“Holy shit, Nine!” said Peter, holding his hand over his pounding heart. “Were you trying to scare the life out of me?”

The woman shook her head, her dark hair waving over her face.

Catching his breath, Peter folded his arms and studied the nude woman sitting on the mortuary table. It didn’t seem like Nine to go to so much trouble for a practical joke. He had no doubt funerary workers produced off-beat pranks, but not this level of commitment. And unprofessional going against everything he knew about Nine. Hiding in a casket, sure, but stripping all her clothes off and chilling herself to play dead? Madness.

“Aren’t you freezing?” said Peter. He shivered, partly due to the cold room. The distant look on her face frightened him.

She held up her arms. “Peter Gray, come warm me.”

Peter walked over and hugged her. Wrapping her arms and legs around him, burying her face in his chest, she held him tight. His chin touched her cool hair. He rubbed her backside working warmth into her flesh.

“Nine, what’s this all about?”

“Father shot a man and brought him in,” she said. Her voice sounded flat and uncaring. “The man wasn’t dead, so Nine cut his head right off with an amputation saw. Big bloody mess that was.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Peter. He held her tight, but he doubted it would be enough to fight the demons off. Anything that bad took time and care.

“Ever fucked in a mortuary?”

Pressed against him she became difficult to resist, but she wasn’t herself.

“Peter, I know you want it.”

“Not like this, Nine.”

Peter grabbed her legs and pulled himself free of her grip. He stepped back, and she hopped off the table. Her gaze locked on him; hunter stalking prey. She slinked closer in a way he hadn’t ever witnessed before so unlike Nine.

Or Nine on drugs. Worry washed over him as he considered the possibilities.

“Nine, let’s get you dressed and somewhere warm.”

Turning around, he grabbed clothing from the pile on the table. Dirt streaks marked the jeans on the knees and rear. A cloud of dust puffed from the long-sleeve top. It looked as though Nine had been crawling in the dirt recently.

Playfully poking him in the ribs, Nine didn’t seem the least bit interested in her clothes.

Kneeling, Peter held her panties out to her feet. He talked her into lifting one foot after the other. As he pulled the waistband up, he spotted a tattoo on her lower back just above her tailbone. Fangs taking a bite out of her ass. He had assumed she had more tattoos, but inked fangs surprised him. Dressing her felt erotic, and she played along letting him do all the work. As soon as she was dressed, he took her by the arm and pulled her towards the door.

Something caught his eye.

On a tray beside a mortuary table, he found a syringe containing a small amount of a clear liquid. He knew the contents immediately as if someone had whispered the name in his ear. Vampire ice. Along with a car and weapons, he had also inherited bags of Kandy’s blood and a bag of clear serum, a substance Tigris believed to be the basis for the vampire ice. Tigris had tried explaining the properties, but he couldn’t recall the details. Now with the possibility Nine had been dosed, he wished he had paid better attention to his bartender.

Upstairs, the funeral home had a small library and he felt grateful to take her in there instead of the house. Finding a kitchenette, he put the kettle on. Searching the cupboard, he selected a box of bagged tea. Back in the library, he found her sitting on a leather chair, legs curled beneath her. The warmth seemed to have lifted her out of her state as her face became more recognizable.

“Peter, I’m sorry,” she said. She sipped her tea and lowered the cup onto her leg. “After murder I must seem quite mad.”

He knelt by her chair and felt her arm. Warmer, but still cold.

“So your dad took the wrap for whole thing?”

She nodded. “Of course he did.”

Peter agreed to keep her company for an hour. She became more herself, but not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it. She spoke differently, but close enough he thought considering her recent traumatic event.

Passing the cemetery, Peter Gray took the next turn, a narrow road up a steep incline. Within headlights frost glistened at the edge of the pavement. The road snaked through the woods passing homes on large lots. Spotting the stone sign illuminated by two spotlights on the ground, he pulled into the drive which curved around a grove of tall evergreens emerging into a parking lot at Thyme Funeral Home.

The old Ford Fairlane was beginning to seem like his car. He had inherited the classic from Kandice Knight through an intermediary business run by Steve Reynolds. However, he still felt Kandy all over the interior. Giving her ghost a ride now and then didn’t seem so bad as long as the spirits left the driving to him. He parked his Fairlane beside an old hearse, a Caddy from the sixties if he wasn’t mistaken. Two black classy cars sitting side-by-side, alone, at night. Automobile romance, he thought.

Slipping his phone from his jacket pocket, Peter held it while gazing out at the buildings. On the far left stood an early twentieth-century house with a newer addition jutting out the side. A walkway connected the home to the funeral building which consisted of an office, a showroom, and a chapel, distinct structures, but connected together. The chapel appeared more recently built, or re-built, likely during the seventies or eighties given the boring structural design. The rest of the property held a stylish look with decorative eaves and window shutters matching the house.

Tapping the screen, he selected his messages. He read the brief note Nine had sent yesterday again. She hadn’t made it in for her shift at the restaurant because her father had been arrested. Earlier in the day Peter had called twice to check in, leaving her messages both times. He called her again and disconnected after the third ring.

Feeling bad about dropping in like this, he considered heading back to the restaurant.

Peter had another reason for driving out here though. According to records, his sister had been buried in the graveyard on the hillside. He still couldn’t believe he had imagined seeing Tara in the restaurant. Having conversations with her! He needed to see the grave with his own eyes.

Light illuminated the window beside the office door and another in the big showroom window revealing several caskets inside.

Concerned about business, he called the restaurant. The new bartender, Tigris, answered. Everything running peachy, according to her. Satisfied, he put his phone away, climbed out of the car, and ambled up the walkway to the office door.

Curtains hid the interior.

Peter knocked and listened for movement. Trying the door, he found it unlocked and pushed it open. Barely large enough for three or four visitors, the office appeared cramped with a spacious desk built back in the day when craftsmen worked with real wood. The desk held a decorative lamp and an iPad. Two leather chairs for guests sat to the side, an old filing cabinet stood behind the desk, and an antique chaise consumed a corner. At the back, a closed door held a sign by the handle. Another door stood open leading to the showroom.

“Hello?” said Peter.

Strolling into the showroom, he glanced around at the various caskets of different styles. No coffins, he noted, feeling odd he knew there was such a difference between a casket and a coffin. Nine had taught him that coffins had a single lid. Caskets came with dual lids, one for showing. Directly across the room, double doors blocked the entrance to the chapel.

Back in the office, he went to the door at the back and checked the sign.

“Ring buzzer for service.”

Beside the door, he found the button attached to the wall with a painted wire stapled in place running down into the floor. He pressed the button and heard the muted buzz from somewhere deep within the building.

He listened while he waited. A pop came from the ceiling. Pressing the button again, he listened to the buzz coming from somewhere below.

Someone had to be here, he thought, and grew curious about the number of workers the Thyme family employed. Inattentive employees it seemed, but they likely didn’t get many visitors after dark even in winter when the sun set before five in the evening. Grasping the handle, he opened the door and peeked into a hallway.

Peter called out his greeting.

No response.

The house stood to the left, so he turned right and reached the end of the short hall at the top of the stairs. At first he thought he descended into a basement, but recalling the property sitting on a hillside, and spotting the exterior-looking double doors at the bottom, he realized he had found the lower section down the hill behind the chapel. A hallway stretched from the double doors past a door on either side ending at a wide door with a sign overhead labeled, crematorium. A door on one side was labeled, viewing room. The other door, the mortuary, had to be where the buzzer reached.

Grasping the cool knob sent a shiver up his arm, and he froze. He imagined an employee working with music playing over headphones and hadn’t heard the buzzer. Not wanting to surprise anyone, or walk in to see something disgusting, he knocked loudly.

“Hello? I’m looking for Nine.”

He heard a faint hum coming from inside.

Opening the door, Peter felt cool air rush over him and smelled refrigerant of an old air-conditioning system. Quickly, he stepped inside and closed the door to keep the heat out of the mortuary.

Three stainless steel tables, islands on crisp white tile, ran down the center before a wall with rows of large, square drawers for holding bodies in cold storage. Beside them, an industrial freezer and rows of shelves. The nearest table was empty, the second held a pile of clothing. A body rested on the last.

Peter stood near the door and gazed at the corpse in the back. Pale flesh, a female entirely exposed. Her dark hair fanned out within a bowel-shaped head rest. Young, too, she appeared a teenager or a not much older. Studying the ridge of the corpse’s nose, the cleft in the chin, the curve on those blueish lips.

The corpse held an uncanny resemblance to Nine.

Sneaking closer, Peter felt a pang in his gut as he spotted the edge of the tattoo on her lower arm. He quickened his pace and his shoes screeched on the tile. This close left no doubt.

Nine’s arm felt cool as if she had been recently removed from cold storage. It felt wrong gazing at her nude body. Morticians worked on naked corpses, naturally, but it still felt improper to look upon her body.

Glancing around the room, Peter searched for signs of an employee. Would they just leave a body out unattended? Someone needed to tell him what had happened.

Which, if foul play, they’d still have the body at police morgue. A day was too soon to go from illness to the morgue.

Nothing made sense.

Bending over, Peter took a closer look. Perfectly still, not a breath she took.

“Nine,” said Peter.

She opened her eyes.

Leaping back, Peter skidded on the tile, heart thumping and head rushing. Catching hold of the other table, he managed to remain standing.

Sitting up like the dead reawakening, she gazed at him. No laughter, not even a smile for the cruel joke. She just sat there, legs over the edge of the table, her hands at her sides. When she spoke, her voice sounded hollow.

“Hello, Peter Gray.”

Thyme, a word derived from the Greek, thymus, stood for courage. Until finding the Chinese symbol for courage on the coffin, Nine hadn’t considered the family having Chinese origins. She had chosen her tattoo with Chinese symbols because it looked cool, but she began to realize there had been more—whispers from ancestors in her blood—behind her decision on her sixteenth birthday. In the nineteenth century, Chinese immigrants had arrived to help build the railroad, so a culture clash between European and Chinese ancestry was probable. Nine considered perhaps Vampire Thyme wasn’t as old as Augustus had believed unless Xavier and his boss, Yasmine, were mistaken.

Or Vampire Thyme had taken to resting here in his later years. Did vampires actually sleep in coffins? It seemed silly. More reasonable to expect family secrets or a fallen offspring within the coffin.

Nine shivered, and her stomach twisted into knots.

She recalled the blood splattering her face shield as she sawed away at the neck of the Itoril held by his skull on the mortuary table. Yesterday she had murdered, and tonight she invaded a forgotten ancestral tomb. Whatever happened to simple evenings of painting the faces on corpses? Now she wished she had gone to work at Peter’s restaurant. Recently Peter had dealt with a late-night robbery, minor excitement compared to her week full of murder and pompous Itorils.

Waving her phone splashing the light around, Nine searched the chamber. Dog prints, coyote perhaps, tracked over the dusty stone floor. An animal carcass, broken bones and bits of hide, sat in a corner.

For a quick photo of the etching, Nine crept over to the foot of the coffin. As she stepped beside the wall, her shoe caught something, and she felt it depress into the stone beneath her toe.

A click, and the wall beside her moved, grumbling loudly, descending into the floor. Swinging her phone around, she aimed the light into a passageway meeting stone stairs leading upwards into darkness.

“Holy shit,” said Nine.

Her voice surprising her, she clamped her hand over her mouth.

Curiosity pulled her into the passageway, and she climbed the narrow stairs. At the top, she found another chamber. Two sarcophagi, one on each side, sat against the walls. Ahead, a narrow window revealed the graveyard along the woods lit by a lamp over the walking path.

The family sepulcher.

Nine stepped inside, and the floor rumbled. Spinning around, she splashed the light at the wall rising up from the floor and thumping against the ceiling hiding the passageway.

“Gotta be kidding me,” she said, nearly whispering.

Dabbing her toe at the floor, she searched for a button that might trigger the secret door. Nothing. Moving the light around, she examined the empty walls.

Her phone display flashed the low battery warning.

No signal within the heavy stone structure; no calling for help before the battery died.

At the window, she took in the slow-motion melting glass over the bottom ledge and examined the top, glass so thin it barely clung to the frame. Knocking out the window and wriggling out appeared a possibility as a last resort. She spotted the markings in the dust, her name written backward on the inside. At least now she knew the trickster had a way in and out down the stairs through the old tomb.

Turning back to the secret door, she examined the wall between the two sarcophagi. With the light held close to the wall, she could make out the edges of the secret exit. Standing before the door, she began tapping the floor with her toes. If this door was anything like downstairs, the pressure stone should be off to the side. She dabbed at the floor in one direction and then tapped her way in the other.

The bare walls didn’t offer any clues.

Shining the light at the base of one sarcophagus, at a bronze plaque set into the stone, she learned the name of one of her mysterious ancestors: Mathilda Thyme. On the topic of the secret exit, the base remained as silent as the walls.

Reading the plaque beneath the other box, Nine froze.

January Nine

She had never been told she had been named for an ancestor, stranger still, a woman with a date for a name—assuming it truly was ner name. So odd and so connected, she felt a strong desire to look inside the stone coffin.

Nine turned off the flashlight and slipped her phone into her pocket. Stepping to the end she hoped was the head, she squatted. With both hands, she gripped the lid and pushed the hefty top. Dry air puffed out the crack. Grumbling against the friction, the lid came to a stop leaving a foot-wide gap.

She pulled her phone out, tapped the flashlight icon, and aimed the light inside.

Empty. Clean, too, as if never occupied.

The phone flashlight went out, and the murky glow from the narrow window cast the sepulcher in a gloom.

“Naturally,” said Nine, referring to the empty resting place. The strange name had to be an answer to a riddle, but what was the question? It didn’t make much sense leaving a clue on an empty sarcophagus inside a sepulcher unless the location was part of the riddle.

Reaching into the box, she began feeling around the smooth surface searching for a button or lever that might open the door. Stretching deeper, she wriggled into the narrow opening. Smooth as a tub and free of dust, nothing hid within the sarcophagus.

Her stomach tumbled over, insides lurched, and she felt nauseous. Scrambling, she pulled herself out and took in a gulp of air. Sitting on the edge of the box, she held her head in her hands and waited for her stomach to settle.

Images of the Itoril man, his head locked in a vice on the mortuary table and clawing at her, came slamming into the forefront of her mind. She watched it again, cutting furiously into the Itoril’s neck, the blood splattering over her vision.

Gut rumbling, hot liquid charged up and stung her throat. She swallowed the burning back down.

Trying to expel the horror away, Nine focused on her immediate problem. Somehow, ɘniИ had found her way out and pulled that prank cutting all the flowers in the chapel. The prankster was out there somewhere now, but who was ɘniИ? The sepulcher and the tomb below appeared barely touched ruling out a resident or frequent visitor.

Standing, Nine felt a click beneath her heel, and the room rumbled. In the dim light she could barely make out the wall opening up at the top of the stairs. Peering down into the shadows beside her feet, she wiggled her foot around feeling the indentation in the floor up against the pedestal, an unlikely place to step.

Nine tasted blood.

She licked her finger. Holding her hand up to the light, she found nothing, but the taste remained. She shook her head in disgust at memories messing with her mind.

Arms outstretched, she felt her way into the narrow opening and down the stairs. Spotting light seeping in from the gate, she scurried for the exit eager to get home and into the bathtub. Legs weakening, she slumped against the wall. The air grew heavy. Her head floated.

Darkness embraced her.

---

Peter continues with his take on this Nine business in Memory Thief 1, or stay with NINE/ƎИIИ in 11. 9 PM.

Thank you!

The images on the vampmobile’s high-resolution window displays revealed a video of the road heading out of Roseland on the way home, but the shifting weight didn’t quite match the view.

Nine said, “You’re not taking me home, are you, Miss Yasmine with-a-wy”

A tap on the tablet, and the screen cast a pale blue glow onto Yasmine’s face revealing her pleasant expression. A quick glance, the male went back to looking at the view that appeared to be the highway heading through tall evergreens illuminated by lamplights.

Yasmine swiped her finger on the tablet screen, and the images on the false-windows changed to dark stone walls supported by white columns zipping by. The car drove through a narrow tunnel.

“I truly hate commute traffic,” said Yasmine. She swiped her finger on the tablet, and the windows reverted back to the wooded scene. “Trees are prettier. Don’t you think?”

Nine asked, “Where are you taking me?”

“Home, sweetie,” said Yasmine, “but first I’d like to show you something as a sign of good faith.”

“For what exactly?” said Nine.

Yasmine said, “I’d like to invest in Thyme with money and equipment, resources to help improve and expand your harvesting. The tiny amount you procure with those antiquated needles simply won’t do.”

“Wait,” said Nine, “what do you even want with venom?”

“Xavier, dear,” said Yasmine, “isn’t Miss Thyme just the most adorable little thing ever? The ignorance of their kind never ceases to amaze me.”

“Drugs,” said Nine, speaking in defense of her species. “You’re talking about a drug business, but why don’t you get it yourselves? Why do you need my funeral home?”

As she heard her own words, she realized she had stumbled. She winced.

“The penis thing,” said Nine. “You need a human front else you’d all be swinging your dicks at each other. Or teeth, I guess.”

Smiling devilishly, Yasmine said, “There’s hope for you yet, young Miss Nine Thyme.”

The limousine stopped at a wide spot in the corner switchback of a narrow road snaking up a hill through the forest. Located along the western edge of the graveyard, the street looped above the main road providing access to seven homes nestled in the woods.

“Xavier here will show you my gift,” said Yasmine. She turned off the tablet, and darkness filled the car. Her iridescent eyes narrowed. “Then take your time considering my offer. Enjoy a bubble bath if that helps. I want you give this careful consideration before we speak again.”

The door opened, panel lights illuminating the pavement and the trees off the edge of the road. Somehow the false view within the tunnel had merged seamlessly with the true view outside the car somewhere back on the road. Nine couldn’t imagine the equipment necessary, but it seemed an extravagant trick.

Xavier led the way onto an unmarked hiking trail. His dark clothing made him difficult to follow in the woods. Nine pulled out her phone and selected the flashlight.

“My apologies, Miss Nine of Thyme,” said Xavier. His voice, smooth nearly sang. “I sometimes forget the limits of your kind,” he said.

Nine said, “You’re her bodyguard, aren’t you?”

Climb turning steep, Nine used her free hand to hold onto a rock and crawl up. Spotting Xavier’s outstretched arm, she hesitantly took hold of his hand.

“You don’t remember me do you young miss?” said her guide.

Xavier with his wavy hair could have passed for a rockstar during her father’s younger years, and she thought she should remember something like that. A familiarity coursed through his hand and into hers, but she couldn’t place the male Itoril.

“Your sixteenth birth anniversary, I believe,” said Xavier.

A tug, he lifted Nine off her feet like she was weightless, carried her by the arm around him, and set her down on top of the incline.

Xavier said, “Augustus had been searching for this tomb for some years.”

Waving the light, Nine looked over the stone structure half-buried in silt with two trees growing out of the top. It reminded her of a burial mound, but this tomb had been submerged by the passage of time, erosion bringing the hillside down around it. By her estimation the tomb had to be located just beneath the graveyard proper nearest the funeral home. The entrance in the center was blocked by a rusted iron gate and moss-covered rocks on the ground. Her light shone inside revealing rubble and a narrow hall receding into the darkness.

“Miss Nine of Thyme,” said Xavier. Lowering his head, he bowed. “Allow me to introduce your namesake,” he said.

Nine gasped in disbelief. The first Thyme had to be several generations older than the family funeral home. Had her grandfather’s grandfather built the funeral home on land owned by the family since prior generations? She hadn’t realized the Thyme’s influence in Roseland had begun so long ago.

Noticing the broken lock, she pulled on the gate. Screeching against hinges, the gate opened and knocked against a rock. The opening appeared barely wide enough for a slender person to squeeze inside. Best to return in daylight with safety gear, but a quick look inside would help decide what to bring.

Squeezing between the gate and stone made her wish she hadn’t treated herself with a bag of late-night munchies. Noticing Xavier getting an eyeful of her boobs squished against the bars, she poked her tongue out at him. He grinned like the devil and turned his gaze away. The Itoril man’s broad torso prevented him from entering, and he did not appear interested in climbing over, so she was on her own. That was more than fine. She didn’t need venomous fangs hovering over her within a creepy old burial chamber.

After the rubble at the entrance, the stone floor was clear of debris. The passage led deeper than she had imagined. The tomb had been built into the earth after all. Reaching a chamber, she stopped and waved her light around. At the back stood a copper and black iron coffin with a silver etched inlay on the lid, the Chinese symbol for courage.

It was after dark by the time Nine exited the Roseland Police Department in downtown. She had spent the entire day answering questions, or at least it felt like the entire day. Most of the morning she had spent in a waiting room. Her shift at the restaurant started in twenty minutes, and she still needed to ride the bus home to fetch her work clothes.

Did she even want to work tonight? Talking things over with Peter sounded nice, but solitude called her home. Tapping on her phone, she sent Peter a message asking for the night off.

The police had questioned her about the murder. Their only suspect in custody, they had asked about the decapitated body and its missing head. She had held it together throughout the questioning, and the investigator’s cluelessness had made it easier for her to lie.

Now, she felt like hurling. Her stomach did one of those twisting-tumbling things, but nothing came up. Her knees weakened, but she trudged on trying to think about Peter with his warm smile.

At the crowded sidewalk, she rose up on her toes searching for the bus stop.

A black limousine stopped at the curb beside her. As she began to make her way, the door popped open and the driver climbed out.

“Miss Thyme?” said the driver.

Freezing in place, Nine gave the driver a bewildered look and watched him stroll to the back of the car. He opened the door. Did he expect her to climb into that thing?

The car behind honked.

“Miss Thyme,” said the driver. He tipped his cap. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

“I don’t know what your game is,” said Nine, “but I’m not in the mood. Besides, my grandfather taught me never to climb into cars with strange men.”

Horns rippled down the street.

“Miss Thyme,” said the driver, “traffic grows impatient.”

Nine stepped closer, peered into the backseat of the car, and spotted legs in black slacks. The three-inch heeled shoes appeared sharp yet functional.

From within the darkness, a hand with pink polished nails emerged, beckoning.

Nine had a bad feeling this woman had come on account of the murder. This sort of business shouldn’t wait, and the empty leather seat at the back offered rest for her weak stomach. She told the driver she wanted to go home. Ducking down she crawled onto the seat.

The door closed, and the interior grew freakishly dark. The windows hardly let any light in at all, but somehow she could see out the tinted glass well enough. As her eyes adjusted, she found the woman seated opposite her, or rather she found a shaded figure of a woman. The car moved passing a streetlamp, but the interior remained curiously dark.

Light exploded illuminating the front of the woman. She wore a suit including slender necktie. Her blonde hair was held up in a loose bun by pointy hair sticks. A business lady, and pretty enough to have passed as runway model in her younger years. The glow came from the screen of a tablet computer resting on a table folded out from the side of the car.

Within the light, Nine found another occupant sitting beside the woman. A handsome man with raven hair, long and wavy. He gazed out the window beside him.

“Miss Nine Thyme,” said the woman, tasting the words. “I like the sound of that like little bells tinkling as one speaks,” she said. A hum, she made an exagerrated sound of pleasure. “Nine Thyme,” she said again as if sampling the sound.

Nine said, “I always thought my parents were weird naming me a number.”

“I like numbers,” said the woman. “I can manage great things with numbers.”

Nine began feeling uncomfortable with the way the woman spoke, superior, and it somehow reminded her of a serpent.

“You may call me, Yasmine,” said the woman. “That’s with a wy although originally a jay.”

Nine tried on a polite smile. She supposed everyone had a bad habit of mispronouncing her name, and it upset the woman.

“For years now,” said Yasmine, “Thyme Funeral and Stratton Enterprises have enjoyed a cooperative relationship, one that I wish to continue.”

Turning a corner, weight shifting in the car, Nine felt disoriented. The timing of the lean didn’t match the changing view making her stomach tumble until the car straightened out.

“Since you’re the new head of Thyme,” said Yasmine, “I’d like to offer you my support in ensuring your success.”

Nine asked, “Is this about my father?”

Pushing the tablet computer aside, Yasmine set her hands on the table and leaned closer. Slowly licking her upper lip, the woman revealed her fangs: dangerous compared to Lamia’s tiny teeth.

“To the point then,” said Yasmine. Her blue eyes roving, she studied Nine from head to toe and top again. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep your employees in line and out of my hair.”

“He shouldn’t have murdered that Itoril man,” said Nine. It wasn’t a lie exactly. Her father had intended to kill.

“That I don’t mind, sweetie,” said Yasmine. “I have no issue with you little persons managing to kill one of our big and nasties. I say good for you.” She nodded. “Well done,” she said.

The slow, condescending speech made Nine feel like she represented the human species.

“Sebastian Thyme has killed before,” said Yasmine. Sitting back, she folded her arms. “I admire his skill and perseverance.”

Hearing her father had made murder a habit surprised her.

“You’re new and cute as a button, so let me explain.” Yasmine licked her lip, mouth wide revealing more of her impressive teeth. “Fangs and venom in our world are sort of like men and their penises in your world. Not really, but so you understand. Those of us with venom rule the shit out of those without.”

Nine closed her eyes as she mentally scolded her father with an I-told-you-so look. He had known, though, hadn’t he? He had killed them before, but more importantly, Sebastian was a Thyme.

“Taking our venom,” said Yasmine, “or worse our fangs, is more than a tad disrespectful.”

“We extract venom from the dead to send back to you!” said Nine, clamping her mouth shut before uttering anything about Vampire Thyme and his quota.

Raising a hand, Yasmine pointed her finger in the air. “Only when our cleaner sends you a body for disposal do you harvest for us. That’s our agreement.”

The tablet screen went out, and darkness consumed the interior of the car.

Looking at the windows, at the lack of light penetrating inside, Nine realized the view was a generated image. The windows weren’t windows at all, but digital screens. As long as the doors remained closed, no sunlight would pierce inside this vampmobile.

Yasmine’s eyes creeped out of the darkness like glow-in-the-dark dust with flickering red embers at the very center of her pupils producing a chromatic dazzle through the wispy shapes within her irises, beautiful and eerie. The other occupant’s eyes did the same only his orbs darker. Nine had seen Itoril orbs flicker before, but never with Hell’s rage.

A lump in her throat, Nine swallowed. The Thyme’s had attracted the attention of someone important, a venomous Itoril ruler taking time out of her busy day to chat and offer her—a nobody—a ride home.

She studied the window screens, paying close attention to the shifting weight of the car out of sync with the view, and began to doubt she headed home at all.

---

Vampmobile-tech first appeared in Raven Memory, a novel with Yasmine as the antogonist. Yasmine also made an appearance in Kandy Book 1, "Yasmine."