Vampire 4. About Death...

I fired my gun, and the bullet passed through my opponent as if he was smoke. No surprise, of course, this foe was more wraith than flesh and bone. But flesh and bone he was, and filled with the blood of his prey. An Itoril, once long ago if ever, he had escaped the confines of mortality.

Thyme appeared precisely the same as he had on our last meeting some decades ago. Dressed in boots, a dark duster pulled open to one side to show off his wide belt sagging with a heavy iron handgun and a sword, a Stetson perched on his head, he looked as though he stepped right off the range and out of the nineteenth century. His face was the same, too, pale and leathery. His eyes dazzled with wisdom and enough confidence to melt a man.

I lowered my weapon and waited for him to speak.

Thyme nodded and cocked his head as if to say how nice it was to see me again. The feeling was nearly mutual. I took some comfort at gazing upon him as the nearly forgotten past awakened from slumber teasing the back of my mind with warmth of home and the eagerness to explore the world. When at last Thyme spoke, it took me by surprise. His voice sounded softer and warmer than I recalled.

“My dear Kandice, only one question I have for you. One burning query. After all that I had given you, sacrificed for you, why did you seek your own end?”

An Itoril Executioner was a position of great respect. Orders came infrequently, usually names written on cards or occasionally whispered. Preferences and frequency changed with each passing Magistrate. An Executioner’s position was a life sentence, and retirement came by the hand of her successor. Only the best remained Executioner for long. With length of service came more respect.

And decreasing number of applicants. In my fourth decade of service, I had defended my position for the last time. By my sixth decade of this sentence, I began discarding names without thought. It wasn’t as mundane as housework, but executing criminals felt as routine, and worse, it felt terribly cold.

I couldn’t fault Thyme’s teachings. No, for my curse I had Steve Reynolds to thank for that. I was never the best fighter. Not even close. Sure, my feminine charm allowed me to get close enough for murder or a snack. Still, I’d never have survived as Executioner until Steve had shown me his shadows between worlds, his shortcuts through time. Some Itoril could dip into the shadows. Rare could any follow me into the depths, and none swam as far into the violet storm as Steve.

Gazing at Thyme, I realized I wasn’t really a wraith at all. I was no longer alive, but I wasn’t dead. Steve could go on about the physics of it all. He had analogies to explain the shortcuts through time. There was one about the cat in the box. Schrödinger. I felt like that cat in the box, and the persons outside the box couldn’t say if I was alive or dead, not until they open the box. Until then I carried the memories of life and death together as one.

Around my eighth or ninth decade of service—I had lost track of time—I had seduced Steve Reynolds into finalizing my retirement. I still see his blade coming at me within Club Necropolis. I had fallen on the dance floor and landed inside my old music store four decades earlier. Shortcuts through time always led forward, but in death I had somehow stumbled backward like awakening within a memory.

“I had grown weary of my station.”

Thyme nodded twice and told me what I did took courage. He had wanted to return my body to its resting place at January Nine, but my corpse had been taken beyond his reach.

Steve had seen to that. Now I had no doubt my body rested deep within the murk between worlds, the box holding my state unknown, neither dead nor alive.

The fog swarmed around, and Thyme melted away.

I shouted after him demanding he tell me how to escape my purgatory.

An arrow into my mind, his message came to me.

Seek my perfect child. Meet my dearest Nine.


On indefinate hiatus (canceled)

It's tough to let go, but best when unable to give Kandy, Nine, Peter, and friends the attention they deserve.

Your feedback has been appreciated. Thanks.

NINE/ƎИIИ 14. Bad Air

The vampire appeared much like Augustus Thyme had described in a story told seven years ago. A shade within the fog, Vampire Thyme stood there wrapped in a cloak of fog mixing with the smoldering darkness swirling up from his cowboy hat. Soot, her grandfather had described the powder tumbling away from the old duster hanging from the vampire’s shoulders.

Holding a handgun, Nine faced the vampire, her weapon aimed directly at his torso. To her surprise her arm remained steady even though she had never held a gun before. It felt comfortable in her easy grip. A bullet seemed inadiquate, though, and she slowly lowered the gun.

Vampire Thyme took a step backward swallowed by the fog.

A jolt shook Nine, and her body trembled. In a blink, the fog was gone. She gazed at the entrance to the old tomb on the side of the hill under the fading evening light filtering through the thick evergreens. In the place of the gun, her hand gripped the straps of her backpack.

She stood exactly where she had come seconds earlier. In the shade, the entrance to Thyme Tomb appeared dark and ominous, and its cold, damp breath lifted her hair. Chills. She shuddered.

The vampire hadn’t been here, of course. On a street somewhere, perhaps an old dirt road. She felt strongly about this even though she couldn’t place the location. It hadn’t even been a vision. A trigger, like a familiar scent or a melody, sometimes caused a distant memory to come crashing into the front interrupting thought. Like that. Now this strange memory faded deep into the background. A road or a field, she couldn’t see it clearly. Hell, the fog may have been conjured by her grandfather’s story.

Memories had a way of mixing details, and this one must have been a serious toxic mess. Where had the gun come from? She felt certain the weapon had been a 1911, whatever designation that was held no meaning now. The only guns she knew were her grandfather’s Civil War antiques locked away in a display cabinet, and she had never once touched them.

Lost in a haze, the only detail she could picture was the dark shape of the vampire dressed in the nineteenth-century cowboy outfit. She tried to forget it, but that image ingrained itself into her thoughts and refused to let go.

Nine tugged the rusted gate open banging against the mossy rock, and tossed her backpack inside the tomb. Holding her breath, she squeezed through the opening. She pulled her phone out and tapped the flashlight icon. Shining the light around, she checked the narrow hall. Satisfied no critters lurked within, she snatched her bag slinging it over her shoulder and walked down the narrow passageway.

An odor of rust and dry decay hung in the air.

The gate screeched and clanged against the rock.

“Who lives here?” asked Tigris.

Turning about, Nine shined the light towards the entrance splashing Tigris’s leather boots, up her bare legs to her black tee with a faded Club Necropolis Vampire Love logo. Tigris squinted, and Nine lowered the light.

Nine said, “No one I hope.”

The dim light filtered in through the gate behind Tigris accentuated her curvy features as she slinked her way closer. Her iridescent eyes crackled fire within. A demoness approached.

Turning away, Nine studied a rock on the floor within the flashlight beam as she waited for the haunting image to melt away. Perhaps inviting an Itoril wasn’t such a good idea after all. Tigris always seemed like such a sweet lady, though. Nicer than Lamia, but so much more dangerous in appearance.

The chamber remained the same as before, the coffin sat in one corner and a small dried carcass in the other. Besides dog prints, her shoe marks ran into the wall where the secret door blocked the hidden stairs to the sepulcher.

“Why did you invite me to your dungeon?” said Tigris.

“Tiger,” said Nine. She pulled a box of latex gloves and held it out. “Or do you prefer Tigris?”

Tigris plucked a pair of gloves from the dispenser top and smiled. “My friends call me Tiger, and we’re freinds now, right?”

Nine smiled. “Tiger, I asked you here because I don’t have anyone else I can trust. I can trust you, can’t I?”

“Sure.”

“Besides, few I know are skinny enough to squeeze inside that gate.”

Tigris sniffed the air and soured her face.

“That reminds me,” said Nine. On her last visit in the tomb, she had felt ill and lost consciousness. Digging through her bag, she found her candle and butane lighter.

She set the candle on the coffin. Raising the lighter, she flicked the wheel with her thumb. The flame erupted into a wriggling dance and fell to a steady burn. Lifting the candle, she held the wick to the flame.

A red glow, the wick refused to take the fire, and dark smoke curled into the air.

Nine marched into the passageway closer to the entrance and tried again.

The candle took the fire and burned brightly. Slowly, she walked deeper into tomb and watched the flame diminish. Inside the chamber the candle took its last breath.

“Bad Air,” said Nine. She held her phone up shining the flashlight onto the coffin. “That must be what did me in the last time I was here.”

“Now what?” asked Tigris.

“Can you detect anything inside the coffin?” asked Nine.

“Sorry, I left my x-ray glasses at home,” said Tigris, sounding somewhat annoyed yet playful.

Opening the coffin within bad air would be unwise, and removing the coffin would mean clearing all the big rocks away from the entrance so the gate could open. Either way, a great deal of work for what could prove nothing of interest.

Returning to the gate, Nine looked the rocks over. The one against the gate appeared easy enough to push aside, but next to it was a what could be the top of a boulder sticking up out of the muck. Even if a normal rock, it would mean considerable work digging it out.

As she gazed sullenly at the iron bars, Nine thought about the sudden flashback with the gun and the vampire, the memory that couldn’t possibly be hers. Not in how she had remembered it anyway.

Spinning around, Nine gazed at her companion leaning against the wall. “Tiger, do you believe in vampires?”

Tigris frowned.

“Not Itoril I mean, but actual immortal vampires.”

Tigris said, “Is that what you believe is sleeping inside that coffin? A mythical creature?”

Nine felt stupid for asking. Grandfather Augustus had thought there was much more to Thyme, their namesake, than there was about any Itoril person. Consuming blood and memory to become its victim went beyond the nibbling of Itorils for thrills or rare delicacy. What proof had Augustus found? She needed to finish reading the guide.

“Are you certain you want to open this door?” said Tigris. She glanced into the darkness.

“The bad air is likely coming from within the ground.”

“No,” said Tigris, “I mean do you truly want to see inside this coffin?”

This gave Nine great pause. If the coffin turned out to be empty like the January Nine box, there would be nothing of value here. This opportunity had been presented not due to Augustus Thyme’s research, but by Itoril business associates with motives all their own. Yasmine’s henchman, Xavier, had made the claim that this was the tomb of original Thyme. And without providing evidence. There had been no chance to inquire after losing consiousness inside the tomb. What did Yasmine gain by sharing this tomb’s location? Trust.

Thyme Funeral had fallen behind on venom harvest quota for Yasmine’s company. A process dependent on Yasmine’s underlings sending Itoril corpses. A wicked cycle without control. Trying to catch up, Sebastian had murdered an Itoril for venom, but not for Yasmine’s sake. In order to release baby Sebastian from Vampire Thyme, Augustus had struck a bargain: an annual quota of venom in exchange for a Thyme’s life. Vials of venom delivered to Yasmine’s company were somehow being counted by the Thyme patriarch.

Considering Augustus had spent decades searching for this tomb and failed, there seemed only two reasons someone outside of the family would have located it. Either something profitable hid here, or the only individual old enough to recall the location had revealed it. If there had been anything worth plundering, the gate would open wide, the rocks cleared.

Vampire Thyme wanted Nine to open this door of opportunity, and that concerned her.

“Nine,” said Tigris, whispering. She sniffed the air. “I don’t think we’re alone.”

A Dance in Time

430 words to 3,642 words following ➥ links.


Fog rolls through the woods. Within the murk, red splashes airborne droplets. A flash, and another, slicing between trees, each pass of a strobe spraying a red mist, the dragon’s steaming blood rolling on the currents, disappearing into her frothy breath.

Near the sepulcher, over on the dusty walking path, fog swirls into itself, floating back against the breeze, and darkens into smoke. A moist boot-print darkens the dirt. Stepping through the veil, a dark figure arrives, each step expends a dark cloud dissipating into the air.

Writhing inky smoke rises from him. Not smoke, soot maybe. Each step shakes soot free from the specter. The dark grit rises from the wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

Cloaked in darkness, Lord Thyme approaches.

Prepared for the dance, I raise my Colt 1911 handgun.

Silence falls; spectral rain washes the world away. In a breath, the world returns, my feet on a stage and music exploding in my ears.

I play my guitar like my life depends on it.➥ The speakers blast my sound, and I soak up the rumble. The beat pounding, music rushes through my core holding me tight.

I make love to the rhythm.

Purple mist descends upon me and an ethereal fog condenses into ghostly forms.➥ Skyscrapers surround me. Gazing through the pale forms, I see the endless wasteland beyond. A phantom city, apparitions on the sidewalk stroll in slow motion. Colorless, silent cars move on the roadway. Familiar. I think I’ve been here outside a music store. A ghost walks through me—chilling, and she fades away along with the city.

Ice filling my veins, my head throbs. The wraith speaks, not with a voice, but an invading thought penetrating my head sending prickles trickling down my neck.

Kandy, will you bleed for me?

Hell no, not again. Vertigo sends my head spinning within this timelessness.

Misting drizzle soaks streets, automobiles splash through puddles, and the city whispers to the night.➥ Deep percussions beat stone walls, razoring up fire escapes, the muted music calls youth to the door of Club Necropolis.

On the street, fog swirls into itself, floating back against ghostly cars traveling in slow motion, and smolders, automobiles disintegrating. Trees sprout up through the mist, and a sepulcher floats on clouds.

Fog rolls through the woods.➥ Within the haze, red splashes airborne droplets. Stepping through the veil, he reappears. Each step shakes soot free, and dark grit rises from his hat.

Keeping my rhythm, I raise my Colt 1911, and continue the dance.

NINE/ƎИIИ 13. Prey

Misting drizzle soaked Roseland streets, automobiles splashed through puddles, and the city whispered to the night. Deep percussions shook stone walls, razoring up fire escapes, the muted music calling youth to the door of Club Necropolis. Heads nodded to the beat. A young woman shrilled and wrapped arms around another waiting in line for the big man to frisk them at the door.

The big, bad doorman, Axe, they called him, his scrutinizing gaze cut as sharp as his head gleamed bald. Nobody gets by the guardian dressed all in black without club membership or great tits. ɘniИ had on her slinky, red dress, but she feared her boobs weren’t impressive enough for bad-ass, Mister Axe.

A name. That was all that she needed. Dancing was always a treat, but tonight the thought of capturing the right name set her groove in motion.

Spotting her new best friend waiting nearby, ɘniИ skipped the line and hurried to meet Tigris, or Tiger as her friends called her, and they were friends until the end. Returning her greeting, Tiger clawed at the air and growled in an endearing way.

With a wave, Tiger showed ɘniИ to the doorman. A nod and a smile, they were in! The doors opened, and singing guitars, heavy beat of drums called to them. Grooving to the beat they descended the steel stairs into white mist cloaking a sea of writhing bodies.

Club Necropolis, a lively contradiction in vampire worship.

Hunting. Not for a delicious man, although several tempting treats called for a caress, but tonight they hunted a little man, part of the trail leading to a certain thief. Watching Tiger prowl the dance floor was like watching a dangerous feline stalking her prey on the savanna. She blended in, slinking to the motion, dancing with each person in turn, making her way towards the stage.

Electric heat met cool mist. An operatic cry, undulating, guitars singing to the demons. Thunder. Dancing to the music was sex before the kiss.

At the edge of the stage, a small man played his guitar to a frenzy of screaming women. Tiger looked over her shoulder and motioned up at the guitarist. This was our man. ɘniИ squeezed in close behind as Tiger pressed her way through the storm of swinging hips and waving neon bracelets. The guitarist released a fury of sound and stomped with the crowd to the drummer’s beat.

Spotting Tiger, the man with the guitar shrank back a step, his instrument burping and squelching.

The girl with the feline name climbed onto the stage to the delight of two men sneaking peeks up her dress.

A shrill cry, and the guitar broke into a sputter as the prey fled behind the fat man with the bass guitar. Tiger chased after, and the band continued the beat. ɘniИ worked her way through the crowd. On the run, the man handed his guitar to the blue-haired vocalist. She shouldered the instrument without missing a word and played like her life depended on it.

Fists pumping the air, the audience cheered.

ɘniИ exploded from the crowd and jazzed her way between islands of dancing pairs. Spotting the fleeing guitarist shouting up at a bouncer in black, she cut in his direction. The bouncer laughed. Tiger dove off the stage and body surfed the currents, tapping arms and pointing her direction. Slipping free, she found her feet and met ɘniИ shooting for their prey.

Up the stairs the two chased their man out the main door.

And there he was, held up in the air by big, bad-ass Axe. The doorman released the catch into Tiger’s claws.

“Hey, Tiger,” said the musician, quivering. “Nice kitty. Yeah?”

“Little man,” said Tiger. She ran her finger down his chest. “We were curious to know if you’ve overheard anything about a big score.”

“Yo, Tiger, you know I’m not into that scene anymore.”

ɘniИ approached Axe and smiled. Taking hold of his shoulder, she climbed up and planted a thank-you kiss on his cheek. Slipping back down, she gave him a pat on the butt along with her best call-me smile.

Tiger poked her prey in the chest. “Still have ears don’t ya?”

“Hey, yo, maybe I, uh, overhead some shit. Uh, you’re still not into the biting thing, am I right?”

Tiger growled.

“Okay, nice Tiger,” said the guitarist. He held a hand up, palm open. “Old Town is buzzing about cracking the code. Vampire Ice, yo! So cold it packs a punch nearly as hard as authentic vampire venom, but with sky high blues. Royal bitchen ice, so I hear. For reals, kitty-cat gal.”

“Give me a name,” said Tiger.

“Marcus. Ask for Jon Marcus.”

Now they had a name of the thief responsible for the stolen drug. ɘniИ felt pleased with her new friend, Tiger. Pleased as punch. Best of friends until the end, or at least until she held that secret to imitation venom.

Vampire 2: Thyme After Time

Do you know Steve Reynolds?

Peter’s message crept into my head. I couldn’t hear him, or smell him, as if he wasn’t actually here and now. After our previous conversation at the restaurant, I began to realize Peter and I were out of sync in time. I stood here among the graves within the fog, and he stood there, a few steps apart in the world and a giant leap away in time.

“Steve? Of course I know Steve! Where is he?”

Laura shot me a peculiar look, the sort of face one shows the crazy old lady speaking to herself on the street corner. Of course, I understood to some extent what was going on, and that Peter was quite real standing at too far a distance for Laura, fully grounded in the world, to perceive. I wonder though if the crazy old lady would insist her voices are real, too.

He sent me your car, weapons, some blood, and a serum.

Peter’s message banged in the back of my head and swam around before fully taking meaning. I recognized words on their own as I felt them out, some sort of translation taking place. Peter had my car? Besides the wraith riding in the back, Laura on shotgun, I hadn’t noticed anyone else inside my beautiful car.

The time issue.

Peter stood over there, whenever. He appeared human, but then, so had Steve Reynolds, a master at creeping through the shadows within his quiet place taking shortcuts through time. Without a scent, I couldn’t be certain if Peter truly was human or another wraith.

Nine, Kandy is here.

Hearing this number, I quickly searched the area. Peter had addressed someone else, a specter within the boneyard on my side, a person in his time. The apparition remained hidden from me. Nine seemed an odd name, if it was truly a given name, not some cute nickname or designation. Stranger though, this number held some reverence for me in respect to a place in time. Of course, I needed to ask about this name.

“Who the hell is Nine?”

“The hell should I know,” said Laura. She folded her arms and frowned. “Kandy, you’re psychotic you know that? More than usual.”

Peter suddenly became more transparent then snapped back again. Features rippling out of the air, he became nearly lifelike. For a moment, I caught a familiar scent fading into a memory.

The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.

“Let’s have it then.”

“Kandy?” said Laura. She huffed and patted her abdomen. “So now you want some of this? Here in the cemetery?”

I’m sorry, it was stolen.

“We need to get it back!”

Darkness swallowed Peter into a smoking figure and floated away, a rising mist melting into the fog over the graves. Laura had disappeared, too, or relative to her and her world, I had left her having lost grip with my anchor. I stood alone on the path behind the funeral home.

Among rows of old gravestones stood a lonely sepulcher, the place I had reawakened long ago when I had first witnessed the world through my Itoril eyes. It seemed strange standing before the stone structure now questioning my very nature. Not even an Itoril could cheat death, or stroll freely through time.

There were only two individuals I knew whom held such dark knowledge. The first, Steve Reynolds, my mentor in walking through the shadows between worlds. The second, Thyme from whom I had inherited my thirst for blood. The answer to the riddle for my tenuous grasp on the world must reside with these two, and the only place I knew to search for them was from the start here at the end.

Within the Thyme Sepulcher, after a bout of torment, my former life had ended. Bathing in blood within a sarcophagus, I had reawakened as Kandice Knight. I had drained all my thoughts of her away. Her name had abandoned memory long ago. I only knew her as a place in time, January Nine.