Dead Roses for a Blue Lady (11 page)

I tried to reach into her mind but Fiona had been around long enough to know what a probe felt like. She furrowed her brow and snapped her teeth in rage, saliva flying from her lips. It would take too much time to breech her defenses and wrest control of her motor center. Better to get this over with as quickly as possible, before one of the neighbors decides to call the cops.

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) I flexed my right arm, freeing the switchblade from its sheath inside the jacket's sleeve. It fell butt-first into my cupped palm, filling my hand like an old friend glad to see me. I ran my thumb across the dragon wrapped about the handle, pressing the ruby chip that served as its eye, and the silver blade sprang forth, quick as a serpent's tongue. The ogresses'

piggy little eyes narrowed in confusion as she spied the weapon in my hand. Vampires don't need to fill their hands with weapons in combat.

I feinted with the knife, making as if I was going to stab her in the belly. The ogress moved to block the blow, just as I knew she would. At the very last moment, I drove the blade into her left eye. Unfortunately, doing so meant I was within striking distance of her talons. I felt a sharp pain, then saw the end of my nose fly across the room in a spray of brackish blood, but I did not dare let go of the switchblade. However, I
did
twist the knife all the way around in the socket.

The ogress shrieked like a wounded panther as she pushed me away. She staggered drunkenly towards the crib, the switchblade still jutting from her eye, blood pouring from her nose and ears. Ogres are not fatally allergic to silver the way vampires and vargr are, but a knife in the brain is a bad thing, no matter what species you are. Fiona's legs buckled on her third step and she grabbed the crib to try and keep from falling, smearing gore across the headboard. She gargled something in the language of her kind—doubtless a curse on my head— and collapsed, face-first, onto the floor, the switchblade punching its way through the back of her skull like an ice pick going through a ripe cantaloupe. I nudged her in the ribs with my boot, then flipped her over in order to retrieve my blade, wiping it clean on my jacket sleeve.

As I stood up, I touched the tip of my nose or, rather, where the tip of my nose
used to
be.

My fingers came away sticky with the thick, blackish-red ichor that passes for my blood. It would take a day's rest to reconstruct the damage, nothing more. I'd have to spend the rest of the night walking around looking like Michael Jackson, but it was far preferable to trying to get across town while holding my intestines in place with a borrowed dinner plate.

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) Now that Fiona and Garth were taken care of, the last thing on my "to do" list for the night was the whelp. I leaned over the crib, knife at ready, but all I found was a tangle of bedclothes and a teddy bear with its ears chewed off.

"Don't hurt my brother."

Tiffany was standing in the farthest corner of the room, clutching a squirming bundle to her thin chest. I have to admit I was surprised she was still alive. A bruise was already spreading its dark bloom across her cheek and her lower lip was swollen to twice its normal size, but otherwise she looked okay.

Realizing what I must look like, I tried my best not to frighten her, but I had to get the whelp away from her.

"Tiffany...honey. Give me the whelp."

Tiffany tightened her grip on the whelp and drew away, even though she knew she had no hope of escaping. "I won't let you hurt Cully."

"Tiffany...He's
not
your brother. Fiona tricked your father into thinking the whelp was his so he would help feed and care for it. Once it was old enough to walk and talk, Fiona was going to
feed
you to it. It's an ogre...a
monster.
..just like Fiona and Garth."

Tiffany shook her head, tears building in her eyes. "But he's just a
baby!
See—?" She flipped back the blanket, exposing the whelp's face.

To my surprise, it was actually cute, the same way baby rhinos and gorillas are "cute." It looked human enough to fool the casual observer, although the width of its jaw and the shape of its skull and brow were unusual. The fact it already had teeth at the age of three months was something of a giveaway, too.

"You love your cissy, don't you, Cully?" Tiffany cooed.

The whelp smiled broadly and reached out with a pudgy hand capped with tiny, pointed fingernails, and squeezed Tiffany's nose, giggling with babyish glee.

"See? He
loves
me!"

The ogre whelp bared its milk fangs and hissed like a startled kitten, clawing the air in my direction.

"Yes. I see." I replied, stepping forward.

"No!"
Tiffany wailed, pulling her precious bundle tight to her chest. "Who
says
he has to be like them?"

"He's an ogre, Tiffany. That's just how ogres
are."

"But what if I teach him to be a
good
monster?"

I shook my head, marveling over how the kid was busting my chops. "Tiffany, that's impossible."

"
Why
is it impossible?" she asked, her voice trembling on the verge of tears. "Just because he
is
a monster doesn't mean he has to
be
a monster!
You're
a good monster, aren't you?"

I opened my mouth, but could not find anything to say.

"I knew you didn't want to hurt me," Tiffany said. "Fiona thought you wanted to eat me.

But
I
knew you were different. I don't know why, but I just
did."

I cocked my head and dropped my vision into the Pretender spectrum. There was a faint glimmer of intuition about the child's head; not enough to qualify as a sixth sense, but enough to be of use in tight situations. I wondered if she had been born with it, or whether her ordeal had forced its development.

I turned and left the bedroom, stepping over the cooling bodies of mother and son, and

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) entered the combination living room and kitchen. Tiffany's father was curled up in the middle of the floor in a fetal position, muttering to himself under his breath as he rocked back and forth. He lifted his head upon hearing my footsteps.

"Fiona
—?" he whispered hoarsely.

I lifted Tiffany's father by the collar of his shirt and carried him into the bedroom like a kitten. Upon seeing the body of his second wife splayed in a slowly expanding pool of her own blood his entire body began to shake.

"Thank God"
he sobbed.
"Thank God, thank God..."

I let go of him and he staggered for a second, then regained his footing. I didn't know how much longer Tiffany's father had to go, but at least he had enough sanity left to rejoice over his captor's demise.

"Do you have family elsewhere?"

Tiffany's father nodded weakly. "Yes. Back in Kentucky."

I reached into the inner breast pocket of my jacket and removed the thick fold of hundred dollar bills I kept there for emergencies. "Take this. Pack what you can in two suitcases and simply go. Don't worry about the cops. There's no way in hell the authorities are going to pursue this, believe me. Besides, homicide only applies to human beings. Take Tiffany and the baby and walk away like this never happened.

Tiffany's father shot a fearful look at Cully, who promptly bared his little milk fangs and growled. Tiffany's father looked back at me.

"Are you sure?"

I glanced at the snarling ogre whelp, then at Tiffany's tear-stained face.

"Family is family. Whatever else he might be, he's still your son, " I lied.

With that I turned my back on Tiffany, her father, and Cully and walked out of the apartment and their lives. I had done what I could, now it was up to them to claim whatever destiny had in store for them. I have not seen or heard from them since. Nor do I expect to.

Every now and again, though, I wonder whether I made a mistake not destroying the whelp when I had the chance. But then I remember how the ogre smiled and cooed in Tiffany's arms, and the love that burned in her eyes for the monstrous infant she had claimed as kin, and my doubts are set aside.

There is a character from one of the old Oz books called The Hungry Tiger. Like his companion, The Cowardly Lion, he was a most uncommon talking beast. Although The Hungry Tiger longed to eat fat babies, and even drooled when he thought about it, his conscience would not allow him to do such a horrid thing. He was a beast who often displayed more humanity than the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve who surrounded him. There is a lesson in that.

There is no telling what role nature plays over nurture in human families, much less those of ogres. If it turns out I made the wrong decision, then Tiffany and her father shall no doubt pay with their lives, if they have not done so already. But if it turns out I made the right decision...well, the world can stand a few more tender-hearted tigers.

VAMPIRE KING OF THE GOTH CHICKS

The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says
lounge.
The Johns are

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) always backing up and the place perpetually stinks of piss.

During the week its just another neighborhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies. Not a Bukowski amongst them. But, since the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea of change come Friday night. The bar's clientele changes radically; growing younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven's booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. Still not a Bukowski amongst them.

This Friday night is no different from any other. A knot of goth kids are already gathered outside on the curb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands as they talk amongst themselves. Amidst all the bad Cure haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder, and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.

Normally I don't bother with joints like this, but I've been hearing this persistent rumor that there's a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such rumors for myself. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing—but occasionally there's something far more sinister at the heart of urban legends.

The interior of The Red Raven is crowded with young men and women, all of whom look far stranger and more menacing than myself. What with my black motorcycle jacket, ratty jeans, and equally tattered New York Dolls T-shirt, I'm somewhat on the conservative end of the dress code.

I wave down the bartender, who doesn't seem to consider it odd I m sporting sunglasses after dark, and order a beer. It doesn't bother me that the glass he hands me bears visible greasy fingerprints and a smear of lipstick on the rim. After all, it's not like I'm going to drink from it.

Now that I have the necessary prop, I settle in and wait. Finding out the low down in places like this isn't that hard, really. All I've got to do is be patient and keep my ears open. Over the years I've developed a method for listening to dozens of conversations at once—sifting the meaningless ones aside without even being conscious of it most of the time, until I find the one I'm looking for. I suspect its not unlike how sharks can pick out the frenzied splashing of a wounded fish from miles away.

" —
told him he could kiss my ass goodbye
—"

"—
really liked their last album
—"

"—
bitch acted like I'd done something
—"

"—
until next payday? I promise you'll get it
—"

"—
of the undead. He's the real thing
—"

There. That one.

I angle my head in the direction of the voice I've zeroed in on, trying not to look at them directly. There are three of them—one male and two female—apparently in earnest conversation with a young woman. The two females are archetypal goth chicks. They look to be in their late teens, early twenties, dressed in a mixture of black leather and lingerie and wearing way too much eye make-up. One is tall and willowy, her heavily-applied make-up doing little to mask the bloom of acne on her cheeks. Judging from the roots of her boot-black hair, she's probably a natural dishwater blonde.

Her companion is considerably shorter and a little too pudgy for the black satin bustier she's shoehorned into. Her face is painted clown white with an ornate tattoo at the corner

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) of her left eye, which I've been told is more in imitation of a popular comic book character than a tribute to the Egyptian gods. She's wearing a mans riding derby draped in a length of black lace that makes her look taller than she really is.

The male member of the group is tall and skinny, outfitted in a pair of leather pants held up by a monstrously ornate silver belt buckle and a leather jacket. He isn't wearing a shirt, his bare breastbone hairless and a tad sunken. He's roughly the same age as the girls, perhaps younger, constantly nodding in agreement with whatever they say, nervously flipping his lank, burgundy-colored hair out of his face. It doesn't take me long to discern that the tall girl is called Sable, the short one in the hat Tanith, and that the boy is Serge.

The girl they are talking to has close-cropped Raggedy Ann-red hair and a nose ring. She is Shawna.

Out of habit, I drop my vision into the Pretender spectrum and scan them for signs of inhuman taint. All four check out clean. Oddly, this piques my interest. I move a little closer to where they are standing, so I can filter out the Marilyn Manson blaring out of the nearby jukebox.