Victor Gischler - Vampire A Go-Go

“Motherfucker!” Clover stumbled back, fell onto the bed, and scooted back all the way to the headboard, her arms flung up to fend off the apparition.

“It’s me, Clover,” the old woman said. “Do not be alarmed.”

Clover blinked, looked more closely at the pale figure, who hovered, mostly transparent, the rest of the room visible behind her. Wait. Clover knew this lady. “Margaret?”

“Yes, child. Where are the others?”

“Sam is here,” Clover said. “We can’t find Amy. Where are you?”

“I’ve gone beyond,” Margaret said. “But I managed one last spell, something I set up ahead of time just in case. You must listen to me, Clover. Jackson Fay is a traitor. He has betrayed the Council. He murdered Blake and me.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why else would I appear to you in this fashion?” asked the ghost. “Fay has betrayed us.”

“But he’s in the other room right now. With Sam.”

“Flee, child. Go while you can.”

“But Sam.”

The ghost began to fade. “I must warn others. My time is limited. It’s… difficult to judge time where I am. I think I’ve only been this way a few short hours, but another part of me feels as if I’ve always been here. So gray and silent. I must go.”

And she was gone.

Clover sat on the bed, stunned.

Sam. Clover could not- would not-leave without Sam. She went to her backpack to search for something she’d prepared several weeks ago, a spell she’d been afraid to try. Now was the time.

She found the plastic baggy, opened it, put the contents into her pocket. Ash. It seemed only like simple ash, but it had been prepared, with so many ingredients-herbs, a goat’s heart, and the crushed bones of a cripple. She’d had to do a little grave robbing for that one. It had all been mixed and blasted in an iron furnace. If she could catch Fay by surprise, fling it in his eyes and say the words-yes, it might work. He’d be paralyzed for several hours-or maybe only seconds. The old book hadn’t been clear. It was suicide to go against a wizard like Fay toe to toe, but that’s not what she had in mind. She just wanted to slow him down, give herself and Sam a chance to get the hell out of there.

She went to her bedroom door, put her ear against it but heard nothing. She turned the knob quietly and pushed the door open barely a sliver so she could take a peek.

She clapped her hand over her own mouth to stifle a surprised gasp.

Sam reclined naked on the couch, arms and legs spread, a clear invitation. Fay approached her. He was naked too, his erection pulsing at Sam, bobbing as he stepped closer to mount her.

Clover backed away from the door, searched the room with her eyes, and saw a large ceramic vase. She grabbed it, hit the door at full speed on the way into the next room. Fay looked up, startled, then backed away from Sam, his eyes momentarily showing surprise, then narrowing to anger. Clover raised the vase over her head with both hands, grunted, and heaved. It flew.

And cracked square against the center of Fay’s forehead, ceramic shards flying in every direction.

Fay cursed, stumbled back over a coffee table, and crashed into the room service carts. A tumult of dishes and silverware. Fay lay groaning, tangled in the tablecloth.

Clover was at Sam’s side in a second, grabbed her arm, yanked. “Come on!”

Sam only looked up at her, that dreamy expression on her face.

“Damn it!” Clover grabbed the closest ice bucket and dumped it on Sam’s head. “Snap out of it.”

Sam screamed, sputtered. “What the f-fuck?” She looked down, saw herself naked, and yelped.

Fay lurched to his feet, a gash on his forehead bleeding freely. He wiped the blood out of his eyes and glared rage at Clover. “Bitch!”

Clover shoved Sam. “Run!”

Sam jumped up from the couch, sprinted for the door.

“I don’t think so.” Lightning leaped from Fay’s outstretched fingertips, crackled and struck Sam in the back. She froze for a split-second as the entire room went white. Then she collapsed, eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open, smoke rising from her dead body.

“You son of a bitch.” Clover spun on Fay. She reached into her pocket, came out with a handful of ash, and flung it into his eyes, the long-memorized command words tumbling from her mouth.

Nothing happened.

Fay bent down, grabbed a napkin from the wrecked room service cart, and wiped the ash from his face. Then he began to laugh.

No. Clover shook her head, couldn’t believe it. I did everything right. I know I did. It should have worked .

“Surprised?” Fay asked. “Poor little girl can’t make her magic work.”

Tears welled in her eyes. No. There had been a mistake. This wasn’t right. Sam. Was Sam really dead?

Clover turned, ran for the door.

Fay cut her off, grabbed an arm, twisted it behind her back. Pain lanced up through her shoulder, and she went rigid. Suddenly there was a blade at her throat. She wept, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.

“You spoiled the party,” Fay said. “Now, why would you do that?”

“I… I…” What could she say? Oh, Sam. Poor Sam.

“I would have let you join in,” Fay said. “Would that have been so bad? All I needed was a ride from the airport, and if you’re not going to provide me with any entertainment, then I’m afraid you’re no longer of any use, young lady.”

Clover drew a breath for a scream, but nobody ever heard it. Fay’s blade bit quick and deep.

Allen got on his hands and knees, and peered under a thorny bush. “I mean, Jesus. You know? What am I supposed to think? It’s like I don’t even know you.”

Penny followed behind him, still buttoning her shirt. “It’s not an easy thing to tell somebody, okay? I mean, hell, remember Jenny Mackenzie from Victorian lit last semester? She got the clap over the summer and still hasn’t told her boyfriend.”

“This is different.”

“Of course it’s different. It’s always different.”

“But you’re very very different.”

“You don’t have to treat me any different,” Penny insisted. “I don’t need your… your racism.”

“Racism? It’s not like you’re Chinese.”

“Animalism then,” Penny said. “Whatever.”

“I mean, you’re a… a-”

“Don’t say it!”

“Say what?”

“Werewolf,” Penny said. “We hate that word.”

Allen walked in a widening circle, bent over, scanning the ground. The first rays of dawn helped only a little. “What’s the right word?”

“Lycanthrope.”

“Lycan-what?”

“Lycanthropy is a disorder,” Penny said. “A rare virus in conjunction with an even rarer genetic predisposition. The Third Vatican Council ruled it as a medical condition. As opposed to the work of Satan.”

“I’ve never heard of a Third Vatican Council.”

“You’re not supposed to have.” Penny scanned the ground now too. “Where did you drop it?”

“I don’t know,” Allen said. “I was slightly terrified at the time.”

“Following your scent was the only way I could think to find you, and I can only do that in wolf form. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?”

Allen sighed. “I just need to let this sink in. It’s been a strange couple of days.”

“For me too,” Penny said. “That’s not really how I wanted you to see me naked for the first time.”

“Over here!” Amy’s voice came from forty yards away, through more thick bushes.

Allen and Penny found Amy. She handed him the manuscript, still bound up with twine and newspaper. There were leaves in Amy’s hair, grass stains on her shorts.

“It seems okay.”