…Continued from the previous page

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Watching the wraith emerge from the vortex, I pull my blade free and toss the sheath aside. Dressed in a black cloak, it’s splotchy, cracked skull peeks out from beneath the hood. He gazes at me with his pinpoints of light within eye sockets, violet smoke spilling down over jagged cheek bones. From between his rotten teeth, smoke gathers around his slender fangs and drips like blood onto his cloak. Preparing to strike, I hold my sword overhead.

He speaks, not with a voice in this silent world, but an invading thought inside my head sending a shower of painful prickles down into my neck.

Kandy, will you bleed for me?

Hell no.

Here on this side, I imagine is the only place I can kill the wraith. My churning gut reminds me this is his home where he has the advantage. If only I can catch the creature off guard moving between worlds.

Attacking, I slash down at his head. He drifts backward evading my blade. I continue the attack, but he moves away leaving me in his smoky trail, and that stupid dead grin of his taunting me. The world darkens around me, and I realize I’m within the shadows passing back into my world. Walls appear blocking out the purple sky, and ghostly forms rise out of the darkness behind the wraith. Before he can reach the other side, I lunge, my sword slicing through churning black-and-violet mist and into his neck.

Thundering drums crack the silence, light explodes, and the scent of sweat and blood fills my nostrils. My sword slices flesh, bone, and zips through the air spraying a crimson streak across a mirror and one of the light bulbs surrounding the reflection of the dressing room.

The shocked face before me turns away, head toppling over. The body collapses to the floor.

Stratton lays dead at my feet, and his bodyguard stares down at it, stunned.

Pushing away thoughts about how the wraith tricked me and the consequences of murdering my employer, I circle around searching the dressing room for the wraith. Including the bodyguard, the magistrate’s body, and a dancing girl cowering in the corner beside the lockers, nobody that matters occupies the room. Not on this side of the shadows anyway.

Purple Hell.

Crossing over, I find the wraith reaching for me with his talons. Diving into a roll, I leap up and spin around slashing at my foe. Instead of the skull, I find Steve’s face. His nebulous, purple eyes fade leaving normal blue eyes gazing back at me. His cool hands wrap over mine pulling the sword free.

The sky darkens, ghostly forms rise up like smoke, and I find the dance floor of Necropolis. Some of the patrons glance around in confusion while others storm up the stairs for the exit. The music hits me like a brick. Steve twirls around, dancing with me. He’s wearing his suit, of course, his tie streaming from his neck. As I spot the light flickering off the blade, the gravity of it all falls upon me. I take a step back into the shadows, music fading.

Cold slices through my neck.

My head fails to respond, but my eyes manage a look around. I’m on the floor, the black-and-white checkerboard of my club. A wood shelf disrupts the surface blocking my view of the entrance. I can’t quite see the beaded curtain at the back, but there appears to be shelves lining the wall. Relaxing my eyes, I find Steve Reynolds standing over me. I try to speak, but my mouth fails. As Steve kneels down beside me, I see tears spilling down his cheeks.

My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, and I realize in a way, it has been passing before me since this very day Steve stole my memories. Time is a collection of ghosts.

Don’t forget me, Steve.

He doesn’t see her lips move, or hear a voice. He reads her thought inside his head.

“Never,” he says.

Glancing around the room at the brightly packaged albums, he smiles.

“Look, Kandy. It’s your record store. How odd is this?”

It’s the same place, the same position on the floor, only now their roles reversed. Instead of the Sanctuary of Sin, it’s Kandy Fangs, a music store. History changed along with their memories, a life the two of them shared together at the most intimate level.

Remembering the note, he reaches into her pocket and removes the crumpled paper. Unfolding the kill order, he reads the fine script.

Steve Reynolds a.k.a Ezekiel.

It’s her handwriting.

The theft of her memories is a terrible crime, but she pushed him to this final dance. It’s about retirement. She chose him to replace her. In the spirit of a killer, she made him fight for it. Their intermingling memories somehow lifted a few strands out of Fate’s tapestry turning her club into a record store.

Eating memories is a dangerous game.

Pushing his hand across the gore beneath the half-severed head, he props her body up. His other hand beneath her thighs, he scoops her into his arms. Turning, he steps into the quiet place and crosses the shadows into the other world. Selecting a spot in the endless desert, he sets her down and returns fetching some tools.

Slamming the pick into the hard soil, Steve breaks the ground beneath the violet storm reaching for each horizon. There is no sound, just the vibration of each strike climbing his arms. The work is slow and tiring, but he manages a trench. Switching to the shovel, he digs a hole. The dry grit becomes easier with depth and soon, he stands beneath the surface. Looking up, he watches the churning sea of clouds drift by. It might be night, but there is no way of knowing. No stars or sun, just the everlasting storm lighting the world.

Purple Hell. It’s a good enough name.

Climbing out of the hole, he finds three wraiths standing several meters away. Here on this side of the shadows, their features stand out even though they remain dark and nearly ethereal. They each wear skirts flowing about their ankles. He imagines the skirts once had color. One in blue for the warriors of the north. Another, a dark green worn by the wizards in the east. And the third, violet, the color of the royal guard. Perhaps these are Kandy’s ancestors come to mourn her passing, or welcome her home.

Kneeling on the hard ground, Steve slides the body down into the grave. Grabbing the shovel, he stands and begins filling the hole. A drop splashes on his shoulder, and another on his head. Red splats on the ground.

Looking up, he watches the red rain. Purple Hell cries for her.

~~~~

“Mister Reynolds!”

Spinning around, Steve Reynolds spots the bike messenger squealing to a stop at the curb. She pulls her messenger bag from her shoulder and opens the flap. In her bottle cage is a black aluminum can with silver-and-blue writing.

“What’s your drink?”

“Vampire Ice,” says the bike messenger. She rummages through the bag. “A new energy drink and addictive.”

“I bet it is.” Naturally, the new drink dispels the venom rumors.

“Here it is.” She pulls out an envelope, same size as all the others. “You need an office,” she says with a laugh. “It would make tracking you down much easier.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea. Do you have any suggestions?”

Twisting around, ratty hair flipping over shoulder, she gazes back up the street. “Yeah, there’s an empty space just five blocks from here. You’ll see the signs.”

Steve tips the messenger, shoves the envelope under his arm, and walks up to the police station doors. The detective meets him in the lobby with a huge smile.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” says Detective Silver. “Your wife will be so happy to see you again. They are on their way now.”

The name, Steve Reynolds, is his at last. He still does not remember where the name, Ezekiel, comes from. Maybe another memory, but it doesn’t really matter. He has a wife and a daughter, a step-daughter, but his girl just the same. They can go to the movies, trick-or-treat, or whatever. Fate? Her tapestry may have changed the memory of the world, but this is Yasmine’s doing. Another envelope full of money confirms it. The Itoril woman runs Roseland now.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t have been more help with your investigation,” he says. Of course, he can’t mention the identity of the killer, the body that left the streaks of blood on the dance floor, or even the other body in the locker room. Would anyone even believe such a confession?

“Not to worry,” says the detective. “It’s only been a few days. Forensics is still going over everything.”

“Of course,” says Steve, smiling. “Good luck with your investigation.”

Silver extends his hand. “Have you learned anything about your past?”

Giving the hand a firm shake, Steve considers the question. There is no past. No future. There is only the ever changing fabric of the universe pushing around bits of information leaving ghosts—memories.

“No, can’t really say I did.”

Life is a memory, a blood-spattered stain on the cosmos where ghosts relive every moment. Before his eyes, another life flashes, ghostly moments of love, sadness, anger, and joy from birth to death, indescribable sweetness. If he looks deep within the murk of stolen memories, near the cinnamon and lavender scents, among the knowledge of weapon skills, down in the blood of it all, he’ll find me and my fangs.

_______________________________________________________________________

Look for more Kandy stories in the Kandy menu, and the novella will be available early September. Steve Reynolds continues his story in Raven Memory.

Big thanks to Carrie and Jason.

visit www.CrookedFang.com by Carrie Clevenger and www.moultworld.com by Jason Coggins.

Thanks for your support.

~David G Shrock

Dark shapes appear. Swaying, the hazy shapes surround me. They appear like smoke, their swooning motions leave wispy trails. They dance in slow motion. Turning around, I find more of them, a mass of smoky forms in every direction. They dance, waving arms building smoky clouds above their heads.

Purple haze lifting, dancers increasing in speed, the smoke trails fade leaving solid forms. Clothing ripples out of the blackness. The ghosts dance, their pale forms turning and moving on a wood floor. Dark columns holding purple rods rise up into a white fog where lights spin splashing red like blood dripping from the mist.

Thunder erupts, pounding into the floor. Another dull boom, and another, the increasing beat becoming alive, sharpening. The dancers stomp to the beat, their movements increasing in speed. A chorus of guitars join in, and music explodes.

The prickly sensation of déjà vu crawls beneath my skin.

Standing at the center of the dance floor, I search the crowd for Steve. White shirts and waving colored bracelets glow in the black light. Some of the eyes glow as well like phosphorous disc floating on white orbs. The discs bounce and weave. The floor shakes to the beat of the drums and dancing feet.

On the stage, a woman with deep crimson hair screams into a microphone. Her voice, harsh, shouts about blood and death. Behind her, the band shakes their heads and stomp while they work the music into a demonic chorus.

I dance into a storm riding the edge of shadows, my dress floating about me like smoke.

Spotting a familiar face watching me, I dance my way towards him. Watching in wonder as I defy the light, the crowd parts for me. The young man doesn’t look much like Steve. Shorter and too scrawny, the young thing appears to lack confidence dropping his gaze from mine. The sea of sweaty bodies flows away, and I swoop in on my prey.

He tells me his name.

Satisfied I have Torx, I smile and say, “Nice to meet you, Steve Reynolds.”

Standing right behind Torx is a wraith smoking in and out of the shadows like a dark fire eating the air.

“I’m sweet like candy,” I say. The sinking feeling of having done this before pulls at me. My feet grow heavy. I spin away from the wraith, and tug at Torx’s hand. Glancing back, I say, “with a K.”

This is my memory playing out. My memory eaten by Steve, returning to me because he’s in my head and has been all this time. He never stole this man’s memories. He might have peeked inside and only taken a taste.

It all starts making a twisted sort of sense, the déjà vu and my old club Steve has been visiting. It’s like time travel, but Steve calls it revisiting a memory. Somehow something changed there in that moment I thought I had killed him. Some serious messing with Fate’s tapestry.

“I’m looking for vampire ice,” says Torx.

“I have what you need,” I say, pulling my prey onto the back stairs.

Glancing back, I search the dance floor. The wraith is gone, but I spot Stratton and his bodyguard slinking through the crowd. I curse Zee. I curse the magistrate for getting here so fast. Feeling time crushing down on me, I pull Torx stumbling up the stairs and into the VIP lounge. I push him into the balcony room and slam the door closed.

The music is loud as ever, pulsing through the glass and trembling across the floor. My groove cuts a line down the center. At the sofa, I spin around and wave my hand in a come hither. Money already in hand, Torx approaches with a goofy grin on his face. Sometimes I can’t believe how willingly they come, but without venom it would be a savage pain even masochists would deny.

Holding out the money, Torx takes a wobbly step closer. His face loses color, and his gaze drops to my midsection. “Is this going to hurt?” he asks.

With both hands, I grab the extended arm, pulling the sleeve up. Pushing his shoulder up, his arm backward against his elbow, I lock my prey into a prone position dancing on his toes in a fit of pain. I bite down crunching through tendons, blood shooting out.

In a violent spasm, Torx screams like a girl.

Cool toxins flow out, and warmth gushes inside. More than I can handle, blood rushes down my chin splashing onto my dress and onto the floor. I taste the alcohol, the drugs, and a lifetime of poor eating. There is nothing sweet about Torx.

Looking up, I find my mark standing in the room. The same business suit, the same buzzed hair, the wraith watches me with his nebulous violet eyes spewing smoky wisps curling over his head. Is this my Steve? I realize I’ve already given up drinking, the mess dripping on the floor.

Take him.

I’m uncertain if he can read my thoughts, but if he’s eating my memories, certainly he remembers them.

Take him, wraith!

The wraith doesn’t move, but I feel him draw closer. The grin appears to shift between cruel, love, and thirsty. Yes, terribly thirsty. The wraith wants it all, suck my life down, feast on my private thoughts and deepest secrets.

Realizing he has no interest in my offering, I release Torx and spin around stepping into shadow-time. Reaching into the sofa cushion, I grab my gun and twirl around through the rising purple mist stepping back into normal time, gun aimed at my target.

Gun oil tickles my nose.

I pull the trigger, and the world falls into slow motion. He moves, not in physical relation to me, but in shadow-time. His buzzed hair turns smoky, dark wisps rising, and his body fades into a ghostly, dark form. His luminous eyes sparks violet energy leaving a trail of tendrils behind him. He closes in, creeping within the violet shadows.

Unwilling to surrender my remaining secrets to him, I dive deeper into our entanglement straight into his Purple Hell.

The hammer pops, thunder growing quiet, swallowed by silence.

Walls crumbling away, ceiling fading, a violet storm erupts consuming the club as I backpedal through the ethereal sofa fading away, through the window. Falling, I watch the dark purple clouds raging across the sky and the wraith diving after me, arms reaching out. I fire my gun again watching the bullet disappear back into normal time.

Even in Purple Hell, gravity is a killer. Only the hard desert floor awaits me, so I twist around reaching for the other side. Through a curtain of shadows, a spray of mist, I find the dance floor rushing up at me. Moving in slow motion, two ghostly forms dance on the pedestal beneath me. I slip into normal time and fall upon a dancing girl.

An explosion of splintering wood, the pedestal collapses. I feel bones crunch beneath me as I topple over the girl rolling onto wood, another body, and onto the floor. A cloud of dust rises, and people dive away blinking in and out beneath the strobe light.

Standing, I enter the quiet place. My gun is gone, but it’s useless on this side of the shadows. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot the wraith, a slender dark form dressed in a black suit leaving a trail of black-and-violet smoke. I race around nearly frozen ghosts, catching an arm passing through me leaving a shiver of tingles. Spotting the hall, I charge through the hazy wall into the dressing room.

Turning for the locker, I bite my lip, concentrating, and pull my arms in, ducking, making myself as small as I can. A short step, I pass through the slender steel door, hoping like hell I fit inside. Another short step, skipping back into the world, I clasp my sword hugging it to me, and slip back into the quiet place, passing through the wall and spilling into another room.

Two ghostly men stand at urinals, and I feel relieved that the smell of urine and those damn deodorizer discs remain locked away outside the quiet place, but the memory attacks my nose turning my gut. Wash basins behind me, trash bin beside the hand dryers in front of me, I turn facing the closed door in the corner where I spot the wraith melting through the wood.

No longer appearing much like Steve, the wraith is a shadow defying the light. Violet smoke pours from a pair of pits, but otherwise darkness. I can only hope killing this thing will free Steve. Free me. Smoky appendages fly out, slender claws cracking with dark energy.

Diving backward, I tumble through the ethereal wall and return to the world, music crashing into my head. Leaping to my feet, I find throngs of people hurrying off the dance floor, passing confused faces of others, onto the steel stairs for the exit. And there I find him dressed in a white shirt without his tie, his blue eyes open wide, moving with the sea of bodies.

My Steve spots me, our gazes connect. He doesn’t recognize me at first, and even then the moment passes, and he glances around as if lost.

The wraith emerges through the wall, and Steve stands frozen watching it.

In a flash, my arms come to life, and I swing my sword upward, the sheath bashing across Steve’s head knocking the man over and fading into a ghost passing into the shadows. A dark claw lashes out, and I duck into the quiet place searching for Steve. Spotting his ethereal form fading away, I follow him into Purple Hell, my shoes skittering on the cracked soil.

Steve is gone. Spinning around, I search the desert finding black and violet clouds churning away on horizons. He must have passed back to the other side. Completing another circle, I spot a black fog rising from the ground spiraling into a vortex of violet electrical sparks and churning black smoke.

_____________________________________________________________________

Final Dance continues on the next page…

Sneaking weapons into a club isn’t something I normally consider given the authority of my position, but when I’m carrying enough hardware to make a distraught postal worker appear like cuddly toy bear I have to think through my options. Walking in shadow-time is easy enough, but that’s where Steve lives. I keep hearing his voice, a whisper calling my name. His scent lingers in the damp air. He steals memories, and the best I can figure is he took mine that night when he lay bleeding on my checkerboard floor. He did something before disappearing into violet smoke, and he’s been haunting me ever since. There’s only so much shit a girl can deal with.

The line at Necropolis is longer than usual full of young people wearing clothes too skimpy for the cold Autumn night. They bounce about or hug each other for warmth. I’m in my black party dress, and why not? At least I have my coat on. Behind me, a young man holds two young women in his muscular arms. He has that cocky look on his face like he’s God’s gift to the world. I’d love a bite of him, and his lovely ladies. Pulling my gaze from the morsels, I scan the street for danger. No Itoril thugs or creepy wraiths. The scent of rain mixed with cheap body spray hangs in the air.

Hearing my name, I spin around spotting the doorman, Axe, waving me over. Passing irritated faces, I march to the front of the line.

“What’s in the bag?” says Axe, wrinkling his brow. A vein rises on his bald head, but his body glow remains cool.

I press a hundred dollars into the doorman’s palm and say, “What bag?”

Axe laughs and says, “Just try not to wreck the place.”

Necropolis swallows me, doors banging shut. Striding down the stairs, the electronica works into my legs, and I bounce to the beat. If not an executioner, I’d be a dancer. Can’t beat getting paid to dance all night.

I don’t know if it’s even possible to push Steve into another head. Memory thief. Is it truly him? Or does the wraith have him? Sucking the memories out of someone has to be the most invasive intrusion imaginable. Finding another victim isn’t tough. Original Steve Reynolds, Torx, is apparently a mind he’s at least lifted the name from if not indulged in. I’m certain Torx will take to the vampire ice rumor and arrive looking for a good time.

If the wraith doesn’t accept my offering, then it’s going to end one way or another. Kill the wraith, and be free of the torment. Or die and be free of it all. Retirement is permanent for executioners.

There’s plenty of open space on the dance floor at the early hour. On the stage, a disc jockey with a tired expression works his machine. Hopefully the main band is loud enough to hide the screams, if it comes to that. Maybe Torx can handle a little bite. Passing the dance floor, I dive into the dark back hall coming to a closed black curtain.

Peeling the curtain aside, I find a dressing room lit by circles of glowing bulbs around mirrors on the left wall. At the back, a shower drips on the tile. Lockers occupy the wall on the right where a young woman sets a black purse on the floor of an open locker. Walking to the locker on the near end, I open the door. It squeaks, so I close it and try another. It’s tall, nearly big enough for a small person to squeeze inside.

The woman, one of the podium dancers if I remember correctly, glares at me. “You’re not supposed to be in here. I’ll call security.”

Opening my bag, I pull out my shotgun and lean it, barrel up, inside the locker. Holding my katana, I pop the blade free checking friction, and push it closed. I lean the sword into the other corner. On the shelf, I set several spare ammunition clips for my handgun.

“You can’t do that.” The dancer folds her arms in defiance, but her scowl gives way to fear. The girl glows hot like a human and smells just as nice. “I’m calling the cops.”

“You do that.” Shrugging out of my coat, I hang it on the hook inside the locker and close the door.

“I will,” says the dancer, stomping her foot.

I fasten my lock and give it a tug clanging the door. “Did you want to borrow my phone?”

The scowl returns. “Bitch.”

“Sugar and spice,”I say, singing. Raising my hand, I hold the chain dangling the locker key from my fingers. “Take it.”

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“You can show the cops my weapons or return the key to me at closing.”

The dancer appears uncertain at first, but reaches out and snatches the key. She loops the chain over her head and stuffs the key into her cleavage. “Okay,” she says, “but if I don’t see you dancing out there, I’m calling the cops.”

It’s a deal that doesn’t cost me any money.

Bag scrunched under my arm, I climb the back stairs to my second stash location, the VIP lounge. Slipping through the curtain, I enter the lounge lit by candles perched on the wall above leather sofas. A row of small lamps glows over the bar opposite the sofas. Standing in the corner, the bouncer dressed in a tight black shirt nearly blends in with the dark walls. He nods at me. I don’t recognize him, so I smile showing off my pearly whites. Fang flashing is the customary way of establishing position. He doesn’t show me his teeth; he accepts my dominance. Only a fool wouldn’t.

At Necropolis, VIP refers to Itoril. The only humans that ever enter the lounge are club staff, entertainment, and menu items. Here, Itoril are free to be themselves. In the old days that sometimes meant stupid activities like shooting each other in the gut to see which one could take the most pain. Since then, Yasmine started enforcing a no-weapons rule, but that doesn’t stop me.

The bartender, Nathaniel, dresses like people did nearly a century ago complete with puffy sleeves and a bow tie. Nobody else dresses in costume. Spotting me approach, Nathaniel raises a bottle offering o-negative.

I can taste it teasing my tongue already. Nathaniel takes good care of his customers, always remembering favorite drinks delivered with a broad smile. I always appreciate good service, and it’s one of the things I like about Necropolis.

I say, “I need the balcony room for the evening.”

Even frowning, the man still appears happy. “Kandy, dear,” he says, “that’s Yasmine’s room.”

“Tell her I’m sorry, Nathaniel.” I fan ten twenties on the bar.

His smile returns, and he swipes the dollars away. “I’m certain she’ll understand.” He pops the cork from the bottle releasing the scent of blood. “Enjoy.”

Taking the bottle, I spin around and march into the balcony room closing the door behind me. A sofa sits beside a table against the glass wall overlooking the dance floor below. Music pounds through the floor calling me. Taking a chug from the bottle, I taste the sweet blood splashing in my mouth. The donor must be young, and female with good eating habits except for a chocolate weakness. She tastes too damn good. I take another gulp, and march over to the sofa.

I set the bottle on the table. Throwing the bag on the sofa, I open it and remove my pistol. Sliding the clip, I check my ammunition. Hollow point. I have my doubts that it will be enough to stop a wraith, but any Itoril getting in my way will think twice. Satisfied, I push the gun into the sofa cushion.

The music ends, and my heart sinks.

Pushing the backup clip between my cleavage, I squeeze it into the pocket sewn inside my dress. After stuffing the bag under the sofa, I stand at the window pressing my palms against the cool glass.

For a moment, I stare at my reflection–my ghost in a party dress. Something Steve said creeps into my thoughts. Time is an illusion, and memories are the ghosts we cling to making it appear we have a past.

The stage crew warms up the instruments, plucking at the guitars and banging on the drums. They test the sound system as the disc jockey pushes his cart off stage. People stream down the steel stairs, some onto the dance floor and others lining up at the bar hidden beneath my feet.

Steve will be here. I know, because when he stole my memories somehow some of his dripped into mine. His past is my future, and my ghosts are his. They’ll all be down there, original Steve and the memory-eating wraith. Or maybe it’s not his memories mixing with mine. Could the memory from down there on the dance floor originate from me? It’s my ghost he took twenty years ago, and he’s been haunting me since.

He knows all my secrets. How I like being touched. My desires. That’s how he got to me. He charmed me with my own thoughts.

Pulling the paper, the kill order, from my pocket, I unfold it and read it again. It’s just his name handwritten on the page. I should have finished the job twenty years ago. Tonight, I’ll end it.

Grabbing the bottle, I take a sip and cross the room. Opening the door, I find Zee leaning against the bar with a wine glass in hand.

“What the hell, Zee?” I slam the bottle on the bar. “Why are you passing fake venom?”

“Covering your ass, babe.” Swaying to the side, he clinks his glass against my bottle.

“Hell you are. You’re passing that shit around my haunts.”

“Deflecting attention.”

“Yasmine hired Steve Reynolds about your venom thing. She probably already knows all about it.”

Nathaniel pours whiskey into three glasses. I glance around, but I don’t see anyone else besides the bouncer. One of the other rooms must be occupied.

Zee wobbles to one side, his eyes zipping in the opposite direction, and sways back again, confusion filling his face. “She hired that drug addict?”

“The other Steve. The guy hanging out with us the other night at Midnight Dream. Amnesia guy.”

Zee shakes his head, confusion twisting into that concerned look reserved for crazy people.

I push the kill order into his hand, crumpling paper. “This guy. Twenty years ago, you delivered this order and helped me track the guy down at my club where I executed him.”

Unfolding the paper, Zee reads the note. Shrugging, he drops the paper on the bar.

“He’s back from the dead.”

“Shit, babe. You’re starting to scare me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of it.”

“You’ve never failed, and I don’t even know what guy you’re talking about.”

I grab the bottle and gulp down the remaining contents.

Leaning against the bar, Zee shakes his head. “I never delivered that order.”

“Twenty years ago, Zee. I executed him at my club. Or thought I did.”

“You never had a club,” says, Zee. His face sags, and he flashes a look at Nathaniel.

Spinning around, the bartender disappears into the back room.

“Sanctuary of Sin,” I say, determined to knock some sense into the old Itoril.

“Before the Sanctuary of Sorrows, that building was a record store.”

Not again with the record store.

“Your record store where we used to jam in the back.”

I stand still watching Zee, and I see on his face that he sees the frustration on mine. I can also tell he’s going to call the magistrate. There is nothing more dangerous than a fully-armed executioner out of her mind talking about imaginary clubs and twenty year-old kill orders.

“Please, Zee. Give me a little while and I’ll have my mark. Then everything will be right as rain again.”

Picking up the note, Zee reads it and holds it out. “Babe, for all I know, you wrote this kill order. And that has me scared to the bones.”

Rounding the corner of the creaking staircase, I catch a violet glimmer on the floor below. Leaning over the handrail, I search the stairs winding around the pit to the lobby four floors down. Decay and rot flow down the steps. Dampness rises up the well. Thumping music permeating the walls nearly drowns out the carnal sounds of lovemaking. Nothing stirs on the stairs.

Reaching into my coat, I wrap my fingers around the handle of my gun strapped under my arm. Tingles race down into my legs. It isn’t nerves, or the sinking feeling in my gut that holds me. I know it’s him. His scent rides on a wave of mold.

It’s not amnesia. That’s for damn sure. Maybe Steve doesn’t have memories of his own, instead surviving on the memories borrowed from others. Like his knowledge of history, and how he knows how I like being kissed. And backwards. Except for the borrowed memories, everything seems new to him. He doesn’t remember our past because it’s in his future. Like him wearing a modern suit over a century ago, appearing out of nowhere to rescue Yasmine. The creepiness of it all sends shivers down my arms.

The dead should stay dead and out of my head.

I listen to the gasping breaths, squeals of delight, and bedposts banging the wall behind me. If Steve is here, he is on the other side of the shadows. Purple Hell. Stepping away from the handrail, I lean against the wall letting the beat creep inside. The booming electronic music upstairs works into the wall shattering bliss. I consider slipping inside, watch the sweaty bodies move to their music, listen to their heartbeats. Laughter rumbles upstairs. Hunger calls.

The room is three doors from the stairs. Music thunders within. There’s a party here nearly every week, and plenty of tasty morsels. Without knocking, without opening the door, I step into the shadows, my foot passing through the ethereal door. It’s a trick Steve taught me. Glancing around the rising purple mist, I search for him. Nothing, not even one of those creepy shadow things. I slip inside the smoky den.

The chatter roars fighting the blaring stereo system for attention. On the table near the door, sticky pizza leaves cheese trails back to stained boxes. Beer bottles in hands, they chat in small groups taking chugs between chortles or drags on cigarettes. On the sofa, two topless women bounce and dance spilling beer. Orange and yellow auras rise from their warm flesh.

Intoxication makes it easier, but too much alcohol spoils the meal.

Riding the edge of shadows in and out of the silence, I make my rounds. Stepping back into the world, music thundering, I let a man catch a glimpse of me. Gliding behind a woman in dark clothing, I slip back into the silence. Drifting deeper into the shadows, their forms pale into ethereal, nearly frozen shapes. Selecting another, a topless girl on the sofa, I position myself in her line of sight and return, the thud of music and laughter slamming my ears. She spots me and returns my smile, then turns her attention back on her dance partner. Looking at the other topless girl, I recognize Sabrina painted in dark mascara and black lipstick. What is she doing here? Slipping back into the shadows, I continue browsing the selections nearly frozen in their time. Finding potential targets at the back, I return to the world.

In the corner, a man leans in close to a woman talking her up and out of her blouse hanging from her shoulders. His finger traces the black strap onto lacy fabric. She bats his hand away and grins into a giggle.

I lean against the wall between the amorous couple and door opened a crack. Tapping my leg and nodding my head to the beat, I scan the room. A girl topples backward off the couch knocking a lamp over. Laughter erupts, and several men raise their bottles in a cheer. Taking advantage of the distraction, I push the door open and peek inside. A bathtub rests along the wall on the far and toilet on the near side. Empty. Turning my attention back to the party, I find the couple in the corner hugging each other. The woman runs her hand over the prickly unshaven face while the man watches me.

I smile.

He nods.

They tell me their names. Monica is a student of economics, and Tim enjoys riding dirt bikes. I tell them I’m looking to party and motion at the bathroom door.

“Three hundred,” says Monica. Her grin could melt a man. “For the both of you.”

Tim steps back, and his jaw drops. “You’re a hooker?’

The night is looking up. I consider offering another location, somewhere discreet, but my gut churns telling me to get on with it. I’m not like one of those girls that tries to call it cravings or other pretty words. This is an addiction, and I damn well need satisfaction. Feeding is messy, and the tub will do nicely.

After Tim storms off, I separate my prey from the herd leading Monica into the bathroom and close the door. I slide the lock home and turn around finding the woman dropping her skirt. I tell her I like to bite.

“Okay,” says Monica, laughing. “But I’ll have to ask for extra. You know, marks and all.”

Clearly the prostitute isn’t knowledgeable of my kind, so I’ll have to work my dance. Removing my coat, I nod my head to the beat pounding the apartment. I slip the holster off my shoulder and set the gun in the sink.

“Are you a cop?” Monica stands there holding her breasts in her hands. “You look like a cop.”

“No,” I say, smiling. “Self-defense. And I have a permit to carry.” It’s true. I’m fully registered, but not with this gun. I hold up a pair of hundred-dollar bills and drop them on the edge of the sink.

Monica climbs into the tub, starts the shower, and begins dancing to the music. Turning in the spray, she wiggles and grooves. At my age it’s hard to tell, but the girl appears young with tits too perky and flesh too tight. Scrawny, for my taste. And my bite. Fleshy is less painful for the victim, and easier on me.

A knock rattles the door.

“Occupied,” I say. Setting my hands on the sink, I hang my head. Sometimes it takes concentration, especially when the hunger is this bad. I need to focus.

“Hello?” It’s Sabrina. She knocks again.

Monica continues grooving in the shower.

Looking at my hands, I see a wristwatch on my left arm. A man’s accessory and it looks similar to Steve’s old analog watch. I stare at it trying to recall putting it on. Did he leave it the other night? On the nightstand. That must be it. Having a thing for a mark is bad for business. A thing for a dead guy could be considered crazy under normal circumstances, but there isn’t anything normal about Steve.

After the third knock, I spin around and throw the door open.

Bouncing on her toes, Sabrina holds her crotch in one hand and covers her bare breasts with the other. “Sorry,” she says. The girl seems a foot shorter somehow. Spotting Monica in the shower, her face sours. “I really have to pee.”

A familiar chuckle catches my attention, and I search the crowd spotting Zee standing beside the pizza table. Talking to three young men, swaying in his strange way, he waves a wired tray of glass vials around. After Sabrina squeezes inside, I hold the door nearly closed and peer through the crack watching the old Itoril talk the men up. One of the men holds a vial up in the light. The contents appear a milky.

Keeping my eye on Zee, I ask Sabrina about the skinny man in leather.

“Vampire ice,” says Sabrina. “It’s bullshit, but that’s what he says.”

Closing the door, I lean against the wall.

Panties hanging around her ankles, Sabrina sits on the toilet with her hands cupped over her breasts as if shyness has overcome her. She tells me about how Zee is spreading word about some guy named Julio.

The only sensible reason is that Zee is trying to pin the venom thing on Yasmine. On the other hand, coming around my hangouts makes it look like he’s trying to get me into trouble. It’s no secret this is one of my stops.

Monica laughs and says, “Steve Reynolds told me Necropolis has vampire ice. I thought it was some new drink, not a party drug.”

I give Monica my confused, but very concerned look. Steve would never spread rumors. Besides, how does she know Steve?

Monica stops wiggling, and shrugs at the door. “Torx, I mean. He likes to go by Torx.”

It’s too much of a coincidence that the kid renting this apartment shares a name with Steve. Is this where it started? Shaking my head, I turn my attention back on the vials of whatever concoction. I need to talk to Zee. Put off snacking and deal with this fake venom issue.

“Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers. “How about we go back to my place? The three of us.”

Monica shakes her head and frowns.

Standing, Sabrina snaps her panties in place and returns to cupping her breasts. Seeing the sour expression dipped in fear on her face as she passes, I feel my gut drop. The girl is acting peculiar. Icy prickles race into my legs.

Looking at the watch, I find a masculine hand. Touching my head, I feel short prickly hair. His hair. In a step, I’m standing before the mirror and into the face of Steve Reynolds and his menacing blue eyes. I grab the gun from the sink. Stumbling back, I’m consumed by Purple Hell, the walls turn misty as I pass through, and a violet storm of clouds erupt overhead. Catching my footing, I spin around on the cracked desert landscape, and come stomping back onto the carpeted floor of the apartment meeting the sound of breaking glass.

Beside a pizza box, smashed clear shards rest on the moist table. The stuff smells a little like vinegar mixed with some chemical, nothing like venom. And my hand on the glass shards. It’s my hand, slender fingers and all dripping blood from a cut. The wristwatch is gone as well. Catching my eye, I see it. A dark shadow, a wraith, sits at the table staring at the smashed vials.

Rising violet smoke surrounds me, Purple Hell swallows me whole, the silence slamming down.

My scream beats the walls, and I open my eyes to near darkness, and the smell of my satin sheets soaked in sweat. Throwing off the covers, I grab at my head finding strands of long hair. Slapping my hands over my chest, I squeeze my breasts confirming they are mine. I sit alone in my bedroom with a groggy weight pulling my head down.

My hair, my boobs, my bed.

Feeling doubt creeping under my skin, I race across the bedroom, throw the door open, and take the stairs three steps at a time feeling the cool air rushing over my damp flesh. Lucifer leaps out of the way, his white fur glowing on the dark staircase. At the end of the hall, my bare feet slip on the cold tile as I grasp for the sink. Latching on, I pull my face to the mirror.

In the darkness, I can see my aura glowing from my arms. Hotter than normal, it almost appears violet with a touch of red instead of the cool blue. I find my face in the mirror. Auras never reflect, but I imagine my face on fire burning red. And it’s my face, my dark eyes looking back at me. I brush my hair back and touch my breasts making sure I’m real.

My hair, my face, my boobs. I run my tongue over my teeth feeling the comfort of my slender canines.

My fangs.

Leaning over the sink, I look closer at my eyes. “Steve,” I say to the reflection. “Are you in there?”

None of this makes sense. Back at the apartment, was that his memory? No, it had to be mine. Somehow, he’s in my head. That’s all. Before I met Steve I didn’t know how to find Purple Hell, but now it finds me transferring me from one place to another like a bad dream. Steve is pulling me over.

My thoughts return to twenty years ago, Steve laying on the checkerboard floor. At the end of my sword, his body fades into violet smoke leaving a pool of blood behind.

Something moves in the reflection, and I spin around finding the wraith standing in the doorway. The creature is all shadow with deep purple accents, but I can make out the tie and the buzzed haircut of Steve, dark tendrils rising like smoke. From the dark pits of his eyes, nebulous violet smoke pours out curling around his head.
A yelp escapes my throat, and I tumble over, the cold tile slapping my flesh.

Light explodes, and I smash my eyes shut. Sabrina’s voice, a whimper of concern crawls closer. She asks if I’m okay. I nod my head feeling my insides sloshing around. Pulling my eyes open, I see Sabrina in her pajamas kneeling beside me. Orange radiates off her flesh, and her heart pounds like a drum. The doorway behind her is empty.

“You look terrible,” says Sabrina, shaking her head. “Do you need a bite?”

I do. My gut feels empty, my tongue is dry, and my hands shake like an addict.

“But not my arm,” says Sabrina. “My arm is still sore.” She pulls her pajama bottoms down. “How about my leg?”

“Steve,” I say. I grab her leg feeling her warm thigh. The sound of her heart pounds into my head. I’m uncertain how much I might be able to restrain myself. “Where’s Steve?”

Sabrina scrunches her face. “Who?”

“Steve Reynolds.”

“Torx?” Sabrina crawls out of her pajama bottoms and tosses them on the floor behind her.

“No, the guy that was here.” Looking up, I find confusion on the girl’s face that sends my gut lurching. “Tall, buzzed hair,” I say, describing the wraith I just saw. I leave out the smoky tendrils and glowing violet eyes, and get back to the man.

“He was shot. We took care of him, and he stayed with me after I got sick.”

Sabrina shakes her head. “Sorry, Kandy. You’ve never brought a guy home.”

Of course she doesn’t remember. With so much of my venom in her, Sabrina doesn’t remember much of anything anymore.

Resting my face on her warm thigh, I kiss her flesh. “What about at Torx’s place? Do you remember seeing me there?”

“Sure.” Sabrina leans back on her elbows. “I don’t know why you bother when you have me. Don’t you love me?”

The sound of my fangs breaking flesh crawls into my head before Sabrina’s scream fills the bathroom. Cool toxins flow out, warmth rushes inside. Some of it gurgles out from under my lips, and I chase it with my tongue feeling my insides heat into a raging fire. As I lay there lapping blood from Sabrina’s thigh and off the gritty tile, I can’t help but wonder if Steve is sharing this memory with me.

I always knew there was something terribly wrong about him even before I bit him. He looks and smells so human, but his blood is death.

The rain comes and goes like a blues musician plucking away at the guitar searching for the right sound. It patters on the roof, trickles down the window. At the the other end of the block, across the street at Necropolis, people wait in line as the doorman checks their passes. In the dreary night, their forms glow orange like an aura, all except the doorman. His Itoril body radiates a cool blue.

Above the club, somewhere behind the glossy windows within the dimly illuminated apartment, the owner, Yasmine, plans her transition into the role of magistrate years ahead of schedule. Stratton almost seems flummoxed by the sudden change of heart among key elders. It’s her particular charm. As a babe, her lust for blood overwhelmed her glamour leading to a public execution. Maybe it was the threat of burning alive, or lessons from other Itoril. She has grown up considerably since that night.

The night I first saw him. What did Yasmine call him? Ezekiel. He had that same damn suit and tie he always likes wearing.

The car rocks and settles on its springs.

Glancing over at the passenger side, I see him. Like the other times over the last few days, he just appears. At the kill, twice at the house, he rises out of the shadows like a ghost. His aura appears so human. Steve. He calls himself Steve Reynolds.

Trying not to bring attention to his sudden arrival, I stare at the gauges behind the steering wheel. The fuel marker shows the tank on its last quarter. Searching for something to say, I realize I’m already blabbing about my job.

I tell him I always expected some honor maintaining the law among Itoril.

Spotting Steve staring out the windshield at the building across the street, I follow his gaze finding a light on in the apartment over the club. Yasmine insists on romancing the youth with vampire fantasies risking everything. For this, the magistrate fears her. And loves her for her boldness. Glancing back, I find Steve watching me.

His gaze pierces into me, but I hold on trying to make sense out of his blue eyes.

“This is a man’s world, Steve,” I say, only half paying attention to the conversation. “And the Itoril men want to make certain it remains that way.”

“Didn’t females once rule Itoril?”

A smile robs my composure. The man can’t remember where he lives or anything from his childhood, but he remembers history lessons and other silly facts about the world. He knows it well, or at least as well as I do.

Those ancient women were monsters and deserved to die.

“Why don’t you retire?”

Losing myself in his eyes, I force my gaze down at my hand squeezing the steering wheel. I feel him as if he’s inside my head.

Death is the only retirement. It’s the way it’s always been with executioners, and the only way I’ll have it.

I realize I’m rattling on again, something about my old club turning into a record store.
He asks me about the quiet place. That’s what he calls it. Purple Hell is a better name. There are things in there, hidden in the depths. Usually I just feel them, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of their smoky shapes. He wants to know how many Itoril can get there.

“Not many,” I say. Closing my eyes, I picture the faces of the ones I’ve met with the skill. Stratton’s bodyguard, Xavier, is a master. Zee can get lost in there for a bit. There was another man I saw once in there. “Some Itoril can appear to move fast for a short period, but very few know about the quiet place. I didn’t before I met you.”

Steve screams, a painful howl.

Opening my eyes, I find I’m alone in the car.

Peering through the raindrops on the glass, I find the illuminated window above Necropolis. A dark shape moves before the light; someone stands at the window. Not Yasmine, it’s a man’s form. Steve is likely working for her, if not for her charm then her money.

Reaching into my coat pocket, I tug an envelope out and study the blue seal, the jagged crack cutting through the impression of three crossed swords, the symbol of the magistrate’s office. Sometimes they arrive directly from the magistrate. Other times Zee delivers them as he did this one twenty years ago. Pulling the card out, I read it for the fifth time this week.

Steve Reynolds a.k.a. Ezekiel.

Whatever the reason, it may have been forgotten, but law is law and the execution order still stands. How does one kill a ghost? I push the card inside the envelope and shove it in my pocket.

I curse at the rain, and turn the ignition. The engine erupts, cylinders pounding into a roar, music to my ears. Slipping into gear, I work the throttle controlling wheel spin, and drive frightening clubbers off the street. I flash my headlights at a man lumbering on the crosswalk against the light. He doesn’t respond, so I push the throttle eliciting a roar that gets the jaywalker’s attention.

I curse at the man.

Leaving the lights off, I wind my way into the bad part of Roseland. Passing streetlamps are yellow clouds like dragon’s vapor. I curse the lights. Slamming my fist on the steering wheel, I yell an obscenity. A heavy lump slides into my gut. Accelerating onto the freeway, I speed around cars listening to their blaring horns receding behind me. I drive, water howling in the wheel wells, my car tearing up the night.

I curse Steve Reynolds.

The dead should stay dead.