The skulking vampire shifted his gaze from the bright, bulbous moon, which lazily drifted up over the gently swaying, leaf-filled treetops of Weatherly Park, to size up this evening's dinner.
His soon-to-be victim sat alone and vulnerable on a bench a dozen feet away, the collar of her white silk blouse open, the inviting and sumptuous length of her neck practically aglow with moonlight as she stared up at the stars. A light breeze toyed with her long, honey-blond hair, sweeping her tresses playfully to one side with the confident touch of a longtime lover's hand. Her hair fell back as the wind died down, then danced with it again as it rose. The effect was practically hypnotic on the vampire.
He wasn't in the mood for an interview, or so he would have said if you'd asked him. Then he would have gone on to tell you his entire life story. It was after eleven, late to begin the hunt, but he'd found it hard to tear himself away from "Must-See TV," even when his belly was bothering him, even when the need for blood boiled up inside him, so this was the earliest he'd come out to hunt. That put him firmly up against much of his competition among the undead, but what could he do? When his shows were all in repeats, he would manage a much earlier start.
Hugo Courtney, bloodsucker at large, fell instantly in love. He was hungry, so very hungry, but the romantic in him sensed that this night, this woman, this kill, would be special, and thus he wanted to make it last. No rushing in awkwardly, no violent fumbling struggle, no accidentally snapping the neck or spine before he could get the victim's adrenaline surging to spice up the blood, because even after two years as a card-carrying member of the undead, he couldn't get used to his own strength.
No. None of that.
Tonight would be about seduction.
"Okay, explain it to me again," Billy Bob said hours earlier during a commercial break. "How does a putz like you manage to survive in Sunnydale for two years without being staked by the Slayer or her kid sister or even their dog?"
"I don't think they have a dog," Hugo said defensively.
"Yeah, well, if they did, and I were you, I'd be worried." Billy Bob was a recent addition to the ranks of the undead, yet he always talked as if he was certain he knew everything. Beyond that, his cowboy fixation was just plain sad.
Mullets were a bad, bad thing, but no one could get that across to Billy Bob. Not now, not ever.
But they liked the same shows, and Billy Bob knew how to tap illegally into the cable feed so they could get the best channels, so Hugo let an awful lot go. A challenge like this, however... he had to defend his honour.
"I've only been back in Sunnydale a couple of weeks," Hugo said. "I did the smart thing. After I got turned, I split. The last two glorious years I've been going up and down the coast, pigging out at one all-night buffet after another. The blood out there, it's like twenty-four hour liquor stores, I'm telling you. And the thing is, when I've run into other people like us, just sat down and chatted up other vamps at all-night diners, clubs, planetariums, y'know, the usual haunts for vamps with a wild streak but still a brain in their heads, when we'd get to talking about it, we'd end up laughing our heads off at all the absolute dumb asses who'd been turned in Sunnydale, managed not to be staked after rising from the dead, and stuck around."
"Yeah, but..." Billy Bob scratched his head. "This is Sunnydale. Here. Now. You get that, right?"
Hugo ignored him. He'd get to that part. "What I'm saying is, look at the odds. Here's you, here's the Slayer, here's the entire world. Stay where she is, the odds of getting dusted go up. Get the hell out of Dodge, the odds of sticking around a couple of centuries get much better."
"Yeah, if you don't get so wasted on blood that you let yourself fall asleep on a park bench and nearly get fried when the sun comes up."
"I didn't know that girl had so much to drink!"
"You were getting plastered right in there with her."
Hugo frowned. This was beside the point. "Look, you go out there, into the big bad world, and sure, you'll find a couple of amateurs who've picked up the calling, devoting all their leisure hours to turning otherwise inoffensive, if murderous, fangsters like ourselves into dust." He shuddered. "Dust that could be vacuumed up with a Hoover."
"Hugo, the commercial break's almost over."
"What you can do is check things out on the Net, or just rely on old-fashioned word of mouth to find out where it's safe and where it wasn't. And those humans who've seen Blade one too many times, they're usually too cocky to realise that a pack of vampires never attacks one at a time, like in the movies."
"Yuh-huh."
"Ten or twenty, soulless, demonic killers with speed, strength, and agility beyond anything a human could aspire to. And then there's this one, decked out, overconfident, kung fu-fightin' mortal. 'Oh yeah, how's that working out for you?' 'Probably not good.'"
"The show's back on, and I don't like having it on mute."
Hugo was on a roll. "Or gee, hire a bodyguard. Or get a couple of wannabes. Give 'em some knife training, a .45, whatever. Guns seemed to work best. Bullets travel faster and farther than any crossbow bolt a hunter might use. And bam, you're covered. It's just... the vamps who stay in Sunnydale, I don't get that. The one place in the world where you've got an official, supernaturally charged Slayer. Why hang around?"
"Better question," Billy Bob said, raising the remote to turn their show back on. "Why in tarnation did you come back?"
Hugo didn't have an answer for that one. Not then. But it was possible that he was getting a little insight on that score, now.
Much as he hated to admit it, he was homesick. And he wanted to know whether his sire was still around.
Stupid as it sounded, he missed Sunnydale.
There's no place like home. There's no place like home...
Hunger roiled in Hugo's belly, and fire raced through his brain as he stared at the blonde, who was just the picture of ultimate hotness. Short skirt, long legs, a nice rack... damn. It had been more than three nights since he'd last fed, because he was scared, a little, of the Slayer. If only he had come out last night, like he'd originally planned, he wouldn't be feeling this impatience now. But that would have meant missing a Jennifer Connelly appearance on Letterman. If only he had TiVo...
Hugo really enjoyed being a vampire - except for this part. He loved wearing black all the time and not having to get up until after the sun went down (prime time is the right time, always). Tonight, he was wearing his "dressed to kill" costume: a black silk shirt, tight black pants and his black Gucci loafers. Ever since he had been turned - more a result of his sire's carelessness than of any glimmer he might have displayed of great potential, he had no illusions about that - Hugo had been having the time of his life.
His, um, unlife.
Whatever.
Clinging to the shadows, he gazed longingly at the stunning blonde who was practically calling out to him with her vulnerability. Hugo employed all of his enhanced senses to ensure that he and his prey were alone, that this girl wasn't just the really, really hot bait left behind by the Slayer to lure in schmuck newbees for a quick and painless - for her - see ya, wouldn't wanna be ya, bit of slayage.
The coast was clear. Nobody was around.
Another concern stopped him in his tracks. What if the girl on the park bench was the Slayer? He couldn't really see her face from this angle. And if she was going out posing as bait, she'd need some kind of disguise, right? Some way to ensure that she wouldn't be instantly recognised by her prey.
Indecision. Indecision.
Worse than that, hunger.
In life, he had been hypoglycemic. After he'd been turned, it had taken him a long time to realise he no longer needed to feed every two hours to keep his blood sugar from crashing. That made things dicey in the beginning. A vamp could only leave so big a trail of mini-meals before he had the Slayer after him.
God, he was nervous!
The woman on the park bench shifted, quickly sliding one hand into her purse.
Okay, here it comes. This had been a mistake. He had been hungry, and that was making him careless, making him stupid. The girl on the bench was the Slayer. Had to be. She was going to have a stake tossed and buried in his heart before he could even get within five feet. He knew it.
Slipping out a paperback novel, she settled back and started reading by the streetlight.
Okay, that's it.
Hugo left the shrubbery. Rising to his full, impressive 6'2" height and striding right over to his prey, he decided then and there that he was not going to spend his days living, if that was the right word, in fear.
He strode into the golden pool of light from the lamppost high ahead and delivered his most heartfelt opening line: "I once signed a petition calling for a feature-length version of B. J. and the Bear. B. J. and the Bear: The Movie. I was for that. There. Now I've told you my most embarrassing moment. The worst part of getting to know someone is out of the way."
She looked at him and smiled. It struck him instantly that she was unafraid. A strange man had come out of nowhere and babbled at her, and it hadn't fazed her in the slightest. She was serene, her hands lightly folded over the cover of her book, her gaze bright and inquisitive, welcoming and warm. "I don't do banter," she said. "Never developed the gift. Banterless. Lacking, what is technically known, as the banter. Banterese? A foreign language. Can't banter. Babble, yes. Banter, no. Was that banter or babble?"
"Banter," he said defensively.
"See? I just don't have those skills."
A possible explanation for her calm slammed into his brain. His shoulders slumped, making him look more like Corey Feldman from Surreal Life than Jude Law in just about anything (the image of himself he carried in his head). The worst thing was, he knew it. He felt it.
He was going geek.
"Please tell me you're not a prostitute," he whined. The general atmosphere of enforced vampiric arrogance which drifted off him now dissipated with his words. The moment he spoke, he found himself terrified that he may have offended her.
Prey, dammit, prey. She's just meat! Eat up and get it over with! the demonic part of him that still had a shred of dignity screamed inwardly.
She laughed and didn't appear at all offended. "No, I'm not. Are you?"
His eyes widened. He thought about how much product he'd used. Cologne. Hair gel. Embarrassed, he could see where she might have the wrong impression. "No!" he protested.
"Just wondering."
I am in control here, he chanted in his head, just as his self-help tape How to Be a More Powerful You (Without Really Trying) constantly urged. I have the power. Me, me, me, me, me!
I hope she realises that.
To hell with this. He wasn't getting what he needed out of this encounter. No terror. No unease, even.
He changed. Fangs sprouting, forehead crinkling and morphing into demonic ridges, eyes going dark and predatory, he curled his hands into claws and hissed at his victim.
She only smiled pleasantly in return. "Now that's something you don't see every day."
He didn't know what to think. The blood thirst was upon him now, stronger than ever before... so were his doubts and his need for affirmation. "What?" he asked. "This isn't scary?"
"I'm quaking on the inside," she reassured him.
With a savage snarl he pounced on her, one hand clasping each shoulder with superhuman strength. Lifting her into the air, he could have sworn she allowed her head to fall to one side, serving up her neck for him like a tasty treat.
She didn't even have the courtesy to scream. That was just rude.
In his mind, he flailed about for an explanation. Grasping hold of one, he held on tight. She knows about vampires. She wants to be turned. She wants me to sire her, that's it!
He dug his fangs into her neck and drank deep. At first, she sighed and patted his back the way one might when giving a sympathy hug after a bad blind date, then, as death approached, she apparently thought to fight back. He gorged himself on her blood until her involuntary kicking and squirming subsided. Pulling back, he looked into her pale, gray, lifeless face, and thought he still saw a satisfied smirk.
Unsettled, though quenched, he tossed her aside and stormed off, working hard on the story he would tell his peeps about tonight's encounter.
After all, a man had to be left some dignity, right?
Especially in death.
Undeath.
Whatever.
After a precise, predetermined interval of time had passed, the dead woman willed her heart to start beating again. The world came into focus as her glassy eyes regained their usefulness, and her limbs registered pins and needle pricks as she flexed her hands, curled her arms, and twisted about in the bushes until all of her musculature became vibrant and responded to her mental commands.
She hopped to her feet and stretched as if she had just woken from a nap. Her blood was everywhere.
"No one likes a messy eater," she said, making a mental note to return and do a full clean-up of the area once her primary task had been achieved.
Her paperback, an older book by Fay Weldon, The Cloning of Joanna May, was ruined. The pages were red and soggy, just like her blouse and skirt. Picking up her purse, she walked to the shrubbery and removed a sealed bag she had planted there earlier. The science described in the novel was ridiculous, but that didn't matter; the story used cloning as a metaphor, it talked about people, and she could appreciate that. She'd long considered herself a people person... Even now, directing a steady flood of endorphins through her body to level out the pain from the still stinging twin puncture wounds and the generally achy feeling that always came with death and resurrection, she still felt that way.
There were those who had argued with her claims to continued humanity after she had become - enhanced. Honestly, she hadn't thought treating their heads like screw-top lids was that much of an overreaction, and the fact that she could do such a thing now, was, all told, quite the thrill.
Stripping off her blood-spattered blouse, she opened the plastic bag and withdrew enough Handi Wipes to mop up all the mess on her face and neck, though there was little she could do with the red streaks in her hair. She shrugged, slipping on a new silk blouse from the bag. It would look like a designer 'do, that's all. No one would get close enough to tell it was anything else. She could easily make sure of that.
She was G-1 class, though she preferred the abandoned term, Generation Alpha. She went by Gwen, even though that wasn't her true name. Gwen... G-1... it was close enough.
Gwen's "technical specs" made it simple for her to catch the heat signatures of all living things in her immediate vicinity no matter what solid matter that person, animal, or otherwise classified being might be hiding behind.
Tracking the vampire would have been tougher... if he didn't have her blood, rich with microtransmitters, coursing through his body.
Buttoning up her blouse-then popping the top few buttons back open for effect-Gwen disposed of the major evidence of her nighttime encounter and briskly strolled off toward the swings, a clump of trees in the distance, and the warehouse three miles south, where she tracked him by scent with her enhanced senses. Even from this distance she could hear the tune the vampire hummed.
The theme song from B. J. and the Bear was on her lips as she bounced happily toward her target.
© 2003 Scott Ciencin. Taken from Mortal Fear, published in the UK by Pocket Books on DATE. Reproduced with kind permission of Pocket Books.
