Thea Harrison: Serpent's Kiss

Rune stripped off his earbuds and put away his iPod, then he pushed through the revolving doors and surveyed the main lobby. It was dominated by uniformed security guards, metal detectors, and lines of people that led up to bulletproof glass-plated windows. He rubbed the back of his neck and was about to step outside and check the number on the building again when he heard his name called from the bank of elevators across the lobby. He swiveled back around.

Duncan the Vampyre strode toward him. Dressed in a black Ralph Lauren suit with matching shoes, the male stood around five-foot-eleven. Razor-cut dark hair lay sleek against his well-formed head, and he had pleasant features and intelligent eyes. Duncan gestured to a security guard, who opened a side gate and invited Rune to step through.

“I just arrived, myself,” said Duncan. The Vampyre held out his hand.

Rune shook it. The Vampyre’s grasp was strong and cool. “I was going to step outside to make sure I had the right address. What is going on here in the lobby?”

Duncan turned back to the elevators. Rune fell into step beside him, shortening his longer stride to accommodate the other male. Duncan told him, “The Bureau of Nightkind Immigration occupies the first three floors of the building. This is where humans apply for visas to become Vampyres—”

Shouting at one of the plateglass windows interrupted him. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be another four fucking months! My father has stage four cancer—he doesn’t have another four months to wait!”

Rune glanced at the man who was shouting then back at Duncan, who gave him a slight wince. They reached the elevator bank where Duncan punched the top button on the panel for the fifty-fifth floor. As they stepped into an elevator, Duncan continued, “Understandably enough, the visa process can get emotional, which is why there is such a strong security presence in the lobby.”

Two security guards were walking toward the altercation as the elevator doors closed. Rune said, “Just out of curiosity, what happens to visa applications for people who are terminally ill? Is that guy going to be able to get his father’s case expedited?”

“Probably not,” said Duncan. “There are always sad cases, and there are too many desperate dying people.”

“Dude,” said Rune. “Ouch.”

The Vampyre glanced at him. “I do not mean to be unsym-pathetic. But to put this into perspective, the United States received an estimated fourteen million applications for the Diversity Green Card Visa in 2009. The North American Nightkind demesne gets close to ten million visa applications in a year, and our screening process must not only be more rigorous than the federal government’s, but we can grant far fewer visas than the 2.5 million visas the United States granted.”

“Holy shit,” said Rune.

“We’re the only demesne that must regulate itself in such a fashion,” said Duncan. “The long-lived Elder Races have correspondingly low birthrates. Even for the human witches, nature regulates those who are born with sparks of Power, and not all of those born with the inherent ability choose to study the Power crafts. Vampyrism is a dangerous infectious disease, not just physically but socially. It used to be the purview of the rich, the beautiful, and the Powerful, or anyone who caught a Vampyre’s fancy for whatever reason. We can no longer afford to be so capricious. I helped to coauthor the original visa application process in the early 1900s, which goes through updates and improvements every ten years. Each year we also coordinate with the CDC in Atlanta to arrive at a total for the number of applications we are allowed to approve.”

“You just took all the fun out of the Vampyre movies,” said Rune. “How many applicants could you approve last year?”

“Two thousand.”

He whistled between his teeth. “Those numbers are killer.”

“Yes,” said Duncan. “That is why visa applications are almost never expedited.”

“What would it take to get a rush on one?” Rune asked, curious.

Duncan shook his head. “A personal request from Julian or Carling could drop-kick it through, of course, or an edict from the Elder tribunal. Frankly, not much else could do it. And now applicants must not only prove they have sound financial investments and prospects—such as they have the capacity to be gainfully employed—but they must also undergo a psychological evaluation. They must also provide documentation to prove they have a Vampyre willing to host them, or in other words provide stability, discipline and training for the first five years after they’re turned. That is when most of the ten million applications hit the trash can. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Nowadays the application process is online. We have developed a sophisticated software program that automatically rejects applications that have not been filled out properly, or have failed to meet all the initial paperwork requirements.”

Rune said, “So what you’re actually saying is that in order to become a Vampyre, you have to prove you have money or can make money, and you have to be computer literate, which knocks out a good portion of the country that lives on the wrong side of the growing digital divide. I hate to burst your bubble, but I think you might be headed back to the place where Vampyrism is the purview of the rich, the beautiful and the Powerful.”

Duncan laughed. They arrived at the fifty-fifth floor. When the elevator doors opened, they stepped into corporate luxury. Opposite the bank of elevators, Turner & Braeburn, Attorneys at Law was spelled out in gleaming slim gold letters on the dark marble wall.

Duncan led the way in a swift stride down tastefully decorated, busy halls to a corner office. Rune sent a curious glance around as he ambled along behind. The Attorneys at Law were having their version of a busy Friday morning.

“The system isn’t perfect,” Duncan said. “The bottom line is the Nightkind demesne is trying to avoid letting poor, crazy, blood-sucking immortals loose on the streets to become a burden on the more normal tax-paying society. But here’s the kicker.”

Duncan paused talking and stopped at open double doors. With a polite gesture he invited Rune to precede him. Rune strode into an office with a floor space that was a thousand square feet if it was an inch. Metallic shutters had been pulled back from the two walls of windows, and outside the entire Bay Area, including bridges, was ablaze with electric light. The sun had set and all that was left of its memory was a bloodred glow on the ocean’s darkening horizon.

Rune swiveled back to face Duncan, who had closed the doors. The Vampyre turned to face him.

Duncan said, “Everything I just told you is the official Nightkind demesne procedure. We’re required by federal law to follow it, but it’s like the U. S. war on drugs, or worse, the HIV epidemic. How do you really regulate something that is just a living heartbeat, a heated moment, and a blood exchange away?”

“I’m guessing I know the answer to that,” Rune said. “You can’t.”

“Exactly,” Duncan replied. “Of course we can’t. We can set regulations, issue visas, and work to enforce consequences, but we still have our illegals and crazies, and our non-registereds. Do we possibly know what a Vampyre is doing in your demesne in New York, or the Demonkind demesne in Houston? Of course not, just as you have no idea what individual Wyr might be doing in Chicago. Our police force is effective so we can keep a tight lid on what is visible to the public here in our demesne, but we can only do so much. Also, many of the older Vampyres resent the new restrictions, and they still follow the old ways in regulating their family trees—through secrecy, domination and violence.”