Many Bloody Returns Read online

  When the last reverberation had shivered into silence, Eric raised his own glass high and said, “On this most memorable of days, we stand together in awe and hope that the Lord of Darkness will honor us with his presence. O Prince, appear to us!”

  We actually all stood in hushed silence, waiting for the Great Pumpkin—oh, wait, the Dark Prince. Just when Eric’s face began to look downcast, a harsh voice broke the tension.

  “My loyal son, I shall reveal myself!”

  Milos Griesniki leaped from behind the bar, pulling off his tux jacket and pants and his shirt to reveal…an incredible jumpsuit made from black, glittery, stretchy stuff. I would have expected to see it on a girl going to her prom, a girl without much money who was trying to look unconventional and sexy. With his blocky body and dark hair and mustache, the one-piece made Milos look more like an acrobat in a third-rate circus.

  There was an excited babble of low-voiced reaction. Calvin said, “Well…shit.” Colonel Flood gave a sharp nod, to say he agreed completely.

  The bartender posed regally before Eric, who after a startled instant bowed before the much shorter vampire. “My lord,” Eric said, “I am humbled. That you should honor us…that you should actually be here…on this day, of all days…I am overcome.”

  “Fucking poser,” Pam muttered in my ear. She’d glided up behind me in the hubbub following the bartender’s announcement.

  “You think?” I was watching the spectacle of the confident and regal Eric babbling away, actually sinking down on one knee.

  Dracula made a hushing gesture, and Eric’s mouth snapped shut in midsentence. So did the mouths of every vamp in the place. “Since I have been here incognito for a week,” Dracula said grandly, his accent harsh but not unattractive, “I have become so fond of this place that I propose to stay for a year. I will take your tribute while I am here, to live in the style I enjoyed during life. Though the bottled Royalty is acceptable as a stopgap, I, Dracula, do not care for this modern habit of drinking artificial blood, so I will require one woman a day. This one will do to start with.” He pointed at me, and Colonel Flood and Calvin moved instantly to flank me, a gesture I appreciated. The vampires looked confused, an expression which didn’t sit well on undead faces; except Bill. His face went completely blank.

  Eric followed Vlad Tepes’s stubby finger, identifying me as the future Happy Meal. Then he stared at Dracula, looking up from his kneeling position. I couldn’t read his face at all, and I felt a stirring of fear. What would Charlie Brown have done if the Great Pumpkin wanted to eat the little red-haired girl?

  “And as for my financial maintenance, a tithe from your club’s income and a house will be sufficient for my needs, with some servants thrown in: your second-in-command, or your club manager, one of them should do….” Pam actually growled, a low-level sound that made my hair stand up on my neck. Clancy looked as though someone had kicked his dog.

  Pam was fumbling with the centerpiece of the table, hidden by my body. After a second, I felt something pressed into my hand. I glanced down. “You’re the human,” she whispered.

  “Come, girl,” Dracula said, beckoning with a curving of his fingers. “I hunger. Come to me and be honored before all these assembled.”

  Though Colonel Flood and Calvin both grabbed my arms, I said very softly, “This isn’t worth your lives. They’ll kill you if you try to fight. Don’t worry,” and I pulled away from them, meeting their eyes, in turn, as I spoke. I was trying to project confidence. I didn’t know what they were getting, but they understood there was a plan.

  I tried to glide toward the spangled bartender as if I was entranced. Since that’s something vamps can’t do to me, and Dracula obviously never doubted his own powers, I got away with it.

  “Master, how did you escape from your tomb at Târgovişte?” I asked, doing my best to sound admiring and dreamy. I kept my hands down by my sides so the folds of rosy chiffon would conceal them.

  “Many have asked me that,” the Dark Prince said, inclining his head graciously as Eric’s own head jerked up, his brows drawn together. “But that story must wait. My beautiful one, I am so glad you left your neck bare tonight. Come closer to me…ERRRK!”

  “That’s for the bad dialogue!” I said, my voice trembling as I tried to shove the stake in even harder.

  “And that’s for the embarrassment,” Eric said, giving the end a tap with his fist, just to help, as the “Prince” stared at us in horror. The stake obligingly disappeared into his chest.

  “You dare…you dare,” the short vampire croaked. “You shall be executed.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. His face went blank, and his eyes were empty. Flakes began to drift from his skin as he crumpled.

  But as the self-proclaimed Dracula sank to the floor and I looked around me, I wasn’t so sure. Only the presence of Eric at my side kept the assemblage from falling on me and taking care of business. The vampires from out of town were the most dangerous; the vampires that knew me would hesitate.

  “He wasn’t Dracula,” I said as clearly and loudly as I could. “He was an impostor.”

  “Kill her!” said a thin female vamp with short brown hair. “Kill the murderess!” She had a heavy accent, I thought Russian. I was about tired of the new wave of vamps.

  Pot calling the kettle black, I thought briefly. I said, “You all really think this goober was the Prince of Darkness?” I pointed to the flaking mess on the floor, held together by the spangled jumpsuit.

  “He is dead. Anyone who kills Dracula must die,” said Indira quietly, but not like she was going to rush over and rip my throat out.

  “Any vampire who kills Dracula must die,” Pam corrected. “But Sookie is not a vampire, and this was not Dracula.”

  “She killed one impersonating our founder,” Eric said, making sure he could be heard throughout the club. “Milos was not the real Dracula. I would have staked him myself if I had had my wits about me.” But I was standing right by Eric, my hand on his arm, and I knew he was shaking.

  “How do you know that? How could she tell, a human who had only a few moments in his presence? He looked just like the woodcuts!” This from a tall, heavy man with a French accent.

  “Vlad Tepes was buried at the monastery on Snagov,” Pam said calmly, and everyone turned to her. “Sookie asked him how he’d escaped from his tomb at Târgovişte.”

  Well, that hushed them up, at least temporarily. I began to think I might live through this night.

  “Recompense must be made to his maker,” pointed out the tall, heavy vampire. He’d calmed down quite a bit in the last few minutes.

  “If we can determine his maker,” Eric said, “certainly.”

  “I’ll search my database,” Bill offered. He was standing in the shadows, where he’d lurked all evening. Now he took a step forward, and his dark eyes sought me out like a police helicopter searchlight catches the fleeing felon on Cops. “I’ll find out his real name, if no one here has met him before.”

  All the vamps present glanced around. No one stepped forward to claim Milos/Dracula’s acquaintance.

  “In the meantime,” Eric said smoothly, “let’s not forget that this event should be a secret amongst us until we can find out more details.” He smiled with a great show of fang, making his point quite nicely. “What happens in Shreveport, stays in Shreveport.”

  There was a murmur of assent.

  “What do you say, guests?” Eric asked the non-vamp attendees.

  Colonel Flood said, “Vampire business is not pack business. We don’t care if you kill each other. We won’t meddle in your affairs.”

  Calvin shrugged. “Panthers don’t mind what you do.”

  The goblin said, “I’ve already forgotten the whole thing,” and the madwoman beside him nodded and laughed. The few other non-vamps hastily agreed.

  No one solicited my answer. I guess they were taking my silence for a given, and they were right.

  Pam drew me aside. She made an annoyed s
ound, like “Tchk,” and brushed at my dress. I looked down to see a fine spray of blood had misted across the chiffon skirt. I knew immediately that I’d never wear my beloved bargain dress again.

  “Too bad, you look good in pink,” Pam said.

  I started to offer the dress to her, then thought again. I would wear it home and burn it. Vampire blood on my dress? Not a good piece of evidence to leave hanging around someone’s closet. If experience has taught me anything, it’s to dispose instantly of bloodstained clothing

  “That was a brave thing you did,” Pam said.

  “Well, he was going to bite me,” I said. “To death.”

  “Still,” she said.

  I didn’t like the calculating look in her eyes.

  “Thank you for helping Eric when I couldn’t,” Pam said. “My maker is a big idiot about the prince.”

  “I did it because he was going to suck my blood,” I told her.

  “You did some research on Vlad Tepes.”

  “Yes, I went to the library after you told me about the original Dracula, and I Googled him.”

  Pam’s eyes gleamed. “Legend has it that the original Vlad III was beheaded before he was buried.”

  “That’s just one of the stories surrounding his death,” I said.

  “True. But you know that not even a vampire can survive a beheading.”

  “I would think not.”

  “So you know the whole thing may be a crock of shit.”

  “Pam,” I said, mildly shocked. “Well, it might be. And it might not. After all, Eric talked to someone who said he was the real Dracula’s gofer.”

  “You knew that Milos wasn’t the real Dracula the minute he stepped forth.”

  I shrugged.

  Pam shook her head at me. “You’re too soft, Sookie Stackhouse. It’ll be the death of you some day.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so,” I said. I was watching Eric, his golden hair falling forward as he looked down at the rapidly disintegrating remains of the self-styled Prince of Darkness. The thousand years of his life sat on him heavily, and for a second I saw every one of them. Then, by degrees, his face lightened, and when he looked up at me, it was with the expectancy of a child on Christmas Eve.

  “Maybe next year,” he said.

  The Mournful Cry of Owls

  Christopher Golden

  Christopher Golden is the author of novels including The Myth Hunters, Wildwood Road, and Of Saints and Shadows, and the Body of Evidence series of teen thrillers. With Thomas E. Sniegoski, he is the coauthor of the dark fantasy series The Menagerie, the young readers fantasy series OutCast, and the comic book miniseries Talent. Golden was born and raised in Massachusetts, where he still lives with his family. He is currently collaborating with Hellboy creator Mike Mignola to write Baltimore, or, the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire. Please visit him at www.christophergolden.com.

  On a warm, late summer’s night, Donika Ristani sat on the roof outside her open window—fat-bellied acoustic guitar in her hands—and searched for the chords that would bring life to the music she knew lay within her. The shingles were warm from the sun, though an hour had passed since dusk, and the smell of tar and cut grass filled her with a pleasant summery feeling that kept her normally flighty spirit from drifting into fancy.

  The radio played in her room, competing with the music of the woods around the house—the crickets and owls and rustling things—which grew to a crescendo as though attempting to draw her down amongst the trees. Her fingers plucked and strummed, for she despised the use of a pick, and she discovered a third melody that created a kind of balance between the radio and the woods, the inside and outside.

  Joe Jackson sang “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” Donika liked the song well enough, but her thoughts were elsewhere, thinking about inside and outside—about the person she was for her mother’s sake, and the person that all of her instincts told her she ought to be. She found herself strumming Harry Chapin’s “Taxi,” lost in her head, and singing along to the weird bridge in the middle of the tune.

  I’ve been letting my outside tide me over ’til my time runs out.

  The truth frustrated the hell out of her and she brought her right hand down on the strings to stop herself playing another note of that song. Her gaze drifted down her driveway to the darkened ribbon of Blackberry Lane, searching for headlights, for some sign of her mother’s return. Without so much as a glimmer from the road, she looked out across the thick woods north of the house, impatient to be down there, following the path to Josh Orton’s house. He’d be waiting already, and she could practically feel his arms around her, his face nuzzling her throat.

  Donika laughed softly at herself; or perhaps she sighed. She couldn’t tell the difference sometimes.

  The DJ did his cool voice and introduced the next tune. Donika smiled and started playing the first notes on her acoustic before it even started on the radio. Bad Company. “Rock and Roll Fantasy.” Good song. Her bedroom walls were covered with posters for Pink Floyd, Zeppelin, and Sabbath, but she liked a little bit of everything. Most of her girlfriends would have laughed at some of the stuff she sang along to on the radio. Or maybe not. Hell, most of them thought Donna Summer the pinnacle of musical achievement.

  Now she wished she’d listened more closely to the Joe Jackson tune. She might have to break into her babysitting stash to buy that album.

  Her fingers moved up and down the frets, playing Bad Company by ear. She’d never played the song before, but the guitar was like an extension of herself and picking out the notes presented no greater difficulty than singing along. The crickets had gotten louder, but she managed not to hear them. The radio crackled a bit; some kind of interference, maybe the weather or a passing jet. She didn’t understand such things very well. Turn on the box, the music came out. What else did she need to know?

  The heat of the day still lingered in her skin the same way it did in the shingles. No more sticky humidity, so that was nice. She felt comfortably warm up there in her spaghetti strap tank top and cutoff jeans, as if the sun had gotten down inside her instead of setting over the horizon, and it would hide there until morning.

  Owls cried out in the woods, and Donika glanced up, searching the trees as though she might spot one, the strings of her guitar momentarily forgotten. Other people thought they were funny birds, but she had always heard something else in their hooting, a terrible sadness that she wanted to answer with her own frustrations.

  A flash of light came from the road. She watched the headlights move along Blackberry Lane and her breath caught as she thought of Josh again. When the car drove by without slowing, she sighed and lay against the slanted roof, the shingles rough and hot against her back. She hugged the guitar and wondered if Josh was sitting outside, waiting for her, or if he was up in his room listening to music on his bed. Both images had their appeal.

  Somehow she missed the sound of an approaching engine and looked up only as light washed across the trees and she heard tires rolling up the driveway. Donika sat forward as her mother’s ancient Dodge Dart putted up to the house. When she turned off the engine, it ticked and popped, and then the door creaked open.

  “Get off that roof, ’Nika!”

  The girl laughed. The woman had eyes like a hawk, even in the dark.

  She slipped in through her bedroom window and put away her guitar before going downstairs. Her mother stood in the kitchen, looking through the day’s mail. Qendressa Ristani had lush black hair like her daughter, but streaked with gray. She wore it pulled back tightly. Though her mother was nearly fifty, Donika thought her hairstyle too severe, more appropriate for a grandmother. Her clothes reflected the same sensibility, which probably explained why she never dated. Though she’d given up wearing black a decade or so back, Donika’s mother still saw herself as a widow. Men might flirt with her—she was prettier than most women her age—but Qendressa would not encourage them. She’d been widowed young, and had no desire to replace the only man s
he had ever loved.

  Her life was the seamstress shop where she worked in downtown Jameson, and the home she’d made for herself and her daughter upon coming to America a dozen years before. But her Old World upbringing still persisted in many ways, not the least of which was her insistence on using herbs and oils as homegrown remedies for all sorts of ills, both physical and spiritual.

  “How was your day, Ma?”

  “Eh,” the woman said, “is the same.”

  Donika grabbed her sandals and sat down at the table, slipping one on. Her mother dropped the mail on the table. As she slipped on her sandals, she looked up to find her mother staring at her.

  “Where you going?”

  “Josh’s. Sue and Carrie and a couple of Josh’s friends are there already waiting for me. We’re going to walk into town for pizza.”

  “You going to hang around those boys dressed like that?”

  Donika flushed with anger and stood up, the chair scraping backward on the floor.

  “Look, Ma, you need to get off this stuff. This is 1979, not 1950, and we’re in Massachusetts, not Albania. You want me to be home when you get back from work so you won’t worry about me? Okay, I sort of understand that. I don’t like it, but I get it. But look around. I don’t dress differently from other girls. Turn on the TV once in a while—”

  “TV,” her mother muttered in disgust, averting her eyes.

  “I’m going to be sixteen tomorrow,” Donika protested.

  Qendressa Ristani sniffed. “This is supposed to make me less worried? This is why I worry!”

  “Well, don’t! I’m fine. Just let me enjoy being sixteen, okay?”