Dead Roses for a Blue Lady (12 page)

Shawna shakes her head and smiles nervously, uncertain as to whether she's being goofed on or not.

"C'mon—a
real
vampire?"

"We told him about you, Shawna, didn't we, Serge?" Tanith looks to the gawky youth hovering at her elbow. Serge nods his head eagerly, which necessitates his flipping his hair out of his face yet again.

"His name is Rhymer. Lord Rhymer. He's three hundred years old," Sable adds breathlessly.

"And he said he wanted to meet you!"

Despite her attempts at post-modern death-chic, Shawna looks like a flattered schoolgirl.

"Really?

I can tell she's hooked as clean as a six-pound trout and that it won't take much more work on the trio's part to land their catch. The quartet of black-leather clad young rebels quickly leave the Red Raven, scurrying off as fast as their Doc Martens can take them. I give it a couple of beats then set out after them.

As I shadow them from a distance, I can't shake the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Although I seem to have found what I've come looking for something's not quite right about it, but I'll be damned (I know—I'm being redundant) if I can say what.

In my experience, vampires avoid goths like daylight. While their adolescent fascination with death and decadence might, at first, seem to make them natural choices as servitors, their extravagant fashion sense draws far too much attention. Vampires prefer their servants far more nondescript and discrete. But perhaps this Lord Rhymer, whoever he may be, is of a more modern temperament than those I've encountered in the past.

I don't know what to make of this trio who seem to be acting as his judas goats. Judging by their evident enthusiasm, perhaps "converts" is a far more accurate description than servitors. They don't seem to have the predator's gleam in their eyes, nor is there anything resembling a killer's caution in their walk or mannerisms. As they stroll down the darkened streets their chatter is more like that of mischievous children out on a lark—say T.P.ing the superintendent's front lawn or soaping the gym teacher's windows. They certainly aren't aware of the extra shadow that attached itself to them the moment they left the Red

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) Raven with their fresh pick-up.

After a ten minute walk they arrive at their destination—an abandoned church. Of course.

It's hardly Carfax Abbey, but I suppose it will do. The church is a two-story wooden structure boasting an old-fashioned spire, stabbing a symbolic finger in the direction of heaven.

The feeling of ill-ease rises in me again. Vampires dislike such obvious lairs. Hell, these aren't the Middle Ages. They don't have to hang out in ruined monasteries and family mausoleums anymore—not that there are any to be found in the U.S. anyhow. No, contemporary bloodsuckers prefer to dwell within warehouse lofts or abandoned industrial complexes, even condos. I tracked one dead boy to ground in an inner-city hospital that had been shut down during the Reagan administration and left to rot. I suspect I'll have to start investigating the various military bases scheduled for shut-down for signs of infestation within a year or two.

As I watch the little group troop inside the church, there is only one thing I know for certain—if I want to know what's going down here, I better get inside. I circle around the building, keeping to the darkest shadows, my senses alert for signs of the usual sentinels that guard a vampire's lair, such as ogres and renfields. Normally vampires prefer to keep their bases covered. Ogres for physical protection, renfields— warped psychics—to protect them against psionic attacks from rival bloodsuckers.

I reach out with my mind as I climb up the side of the church, trying to pick up the garbled snarl of ogre-thought or the tell-tale dead-space of shielded minds that accompany renfields, but all my sonar picks up is the excited heat of the foursome I trailed from the Red Raven and a slightly more complex signal from deeper inside the church. Curiouser and curiouser.

The spire doesn't house a bell—just a rusting Korean War-era public address system dangling from frayed wires. As it is, there is barely enough room for a man to stand, much less ring a bell, but at least the trapdoor isn't locked. It opens with a tight squeal of disused hinges, but nothing stirs in the shadows at the foot of the ladder below. Within seconds I find myself with the best seat in the house, crouched in the rafters spanning the nave.

The interior of the church looks appropriately atmospheric. What pews remain are in disarray, the hymnals tumbled from their racks and spilled across the floor. Saints, apostles, and prophets stare down from the windows, gesturing with upraised shepherd's crooks or hands bent into the sign of benediction. I lift my own mirrored gaze to the mullion window located above and behind the pulpit. It depicts a snowy lamb kneeling on a field of green and framed against a cloudless sky, in which a shining disc is suspended.

The large brass cross just below the sheep-window has been inverted, in keeping with the desecration motif.

The only light is provided by a pair of heavy cathedral-style candelabras, each bristling with over a hundred dripping red and black candles, flanking either side of the pulpit. The goth kids from the Red Raven gather at the chancel rail, their faces turned towards the pulpit situated above and just behind the black-velvet draped altar.

"Where is he?" whispers Shawna, her voice surprisingly loud in the empty church.

"Don't worry," Tanith assures her. "He'll be here."

As if on cue, there is a smell of ozone and a gout of purplish smoke rises from behind the pulpit. Shawna gives a little squeal of surprise despite herself and takes an involuntary step

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) backward, only to find her way blocked by the others.

A deep, highly cultured masculine voice booms forth. "Good evening, my children. I bid you welcome to my abode, and that you enter gladly and of your own free will."

The smoke clears, revealing a tall man dressed in tight-fitting black satin pants, a black silk poet's shirt, black leather English riding boots, and a long black opera cape with a red silk lining. His hair is long and dark, pulled into a loose ponytail by a satin ribbon. His skin is as white as milk in a saucer, his eyes reflecting red in the dim candlelight. Lord Rhymer had finally elected to make his appearance.

Serge smiles nervously at his demon-lord and steps forward, gesturing to Shawna as Tanith and Sable watch expectantly. "W-we did as you asked, master. We brought you the girl."

Lord Rhymer smiles slightly, his eyes narrowing at the sight of her.

"Ah,
yesss.
The new girl."

Shawna stood gaping up at the vampire lord as if he was Jim Morrison, Robert Smith, and Danzig rolled into one. She starts, gasping more in surprise than fright, when Rhymer addresses her directly.

"Your name is Shawna, is it not?"

" Y-yes." Her voice is so tiny it makes her sound like a little girl. But there is nothing child-like in the lust dancing in her eyes.

Lord Rhymer holds out a pale hand to the trembling young woman. His fingernails are long and pointed and lacquered black. He smiles reassuringly, his voice calm and strong, designed to sway those of weaker nature.

"Come to me, Shawna. Come to me, so that I might kiss you."

A touch of apprehension crosses the girl's face. She hesitates, glancing at the others, who close in about her even tighter than before.

"I—I—don't know—"

Rhymer narrows his blood-red eyes, intensifying his stare. His voice grows sterner, revealing its cold edge.
"Come
to me, Shawna."

All the tension in her seems to drain away and Shawna's eyes grow even more vacant than before, if possible. She moves forward, slowly mounting the stairs to the pulpit. Rhymer holds his arms out to greet her.

"That's it, my dear. Come to me...Come to me as you have dreamed of, so many, many times before..." Rhymer steps forward to meet her, the cape outstretched between his arms like the wings of a giant bat. His smile widens and his mouth opens, exposing pearly white fangs dripping saliva. His voice has been made husky by his lust. "Come to me, my bride..."

Shawna grimaces in pain/pleasure as Rhymer's fangs penetrate her throat. Even from my shadowy perch above it all I can smell the sharp tang of blood, and I feel a dark stirring at the base of my brain, which I quickly push aside. I don't need that kind of trouble—not now. Still, I find it hard to look away from the tableau below me.

Rhymer holds Shawna tight against him. She whimpers as if on the verge of orgasm. The blood rolling down her throat and dripping into the pale swell of her cleavage is as sticky and dark as spilled molasses.

Rhymer draws back, smiling smugly as he wipes the blood off his chin. "It is done. You are now bound to me by blood and the strength of my immortal will."

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) Shawna's lids flutter and she seems to have a little trouble focusing her eyes. She touches her bloodied neck and stares at her red-stained finger for a long moment. She steps back, a dazed, post-orgasmic look on her face. She staggers slightly as she moves to rejoins the others, one hand still clamped over her bruised and bleeding throat. Tanith and Sable eagerly step forward to help their new sister, their hands quickly disappearing up her skirt as they steady her, cooing encouragement in soothing voices.

"Welcome to the family, Shawna," Sable whispers, kissing first her cheek, then tonguing her earlobe.

"You're one of us, now and forever," Tanith purrs, giving Shawna a probing kiss while scooping her breasts free of her blouse.

Sable presses even closer, licking at the blood smearing Shawna's neck. Serge stands off to one side, nervously chewing a thumbnail and occasionally brushing his forelock out of his face. Every few seconds his eyes flicker from the girls to Lord Rhymer, who stands in the pulpit, smiling and nodding his approval. After a few more moments of groping and gasping, the three women begin undressing one another in earnest, their moans soon mixed with nervous giggles. Black leather and lace drop away, revealing black fish-net stockings and garter belts and crotchless underwear. At the sight of Shawna's pubic thatch—mousy brown, as opposed to her fluorescent red locks—Serge's eyes widen and his nostrils flare. He looks to Rhymer, who nods and gestures languidly with one taloned hand that the boy has his permission to join the orgy.

Serge's fumbles with his ornate silver belt buckle, which hits the wooden floor with a solid
clunk!
I lift an eyebrow in surprise. While Serge is thin to the point of emaciation, I must admit the boy's hung like a stallion. Sable mutters something into Serge's ear that makes him laugh just before he plants his lips against her own blood-smeared mouth. Tanith, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips pulled into a lascivious grin, reaches around from behind to stroke him to full erection.

Serge breaks free of her embrace and turns to lift Shawna in his arms, carrying her to the black-draped altar, the other girls quickly joining in. There is much biting and raking of exposed flesh with fingernails. Soon they are a mass of writhing naked flesh, giggling and moaning and grunting. The slap of flesh against flesh fills the silent church. And overseeing it all from his place of power is Lord Rhymer, his crimson eyes twinkling in the candlelight as he watches his followers cavorting below him. To his credit, Serge proves himself tireless, energetically rutting with all three girls in various combinations for hours on end.

It wasn't until the stained glass windows of the church begin to lighten with the coming dawn that it finally comes to an end. The moment Rhymer notices the light coming through one of the windows the smile disappears from his face.

"ENOUGH!" he thunders, causing the others to halt in mid-fuck. "The sun will soon be upon me! It is time for you to leave, my children!"

The goths pull themselves off and out of each other without a word of complaint and began to struggle back into their clothes. Once they're dressed they waste no time hurrying off, taking pains to not look one another in the eye. It is all I can do to suppress a groan of relief as the last of the blood cultists lurch out of the building. I thought those losers were
never
going to leave!

I check my own watch against the shadows sliding across the floor below me. Now would

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) be a good time to pay a social call on their so-called "master." I hope he's in the mood for a little chat before beddy-bye.

Lord Rhymer yawns as he makes his way down the basement stairs. What with the candelabra he's holding and the flowing opera cloak, I'm reminded of Lugosi's Dracula.

But then, Bela Lugosi is dead.

The basement runs the length of the building above it, and has a poured concrete floor.

Stacks of old hymnals, folding chairs, and moldering choir robes have been pushed into the corners. A rosewood casket with a maroon velvet lining rests atop a pair of sawhorses in the middle of the room. An old-fashioned steamer trunk stands on end nearby.

I watch the vampire lord set the candelabra down and, still yawning, unhook his cape and carefully drape it atop the trunk. If he senses my presence, here in the shadows, he gives no evidence of it in his manner. Smiling crookedly, I deliberately scrape my boot heel against the concrete floor. My smile becomes a grin as he spins around, eyes bugging in fear.

"What—?
Who's there?!?"

He blinks, genuinely surprised to see me standing to one side of the open casket balanced atop the sawhorse. I caught the tell-tale smell when I first entered the basement, but a quick glance into the casket confirms what I already knew: it's lined with earth. I reach inside and lift a handful of dirt, allowing it to spill between my splayed fingers. I look up and meet Rhymer's scarlet gaze.