You Suck: A Love Story

bounced off the metal garage door of the foundry and back out to the curb, where his head knocked the side mirror off an illegally parked Mazda. Then the vampire walked with exaggerated steps, his arms held out from his sides like a bad stage monster to try to keep the urine-sotted velour fabric of his tracksuit from contacting his skin. Although he had experienced all manner of filth and gore in his eight hundred years, and had, in fact, spent whole days hiding naked under loamy soil to escape the sun, he didn’t remember being quite so put off as he was at being pissed on by his lunch. Perhaps it was that he only had one set of clothes now, and there was no luxurious yacht with a full wardrobe to retire to, or perhaps it was that he had spent the day between two urine-stained mattresses under an unconscious junkie while police searched the hotel around him. He’d just hit his limit, that’s all.
    He’d known the desk clerk would give him up to the police, so as soon as he had gone to his room, the vampire had hidden his tracksuit in the corner of the closet, gone to mist, then slipped under the door into the next room and in between the mattress and box springs of a semiconscious junkie. He’d gone back to solid just as sunrise put him out for the day.
    At sundown, he was surprised at how elated he was to find the tracksuit still in the closet, after he fed off the junkie (just a sip) and snapped his neck. (Leaving more or less a greeting card to the homicide inspectors who had attacked him with the others at the yacht club.) Now his precious tracksuit was all covered in whiz and he was furious.
    He stalked over to where he’d thrown the bum and snatched him up by the ankle. Elijah was not tall by modern standards, but he found that if he held the bum’s ankle high above his head, he could shake him sufficiently to get the job done.
    “You’re not even her minion, are you?” Elijah banged the bum’s head against the sidewalk to punctuate his question.
    “Please,” said the bum. “My huge cat-”
    Thud, thud, thud on the sidewalk. A little shake. Change, a few bills, a lighter, and a bottle of Johnny Walker rained out of the bum’s pockets.
    “You’re just her little moo cow, aren’t you? I tasted her on you.”
    “There’s a kid,” said the moo cow. “A spooky little girl. She takes care of them.”
    “Them?”
    Elijah flung the bum against the garage and proceeded to pick up the change and the bills on the sidewalk. The steel door next to the garage door opened and a burly bald man in overalls stepped out on the sidewalk, smacking a lead-tipped tire thumper on his palm. “You motherfuckers making enough noise out here?”
    Elijah bared his fangs and hissed at the biker, then leapt to the wall over the garage door and clung there, facedown, above the biker’s head.
    The biker looked up at the vampire, down at the prostrate bum, then at the damaged Mazda. “Well, okay then,” he said. “I can see you fellas still have some shit to work out.” He slipped back into the foundry and slammed the door.
    Elijah dropped to his feet and headed up the street, not even bothering to stop to snap the moo cow’s neck. How could he have been so stupid? He wasn’t going to terrorize her by killing a food source. He needed to threaten her minion, just as he had with the boy. How could he have known that she’d actually betray him and choose the boy? Turn the boy? It wouldn’t happen again.
    Amid all the anger, the hunger, and the excitement at having a purpose, Elijah Ben Sapir felt a twinge of heartache. He had begun this adventure thinking himself the puppet master; now he was all entangled in the strings. Making mistakes.
    No worry. He cocked his head and focused. Past the rasping breath of the moo cow, the buildings settling, the Bay Bridge humming, and a thousand hearts beating in the lofts around him, he could hear the retreating steps of the little girl and her friend.

23 – Being the Chronicles of Abby
    Normal: The Hunted
    Apparently I am the Hunted, which, I want to note here, I am totally not qualified for. Here I sit, perched in the rafters (I think these things are rafters) of the Oakland Bay Bridge like a crippled night bird, waiting for doom to descend on me in the form of an ancient, undead thing, to wrench the very limbs from my delicate body. So that sucks.
    Fortunately I have some sustenance until my Dark Lord and Lady rise from their diurnal slumber to kick some fucking ass. I