Chapter One Nina was stuck. She didnt know what to write next.
So far, her teenage love interest had been dragged into a refrigerated meat locker by two thugs armed with a gun and a boning knife. But Zadia Bloodstone was already waiting for them. Hanging upside-down from a meat hook, wrapped in a long black cape and covered by a thin layer of frost, Zadia had cleverly disguised herself as a harmless side of beef. Only when shed spread her arms wide had the crackle of breaking ice announced her presence.
Bang-bang! Two bullets had promptly smashed into her rib cage. But Zadia wasnt troubled by bullets, because her vital organs could regenerate themselves at lightning speed. Somersaulting to the floor, shed walked straight up to the bigger thug and kicked the gun from his hand. Then shed whirled around to fight off his friend. Within seconds, the two baddies had been knocked out—leaving a very important question unanswered.
What would the rescued boy do?
Obviously, he would be grateful. He might even be dazzled by Zadias flawless face and perfect figure. But if he saw her sink her fangs into anyones neck, he would also be frightened. He would realize instantly that she was a vampire and run for the door.
He would be unaware, at this point, that Zadia was a heroic crime-fighting vampire who preyed only on lowlife scum.
Nina chewed away at a lock of her hair, thinking hard. She was in the middle of chapter eight. The room in which she sat was illumined solely by the glow of her computer screen; barely visible in the dimness were her brass bedstead, her Indian cushions, and her lava lamp. A poster of David Bowie hung on the wall, curling at the corners. A small bookshelf contained multiple copies of Youngblood (book two of the Bloodstone Chronicles), by someone called N. E. Harris.
Splashed across the cover of Youngblood was a glamorous, slinky young girl with white skin, black hair, and ruby-red lips. She wore high-heeled boots and lots of black leather, as well as an ammunition belt. Her canine teeth were long and pointed, but she was stunningly beautiful nonetheless.
She appeared to be leaping from rooftop to rooftop, her black cape streaming out behind her.
"Nina!" somebody shouted from beyond the closed bedroom door. Nina didnt respond. She stared unblinkingly at the computer screen, still gnawing at her hair—which was thick and dark, and cut in a heavy, clumsy, old-fashioned style that didnt suit her bony little face.
It was about time, she decided, that Zadia made friends with the boy shed rescued.
Zadia hesitated, Nina wrote, torn between her desire to punish the wicked and her need to reassure the tall, pale, handsome teenager with the big brown eyes.
"Nina!" a distant voice called again. Ignoring it, Nina deleted the word pale. Her hands on the keyboard were like chickens feet, all scaly and dry. Her skin was the color of a maggots, and her legs were so thin that her tights were wrinkled around the knees.
Her boots had flat heels on them.
"Nina!" The door burst open to admit a withered old woman in a quilted nylon dressing gown. "For Gods sake, are you deaf ? Father Ramons outside—you want to keep him waiting?"
Nina sighed. She shut her laptop, moving sluggishly.
"All right," she murmured. "Im on my way."
"Arent you feeling well?" the old woman wanted to know. She had the hoarse rasp and yellowed fingertips of a chronic smoker, her hair looked like a frayed clump of steel wool, and her scarlet lipstick was bleeding into the cracks around her mouth. "Because if youre sick," she said, "you shouldnt be going."
"Im not sick, Mum. Im fine."
"Thats what you always say, and you never are. Is your head giving you trouble?"
"No!"
"What about your stomach?"
Nina didnt reply. Instead she rose, reaching for her sunglasses—which shared the cluttered surface of her desk with a Pet Rock, a pile of vintage vampire comics, and a volleyball trophy awarded to the "Junior Regional Interschool Champions" of 1971. Pinned on a notice board hanging above the desk lamp were various faded photographs of laughing teenage girls.
If any of these girls was Nina, it wasnt immediately apparent. They were so sleek and glossy and bright-eyed that they could have belonged to an entirely different species.
"Are you nauseous?" her mother nagged. "You are, arent you?"
"Theres nothing wrong," said Nina on her way out of the room. It was a lie of course. There was always something wrong.
And her mother knew it.
"If you get sick, I want you to come straight home," the old woman advised as they descended a narrow wooden staircase together. "Dave wont mind bringing you back early, if you cant stay to the end. And dont leave it till the last minute, the way you did before. Dave wont want you throwing up all over his sheepskin seat covers again . . ."
Nina winced. It was true. She had ruined Daves precious seat covers. Was it any wonder that he didnt exactly beat a path to her door? Was it any wonder that she spent so much of her time in imaginary meat lockers with the stylish and vigorous Zadia Bloodstone? At least there were no uncontrollable bouts of vomiting in Zadias world.
Nina pulled open the heavy front door of her mothers row house. Outside, the darkness was relieved only by the soft glow of a nearby street lamp; stars were scattered like sequins across a coal-black sky. Yet Nina had already donned her sunglasses, which were big, heavy, wraparound things that made her pinched face look smaller than ever . . .
You know what? This isnt going to work. I cant write about myself the way I write about Zadia. Its too weird. Its confusing. Next thing Ill get mixed up and start making me do things that I cant actually do. Like turn into a bat, for instance. Zadia can do that, but I cant. No one can.
The plain fact is, I cant do anything much. Thats part of the problem. Vampires are meant to be so glamorous and powerful, but Im here to inform you that being a vampire is nothing like that. Not one bit. On the contrary, its like being stuck indoors with the flu watching daytime television, forever and ever.
If being a vampire were easy, there wouldnt have to be a Reformed Vampire Support Group.
As a matter of fact, I was going to a group meeting that very night. Father Ramon had come to pick me up. It was a Tuesday, because all our meetings are held on Tuesdays, at nine thirty p.m., in St. Agathas church hall. And in case youre wondering why I couldnt have driven myself to St. Agathas . . . well, thats just one of my many problems. I still look fifteen, you see. I still am fifteen, when alls said and done, since I stopped aging back in 1973, when I was infected. So Id attract far too much attention behind a steering wheel. (Besides which, Mum doesnt have a car.)
As for the public transport option, Sanford Plackett has ruled that out. Hes always ruling things out; youd think he was our lord and master, the way he carries on. Hes forbidden any of us to travel around Sydney on buses or trains, for instance, in case we stumble across something that Father Ramon would probably describe as "an occasion of sin." I suppose Sanfords worried that we might encounter a bleeding junkie rolling around on a station platform, and wont be able to stop ourselves from pouncing.
"You think youll never succumb," he once said to me, "because you cant come to terms with your true nature. You refuse to concede that youre really a vampire, with a vampires weakness. But you are, Nina. We all are. Thats why we have to be careful."
And being careful means not catching cabs. According to Sanford staring at the back of a cab drivers exposed neck would be quite stressful for most of us—especially if someones been bleeding onto the seats beforehand. Sanford also insists that no one in our group should go wandering the streets all alone. He says that we wouldnt stand a chance against the drunks and addicts and muggers on the loose out there. He says that everyone should follow his advice, because hes been around for so long and has so much experience, and because, although Father Ramon might be our group facilitator, even a priest with counseling experience cant be its leader. Not if he isnt a vampire himself.
Thats Sanfords opinion, anyway. Hes got a lot of opinions, let me tell you. And hes never shy about airing them, whether asked to or not.
He was already in the car when I reached it, because he cant drive either. People who grew up before the First World War rarely can. Back then, even doctors like Sanford didnt own cars—and he certainly couldnt risk learning to drive now. None of us could. Wed be exposing ourselves to the kind of official scrutiny that you need to avoid at all costs when youre toting fake IDs.
Most of the vampires I know have changed their identities at least once, and Sanford has done it twice, owing to the fact that he doesnt look his age (believe it or not). Despite his bald
ing scalp and clipped mustache—despite his preference for three-piece suits and fob watches—youd never guess that he was a hundred and forty years old. The very fact that hes not six feet underground is a dead giveaway. And hes no different from the rest of our group, which is full of people living precarious lives, under assumed names, with forged papers.
Its a real drag, believe me.
"Hello, Nina," he said as I slid into the back seat of the waiting Nissan Pulsar.
"Hello, Sanford."
"How are you, Nina?" Father Ramon inquired, pulling out from the curb.
"Oh—you know. Nauseous. As usual."
I didnt want to complain too much, because thats what vampires do. They complain too much. But I neednt have worried. Gladys did the complaining for me.
"I bet youre not as nauseous as I was last night," she said, moving over to give me some space. "I was trying to sell a time-share, and I spewed all over the phone. At least a cupful of blood. It no sooner went down than it came back up again. I lost the sale and everything—didnt I, Bridget?"
"Oh, yes," said Bridget, who was knitting. Bridgets always knitting. She was eighty-two when she was infected, so she cant do much else. Even climbing stairs can be a problem for Bridget because of her hip joints.
Theres only one thing worse than being a vampire, and thats being an elderly vampire with bad hips.
"Have you been taking your enzymes, Gladys?" asked Sanford, from the front seat. He craned around to peer at her. "Every morning, before you go to bed?"
"Of course I have!"
"What about other treatments? Have you been drinking those herbal concoctions again?"
"No!" Gladys exclaimed, sounding defensive, though it was a perfectly reasonable question. Gladys smells like a hippie, because shes always treating her manifold health problems with miraculous new oils or exercises or meditation techniques. She even looks like a hippie, in her beads and her shawls and her long, flowing skirts. Having been infected back in 1908, she cant bear to expose her legs; ladies didnt do that sort of thing in the old days, and Gladys likes to think of herself as a lady—even though she was actually a common streetwalker. She also likes to think of herself as a young lady, despite her old-lady obsession with bowels and feet and joint pain, because she was only twenty-four when she first got infected. But Im here to tell you, shes about as young as a fossilized dinosaur egg.
"I havent even been burning scented candles," she whined, "and Im still getting that rash I told you about. The one on my stomach."
"It might be a bad response to the supplements," Sanford mused. "I could adjust your levels a bit, I suppose. Have you had any dizzy spells?"
"Yes! This morning!"
"What about headaches?"
"Not since last week. But the other night one of my toenails fell off in the bath—"
At this point I could restrain myself no longer.
"Hey! Heres an idea!" I growled, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Lets all talk about our allergies for a change! Thatll be fun."
There was a long pause. Father Ramon glanced into the rearview mirror, shooting me one of those reproachful-yet sympathetic looks in which he seems to specialize. Sanford sniffed. Gladys scowled.
"Well, what do you want to talk about, then?" she demanded. "What have you been doing lately thats so wonderful? Watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"
"Ive been writing my book," I said, knowing perfectly well what sort of reaction Id get. And when Sanford removed his sunglasses briefly, to massage the bridge of his nose, I braced myself for the usual guff about how I was putting everyone at risk (even though I write under a pseudonym and use a post office box for all my correspondence).
"Yeah, yeah, I know what you think of my books," I added, before Sanford could butt in. "Spare me the sermon—Ive heard it all before."
"Theyre not doing us any good, Nina," he replied. "People are scared enough already; youre only making things worse."
"Zadias not scary, Sanford. She gets fan mail. Shes a heroine."
"Shes a symbol of your flight from reality." This was one of Sanfords stock remarks. For at least twenty-five years hed been telling me that I was stuck in the denial phase of the Kübler-Ross grief cycle (rather than the anger, bargaining, depression or acceptance phases), because I had refused to embrace my true identity as a vampire. "You feel compelled to invest vampires with a battery of superhuman powers," he said, making reference to Zadia Bloodstone, "just so you can tell yourself that youre not really a vampire. Youre living in a dream world, Nina."
"No—youre living in a dream world." I was trying to be patient. "You talk to me like Im still a kid, even though Im fifty-one years old. Do you know how boring that can get?"
He did, of course. Everyone did, because Id mentioned it often enough. It had been a good thirty years since our groups first meeting, so we knew each other pretty well by this time. Wed also covered every subject known to man over and over and over again. Its something that tends to happen when you dont mix very much with other people.
Sometimes I look around St. Agathas vestry on a Tuesday night, and I think to myself, If I never see any of you ever again, Ill be a happy vampire.
"You might have lived for fifty-one years," Sanford chided, without even bothering to glance in my direction, "but youre still a kid at heart. Youre stuck in a teenage time warp. You still think like a teen. You still behave like a teen."
"What—you mean like this?" I said, and flipped him the finger. Gladys giggled. Father Ramon changed gears abruptly, though his voice remained calm.
"Come on, now," he protested. "Thats enough. If you want to argue . . . well, you should at least wait until the meeting."
Sanfords cell phone began to trill. While he fumbled inside his jacket, I turned my face to the window. Street lamps were gliding past, illuminating the kind of neighborhood that Ive always enjoyed looking at. House fronts were shoved up hard against the pavement. Through the gaps between shrunken curtains and broken cedar slats I could see flickering television screens, curling drifts of cigarette smoke, and people rushing from room to room, slamming doors.
But I couldnt see enough. I never can. I always get a fleeting glimpse of normal life before its whisked away—before Im back in a crowded car with a bunch of vampires.
"Oh. Hello, Dave." Sanford had found his phone, at long last. "Yes. Yes. Dear me. That is troubling. Yes, Ill tell him." Addressing the priest, Sanford delivered Daves news with solemn emphasis. "Dave says that Casimir wont answer his intercom," Sanford announced. "Theyve been trying for about ten minutes. Dave wants to know if you still have a spare key."
"Yes, I do," said Father Ramon. He sounded worried. "Tell him Ill swing round."
"Did you hear that?" Sanford addressed his cell phone again. "He said well swing round. Yes. Well, I hope so. All right. Yes, see you soon."
He hung up.
I dont think anyone quite knew what to say, initially. Sanford appeared to be thinking. Father Ramon was obviously reassessing his planned route; he suddenly pulled into someones driveway and executed a rather clumsy three-point turn. Bridget was looking puzzled.
I couldnt even pretend to be anxious. In fact, I was downright disgusted. "Ten to one Casimirs out on the prowl," I said at last, airing a very natural suspicion. "I bet hes got his fangs into somebody as we speak."
Boom! Instant uproar. If I had set fire to Gladys, I might have triggered a less impassioned response.
"Nina!" Father Ramon seemed genuinely horrified. "Thats a dreadful thing to say!"
"You shouldnt talk about people like that," Bridget pro
tested. I couldnt see her eyes behind the dark glasses that she wore, but her face was even whiter than usual. It was almost as white as her hair.
Sanford twisted around to admonish me.
"Casimir Kucynski hasnt set a foot wrong since being released," he pointed out, in frigid accents. "That was five years ago. Casimirs reformed now."
"Reformed?" I folded my arms. "He sleeps in a coffin, Sanford!"
"Hes doing his best, Nina. Casimir is a victim too—just like the rest of us." Sanfords tone became pompous. "You know youre not the only one who was infected by Casimir. If the others have forgiven him, why cant you?"
"Because hes a creep," I replied, without fear of contradiction. Casimir Kucynski was a creep. Even Sanford couldnt deny it. Though Casimir might have called himself a reformed vampire, he was anything but. He would go on and on about "the good old days," when you could buy your very own slaves and kill them with impunity. He would do the most awful things with his tongue, which was long and blue, like one of those poisonous jellyfish. He had eyes like oysters, and teeth like tombstones.
If you want my honest opinion, Casimir had been a vampire for so long that he wasnt really human anymore. Its vampires like Casimir who give other vampires a bad name. But try telling that to Sanford. Even now he maintains that its important not to draw any kind of distinction between whats human and whats vampiric. He insists that vampirism is just another form of humanity—that theres nothing inherently
wrong with being a vampire. And whenever I try to contradict him, he gives me a lecture about my attitude.
"Casimir is probably sick," said Father Ramon, playing the peacemaker as usual. "He probably cant get out of bed."
"Thats right," Sanford agreed. "He might be having an adverse reaction to his supplements. Its happened before."
I could have reminded him, at this juncture, that Casimir had also suffered adverse reactions from fanging dead rats. But I didnt speak. Instead I stared out at the passing streetscape, which was undergoing a slow transformation: the turrets, avenues, door knockers, mailboxes, and iron railings were giving way to signage, awnings, plate glass, traffic lights, and concrete barriers. Pedestrians strolled along, swaddled in winter coats. Colored lights flashed inside a corner pub.
I lifted my sunglasses to get a better look at the festivities. It was only going to be a quick squint.
But Sanford nearly bit my head off.
"Nina!" he squawked. "There are headlights everywhere!
Do you want your eyes to start bleeding again?" Welcome to my world. Its the kind of place where you cant do the simplest thing without risking a full-blown hemorrhage. God Im sick of it.