when I was a jugeared kid and the big bad city was a place I only heard about in church.
'Jack, you ass,' Sophie said. 'So it's a bite?'
'And a little more.'
Miss Dale lifted her chin and eyed me. 'I don't have any more steak.' Her pulse was back. It was thundering. It was hot and heavy in my ears and I already knew I wasn't a nice guy. Wasn't that why I'd come here?
'I'll go.' I reached behind me and fumbled for the knob.
'Oh, no you will
not.' It was Miss Dale again, with all her crisp efficiency. She reached up with trembling fingers, and unbuttoned the very top button of her collar.
'Sophie-'
'How long have I been working for you, Jack?' She undid another button, slender fingers working, and I took a single step forward. Burned skin crackled, and my clothes were so heavy they could have stood up by themselves. 'Three years. And it wasn't for the pay, and certainly not because you've a personality that recommends itself.'
Coming from her, that was a compliment. 'You've got a real sweet mouth there, Miss Dale.'
She undid her third button, and that pulse of hers was a beacon. Now I knew what the thirst wanted, now I knew what it felt like, now I knew what it could do-
'Mr. Becker, shut up. If you don't, I'll lose my nerve.'
Sophie is on her pink frilly bed. The shades are drawn, and the apartment's quiet. It's so quiet. Time to think about everything.
When a man wakes up in his own grave, he can reconsider his choice of jobs. He can do a whole lot of things.
It's so goddamn quiet. I'm here with my back to the bedroom door and my knees drawn up. Sophie is so still, so pale. I've had time to look over every inch of her face and I wonder how a stupid bum like me could have overlooked such a doll right under his nose.
It took three days for me. Two days ago the dame in the black dress choked her last and her lovely mansion burned. It was in all the papers as a tragedy, and Shifty Malloy choked on his own blood out in the rain too. I think it's time to find another city to gumshoe in. There's Los Angeles, after all, and that place does three- quarters of its business after dark.
Soon the sun's going to go down. Sophie's got her hands crossed on her chest and she's all tucked in nice and warm, the coverlet up to her chin and the lamp on so she won't wake up like I did, in the dark and the mud.
The rain has stopped beating the roof. I can hear heartbeats moving around in the building.
Jesus, I hope she wakes up.
Twilight by Kelley Armstrong
Kelley Armstrong is the bestselling author of the Otherworld urban fantasy series, which began with Bitten, and the latest of which, Frostbitten, comes out in October. She is also the author of the Darkest Powers trilogy, a young-adult series that began last year with The Summoning. Armstrong is currently in the midst of writing a five-issue arc for Joss Whedon's Angel comic book series.
Armstrong says that the most obvious appeal of vampire fiction is the mingling of sex and death. 'But for me, the appeal has always been the concept of immortality,' she said. 'Particularly the problems with it, and the sacrifices we would-or wouldn't-make to retain it.'
This story, which features Cassandra DuCharme from Armstrong's Otherworld series, was written for Many Bloody Returns, an anthology with a vampires-and- birthdays theme. 'When I think birthdays in regards to my vampires, I think rebirth day, which is the anniversary of the day they became vampires and, each year at that time, they must take a life to continue their semi-immortality,' Armstrong said. 'Cassandra has never had a problem fulfilling her annual bargain, but this year, she does.'
Another life taken. Another year to live.
That is the bargain that rules our existence. We feed off blood, but for three hundred and sixty-four days a year, it is merely that: feeding. Yet on that last day-or sometime before the anniversary of our rebirth as vampires-we must drain the lifeblood of one person. Fail and we begin the rapid descent into death.
As I sipped white wine on the outdoor patio, I watched the steady stream of passersby. Although there was a chill in the air-late autumn coming fast and sharp-the patio was crowded, no one willing to surrender the dream of summer quite yet. Leaves fluttering onto the tables were lauded as decorations. The scent of a distant wood-fire was willfully mistaken for candles. The sun, almost gone despite the still early hour, only added romance to the meal. All embellishments to the night, not signs of impending winter.
I sipped my wine and watched night fall. At the next table, a lone businessman eyed me. He was the sort of man I often had the misfortune to attract-middle-aged and prosperous, laboring under the delusion that success and wealth were such irresistible lures that he could allow his waistband and jowls to thicken unchecked.
Under other circumstances, I might have returned the attention, let him lead me to some tawdry motel, then take
my dinner. He would survive, of course, waking weakened, blaming it on too much wine. A meal without guilt. Any man who took such a chance with a stranger- particularly when he bore a wedding band-deserved an occasional bout of morning-after discomfort.
He did not, however, deserve to serve as my annual kill. I can justify many things, but not that. Yet I found myself toying with the idea more than I should have, prodded by a niggling voice that told me I was already late.
I stared at the glow over the horizon. The sun had set on the anniversary of my rebirth, and I hadn't taken a life. Yet there was no need for panic. I would hardly explode into dust at midnight. I would weaken as I began the descent into death, but I could avoid that simply by fulfilling my bargain tonight.
I measured the darkness, deemed it enough for hunting, then laid a twenty on the table and left.
A bell tolled ten. Two hours left. I chastised myself for being so dramatic. I loathe vampires given to theatrics-those who have read too many horror novels and labor under the delusion that's how they're supposed to behave. I despise any sign of it in myself and yet, under the circumstances, perhaps it could be forgiven.
In all the years that came before this, I had never reached this date without fulfilling my obligation. I had chosen this vampiric life and would not risk losing it through carelessness.
Only once had I ever neared my rebirth day, and then only due to circumstances beyond my control. It had been 1867… or perhaps 1869. I'd been hunting for my annual victim when I'd found myself tossed into a Hungarian prison. I hadn't been caught at my kill-I'd never made so amateurish a mistake even when I'd been an amateur.
The prison sojourn had been Aaron's fault, as such things usually were. We'd been hunting my victim when he'd come across a nobleman whipping a servant in the street. Naturally, Aaron couldn't leave well enough alone. In the ensuing confusion of the brawl, I'd been rousted with him and thrown into a pest-infested cell that wouldn't pass any modern health code.
Aaron had worked himself into a full-frothing frenzy, seeing my rebirth anniversary only days away while I languished in prison, waiting for justice that seemed unlikely to come swiftly. I hadn't been concerned. When one partakes of Aaron's company, one learns to expect such inconveniences. While he plotted, schemed and swore he'd get us out on time, I simply waited. There was time yet and no need to panic until panic was warranted.
The day before my rebirth anniversary, as I'd begun to suspect that a more strenuous course of action might be required, we'd been released. I'd compensated for the trouble and delay by taking the life of a prison guard who'd enjoyed his work far more than was necessary.
This year, my only excuse for not taking a victim yet was that I hadn't gotten around to it. As for why, I was somewhat… baffled. I am nothing if not conscientious about my obligations. Yet, this year, delays had arisen, and somehow I'd been content to watch the days slip past and tell myself I would get around to it, as if it was no more momentous than a missed salon appointment.
The week had passed and I'd been unable to work up any sense of urgency until today, and even now, it was only an oddly cerebral concern. No matter. I would take care of it tonight.
As I walked, an old drunkard drew my gaze. I watched him totter into the shadows of an alley and thought: 'There's a possibility…' Perhaps I could get this chore over with sooner than expected. I could be quite finicky-refusing to feed off sleeping vagrants-yet as my annual kill, this one was a choice I could make.
Every vampire deals with our 'bargain' in the way that best suits his temperament and capacity for guilt and remorse. I cull from the edges-the sick, the elderly, those already nearing their end. I do not fool myself into thinking this is a just choice. There's no way to know whether that cancer-wracked woman might have been on the brink of remission or if that elderly man had been enjoying his last days to the fullest. I make the choice because it is one I can live with.
This old drunkard would do. As I watched him, I felt the gnawing in the pit of my stomach, telling me I'd already waited too long. I should follow him into that alley, and get this over with. I
wanted to get it over with-that there was no question of that, no possibility I was conflicted on this point. Other vampires may struggle with our bargain. I do not.
Yet even as I visualized myself following the drunk into the alley, my legs didn't follow through. I stood there, watching him disappear into the darkness. Then I moved on.
A block farther, a crowd poured from a movie theater. As it passed, its life force enveloped me. I wasn't hungry, yet I could still feel that tingle of anticipation, of hunger. I could smell their blood, hear the rush of it through their veins. The scent and sound of life.
Twenty steps later, and they were still passing, an endless stream of humanity disgorged by a packed theater. How many seats were inside? Three hundred, three fifty? As many years as had passed since my rebirth?
