Jetta? The corporate slogan says we’re supposed to share a Coke and a smile, so . . .”
“Er, no thanks,” she said. “But your smile is nice.”
“Aw, thanks,” said Elphion, her eyes penetrating her.“Yours too. But anyway.” She looked away, still smiling. “Enough of that happy horseshit! First things first. Jetta, you need clothes. Look in that suitcase on the first bed. Find the black jeans with the silver buttons on the front pockets. I think those might fit you. Then find the oversize Star Wars t-shirt that has Kylo Ren on it. And I think I brought an extra pair of combat boots; they’re in the big suitcase next to the bed if you want to ditch the thigh-high ones. Which, by the way, I fucking love. Kudos on your Vampiric fashion sense. And hey guys; you too Jetta, after you change; would the three of you be up for a friendly game of Magic: The Gathering? We can get to know Jetta while we play.”
“Hell y — yeah, I’m up for that,” said Naruto. “S — sure. D — deal me in. Just don’t play with your usual deck, Elphion. That thing is w — way too p — powerful. You always k — kick everyone’s asses with it within like . . . like ten turns or so.”
“Aw, well shit, that’s no fun then,” said Elphion, mock-pouting. “But oh well. If you insist, I’ll use one of my low-powered decks. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Naruto. “Sounds — sounds fair.”
“Aye, she’s lyin’ to ya laddie,” said Phineas, chuckling. “She says it’s low-powered. But remember — for her, tha’s a relative term!”
“Yeah, I kn — know,” said Naruto. “B — b — believe me. That only means she’ll k — k — kick our asses in w — w — what, luh — like, what, only tw — twelve turns?” He laughed.
“Now yer gettin’ the idea,” said Phineas. “And I’ve got dibs on the bathroom after Jetta uses it.”
“Thanks,” said Jetta. She rummaged through Elphion’s suitcase and found the clothes, as well as a hairbrush. The clothes looked like they would fit. She unzipped the larger suitcase and did indeed find the combat boots and held one up beside one of her boots. She looked up Elphion and smiled. “Perfect match, size-wise.”
“Well, go try them on!” said Elphion. “Shoo! Away with you, then!”
Jetta shook her head, laughed, and headed into the bathroom. She sat the boots and clothes on the vanity, leaned against the counter, closed her eyes, and took a minute to catch her breath since arriving. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe. In, and out. Slowly. Just breathe. She looked up into the mirror and into her own eyes. If Ravenkroft found her . . . God, what would he do? He might kill her. Drag her to the roof, lock her up there. wait for dawn to come, and listen to her screams as the sunlight obliterated her. Maybe.
She changed clothes, took off her boots and pulled on Elphion’s, and checked herself out in the mirror. She looked good. Well, that much was a given; she always looked good. Her hair was a right mess, but otherwise, she looked fine. Presently, she ran the brush through her hair, and attempted to tame it. She let out a sigh, and exited the bathroom.
“Well!” said Phineas. “Good thing’n ye finally decided ter come outta there! ‘Wot th’ ‘ell are ye doin’ in the bathroom day ‘an noight! Why don’ ye git outta there an’ give someone else a chance!’” He shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door.
“Young Fruh — Frankenstein!’” laughed Naruto, calling after him. He shook his head. “Good reference! God, I ha — aven’t seen that one in like y — years.”
“Me either,” said Elphion. “Good ol’ Mel Brooks.” She lifted her shot-glass full. “We pour one out for him. Well, not literally. That would ruin the carpet. Here, Jetta. Cheers.” She handed her a shot-glass.
Jetta tried to demur, but there was no avoiding it. She would have to drink it. Oh well. Maybe just the one wouldn’t hurt.
She kicked the shot back — it burned her throat and mouth — and immediately felt the effects of the alcohol. Dizziness. Dear God, was one of the aspects of her new physiology an intense reaction to booze? She hoped not. She had planned on getting extremely drunk.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” asked Elphion, racing toward her, and grabbing her by the arm.
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” said Jetta, steadying herself.
Elphion stroked her arm. “No, you’re not. Come over here and lie down. Here. Jeff, clear the suitcases off the bed.”
“R — right,” said Naruto. He did as she asked, and Elphion led Jetta over to one of the beds, where she also gently helped her lie down. She wasn’t that bad off, or that ill.
“I should have remembered,” she lied, “I’m on . . . medication that doesn’t react well with alcohol.”
Elphion simply looked at her for a moment, then cocked her head at her. “Oh you poor dear,” she said, and shook her head. “And you foolish one, you! You should’ve refused that shot! Here, prop your head up. There you go. Now, you just rest for a moment. You still want to play Magic whenever Phineas gets done clogging up the toilet?”
Jetta laughed. She couldn’t help it. The image was too funny. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
She thought she remembered how to play Magic. It had been a while. The last time she had played, she had been Mortal. She had been in the back of the Morchatromik U bookstore, with Gadget and Mystikite. The day before FantazmagoriCon. They day before she took Gadget’s virginity. The week before Mystikite had started dating Zoë and she had left the group in rage and in tears.
Jetta sat up on her elbows, sighed, and grinned at Elphion as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She wiggled her eyebrows up and down mischievously.
“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s play some Magic.”
Jetta led Elphion into the stairwell, her arm around her, her hand against her hip as she smiled at her. She liked that she didn’t have to hide her fangs. It made this easier. Elphion smiled back, touching the corners of her mouth. They looked into each other’s eyes, Jetta using her peripheral vision and her free hand to yank open the door to the stairwell and keep it open as she hustled Elphion inside. They both knew what they were going there to do. Well, at least they both knew one of the things they were going there to do. And it had to be now; Jetta couldn’t stand it any longer; the urges stirring inside her were too titanic and powerful. Jetta’s blood throbbed in her veins; her face felt hot; her heart beat wildly. But sex was just the bonus here . . . it was the promise of something else, far more life-giving, that Jetta wanted from Elphion . . .
Once inside the stairwell, they embraced.
Jetta’s lips found Elphion’s, and they kissed. Jetta’s tongue explored the warmth of Elphion’s mouth as she wrapped her arms around her and held her, pressing her right hand to her buttocks and her left hand to her back. Her dress was silky smooth; Jetta could feel the warmth and firm, reassuring solidity of Elphion’s body through it. The curve of her buttocks felt enticing in her hand, making her want to grip Elphion even tighter . . . but she knew that if she did, her Vampiric strength would kick in, and she might accidentally crush the poor girl. She cradled her instead as they kissed, their lips working against each other, suckling and gliding, their tongues moving across each other, their heads gradually bobbing as they slow-danced together in the stairwell, lost in the consummation of mutual desire. Jetta’s head spun; she felt lightheaded, as she knew Elphion probably did . . . the climax of the hunt filled her with a boiling hunger.
She withdrew her lips from Elphion’s, and heard a soft click of moisture as she did. Elphion uttered a small moan, her brow contorted into mesmeric concentration, her eyes shut — and then moved to unbutton the dress at Elphion’s neck. Elphion obediently bent her head to allow it. Once she had the buttons undone, Jetta parted the folds of the dress at the neck, revealing Elphion’s soft, pink skin. Jetta could see the veins beneath it with her Vampire’s sight, and the ravenous hunger within her leapt into her throat. She swallowed it, holding it at bay for the moment, as she gently kissed Elphion’s skin and pulled her close again, planting small kisses there upon her neck and shoulder, as Elphion likewise tugged her closer to her, resting her head upon Jetta’s shoulder and releasing tiny moans as Jetta’s kisses approached her ear, and breathing fast, deep, hungry breaths.
Jetta licked her lips and started to pull away, but jerked herself to a stop. She suddenly found she didn’t want to do this. No. She couldn’t do this. Not one so young and beautiful. To drain her of her life would be a sin against Humankind. But then again, she was no longer Human, was she? So what did Humankind matter to her? But this one . . . this one so young and so full of life and charm, and the spark of ingenuity . . . But then again, she had to feed. She could feel the gnawing thirst inside her, practically clawing its way out of her, the animal within, the Beast, longing to be freed to do what needed doing in order to sustain her life. She felt herself open her mouth, bearing her fangs. She closed her eyes, almost unwillingly. And in a second, the battle within her was over. Yes, she would feed . . .
“Jetta?” asked Elphion in a small voice, raising her head from her shoulder slightly. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Everything’s fine. I have something to show you.”
“What?”
“This. Lie still. This . . . may sting a little. Tell me. Do you trust me?”
Elphion hesitated. “Yes. I trust you.”
‘Good. Hold still, okay?”
“Um, okay.”
Elphion gripped her a little more tightly, and Jetta descended. She closed her eyes and felt her fangs pierce Elphion’s flesh. Elphion sucked in a sudden breath and clung to her even more tightly, her grip on her body like a vice as the sweet taste of blood flooded into Jetta’s mouth and relief — sweet, blessed relief from the gnawing hunger — flooded through her body, a rushing waterfall of orgasmic pleasure washing over her. It was pure, ecstatic bliss. Nothing compared to this, this baptism by fire and ice.
And then came the flood of memories. Elphion’s memories. This part of feeding, she had discovered — quite by accident — was the most intimate . . . and the most terrifying. The most primal part of her connection to her victim: Some of their memories were transferred in the process. Burning incense, and Phineas, the tall, overweight veteran of the radio world who had tutored Elphion through her ham radio Advanced License exam, which had made her cry it had been so hard. Elphion’s mother, a kindly women named Joyce; the smell of lilacs; Lillian’s eyes were soft and weary, and were the color of dandelions, her smile bright and able to soothe any hurt that ailed you. Elphion skinned her knee riding her bike at age eleven, and her father, Bill, had hugged her, held her close, had sprayed disinfectant on the wound, and had put a Mickey Mouse bandaid over it. Elphion had done a book report on a book about witches and faeries in the eighth grade and had gotten a bad grade because the teacher had told her that witches were evil, a tool of the devil; her parents had called the school, demanding that the teacher be fired, because of something to do with the first amendment . . . and she had had a pet goat she had named Anton, and she had fed it cabbage, and . . .
Elphion moaned a cry of bliss and contentment, so Jetta bit down harder, and drank deeper . . . Drifting in Elphion’s memories . . . Earlier tonight, she had encountered a street gang, and things hadn’t ended well for them. She had fed on Human blood for the first time, had known its sweet succulence, had gotten her first taste of the nectar of Human life, and there had been no turning back for her. Elphion would be her fifth Human victim. Her--
But . . . no. Wait. Elphion. She was — special — she — no. No. She couldn’t. No, she could not do this. Not to someone so — wonderful. So kind, so sweet, so —
No, no, NO! She refused!
She broke the connection. She pulled back, withdrew her fangs from Elphion’s neck, blood running down from her mouth and throat. She pulled away, and thrust Elphion against the wall and away from her. Elphion let out a small gasp as the connection was broken, and then sucked in a larger breath when she hit the wall. Then, she saw. She caught sight of Jetta, standing in front of her, blood all over her mouth, her eyes like gimlets in the stairwell’s lighting. They stood there, eyeing each other, both breathing heavily. And then Jetta realized: The memory transference . . . it had been a two-way street. Elphion had delved into her memories, just as she had delved into hers. She knew. Knew what she was, and knew what Ravenkroft had done to her. Where she had been for the past three years, what had befallen her, and what she had now become . . . and what she had just tried to do to her. And she was crying.
Through her sobs, she managed, her words trembling: “Are . . . are you going to k — k — kill me?” Jetta reached for her face, gently, but Elphion jerked away. “N — no! Don’t!”
“Elphion . . .” began Jetta. “I could never . . .”
“N — no! You just tried to!”
“No, I wasn’t — ”
“But you did! You just tried to kill me!”
“No I didn’t! I stopped myself from killing you!”
“Oh! Well! Don’t do me any fucking favors! Get the hell away from me!” She tried to rush past her. Jetta grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her to stay.
“Let go of me!”
“No!! Not until you listen to me!”
“No! Let go of me! Get away — or I swear, I’m gonna scream — !”
“Please don’t do that.”
“I swear it! Let go, or I will!”
“Then why haven’t you already?”
“B — because!”
“Because why?”
“Let the fuck go of me or I will!” She struggled against Jetta’s grip. Jetta tried not to hold on too hard, lest she break the bones in the poor girl’s arms. She didn’t know why she was doing this. Why was it so important to her that the girl believe her? Even if Elphion did scream for help, she could be out of her in an instant; gone, vanished, disappeared . . . so why did it fucking matter so much to her? She didn’t have a clue. All she knew was, it did.
“Elphie . . .” she said in the softest voice she could without whispering, “Listen to me. Please.”
“You’ve still got my blood all over your mouth. Do you realize that? My blood. My fucking blood!”
She tightened her grip on Elphion’s shoulders and shook her. “I know. I know how frightening I look, believe me. But you have to believe that I wasn’t going to kill you. I like you. I’m . . . new to all of this. I only took my first human victims earlier tonight, and they were gangbangers, up to no good, out on the streets. I’ve been a captive, a prisoner, for three years in a laboratory! I was made like this! Someone turned me into this! This wasn’t my choice to become what I am!”
Elphion stopped struggling and stared at her for a moment. “I . . . I think I . . . I saw that? When you . . .” She swallowed. “When you were biting me. I saw something. Something in my mind. I saw . . . a man. A man in a metal, robot suit. He was . . . doing something. Some kind of science experiment. On me. Only, it wasn’t me. It was you, wasn’t it. I was . . . I was inside you. Somehow.”
“You saw a glimpse into my memories,” said Jetta. “It’s what happens when . . . someone like me . . . feeds on a person. We briefly share memories, between the two of us. I figured that out earlier, too.”
“Whoa,” breathed Elphion, seeming to forget the horror of the situation for a moment, entranced by the idea.
Jetta let go of her.
“Yeah,” she said. “It isn’t always a . . . pleasant experience.”
“You’ve been through a lot of pain, based on what I experienced,” said Elphion in a quiet voice.
“Yes,” said Jetta. “I have.”
“He was your father.”
“Yes.”
“Well, was. He’s . . . not now though? He’s become . . . someone else? It’s fuzzy.”
“Yes. Someone else.”
Elphion squared her shoulders and looked her in the eye.
“So. You weren’t going to kill me?”
“No,” said Jetta. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I only wanted to feed on you. It’s . . . the sexual energy must’ve kicked my feeding . . . instinct . . . into high gear. I’m sorry.”
“Jetta,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “Jetta why didn’t you tell me?”
“I — ” began Jetta, at a loss for words. She hadn't expected Elphion to acquiesce so quickly. “I didn’t think anyone could possibly understand. Or comprehend. Or even believe.”
“I might have,” said Elphion, grasping the wounds on her neck.
“They’ll close up in a moment,” said Jetta. “The wounds. I found that out earlier tonight. The wounds cauterize and scar over almost immediately. Something to do with an enzyme my fangs secrete.”
“Dear God,” said Elphion, shaking her head slightly. “A real Vampire. You realize this basically dog-buggers everything we know about human biology and evolution, right?”
She nodded. “That’s Ravenkroft’s game plan. His last name is ‘Evolutior,’ after all. You got that from my memories, yes?”
“So that’s what that was . . .” said Elphion. “And you saw my memories, right?”
“Right,” said Jetta. “Don’t worry. I don’t think I saw anything too embarrassing.”
“Well . . . good . . .” said Elphion. “But you still tried to feed on me. I’m not going to just ‘get over’ that.”
“Like I said. I wasn’t going to kill you.”
“Now, you know you can’t lie to me. I’ve been in your memories, remember?”
“I’m not . . . I’m not lying. I broke the connection because I didn’t want to kill you. You’re too . . . you. And I’m too new to all of this. I killed that street gang earlier, but it was mostly self-defense. I fed on them out of . . . out of just instinct, I guess. But with you I had a choice, and when it came down to it, I just couldn’t do it.”
“Yeah,” said Elphion, “but you intended to feed on me. That’s bad enough.”
“Maybe,” said Jetta. “But I didn’t kill you.”
“Yeah, gee, thanks for holding back. You’re so noble. Remind me to also thank my asshole ex-boyfriend for not raping me when he had all those chances!”
“Do you want me to leave now and never come back? I will, if you want.”
Elphion paused, and appeared to think. She gave Jetta a long, appraising look. “No.” She paused again. “I’d rather try and understand you. There’s no one else like you. Is there."
“Well, there you might be wrong. Because after I ran into the street gang earlier, I ran into somebody else. Elphion, listen. This is important. You really need to hear me on this. Whatever you do, don’t go out at night anymore in this city. It isn’t safe. I’m not the only Vampire out there. I might be the only artificial Vampire, but I’m not the only Vampire. What I’m saying is that there are real Vampires. Actual, real, call-Buffy-Summers-and-Blade Vampires. They have their own . . . ‘shadow’ society underneath this one. And they will kill you if you compromise their secrets. I met a few of them tonight. I managed to fight them off . . . but they nearly killed me. Promise me. Promise me you won’t go out late without protection from here on out.”
“Jesus,” said Elphion, blinking. “What the fuck. Are you serious? Actual, real, no-shit Vampires? Well, I mean, I guess I’m talking to one, so there goes reality. So yeah. I promise. I’ll be careful. I guess the question now, is, what do we do. You and me.”
“Yeah, there is that,” said Jetta. They both looked at the floor for a moment.
“I guess . . . you could make me into a Vampire?” She said it with a slow shrug and a sideways glance, as though offhandedly and innocently making a far-more-innocuous suggestion.
“Are you . . . are you serious?” The girl might as well have just struck her.
“Well . . . yeah.”
“I just now came within seconds of killing you, and already you’re — ”
“Ah ha! You admit it!”
Jetta sighed. “Fine, I admit it. I was seconds away from draining you completely, but as I said — I stopped myself. To save your life.”
“Oh yeah, sure, sure you did. But I am serious. Make me into a Vampire.”
“I don’t even know if I can do that. I’m an artificial Vampire. Not a real one. Besides, why in God’s name would you want me to do that?”
“Because my life sucks, that’s why.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
“Because it just is, okay? It is. I’d rather be undead. Like you.”
“I’m not undead. I’m alive. As Ravenkroft explained to me while he had me captive — at length — Vampires are an evolutionary offshoot of Humankind. A homo superior. And besides that, I wouldn’t wish this existence on anyone. Not after what I’ve gone through tonight. Never.”
“Well, why not?”
“Because it sucks. You don't know the things he . . . did to me. To make me like this. You don't ever want to know what . . . what I am on the inside. The last thing you want to do is become like me.”
“Heh, that's for sure. But really, how do you know what I want? You just tried to fucking kill me, whether you admit it or not. You don't even know that I want to live. You don't even respect my right to exist, let alone make my own decisions.”
Jetta lowered her eyes. “I suppose so.”
“How the hell would you know what suffering is, if you don’t even realize the suffering you inflict whenever you take a bite out of someone’s neck, and somebody loses a son, or a wife, or a husband, or a daughter?”
“Come on, stop it, will you?”
“No. I want you to realize the painful reality of what you are now, and that I realize the depth of what I’m asking you for. Spare me the lecture on ‘the sorrowful ones’ and their ‘cursed existence.’ If even half the legends are true, I’d get enhanced strength. Speed. Dexterity. Senses. Miraculous healing powers. Latent psionic abilities. Faster thought. An eidetic memory. Extended lifespan. And finally, I’d get freedom from human society and its rules, laws, mores, values, traditions, morals, and its sickening, binding hierarchies of race, gender, social status, and class. I’d finally be free to do whatever the fuck I wanted. Free from all of it, at long last. So how about it. Make me into one of you, Jetta.”
“No.”
“Come on,” said Elphion, and the downward lilt in her voice was palpable. “I mean it. Listen. I come to con every year with Phineas and Naruto because they’re the only bright spots in my life. Really. I’m thirty-two years old and I have Bachelor’s in English, which in the job market translates into jack and shit, and jack left town, and — ”
“Big deal. Get a better job.”
“Where? Doing what? I have no career path. Barely any money to speak of. I work at Wendy’s as a shift manager. My parents were killed in a car crash fourteen years ago, right on my eighteenth birthday — ”
“Grieve with your friends.”
“I have no other friends, other than Phineas and Naruto — ”
“Make more.”
“I have crippling social anxiety. Just coming to con is a minor miracle for me. I live my life in World of Warcraft and Everquest, and in fantasy novels. Which is no life at all. No one will miss me, and I won’t miss them. I have no boyfriend, nor any husband, nor any kids. And I don’t really want them. Well, I guess I do, sort of, but . . . no one really wants me. And I don’t want them enough to chase after them.”
“Well then, you’re your own problem, aren’t you?”
“Goddamn it, listen to me. My life is going nowhere. I can’t afford to cut my hours enough to attend school, so I can’t get any more education. And I can’t advance at work because if you run third shift, nobody ever notices you. And I have anxiety issues, so I can’t take the people, or the stress, or the pressure of working firsts or seconds. So I’m sort of stuck. I don’t like my life, Jetta. I’ve been waiting — hoping — dreaming of something, someone, anything, that would come and sweep me off my feet and take me away from all of it, forever, for a very long time. That someone, that something, is you.”
“But Elphie, you don’t know what you’re saying,” said Jetta. “Even if I could do it — even if I’m capable of it — that would condemn you to . . . to an eternity as a slave to this . . . this hunger, this thirst. You’d have to kill to stay alive. Do you realize what that means? I learned it earlier tonight, thank you very much for all your guilt-tripping. It also means you’d never see the sun again. Never walk in the light again, ever. Never see a sunset or sunrise again for as long as you lived . . . and you’d live a goddamn long time, because Ravenkroft slowed my aging process down to a crawl. Maybe even eternity itself. You’d have to murder people — sometimes innocent people — in order to drink their blood and live off of their life-force. And as far as money goes, well, I guess you’d have to steal from your victims. Hack bank accounts. Commit fraud and abuse. Hack into corporation accounts, even, if you’re up for that. Do you really want all that? Do you want that kind of life?”
Elphion shrugged and snorted. “Heh. It’s better than subsisting on nine bucks an hour and having to use food stamps just to make up the extra grocery money, and of having to not see a doctor when I really need to, because my insurance won’t cover all of it, and I can’t afford the copay. It’s better than having to eek by week to week, not knowing if I’ll have enough money to keep the lights on in my apartment, or be able to afford cat litter one week to the next, or afford my medication, which I need to stay sane. A problem, by the way, that becoming a Vampire would fix, because it would rebalance my brain chemistry thanks to the healing powers I’d gain. I think. It’s better than sitting in my apartment night after night, wondering when the other automation shoe is going to drop and I’m going to find myself out of a job, because oh gee, look, robots can flip burgers and cook fries now. It’s better than growing old, alone, and dying one day, with nobody to come to my funeral except my two old — and also dying — friends. And it’s better than coming to con year after year and seeing other people — happy people — getting laid and holding hands, while I stand there, watching them from the sidelines, alone and unfulfilled. Besides. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I have a lot of untapped rage in me. I would love to take it out on the rapists and drug dealers and child molesters of the world. There are plenty of them to eat, aren’t there?” She smiled, slightly. “So, yeah. It’s better than all of that, and I don’t mind getting my hands dirty. Next question.”
Jetta sighed, and pinched her nostrils together. “Alright. Look. We still don’t even know if I can even do it or not.”
“Well, you never know unless you try, right? How do they do it in the movies? In the books?”
Jetta started to tell her “No” again, but stopped short. Was she actually considering this? This was insane. But, then again — maybe not. Maybe it was actually the smartest move she could make. There were the other Vampires out there to contend with. Maybe if she made one of her own — maybe if she made Elphion into a Vampire . . . Hell, maybe if she made all three of them into Vampires, she would have her own little coven of loyal compatriots, those who would be her comrades and her friends, who would stick by her side and fight with her. They would have the same strengths and abilities she had . . . and the same advantages in a fight. Not to mention the same skills if they came up against Ravenkroft. Plus, they would all have a section of her memories, so no need to explain to them what they were up against, or how or why, or why it mattered. Yes, maybe this was the smartest thing she could do. And perhaps not only the smartest thing, but the right thing, as well. Elphion’s mortal life didn’t seem like it was a happy one, from what she had said . . . Maybe by releasing her from it, she would be doing her a favor. Maybe. Perhaps. She didn’t know. She was still so new to all of this. She had only been free of Ravenkroft for a matter of hours; had only breathed free air for less than a day. She still felt disoriented and dizzy from her confinement, and wasn’t entirely sure she was thinking right, or playing with a full deck. There was that to consider. And this was a big decision. But dammit, she did need some allies if she was going to protect herself from Ravenkroft. People she could trust. And she thought she could trust Elphion. (After all, who else was there so far?) And making her into a Vampire — if she even could — seemed like the right thing to do. At least, that’s what her gut told her. Maybe it was right, maybe it was wrong. Only one way to find out.
“Well,” she said, licking her lips, “in the movies, and in the books, the Vampire has to cut open their own skin, and let the . . . the ‘initiate,’ we’ll call you . . . drink their blood. That’s how it usually works, isn’t it?”
“Okay. So,” said Elphion, squaring her shoulders and swallowing hard, “let’s do that, then. Cut open your palm.”
“Heh,” said Jetta. “Y’know, actually . . . the palm is the worst place to cut if you want blood. You’re better off cutting open your arm, or the top of your hand.”
“Well then cut open that, then,” said Elphion. “C’mon, before I lose my nerve.”
Jetta sighed again. “Well, okay. If you insist on going through with this, we will. But don’t say you weren’t warned, Elphie. Because I tried to warn you. I tried.”
She brought her right hand up and over her left arm, and concentrated on the fingernail of her right index finger. She knew from practice what would happen. The fingernail trembled for a moment, and then extended into a sharp claw about three inches long and dagger-like at the tip, and razor-sharp. She used it to cut open a small gash in her left arm, and raised it — still uncertain about doing this — to Elphion’s lips. Elphion grasped her arm with her hands, and then, hesitating only a brief moment, descended. She put her mouth around the gash, closed her eyes, and began to drink.
After a moment or two of drinking, Elphion’s eyes burst open wide, and she cried out, the sound briefly muffled by Jetta’s arm. Elphion pulled away, and slammed back against the wall of the stairwell, her whole body trembling and shaking, as though she were having an epileptic seizure. She made choking sounds, and her hands went to her throat. Then she collapsed on the floor, writhing in pain, and she cried out — a choked, animal cry of pain and suffering. She clenched her teeth, and two of them fell out. Then two more. Then four more. And in their place, in her bleeding gums, there suddenly sprouted and grew eight brand new teeth — sharp incisors. Fangs. Her veins were visible beneath her skin for a moment, pulsing, raging with new, focused energy as the transformation took hold. She continued to writhe on the ground, making choking, gurgling noises.
And then, she closed her eyes and lay still. Jetta couldn’t tell, through Elphion’s green makeup, if her skin had turned pale or not.
Okay, please God, let her have survived. Please let me not have spared her, only to kill her now.
Then, Elphion’s eyes opened, and she rose from the floor, breathing heavily. She stood up and faced Jetta, and locked eyes with her. For a moment, neither of them said anything.
“Well?” asked Jetta. “How — how do you feel?”
Elphion smiled, baring her fangs, and laughed. “I feel wonderful. Now then. Let’s go Turn the others.”