From whom did the vampire steal that particular drollery, I wonder. A dead boy of his wattage doesn't come up with bon mots and witty remarks spontaneously. When you have to spend a lot of conscious energy remembering to breathe and blink, there is no such thing as top-of-your-head snappy patter. It is all protective coloration, right down to the last double entendre and Monty Python impersonation.

  It will be another decade or two before the vampire dressed in black silk and leather with the stainless-steel ankh dangling from one ear and the crystal embedded in his left nostril can divert his energies to something besides the full-time task of ensuring his continuance. And I doubt this dead boy has much of a chance of realizing that future.

  I wave down the bartender and order a beer. As I await its arrival, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror backing the bar. To the casual observer I appear to be no more than twenty-five. Tricked out in a battered leather jacket, a stained Circle Jerks T-shirt, patched jeans, mirrored sunglasses, and with dark hair twisted into a tortured cockatoo's crest, I look like just another member of Generation X checking out the scene. No one would ever guess I'm actually forty years old.

  I suck the cold suds down, participating in my own form of protective coloration. I can drink a case or three of the stuff without effect. Beer doesn't do it for me anymore. Neither does hard liquor. Or cocaine. Or heroin. Or crack. I've tried them all, in dosages that would put the U.S. Olympic Team in the morgue; but no luck. Only one drug plunks my magic twanger nowadays. Only one thing can get me off.

  And that drug is blood.

  Yeah, the dead boy is good enough to have fooled another vampire. But didn't.

  I study my prey speculatively. I doubt I'll have any trouble taking the sucker down. I rarely do, these days. Least not the lesser undead that still lack major psionic muscle. Sure, they might have enough mesmeric ability to gull the humans in their vicinity, but little else. Compared to my own psychic abilities, the art-fag vampire might as well be packing a pea-shooter. Still, it isn't smart to get cocky. Lord Morgan dismissed me in such a high-handed manner, and now he's missing half his face. That's what you get for being smug.

  I shift my vision from the human to the Pretender spectrum, studying the vampire's true appearance. I wonder if the black-garbed art aficionados clustered about their Mandarin, their heads bobbing like puppets, would still consider his pronouncements worthy if they knew his skin is the color and texture of rotten sailcloth. Or that his lips are black and shriveled, revealing oversized fangs set in a perpetual death's-head grimace. No doubt they'd drop their little plastic cups of cheap blush and back away in horror, their surface glaze of urbanite sophistication and studied ennui replaced by honest, old-fashioned monkey-brain terror.

  Humans need masks in order to live their day-to-day lives, even among their own kind. Little do they know that their dependence on artifice and pretense provides the perfect hiding place for predators. Predators like the vampire pretending to be an art-fag. Predators such as me.

  I tighten my grip on the switchblade in the pocket of my leather jacket. Midnight! Time to drop your masks!

  "Uh, excuse me?"

  I jerk around a little too fast, startling the young man at my elbow. I was so focused on my prey I was unaware of his approach. Sloppy. Really sloppy. "Yeah, what is it?"

  The young man blinks, slightly taken aback by the brusqueness in my voice. "I, uh, was wondering if I might, uh, buy you a drink?"

  I automatically scan him for signs of Pretender taint, but he comes up clean. One hundred percent USDA human. He is taller than me by a couple of inches; his blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail. There are three rings in his right ear and one in his left nostril. Despite the metalwork festooning his nose, he is quite handsome.

  I am at a loss for words. I'm not used to being approached by normal people. I tend to generate a low-level psychic energy field that most humans find unnerving, if not antagonistic. In layman's terms: I tend to either scare people or piss them off.

  I shoot my prey a glance out of the corner of my eye. Shit! The bastard is starting to make his move, hustling one of the more entranced hangers-on. "I realize this is going to sound like a really dumb come-on," he says, shooting me an embarrassed smile. "But I saw you from across the room - and I just had to meet you. Please let me buy you a drink."

  "I, uh, I-"

  The vampire is escorting its prey outside, smiling widely as it continues to discourse on Post-Modern art.

  "There's something I have to take care of - I'll be right back! I promise! Don't go away!" I blurt, and dash off in pursuit of my target for the night.

  * * * * *

  I scan the parking lot, checking for signs of the vampire's passage. I pray I'm not too late. Once a vamp isolates and seduces a human from the herd, he tends to move quickly. I know that from my own experience at the hands of Sir Morgan, the undead bastard responsible for my own transformation.

  The vampire and its prey are sitting in the back seat of a silver BMW with heavily tinted windows; their blurred silhouettes move like shadows reflected in an aquarium. There is no time to waste. I'll have to risk being spotted.

  The imitation art-fag looks genuinely surprised when my fist punches through the back window, sending tinted safety glass flying into the car. He hisses a challenge, exposing his fangs, as he whips about to face me. His victim sits beside him, motionless as a mannequin, eyes unfocused and fly open. The human's erect penis juts forward, vibrating like a tuning fork.

  I grab the vampire by the collar of his black silk shirt and pull him, kicking and screaming, through the busted back windshield. The human doesn't even blink.

  "Quit yet bitchin'!" I snap as I hurl the snarling vampire onto the parking lot gravel. "Let's get this over with, dead boy! I've got a hot date!"

  The vampire launches himself at me, talons hooked and fangs extended. I move to meet the attack, flicking open my switchblade with a snap of my wrist. The silver blade sinks into the vampire's chest, causing him to shriek in pain. The vampire collapses around my fist, spasming as his system reacts to the silver's toxin.

  I kneel and swiftly remove the vampire's head from his shoulders. The body is already starting to putrefy by the time I locate the BMW's keys. I unlock the trunk and toss the vampire's rapidly decomposing remains inside, making sure the keys are left in his pants pocket.

  I look around, but, remarkably, there are no witnesses to be seen in the darkened lot. I move around to the passenger side and open the door, tugging the still-entranced human out of the car.

  He stands propped against the bumper like a drunkard, his eyes swimming and his face slack. His penis dangles from his pants like a deflated party balloon. I take his chin between thumb and forefinger and turn his head so that his eyes meet mine.

  "This never happened. You do not remember leaving the bar with anyone. Is that clear?"

  "N-nothing h-happened."

  "Excellent! Now go back in the bar and have a good time. Oh, and stick that thing back in your pants! You don't want to get busted for indecent exposure, do you?"

  * * * * *

  I'm buzzing as I reenter the bar. I like to think of it as my apres-combat high. The adrenaline from the battle is still sluicing around inside me, juicing my perceptions and making me feel as if I'm made of lightning and spun glass. It isn't as intense as the boost I get from blood, but it's good.

  Someone jostles me, and I look down at a drab, mousy-haired woman, her face set into a scowl. I pause, studying the schizophrenia that radiates from the other woman like a martyr's halo. She is thinking of returning home and repeatedly stabbing her elderly parents as they lie in their separate beds, then setting the house ablaze. This is not a new thought. The scowling woman suddenly blushes, draws her shoulders in, ducks her chin, and hurries away, as if she has suddenly awakened to discover herself sleepwalking in the nude. I shrug and continue scanning the bar for the young man who spoke to me earlier.

  Give it up - he's forgotten you and found another bimbo for the evening.

  I fight to keep from cringing at the sound of the Other's voice inside my head. I had managed to go almost all night without having to endure its commentary.

  I find him waiting for me at the bar. I make a last minute spot-check for any blood or telltale ichor that might be clinging to me, then move forward. "You still interested in buying me that drink?"

  The young man's smile is genuinely relieved. "You came back!"

  "I said I'd be back, didn't I?"

  "Yeah. You did." He smiles again and offers his hand. "I guess I ought to introduce myself. I'm Judd."

  I take his hand and smile without parting my lips. "Pleased to meet you, Judd. I'm Sonja."

  "What the hell's going on here?!?"

  Judd's smile falters as his gaze fixes itself on something just behind my right shoulder. I turn and find myself almost nose-to-nose with a young woman dressed in a skintight black sheath, fishnet stockings, and way too much makeup. The woman's psychosis covers her face like the caul found on a newborn infant, pulsing indentations marking her eyes, nose and mouth.

  Judd closes his eyes and sighs. "Kitty, look, it's over! Get a life of your own and let go of mine, alright?"

  "Oh, is that how you see it? Funny, I remember you saying something different! Like how you'd always love me! Guess I was stupid to believe that, huh?"

  Kitty's rage turns the caul covering her face an interesting shade of magenta, swirling and pulsing like a lava lamp.

  "You're not getting away that easy, asshole! And who's this - your new slut?"

  Kitty slaps the flat of her hand against my shoulder, as if to push me away from Judd. I grab Kitty's wrist, being careful not to break it in front of Judd.

  C'mon, snap the crazy bitch's arm off, purrs the Other. She deserves it!

  "Don't touch me." My voice is flat and blunt, like the side of a sword.

  Kitty tries to yank herself free of my grip. "I'll fucking touch you anytime I want! Just you stay away from my boyfriend, bitch! Now let me go!" She tries to rake my face with her free hand, only to have that one grabbed as well, forcing her to look directly into my face. Kitty's features grow pale and she stops struggling. I know the other woman is seeing me - truly seeing me - for what I am. Only three kinds of human can perceive the Real World and the things that dwell within it: psychics, drunken poets, and lunatics. And Kitty definitely qualifies for the last category.

  I release the girl, who massages her wrists, her gaze still fixed on me. She opens her mouth as if to say something, then turns and hurries away, nearly tripping over her own high heels as she flees.

  Judd looks uncomfortable. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Kitty's a weird girl. We lived together for a few months, but she was incredibly jealous. It got to the point where I couldn't take any more of it, so I moved out. She's been dogging my tracks ever since. She scared off my last two girlfriends."

  I shrug. "I don't scare easy."

  * * * * *

  He isn't afraid of me. Nor do I detect the self-destructive tendencies that usually attract humans to my kind. Judd is not an entranced moth drawn to my dark flame, nor is he a renfield in search of a master. He is simply a good natured young man who finds me physically attractive. The novelty of his normalcy intrigues me.

  He buys me several drinks, all of which I down without any effect. But I do feel giddy, almost lightheaded, while in his company. To be mistaken for a desirable, human woman is actually quite flattering. Especially since I stopped thinking of myself in those terms some time back.

  We end up dancing, adding our bodies to the surging crowd that fills the mosh pit. At one point I am amazed to find myself laughing, genuinely laughing, one arm wrapped about Judd's waist. And then Judd leans in and kisses me.

  I barely have time to retract my fangs before his tongue finds mine. I slide my other arm around his waist and pull him into me, grinding myself against him. He responds eagerly, his erection rubbing against my hip like a friendly tomcat. And I find myself wondering how his blood will taste.

  I push him away so hard he staggers backward a couple of steps, almost falling on his ass. I shake my head as if trying to dislodge something in my ear, a guttural moan rising from my chest.

  "Sonja?" There is a confused, hurt look on his face.

  I can see his blood beckoning to me from just beneath the surface of his skin: the veins traced in blue, the arteries pulsing purple. I turn my back on him and run, head lowered, from the bar. I shoulder my way through a knot of dancers, sending them flying like duckpins. Some of the bar's patrons hurl insults in my direction, a couple even spit at me, but I am deaf to their anger, blind to their contempt.

  I put a couple of blocks between me and the bar before I stop. I slump into a darkened doorway, staring at my shaking hands as if they belong to someone else.

  "I liked him. I honestly liked him and I was going to - going to-" The thought is enough to make my throat tighten in a gag reflex.

  Like. Hate. What's the difference? Blood is the life, wherever it comes from.

  "Not like that. I never feed off of anyone who doesn't deserve it. Never."

  Aren't we special?

  "Shut up, bitch."

  "Sonja?"

  I have him pinned to the wall, one forearm clamped against his windpipe, before I recognize him. Judd claws at my arm, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

  "I'm ...sorry...." he gasps out.

  I let him go. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry. More than you realize."

  Judd regards me apprehensively as he massages his throat, but there is still no fear in his eyes. "Look, I don't know what it was I said or did back there at the bar that put you off...."

  "The problem isn't with you, Judd. Believe me." I turn and begin walking away, but he hurries after me.

  "I know an all-night coffeehouse near here. Maybe we could go and talk things out there?"

  "Judd, just leave me alone, okay? You'd be a lot better off if you just forgot you ever met me."

  "How could I forget someone like you?"

  "Easier than you realize."

  He keeps pace alongside me, desperately trying to make eye contact. "C'mon, Sonja! Give it a chance! I - dammit, would you just look at me?" I stop in midstep to face him, hoping my expression is unreadable behind my mirrored sunglasses. "That's the last thing you want me to do."

  Judd sighs and fishes a pen and piece of paper out of his pocket. "You're one strange lady, that's for sure! But I like you, don't ask me why." He scribbles something on the scrap of paper and shoves it into my hand. "Look, here's my phone number. Call me, okay?"

  I close my fist around the paper. "Judd-"

  He holds his hands out, palms facing up. "No strings attached, I promise. Just call me."

  I'm surprised to find myself smiling. "Okay. I'll call you. Now will you leave me alone?"

  * * * * *

  When I revive the next evening I find Judd's phone number tucked away in one of the pockets of my leather jacket. I sit cross-legged on the coarse cotton futon that serves as my bed and stare at it for a long time.

  I was careful to make sure Judd didn't follow me the night before. My current nest is a drafty loft apartment in the attic of an old warehouse in the district just beyond the French Quarter. Except for my sleeping pallet, an antique cedar wardrobe, a couple of Salvation Army-issue chairs, a refrigerator, a cordless telephone, and the scattered packing crates containing the esoteric curios I use for barter among information- and magic-brokers, the huge space is practically empty. Other than on those occasions when the Dead come to visit. Such as tonight.

  At first I don't recognize the ghost. He's lost his sense of self in the time since his death, blurring his spectral image somewhat. He swirls up through the floorboards like a gust of blue smoke, gradually taking shape before my eyes. It is only when the phantom produces a smoldering cigarette from his own ectoplasm that I recognize him.

  "Hello, Chaz."

  The ghost of my former lover makes a noise that sounds like a cat being drowned. The Dead cannot speak clearly - even to Pretenders - except on three days of the year: Fat Tuesday, Halloween, and the vernal equinox.

  "Come to see how your murderer is getting on, I take it?" Chaz makes a sound like a church bell played at half-speed.

  "Sorry I don't have a Ouija board, or we could have a proper conversation. Is there a special occasion for tonight's haunting, or are things just boring over on your side?"

  Chaz frowns and points at the scrap of paper I hold in my hand. The ghost-light radiating from him is the only illumination in the room. "What? You don't want me to call this number?"

  Chaz nods his head, nearly sending it floating from his shoulders.

  "You tried warning Palmer away from me last Mardi Gras. Didn't work - but I suppose you know that already. He's living in Yucatan right now. We're very happy."

  The ghost's laughter sounds like fingers raking a chalkboard.

  "Yeah, big laugh, dead boy. And I'll tell you one thing, Chaz: Palmer's a damn sight better in bed than you ever were!"

  Chaz makes an obscene gesture that is rendered pointless since he no longer has a body from the waist down. I laugh and clap my hands, rocking back and forth on my haunches.

  "I knew that'd burn your ass, dead or not! Now piss off! I've got better things to do than play charades with a defunct hustler!"

  Chaz yowls like a baby dropped in a vat of boiling oil and disappears in a swirl of dust and ectoplasm, leaving me alone with Judd's phone number still clenched in one fist.

  Hell, I think as I reach for the cordless phone beside the futon, if Chaz didn't want me to call the guy, then it must be the right thing to do....

  * * * * *

  The place where we rendezvous is a twenty-four-hour establishment in the French Quarter that has, over the course of the last fifty years, been a bank, a show bar, and a porno shop before becoming a coffeehouse. We sit at a small table in the back and sip iced coffee.

  Judd's hair is freshly washed and he smells of aftershave, but those are the only concessions he's made to the mating ritual. He still wears his ear- and nose-rings and a Bongwater T-shirt that's been laundered so often the silk-screened image is starting to flake off.

 

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