Kandy Fangs

Vampire 4. About Death...

2015-04-02T11:02:48-07:00

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

2015-03-26T18:13:18-07:00

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

2015-03-19T11:30:46-07:00

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

2015-03-13T00:36:36-07:00

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

2015-03-05T12:00:55-08:00

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.

Memory Thief 4. Nine After Nine

2015-02-27T04:30:27-08:00

Note: this episode with Peter is the same scene as the previous post from Nine's perspective. Choose your path.

Walking up the hill, Peter quietly made his way through the cemetery. The time, nine after nine, his phone told him. Looking up, he found Nine approaching. It felt as though the universe was trying to tell him something. Nine never came after nine. There was only Nine. He had seen her earlier in the evening inside the funeral home, and here she came again, on the time.

Nine after Nine.

She wore a coat over what appeared to be a nightshirt leaving her legs bare with wool socks scrunched down to her sneakers. Her attire made her appear younger, childlike.

“Tara has been in your head, Peter.”

“Tara is as real to me as you are standing before me now.”

Nine stepped closer and twirled her hair the way girls do when they want to be noticed. Unlike that other Nine he had found playing dead in the mortuary, this was the Nine he knew. Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close into a hug. She squeezed him back.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better now,” said Peter. “You had me worried earlier.”

Releasing hold, Nine stepped back and shook her head. “I’m sorry I missed your calls. My phone’s battery had died.”

“Not that. In the mortuary.”

She shot him a peculiar look. “What about the mortuary?”

Was she trying to forget her embarrassment? He hugged Nine.

Peter walked with Nine between a row of graves making their way up the hill. Reaching out he wrapped his fingers around hers. Nine squeezing his hand reassured him of her support. Seeing her free hand twirling her hair left no doubt about her interest.

Approaching the back end of the cemetery behind the funeral home, Peter spotted a shadow melting out of the woods and stretching along the path. Defying the lamplight, the shade grew bolder oozing into a woman’s curvy figure. It stopped near a sepulcher.

Freezing in place, Peter gawked at a shadowy, nearly ethereal woman dressed in denim. He hadn’t expected to find Kandy haunting him outside the restaurant.

Releasing Nine’s hand, he folded his arms and dove straight into business about the strange letter that had accompanied Kandy’s belongings.

“Do you know Steve Reynolds?”

The reply came hammering into his head. Not words exactly, but a voice of thought his mind translated for him.

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

“Peter,” said Nine, “is your sister with us?”

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

The bags of blood and serum had arrived within a coffin along with a sword and a notebook full of chemistry notes. He had gathered from Steve’s letter, Kandy had used a coffin as a lockbox. The odd delivery apparently held sentimental value.

“Who are you speaking with, Peter?”

“Nine, Kandy is here.”

Kandy glanced around. Her gaze returned a menacing bolt.

Who the hell is Nine?

Realizing Nine and Kandy couldn’t see the other dampened any semblance of sanity, but he remained resolved on getting answers.

“The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.”

Let’s have it then.

“Peter, I think that stuff might be drugs and will give you hallucinations.” Concern filled Nine’s voice.

“I’m sorry, it was stolen.”

The thought pierced his head as Nine’s voice reached his ear; the two women spoke as one, “We need to get it back.”

Glancing at Nine, Peter found her expression twisting between concern and confusion. Returning his attention on his visitor, he found the path empty. Nothing stood among the graves. Beside the path, the lone stone tomb slept soundly.

Kandy’s sudden disappearance forced doubt, a dagger piercing into his head.

Only Nine stood with him, his Nine after Nine.

NINE/ƎИIИ 12. Nine After Nine

2015-02-26T07:45:13-08:00

Note: this episode with Nine is the same scene as next post from Peter's perspective. Choose your side.

After locking the front door and turning out the light in the office, Nine headed downstairs and out the back. Holding her coat closed over her nightshirt, she made her way down the hill and into the graveyard. Checking her phone, she found two missed calls from Peter, one left while she had been inside the Thyme Tomb. After nine o’clock in the evening was an unexpected time to find Peter visiting the graveyard considering his restaurant remained understaffed.

Peter had come to visit the grave of his sister, Tara Gray. At the restaurant, Peter had been imagining his dead sister helping out, delivering wine and filling in behind the bar. Tara had supposedly been there for the team photograph. Of course, no one else had seen Peter’s sister. Records had pointed Peter to Thyme Funeral Home and the graveyard on the hill.

Nine said, “Tara has been in your head, Peter.”

Peter offered a polite smile and said, “Tara is as real to me as you are standing before me now.”

And the restaurant owner was right, wasn’t he? Peter didn’t strike her as a crazy person. He always seemed so calm and understanding. After all the reading about vampires, all she knew about the semi-secretive Itoril people, how could she deny that Peter saw his sister? Tara’s ghost may not be an actual spirit, but Tara could be something only Peter saw.

Reaching out, Peter pulled Nine into a hug. Warm and wonderful, Nine squeezed him as she imagined life without corpses, murders, and vampires. The simple life of working with Peter in the restaurant was a dream where the biggest concern was running out of booze.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better now,” said Peter. “You had me worried earlier.”

Releasing hold, Nine stepped back and shook her head. “I’m sorry I missed your calls. My phone’s battery had died.”

“Not that,” said Peter. He nodded up the hill at the funeral home. “In the mortuary,” he said.

Nine winced. She asked, “What about the mortuary?”

How much had Peter heard about the murder? As far as anyone knew the shooting took place in town, and her father had been arrested at the funeral home. No one needed to know she had sawed the head from that Itoril man.

Her stomach began twisting about, and she buried her face against Peter’s chest to hide her guilt. The hug worked its magic melting her sin away.

Together they walked quietly between a row of graves. His hand took hold of hers, and she squeezed his fingers feeling like a teen sneaking through the cemetery for a naughty night of passion.

At the top of the hill nearing the family sepulcher, Peter stopped suddenly and released her hand. He gazed at something with intensity. Nine searched the rows of grave markers, the stone tomb, and the path leading back towards the woods. She found nothing, but whatever Peter had seen made him tremble.

“Do you know Steve Reynolds?” said Peter. He stared at the area between the path and the sepulcher.

“Peter,” said Nine, “is your sister with us?”

“He sent me your car, weapons, some blood and a serum,” said Peter.

He appeared calmer now, but he continued watching the same ghost or whatever he imagined there. It couldn’t be his sister, Tara, though. The car had come from someone else. Steve? No, a woman, Nine felt certain the car had belonged to a woman.

Nine asked, “Who are you speaking with, Peter?”

Peter glanced over and said, “Nine, Kandy is here.” Looking towards the sepulcher, he continued speaking to the invisible woman. “The serum is supposedly a cure for you and I.”

They had found the bag of clear goo within the coffin, and though it hadn’t quite appeared like venom, Nine held a growing suspicion the serum was based on Itoril venom. That it could be a cure for anything seemed crazy. A cure for reality, perhaps.

“Peter,” said Nine, firmly. “I think that stuff might be drugs and will give you hallucinations.”

“I’m sorry,” said Peter, addressing the other woman, “it was stolen.”

A bag of venom that big could solve her quota problem for the year.

“We need to get it back.”

Peter flashed Nine a peculiar look. His expression darkened, and he began glancing around as if searching for something. The invisible woman. Kandy had left him.

Memory Thief 3. The Ghost of Tara Gray

2015-02-19T18:52:27-08:00

listen to ‘The Ghost of Tara Gray’ on audioBoom

Peter Gray had lost track of how long he had spent in the cemetery on the hillside. He gazed at the grave and studied the markings. Both there and not, he stood, caught between one second and another.

Checking his phone, he found the time. At seven minutes after nine in the evening it was getting late. He thought he should get back to the restaurant. No call had beckoned him, though. They could manage without him for a few minutes longer.

The grave consisted of a block of stone among a crowded grid of stones. All that remained of his sister was dust in a box buried beneath grey stone marked, Tara Gray.

Hit by a car three decades ago, according to reports, but her memory followed him still.

Weekly visits at the restaurant, wine deliveries, her presence found and never missed. His big sister had watched over him, had argued with him, and had teased him before going on her way. And she always returned, each week at the restaurant, to this very day.

Tara hadn’t followed him here, naturally. Her ghost standing over her grave would shatter this reality. Another Tara Gray, she would say. He’d listen, and dream his life away.

And for good reason. The stone beside hers marked the grave of her sibling, Peter Gray.

Not other Grays, Peter decided. Ghosts were lingering memories, and he held onto the ghost of Tara Gray. He wondered to whom his memory belonged if not to the dead resting on the side of the hill.

Vampire 1. Memory Lane

2015-02-13T00:01:41-08:00

Smashing down on the accelerator pedal and turning the wheel, I drove into the other lane and around a slow-moving SUV. I listened to the roar of the engine and felt the pounding pistons working inside me. Streetlights flickered like strobes in a dance club. God damn, I loved driving my old Ford Fairlane! It thundered like rock-and-roll and grooved like jazz.

I hadn’t bothered with the headlights allowing my eyes to feed on the glory of night. Gaseous clouds hung over street lamps, the light splashing cold fires onto tree limbs and the roadway. Twin stripes of irradiated flames marked the recent passing of a car headed around the corner and up the hill. Taillights bathed the trees in red, the blood forest welcoming me home. Pushing on the accelerator, pistons thundering, I raced around the car and into the night beneath a deep-violet sky dotted by embers.

Déjà vu all over again, I glanced in the mirror and spotted the wraith riding in back.➥ In a blink, I found the rear seat empty.

On the passenger side, Laura sat with her head slumped against the side window. Her eyes shut tight she held an expression of fear mixed with rage. Laura had become my anchor along the shore. If I let go of her, I went adrift in a sea of time. A twisted irony, my strongest hold turned out to be a teen addicted to Itoril venom and its synthetic replicant, vampire ice, along with all the disgusting habits that came with teens.

“Kandy, could you turn on the headlights?” Laura scowled. “I’d at least like to know if we’re about to hit a deer or a person crossing the road.”

The streetlights gave way to the darkness of the woods, the occasional house splashing its lights onto the roadway. The west hills over Roseland were home to well-to-do residents, old cemeteries, wildlife, and my Fairlane howling to the stars.

“Or, you know,” said Laura, “a goddamn driver pulling out onto the road unable to see our car!”

Another memory I didn’t share with Laura. Having my anchor with me also illuminated my future. Unfortunately, the predictions were full of useless information or mundane activities I could have guessed.

The Fairlane screamed up the hill, and branches sped by like gnarled fingers scratching at the star-filled violet sky. Cresting the top, I spotted a glowing figure on the roadway. I smashed on the brake pedal and swerved, but it was too late.

Memory creeping out of the shadows, I spotted the woman on the road. It had been the night after the space shuttle had exploded. Ghosts on collision, the Fairlane clipped the woman and sent her body into the air. I watched it happen, as it had happened, all over again, my purgatory pain crying in my head.

I slammed on the brakes, and the tires screeched on the pavement. Laura lunged forward, her hands striking the glove box, her legs floating, and the lap belt held her. The Fairlane came to a stop, and I slipped it into neutral. The engine responded with a throaty growl. I released the throttle letting the engine fall into a rumble.

“Shit, Kandy, are you trying to kill us?”

Looking out the driver’s side window, I found the city lights sparkling down in the valley below. Beyond the passenger side stood the hillside where the dead rested, one of several boneyards in the west hills. This one was the oldest and held a cold corner in my heart.

Up the hill a ways the entrance found me and pulled me inside. I parked beside an old hearse without wheels, hubs on cinder blocks. Darkness blanketed the lot. The shapes of the buildings stood in the fog. Only one shadow I recognized, the old house on the far left. Instead of the paved parking lot, my memory held a dirt drive snaking through the trees up to the house. I cut the engine, and the stillness crept inside carrying the whispers of the dead.

“What the hell?” said Laura. “Why did you bring me to a funeral home?”

“I’m glad I made it here without driving into yesterday.”

Opening the glove box, I retrieved my Colt 1911 pistol and checked the ammunition. Loaded since whenever I had put it there. Laura frowned at the weapon. Realizing I hadn’t worn my shoulder holster, I slipped the gun into my jacket pocket.

Leaving my Fairlane behind, I casually explored the front of the property with Laura at my side. The sidewalk led to three entrances, the first an office door and the second a showroom full of caskets visible behind the large window. Yellow police ribbon criss-crossed over both doors. The third entrance, double-doors to the chapel, was covered in spray-paint graffiti. No light. The lamps had all been broken, shattered glass on the concrete walkway.

Laura held up her phone using its light to read the graffiti.

“Can your phone tell us what happened here?”

“Christ, Kandy, for the third time, it’s google. Yes, I can google that for you.”

Laura tapped her finger on the phone display summoning the help of google-eyed people. Before my fall from the position of Executioner, computers had sat on desks and phones had allowed vocal communication or texts. I had yet to witness Laura using her phone to hold a conversation. Instead, the device was her pocket computer she used to take photos, share pictures, or retrieve information the google-eyed individuals had aggregated.

“Thyme Funeral busted for manufacturing the drug, vampire ice.” Laura continued reading quietly, her eyes growing bigger. “Kandy, these dudes were up to their assholes in Vamp Ice. And I shit you not, the master-mind bad-ass is a woman!”

On the walking path cutting through the woods, I held Laura’s hand. I kept her from tripping over rocks and roots, and she held me against the raging currents of time. It seemed like every few steps the shadows clawed at me, and briefly silence fell over me as I snatched at the ghostly hand of my anchor until I found my way back to the path.

The graveyard hadn’t changed all that much, but recent residents were added to the bottom of the hill. Near the top, the dead of the prior century rested peacefully, unchanged since my early years.

Among the graves, an island of fog rolled into itself, swirling, and a shadow emerged. The figure strolled closer, and I recognized the ethereal face of Peter Gray.

NINE/ƎИIИ 11. 9 PM

2015-02-05T19:00:13-08:00

Dressed in her nightshirt and wool socks, Nine carried the Thyme Guide to Vampires into the library. On the table a mug contained a moist bag of tea. She found bits of dirt on the leather chair, which seemed odd. She swiped the seat clean and sat down.

On odd sensation crept inside her.

Thumbing through the pages of the guide, she searched for a reference to January Nine. Stopping at the end of the third chapter, she reviewed the final questions Augustus had posed.

Upon consuming enough blood and memory could the vampire become its victim? Or was the consumed knowledge used for some other nefarious purpose?

Her father wasn’t the man she thought she knew. Hunting pseudo-vampire people was a secret worth keeping from her. Samuel Thyme was still Augustus’s son, though, wasn’t he? The idea that a vampire could disguise himself as, or worse become, her father sent chills splashing from head to shoulders.

Searching the Thyme Tomb so soon after the murder had been a mistake leaving her feeling drained and on the verge of catching ill. Thankfully Xavier had waited outside the gate to help her return home.

Nine continued flipping through the guide. If only Augustus had included an index, her search might be easier. A digital version would make this chore a snap. As she reached near the tail end of the book, she began to realize she’d need to read every page to be certain if January Nine appeared at all.

She slammed the book closed.

Looking at the mug on the table, Nine realized she hadn’t set it there. With her father in a holding cell at the police station, she was all alone at the funeral home. A puddle of tea remained at the bottom of the mug.

Someone had been inside the library.

Speaking quietly, she said, “ɘniИ?”

She felt silly calling the trickster out. Anyone sneaky enough to cut flowers behind her back and remain hidden in the chapel wasn’t about to jump out and share a laugh.

Nine set the book on the table and hurried out of the library. Down the hall and around the corner, she reached the office and opened the door. The light was on as she had left it.

She crept over to the open door and peeked into the showroom. The caskets remained in their usual positions. Perfect hiding place, though. She recalled as a young girl sneaking inside caskets to spook her grandfather. At the window, she pulled the curtain open and gazed outside.

Beside the hearse, the old classic car Peter had recently inherited from a stranger sat quietly beneath the lamplight.

What was Peter doing here instead of minding the restaurant? The car appeared empty, and no one stood out front. If the bell had rung, she missed it. Had Peter left the mug on the table? Nine o’clock at night seemed rather late for a visit.

Nine called out Peter’s name and listened.

As she waited for a reply, she began to recognize that odd sensation. Someone was watching. Besides the caskets, the big desk offered an easy opportunity for any kid playing hide-and-seek. Peter wasn’t the child-play type. ɘniИ, however.

Nine crept around the desk and bent over for a look. Nothing to her relief, and she felt ridiculous for checking. It was the mug out of place that had thrown her off is all.

Peter had to be outside, the graveyard perhaps. Nine went to fetch her coat. The sensation of a watchful eye followed her.