Good Stuff.

The sky cried its own tears that night when the police went to work. The dark was deep as pooled ink, and the voices terse and strict. None took pleasure that night, the nature of their business sapping them of all joy. I suppose that’s why I was called.

I arrived at the scene from the shadows, appearing (as I tend) from the shadows. For what I am is not quite human – but not quite beyond human, either. Magic is my knowledge and my trade; and my magic is very particular.

Dressed as I was in a black trenchcoat and dark gray hood, I supposed I made an enigmatic and rather ludicrous figure crossing the wet grass. I reached the edge of the cordoned-off area, when I was waylaid by one of the officers. “Sir, this is a crime scene,” he said, him being a rather burly white man with fairly obvious anger issues.

“Step aside,” I began, impatient as I was to begin. I do not appreciate being treated as such, especially when I am summoned.

“Raphael, it’s him. He’s my consultant,” came a voice from behind him.

“This guy is your consultant? He looks like an extra from one of those bad superhero movies. What? Couldn’t get in on the Blade series and decided to fight crime instead?”

Bored of his banter, I pushed the man aside as gently as I cared (which was not very much) and continued to the detective. She was young, I suppose, for the role of detective, but I am not a good judge of such things. Brown hair, green eyes. Hispanic. She was probably quite attractive, to people like Raphael, but I am not concerned with such earthly matters.

I looked down at the scene. Three dead. Two adults, a man and a woman. The man, white and in his early thirties. The cause of death was, in all likelihood, the fact that his chest had been eviscerated by perhaps an animal. The woman, also white, was likewise aged and damaged. They were dressed in day-to-day clothing – jeans and t-shirts. Lying between them, as though they had died trying to save her, was a young girl. Going by her features, she was these two’s child. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth opened in a scream that probably ended when she did.

I was looking down at them when the detective spoke. “What do you see, Miyeteth?”

I looked at her, before speaking. My voice sounded like a rasp even to my ears, unaccustomed as I am to the utterances of English. “I see a girl and her parents. The three were killed by something… malicious. Perhaps even evil. Perhaps even… inhuman.”

“Quit playing around. There are no tracks leading to or away from here. Whatever did this could only have been human.”

I stared at her for a couple seconds. “I know why you called me here, Camila. I do not raise the dead on a whim. Violating the laws of nature is not a careless act.”

“Miyeteth, you owe my family a great debt. The number of times we’ve turned a blind eye to your very existence is proof of that enough.  Do it.”

I crouched next to the father’s body. “Send your men away. This is not for the eyes of mortals. You may stay, but I ask that you do not interrupt me.”

She went over to the police officers, and said something to them. They all went, organized, down the hill to investigate other areas further. I put my hand onto the father’s head, and began the words. I began the acclamation.

“In the names of Akraziel, Azrael, and Uriel, I command thee to return to this form. I command thee to return alone. I command thee to follow my voice and return.”

The body spasmed as the soul returned. His eyes opened. “Where am I ? What happened? Eliza? Rachel?”

I put one of my fingers to his mouth. “Silence, son of Adam. Who attacked you?”

“I don’t… where’s my wife? My daughter? Eliza? Rachel?”

He tried to move, but I uttered a single phrase in Enochian. “Noasmi Teloc.”

He lay still, and moved no more.

I went over to the mother. I repeated the acclamation. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to draw in breath. It didn’t work – nothing can restore such life to the dead. “Speak to me, Eliza. Who did this to you.”

“I knew him – he was our friend – but he wasn’t – he was something – he killed me. I died. Where’s Rachel? What happened to Rachel?”

I repeated the phrase. “Noasmi Teloc. Be at peace, Eliza.”

I moved to the third. As I placed my hand over the young girl’s face, I found myself taking a deep breath. I was steeling myself to do this, for this was a line even I do not like to cross. “In the names of –“

“Wait!” said Camila. She looked scared. Maybe even… saddened? She took her time to draw breath, and calmed herself. “Do it.”

I finished the acclamation. The girl awakened with a gasp. “Where’s mommy? Where’s daddy?”

I held her close as I spoke to her. “Do not worry, Rachel. Tell me who did this to you, so that I can see it done right.”

“It was Uncle James. But it wasn’t him – he changed. He was like a big dog – but angry. So angry. He took daddy first, then mommy… then me. Am I…?”

I looked into her eyes. Blue, like sapphire. “Noasmi Teloc.”

She went limp in my arms. “I don’t think this is your case anymore, Camila. This is not a human killer. Honor the agreement I made with your grandfather. Give it to me.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the power to sweep this under the rug. We have to investigate.”

“Very well. Delay your people as much as you can. I’ll find the killer, but I warn you he will not be alive when you come to claim him.”

I headed off into the night, fading into shadow. Within moments I had returned to my erstwhile, earthly abode. Which is to say, a crowded apartment filled with books. The bedroom had been converted into a study – after all, I don’t sleep – and I began to search my books. I knew that I had to find the killer – and that there were two basic ways I could do this.

One is to summon the spirit of the deceased into a pendant so that they could lead me to their killer. Think of it like a homing beacon – the act of murder inherently links the deceased to their victim, to the extent that it can be magically quantified, and traced.

The second was a bit less direct. The description the girl had given described a Werewolf, which, strictly speaking, do not exist. They are a Hollywood invention, like about everything else. But, their myth came from somewhere. Demons bound to flesh can have all sorts of effects, and shapechanging – both partially and fully – can be a result. And specific demons have specific modes of operation.

Desperate as I was to avoid calling upon the dead more than I absolutely had to, I began to plunge into my books for information on demons who used a wolf-motif. Within a couple hours I found four. Two were obviously not the case, as they had been expelled rather recently. They couldn’t have returned. But of the two, one worried me. Because it wasn’t really a ‘demon’, it was a fallen angel. Ulnniel, child of Lucifer and one of his concubines, was a being of death and depravity – whose hatred for family was only outstripped by his hatred of children.

I had found our killer. But now I needed to track him. I read deeper onto the subject of Ulnniel. His true name was polysyllabic and difficult to pronounce, as they tend to be, I suppose, and committing it to this paper is foolhardy as it would just set fire to itself anyway.

But I managed to devise a method of tracking. I would not summon those poor spirits again – for they had earned whatever blessings may come to them or whatever punishment awaits them. I had learned the hard way not to delay, and had for centuries been focusing on keeping the knowledge I found hoarded away from mortals.

The tracking method involved the true name written onto a map and then with acetone poured onto it, with an incantation spoken. It would destroy basically all the map except the point where he would be.

I did it, chanted the incantation, and there it was. Easy as a peach. I left to head to the location.

But when I got there, something was… amiss. I was atop a building, looking down at a patch of land that had been turned into a garden of sorts. In the center stood a man dressed in a hoodie, leather jacket and jeans. “I can hear you, brother,” he shouted. “Come out, Miyeteth. Face your death with some dignity.”

I could see his face even from here. His face had once been a human’s – probably similar to the male victim. But his face was twisted, wolf-like. A permanent snarl. The beginnings of horns had begun to emerge through the skin on his forehead. “Miyeteth – It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. I thought you were dead. I’d like to make that the truth.”

I jumped down, using my abilities to slow my descent so that I landed thirty or so feet behind him. Ulnniel laughed at my appearance. “Why so human, brother? What, didn’t feel like changing the appearance? So unlike you-“

“Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

Fire burst from my open palm to try and claim Ulnniel. He jumped out of the way, and I merely left a scorched patch of grass.

Ulnniel growled. “You aren’t Miyeteth – you are something else. Who are you? You are not a mortal – nor an angel.”

He raised one hand and spoke an incantation. A sword appeared in his hand, a twisted thing of black steel and blood, an evil thing, capable of doing much harm.

He charged at me. I spoke an incantation. My weapon appeared likewise – a golden spear tipped with platinum. I dodged out of the way and readied myself for combat.

“Who are you? What are you? An abomination, perhaps? No… my brother is part of you – both within and without. Hmmm…”

Ulnniel clapped his hands. “A conjurer you are! You fused my brother’s body with yours in some damned ritual. Clever. But it ends now.”

He charged and I tried to roll to the side, but he knew my trick and adjusted his blow. Driving his sword triumphantly through my side, he laughed. “Die, fool. Let your blood drip away for eternity.”

But he was close now. Too close for him to dodge as I spoke the words again, this time with my hand on his chest. “Malpirg Ipamis Ne.”

He screamed as he was blasted backwards by grey fire. I pulled his sword out, its metal hissing as it touched angelic flesh. He was immobilized. I walked to his form, and drove my spear into his chest. He screamed louder, as his very being was eradicated by the angelic weapon. The child of hell breathed no more.

I waved a hand over the body, and spoke a simple incantation. Its formed returned to human proportions, and I searched its pockets. I found a piece of paper, on which a few words had been written around a pentagram. This was how Ulnniel had been summoned. The humans sought to do what none other had – truly bind an angel.

I looked down at my form. I suppose I am not truly Miyeteth – I was born, in some form, on the twentieth of July, 1592. A rich child of a noble family, I had sought unholy knowledge. I found love – my wife died shortly after our marriage, and I sought to use my research to bring her back. I failed. I bound a son of Azrael to myself – Miyeteth. His knowledge and entity subsumed my mortal entity, and I became this. Perhaps an abomination. Perhaps something else.

I picked up the body and dropped it on the stairs of the precinct of a certain detective I knew. I had some people to track down – and some knowledge to claim.

You’re a necromancer who secretly helps the police by bringing back murder victims and interviewing them.

I can do lots and lots of submissions if that would help you. Creative strain’s a pain in the [redacted].

Hey Guys!

My life is gonna be super crazy from now until Christmas, so I’m bumping my daily prompt number down to three. I may miss some and some may simply be really bad. Bear with me, I will do my best.

Ash watched the target closely as he went into the bar. She stood on the roof of the four-story office-building across the street, hidden in the dark of the night. She was dressed practically, in simple clothing – black jeans, a dark grey t-shirt, a leather jacket – her purple hair tied back behind her head. At her feet was a black biker’s helmet. At her right ear was a Bluetooth earpiece.

She needed neither binoculars nor night-vision to see clearly in the night; she was Damphyr, the child of one afflicted with vampirism. Beings without most of their progenitors’ strengths, but the few gifts they possess by comparison makes them far greater than humans. Durability, speed and enhanced senses are their hallmark, but the gifts come at a cost. The cost of human blood. A Damphyr can survive on the blood of animals for a time, but they are required to drink the blood of a living human with disturbing and increasing frequency.

For now, she needed only once a month or so. But as her years of life wore on into centuries she would need to feed weekly or even daily. She pondered this as she watched the bar.

“Ash!” buzzed her earpiece. Focusing back in to the present, she barked an answer to the microphone on her lapel. “What, Vesh?”

Vesh responded, “I can see you from here. Stop zoning out! We need you to watch the door. If the target is meeting one of the nine, we’ll need to be able to act at a moment’s notice. You’re our surveillance.”

“If you wanted surveillance, you should have gotten a van,” Ash cracked.

“Who needs a van when you have the sharpest eyes this side of the globe?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Ash quipped, as she noticed something off with the bar. The sounds of violence were emanating from within, which would not have troubled her unduly were it not for the scent. Her sense of smell was arguably her weakest, but there are some scents she could never miss. The scent of blood, the scent of a damphyr, and, strongest of all, the scent of a vampire.

Vampires are rare creatures; few in number and rare to reproduce. They make up for it in unholy might; a single vampire could lay waste to a small city in a single night. But they tend to occupy their time with petty power struggles between each other and attempts to control large swathes of territory. Their servants, known as Revenants, were humans vested with some of their power. Weaker still than even damphyr, Revenants were slow to age and stronger than mortals.

But the scent of a vampire was what Ash smelled now. How she had missed it for so long was beyond her, but it was clear now. The smell was difficult to define – somewhere between a rotting corpse and a rose, soaked in blood. A smell of beautiful decay.

“Vesh, we need to move. Now.”

“Got it. I’ll get the back entrance. You cover the front.”

“Got it.”

Ash jumped from her perch, flipping from headfirst to a pencil dive and landing on the pavement, cracking it. She was unharmed by the tumble, she got up and charged the door as a man was thrown bodily from the window. Or rather, a corpse. Its head was twisted and nearly torn off, a look of agony on its face. Its limbs were twisted as if it had been tortured, but knowing what lay inside, she understood that it had happened within seconds.

She took a second to spit on the corpse. A fool who had been bargaining with a vampire for extended life. But the artifact that he had found was too powerful. His contact with it made him a liability, not an ally.

She charged the door, knocking it off of its hinges. Inside, an unwelcome sight greeted her. Revenants, a dozen of them, were feasting on the corpses of the erstwhile bar-goers. A couple were holding onto the bouncer by the arms, one drinking from his carotid and another on the opposite side, who had chewed through to his aorta.

They all looked up at her, with bestial glares. Damphyr blood was poison to them, but they were bound to their master’s will, and would be more than happy to kill her.

She reached into her coat and pulled out a long dagger – something caught between shortsword and knife in size, but finely wrought all the same, of some strange, silvery metal. She whispered the invocation. “Carnwennan, feoht for mec, innan thone ciegnes Arthorius.”

The blade sheathed itself in shadow, its magic enhancing her accuracy, speed and strength.

Moving faster than the creatures could even fathom, she had already drove the dagger through three of the creatures’ chests, piercing their hearts before they could even draw breath. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Green flame ripped its way through the creatures anew, burning their flesh and reducing them to ash faster than should have been physically faster. Continuing, she made quick work of the others, and had destroyed the bodies of those who had died. Little evidence remained, and the magical fire did not burn the objects in the room. She breathed, for the first time since entering the place. “You alright?” asked Vesh, through the earpiece.

“…Yes.”

“Good. Nothing on my end. I’ll meet up with you at the basement doors.”

They had gone through the blueprints for the building before the strike. There was a basement, prohibition era, that led down into the sewer. They had guessed the vampire would use this route to escape after putting down the ‘livestock’.

She went over to behind the bar, went into the backroom, and took the short hallway to the back room, where she Vesh was waiting.

Vesh wasn’t damphyr, nor was she human. She was a Nephilim, the long-lost bloodline of angels. Moreover, her bloodline was the (in)direct descent from King (well, queen, but that’s another story) Arthur. She wasn’t all that much stronger than a normal human, until the bloodline was used in conjunction with an Arthurian one. Ash’s weapon was one, the bloodline only enhancing the weapon’s traits, not granting ones on their own.

But Vesh was more powerful in her own way. For she wielded two weapons – Rhongomiant, an ancient spear, and Clarent, the coward’s blade. With their power, she could take down many opponents with little effort – but at a cost. The two could only be wielded in conjunction for a short time, or she would burn up.

Vesh was breathing heavily, her sword sheathed and her spear at her back. “You okay?” asked the (suitably) concerned Ash.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“There’s no shame in turning back,” warned Ash.

“Yes, there is.”

“Okay, only a little,” conceded Ash.

“I’m not going to sit back and let you hog all the glory. Here,” said Vesh, holding out a thermos.

“I’m not thirsty,” protested Ash.

“Yeah, you are.” Said Vesh, gesturing with the thermos. “You didn’t’ have any blood at breakfast, and I’ve been keeping eye on your little freezer down in the basement. You haven’t touched it in going on a week and a half. Drink.”

Ash could smell the blood, and hunger snarled deep within her stomach. But at the same time, a foul disgust was creeping through her. “No.”

“You’ve got to drink sometime. Please. You need it.”

Vesh hold the thermos close to Ash’s face.

“I said no, damn it!” Ash shouted, batting the thermos out of Vesh’s hand and to the ground. Warmed blood spilled across the ground.

Vesh became more concerned. “Ash…”

Ash was stumbling away from the spilled blood, retching at the smell, reaching a corner and throwing up blackened bile. “We need to follow the vampire.” She coughed out, between dry heaves.

“You’re in no condition to fight a vampire. We can turn back – we can get more…”

Ash shook her head. “Don’t say it.”

“Damn it, Ash. You need to drink. You don’t think I’ve noticed you? You don’t sleep anymore. You can barely get down food, and blood… you barely touch it unless you’re desperate. This isn’t healthy. I’m here for you.”

Ash shook her head. “We have to go on. I know… I know this vampire.”

“What? You can differentiate between vampiric bloodlines now? Are… are you certain?”

“I know this one well. This one is…” she trailed off, and began to make her way down the stairs.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was chained to the floor of the cell, her interrogator standing above her. Throwing down a lukewarm blood transfusion bag, he kicked her in the stomach. “Drink, half-blood.”

“F… fuck you…”

He kneeled down, grabbing her by the back of the head, and held her mouth open. Kicking the bloodbag aside, causing it to leak across the ground towards the drain in the center of the room, he gestured to the door. A man stepped in, carrying with him a bound and gagged teenage boy. The boy kicked and screamed as he was dragged into the room. The man carrying him drew a wicked-looking hunting knife, and drew it across the boy’s throat in a swift, decisive motion. The boy was gurgling his last breaths as blood poured from the wound. The interrogator turned Ash’s face up as the other man put the boy’s throat to her open lips, blood pouring into her mouth, her nose, most spilling but some she felt going down her throat.

--- Present Day ---

They were making their way down the stairs in sullen silence when they heard it. The scratching, the skittering, the sound of rats, moving around them in the dark. Ash closed her eyes, her breathing becoming ragged. Vesh took the lead, and motioned for Ash to sit down for a moment. She whispered in her ear. “I’ll be back in just a few seconds. Wait.”

The sounds of blades being drawn and of the screeching of rats. Finally, Ash heard the words, “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.” A bright flash of green, and nothing else. “You can open your eyes now.”

They continued on their way.

--- A Year and a Half Prior ---

Ash was blindfolded as she was led into the room and tied to the chair. It was a cold, study thing of wood. Chained at the ankles and the wrists, weakened from blood deprivation, she struggled against the chains until she was exhausted. She heard him, chuckling and chiding. “Is the little girl tired? Poor little girl…”

“Maybe the girl needs some friends. Yes, maybe some furry friends.”

She heard the sound of blade against sheath as he drew a knife, and felt it as he drew thick lines every few inches down her wrist and thigh. Blood slicked her skin as he stepped back, and whistled.

It was then she heard them. Skittering across the rafters, across the floor. Ash felt it as they fell onto her body, and tried to throw them off, but they kept piling on. She screamed as they bit into her flesh. She screamed and the man laughed.

--- Present Day ---

The hallway was sparsely lit with dangling, electric lights as they continued on their way. The form of the hallway was made of brick and wood, with a floor of cement. “Are you sure you’ll be alright?” asked Vesh.

“I’m fine,” responded Ash, a little too quickly, having been waiting for the question.

“Ash… for gods’ sakes…”

Ash drew Carnwennan, and began the invocation again. The blade sheathed itself in shadow. “I’m fine.”

They reached the end of the hallway, and they saw it.

Sitting in the center of the room was a finely-wrought silver casket, surrounded on all sides by human bodies, blood splattered against the walls. Not catching her breath in time, Ash smelled the blood, assailing from all sides. Gagging, she began the purification invocation to cleanse the room with fire. “Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

The room flashed green as fire consumed the corpses, leaving ash behind.

“What is this thing?” said Vesh, looking at the coffin.

“An artifact of great power, so they say. The coffin of the progenitors. Capable of bringing a vampire to an almost godlike state.”

“And capable of purifying the blood of a damphyr, my pet,” came a voice from the shadows.

They turned. Ash gasped. “You… you’re dead. I killed you…”

The interrogator stepped forward. “Only a spear of ash and silver can kill a vampire, as you well know.”

Gesturing to a stitched-shut scar around his throat, he laughed. “All you did was offend my vanity.”

He walked forward, touching the coffin with an outstretched arm. “You hurt me, running away like you did. All I wanted was what’s best for you, after all, little cousin.”

He held out his open arms to Ash. “Come to me, pet, I will take you with me and make you my immortal lover.”

Ash held Carnwennan at the ready, taking a step back. Her stance was nearly broken by her shaking.

“Come here, girl, I will hurt you no longer.”

Vesh stepped forward. “Enough.”

Drawing spear and sword, spear at the ready stance, sword ready to guard against blows, Vesh charged, speed and strength enhanced by the magic. The man just jumped out of the way.

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, child. I am a vampire, not some weak-blooded mockery or halfblood pretender.”

Vesh struck with speed and strength, with each strike gaining more momentum and hitting faster. She felt her muscles burn as she fought him, but he dodged each blow with almost nonchalant ease. Growing tired of this, he grabbed the spear by the shaft and struck quickly, knocking the sword aside and biting deeply into her forearm. Vesh let out a cry of pain, as he threw her backwards.

Ash couldn’t stand still anymore. Half frozen in fear while Vesh struck, she steeled herself and struck. The interrogator laughed. “You can’t harm me any more now than you could then, girl.”

Before she could strike his flesh he dodged under the blow and slammed into her, sending her flying across the room, landing next to Vesh.

He crossed the room to where Ash lay, and grabbed her by the throat. “Your blood will fuel my power,” he said, biting into her throat. She felt herself being drained. After a couple moments, he pulled away, lips slick with blood.

“Watch, now, as I ascend to godhood,” he stated, wiping off his lips, opening the coffin. Inside was black velvet. Ripping off his shirt, he lied back into the coffin as the lid closed automatically.

A hissing sound like hydraulic sealing could be heard as the coffin closed.

“Ash,” said Vesh, trying to get closer to her, coughing up blood from broken ribs, unable to move her legs. Ash lay unconscious. Vesh took her wounded arm and put it over Ash’s lips, letting blood drip into her mouth. Still not conscious, Ash’s mouth instinctively bit into Vesh’s arm, draining blood. Vesh grimaced against the pain, but it was not in vain.

Ash awoke, her body repairing itself faster for the blood. She felt a surge of power from her blood, from Vesh’s blood, as Vesh faded out of consciousness.

The coffin opened just as Ash arose, holding Carnwennan and Clarent at the ready. The blood of Arthur she had drunk felt like fire rising in her veins as she spoke in the old tongue. “Cier asprungennes, Vampire.”

Her enemy had changed. Like some monstrous bat, his features had twisted into a vile mockery of the living. His fangs had grown and his teeth grown sharp. He growled.

They did battle, moving faster than sound, booms echoing off the halls. She dodged blow after blow, dealing small wounds bit by bit. Eventually, he failed – mis-stepping, he was impaled on the blades.

“This cannot kill me, whelp. I will return to hunt you. I will return to end you.”

“I know,” said Ash. “But next time, I will not hesitate. In the meantime, let’s see how well you can reform from my namesake. Eallgrene sealt adfyr.”

Flames engulfed him as he screamed in agony, burning as Ash gathered the weapons, picked up Vesh, and began to return up the stairs.

Story Shard 543

You know what I want? I want a Bad Ass Female Super Hero who is afraid of something small and cliche, like bugs or mice, but whose compatriots don’t make fun of her for it. They just step up and take care of the things she can’t. And her fear does not make her any less bad ass it just makes her human.

reading update: june 2023

as promised (to myself) I spent all of gay months reading books by and/or about the gays, no exceptions! (unless you count the heaps of old Batman comics I was reading, but come on. it's all pretty fruity.) the trend will be continuing into July as well because I overshot and still have book I need to finish, so in the immortal words of Janelle Monáe: happy pride forever!

anyway, what have I actually been reading?

Empress of Forever (Max Gladstone, 2019) - man, I've been meaning to read this FOREVER! and I'm glad I finally did. Gladstone's space opera follows ultrawealthy tech genius Vivian Liao, a sort of dykey Lex Luthor who's CERTAIN that she's the good guy. okay, yes, she's trying to get control of the nukes, but she's not going to use them. it's just that the world's a mess and she needs to be in charge. unfortunately our girl Vivian doesn't get far in her master plan before she's transported across the galaxy and finds herself on the run from the all-powerful Empress in the company of a cybernetic monk named Hong and the legendary space pirate Zanj, the Empress' greatest enemy. from there our heroes are off on a slow, messy quest across the galaxy as they make new friends, grow as people, and strive to bring the Empress down. it's a very long book and can feel slow in places, but all of the time devoted to fleshing out the characters ultimately pays off as their stories converge into a resonant narrative about the notion of identity and what it means to be yourself. if you like Becky Chambers' Wayfarer books of the Guardians of the Galaxy movies, get on this shit.

also hey listen Max Gladstone is having a bit of a Moment rn; the book he coauthored with Amal El-Mohtar, This Is How You Lose the Time War, is getting a huge boost thanks to the Trigun (????) fandom??? over on Twitter, and you should definitely go check it out

Not Gay: Sex Between Straight White Men (Jane Ward, 2016) - Ward is a brilliant queer feminist writer; rigorous and insightful while keeping her work imminently readable. while the title may sound facetious, Ward actually takes entirely at face value that there are men having sex with each other an engaging in otherwise homoerotic activities - mutual jerkoffs, hazing rituals that involve anal penetration - that sincerely aren't stemming from a place of gay desire and asks us what the fuck we're supposed to make of that. what results is a fascinating look at masculinity and the intricate rituals that both subvert and maintain it. shockingly thought provoking for a book that contains so many transcribed craigslist posts of men looking for straight guys to have totally normal hetero dudesex with!

The Latinos of Asia: How Filipinos Break the Rules of Race (Anthony Christian Ocampo, 2016) - I was lucky enough to get to see Ocampo (who is gay) speaking at the National Conference on Race and Ethnicity this year, and naturally I had to buy one of his books while I was there. I strongly suspect he's about to become one of my new favorite nonfiction writers, because the Latinos of Asia was a brilliant read that I really couldn't put down. Ocampo (who's also Filipino!) delves into the formation of Filipino-Americans' racial identity, and finds that many feel caught between the most conventionally accepted racial categories - feeling alienated from the idea of Asian identity, which is often perceived as pertaining to East Asians like Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans, and instead relating much more firmly to Mexican-Americans and other Latinos. it's a FASCINATING study on race and one (of many!) loopholes that exists in this very large, messy, totally made up construct of race.

A Lady for a Duke (Alexis Hall, 2022) - for my pride month romance novel I wanted to read something that I might actually like. I've previously adored Hall's genre-fucking ultra-queer Sherlock Holmes pastiche, the Affair of the Mysterious Letter, and Lady for a Duke was really well-reviewed, so my hopes were high! and you know what? I fucking loved this. it was like cotton candy, perfectly sweet and made to be inhaled without a second thought. Our Heroine Viola was the heir to an estate who faked her death at Waterloo so that she could run away and be herself - that's right baby, this is a 19th century trans lady romance! she reconnects with her old BFF the Duke of Gracewood, who's been catatonically depressed since losing his best friend in the war, and reader, you will not believe what happens next. just kidding, you totally will: they want to kiss each other so bad! they're yearning so bad and it's great. it's a very silly book and Gracewood is the most unexpectedly forward-thinking 19th century duke EVER who is instantly down to accept Viola entirely as a woman and thinks that having biological children is overrated, and you know what? that rules. I'm not reading this book for historical accuracy I'm reading it to watch a man beg his girlfriend to fuck him tenderly in the ass. and she does!!! if I'm being honest everything after they finally hook up is kind of nonsense and the book probably is too long, but god it's a delightful time.

Chlorine (Jade Song, 2023) - back in the days of twitter I started following Jade Song as soon as they announced selling this book, the story of a competitive high school swimmer succumbing to obsession as she fantasizes about becoming a mermaid. finally getting to pick up the book from the library and actually read it felt crazy after existing in potentia for so long! while Song's novel is a little rough in some places in exactly the way I expect from a debut, it's still gripping and visceral. our protagonist lives in an intense and demanding world, striving to please an overly handsy coach, wanting to please the immigrant parents she can barely speak to, stumbling through sex with boys on her team while longing for her female best friend. through it all she fixates on mermaids, and the story is told in flashbacks building up to a drastic act of self-mutilation at a swim meet. it's definitely not the right book for the faint of heart or anyone looking for feel-good fluff, but it's harrowing in the best way.

Vagabonds! (Eloghosa Osunde, 2022) - gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous! Osunde celebrates queer life - those called vagabonds, society's outliers - in Lagos, Nigeria, slipping between the real world of social stigma, oppressive religion, judgmental family, and dangerous politics, and the world of magic, gods, and the unreal, blending the two together in an effortlessly dizzying effect. the ultrawealthy hide behind layers of flawless masks to conceal their identities, a lonely woman dying of cancer summons up a daughter than only she can see, and a young man channels the devil to raise his murdered lover. while the stories start bleak, firmly establishing the danger of life on the margins, they gather speed with increasing warmth and love as the story progresses, eventually bringing all of our protagonists together in glorious, life-affirming celebration of vagabonds and all who love them. Nigeria, in Osunde's hands, reads much like family - imperfect, sometimes even awful, but also capable of harboring tremendous love, surprising tenderness, and still worth holding out hope for. I think measuring books in terms of relatability is a fool's game, but as an American queer watching more and more legislation and persecution roll out against my people each day, it was hard not to feel a cord being struck. Vagabonds! is a beautiful reminder that queer resilience is eternal, and reader, I did cry.

Quietly Hostile (Samantha Irby, 2023) - I was a ride or die bitch for Sam Irby even before she picked up and moved to my small Michigan city, effectively becoming my neighbor. (not really, but she is married to the mother of a friend of a friend, so.) despite this, I will freely admit that I was a little underwhelmed by her last release, 2020's Wow, No Thank You. it's possible that WNTY was damned by its March 2020 release, putting it in the awkward position of being a humorous essay collection creeping out into the world at a time when everyone was paranoid and nothing was funny; maybe on a reread I would receive it a bit more warmly. Quietly Hostile, on the other hand, is just stupid funny right out of the gate. Sam Irby is old (see: in her early 40s) and going downhill, writing candidly about peeing her pants everywhere, adopting a rancid little dog, getting sent to the hospital with a severe allergic reaction, and jacking off to plot-heavy porn of elderly lesbian nuns. it takes a little bit of work to get me to actually laugh out loud at a book but man, I was chortling. if you don't already know her work, this is a sign from god (me) to check Samantha Irby out now.

what am I reading now?

Black Water Sister (Zen Cho, 2021) - the was one of the oldest queer novels(TM) on my list and I really wanted to knock it out for pride month. the Malaysian setting and culture is a welcome addition to contemporary urban fantasy, but I'm not sure I'm crazy about the story overall. and yet, I'm over 200 pages deep and don't want to give up, so ? I guess I'm persisting.

Giovanni's Room (James Baldwin, 1956) - my local library lost their copy just in time for pride month, so I bought one on ebay for all of nine dollars. haven't started yet, but I'm really excited to finally pop that proverbial Baldwin cherry!

If your plot feels flat, STUDY it! Your story might be lacking...

Stakes - What would happen if the protagonist failed? Would it really be such a bad thing if it happened?

Thematic relevance - Do the events of the story speak to a greater emotional or moral message? Is the conflict resolved in a way that befits the theme?

Urgency - How much time does the protagonist have to complete their goal? Are there multiple factors complicating the situation?

Drive - What motivates the protagonist? Are they an active player in the story, or are they repeatedly getting pushed around by external forces? Could you swap them out for a different character with no impact on the plot? On the flip side, do the other characters have sensible motivations of their own?

Yield - Is there foreshadowing? Do the protagonist's choices have unforeseen consequences down the road? Do they use knowledge or clues from the beginning, to help them in the end? Do they learn things about the other characters that weren't immediately obvious?

Sorry I haven’t been all that active these last few days

I’ve been kind of busy, but I should get to posting again soon.

by Anastasia Fedorova

You’re a zoologist. When the alien bombardment begins, you decide to stay behind and spend your last moments with the animals. Your zoo, however, is miraculously unharmed. It’s not a coincidence.

He sat upon a hilltop, watching out over the plane of existence he lived in. He was a demon, minor lord of a plane of Hell. Unfortunately, he was melancholic about his life and the position he was in.

His father was Lucifer, the king of fallen angels, and lord of all of Hell. His mother was Lilith, the first human. In this sense, he was closer to humanity than any of his siblings; the only child of the cursed, immortal woman who had never truly fallen – at least not in the sense that man had.

He had dark, curly hair, short horns growing from his forehead, and black, leathery wings. He wore only a simple tunic, with a belt tied at the waist. He needed no shoes, and he was discontent with his lot in life.

For he was a simple creature, in his own way – all he desired in life was to drink and be merry, to spend his existence harming none in his debauchery. But that was not his job – he was the child of Lucifer, the child of blue flame – he was to be a fearsome creature, a servant of darkness – but try as he might, he could never bring himself to harm a soul – even the blackest among the damned were spared his whip, for he was a gentle soul – despite his appearance and heritage.

He sighed deeply, as his brother came up from the other side of the hill. “Iscarbiel,” hailed the demon, “What are you doing?”

The demon, dressed similarly but with a blue skin and red eyes, pointed teeth and large, curling ram’s horns, a longsword strapped to his side, walked up and sat beside him. “Nothing, Jimarciel,” said Iscarbiel.

“Nothing,” said Jimarciel, gnashing his teeth, “Nothing seems to be all you do nowadays!”

Iscarbiel leaned back, onto the scorched black grass of Asphodel. “Leave me be, Jimarciel. You do enough evil for the both of us, is that not true?”

Jimarciel laughed, a haughty, unearthly rattle. “Indeed I do,” he ceded, “But it is not me that father cares about. You are his favorite, and he demands your presence. Good luck, little brother.”

Iscarbiel got up, stretched, and began walking down the hill, towards the blackened hellscape through the fields of the damned, towards the black castle atop a mountain. His ears numb to the screams of the tortured, he flapped his wings once, twice, and was lifted, flying upwards towards the castle in which he lived, and hated with almost every fiber of his being.

Landing on a parapet encasing a balcony, avoiding the wickedly-pointed spears every couple of feet, and climbing down, he walked into his room, down the stairs and into the throne-room of his father.

His father looked much the same as him, with pale skin and a goatee, but with straight hair kept short, and nearly three times the height of a normal man. Sitting on a throne of dragon-bone and cushioned with blackened fabric, he walked forward, between tables where demons and fallen angels sat feasting on roasted animal carcasses, drinking wine of finest vintage.

Lucifer was angry. Iscarbiel walked slowly forward, to stand in front of his father.

His father glared at him, and began to speak in a voice, deep as the fathoms of the ocean and booming like thunder. “My son… you are weak.”

The assembled court laughed at this, as they continued their feast. Slamming the butt of his pitchfork, the symbol of his rule, into the ground, Lucifer bellowed, “Silence!”

“You have not tasted blood. You are not a torturer, like Jimarciel, or a general of great renown like Falzlynnel. You are not a magus, like Arunic, or a soldier, like Varysin. You are… weak.”

Loathing dripped from every word he spoke.

“But there is hope for you yet, my whelp, for our guards have caught something that you can… play with.”

Iscarbiel would sweat, if his body could, and fear crept into him like a poisoned dagger. What would his father have him do?

“An angel, sent by my father, to spy on me. Caught by Jimarciel, and brought alive to our dungeons. You will torture it until it swears allegiance to me, and then slaughter it. This is my command; carry it out and your rewards will be great. But be warned,” he almost whispered, in a sibilant hiss, ‘If you fail me, your screams will be far louder and greater than any that now resound across my plane.”

Iscarbiel kneeled, silently, trying to think of a way out of this. None was forthcoming, unfortunately.

“Lonchoriel! Show him to his prey.”

A fallen angel, dressed in fine, purple robes, stood, bowed before Lucifer, and spoke, “Thank you, my lord.”

Lonchoriel lead Iscarbiel down a spiral staircase to the left of the throne room, not speaking as he walked down, down into the depths, beyond the castle and into the bowels of the mountain. Finally, they entered the dungeons, darkened cells where his father’s prisoners were kept. Down the hallway to the very end, where a large door was chained shut. Whispering the password to the door, a word in a language only pronounceable by demons and the damned,  he turned and walked back down the hallway, speaking a simple warning. “Do not fail your father.”

With Lonchoriel gone, Iscarbiel gulped, and walked into the room, not knowing what to expect. He had never left his father’s realm – he had never waged war on the heavens, and he had never seen an angel. From the words of Jimarciel he expected an alien, monstrous entity – something of fire and death, whose hatred of the hells knew no bounds. Something awful, no doubt.

But walking into the torture chamber, he saw something he had never expected to see.

She seemed so… normal. Inhumanly beautiful, with amber hair – but still, alike to his mother and to him. Human in appearance, but with the feathered wings of a pure-white dove, folded behind her. Chained to the ceiling, kneeling on the ground but with her hands suspended above her head, she appeared barely conscious, with superficial bruises and cuts probably incurred in her capture. Upon his entrance, she looked up, and he saw her eyes – humanlike, but with orange irises that matched the shade of her hair. She spat on the ground – blood, red like a human’s, mixed in with the saliva. “Do your worst, demon,” she hissed.

Iscarbiel was dumbstruck. Moving to stand before her, he began to try and sound intimidating, “Fear me, angel, for I am the son of Lucifer – the Morningstar, the Blue Flame, the Lord of Hell – fear me because I am here to –,” he stopped, slapping his forehead. “Oh, enough talk.”

He pulled a tray of torture implements towards him. He was pretty sure how most of them worked – or, at least some of them. Picking up a scalpel, he moved towards her, and she glared at him, looking him in the eyes, unflinching as he moved the scalpel towards the flesh below her right eye. Just as it was about to touch skin, he stopped, stood up, put it down, hyperventilating. “Nine hells damn it all,” he exclaimed.

“You aren’t very good at this,” she observed, watching him closely.

“No, no I am not,” he concurred, staring down at the tray and shaking his head. “I’m Iscarbiel.”

“Anabiel.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

They stood there in silence for a couple moments, neither speaking, wondering what they should do. He couldn’t bring himself to torture her, and she knew it. His father was right. He was… weak.

“So, Iscarbiel, what do we do now?”

“I don’t know, Anabiel, what do we do?”

“You could let me go,” she said, cheekily.

“You have absolutely no idea how impossible that would be,” he sighed. “My father doesn’t trust me to do this, and I’m damned sure he’ll check in before the night is done.”

“Have you ever tortured someone before?” she inquired.

“Nope. Never before in my life have I done something like this. I mostly hung around his courts, listening to my older brothers’ tales of glory, how they torture the damned and kill angels – no offense.”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t offended just a little bit.”

“Well, in either case – I never had the stomach for this sort of thing. I’m a fan of decadence, I take to the wine a little more than most, but I’m not a torturer. Any recommendations?”

“Well, torture doesn’t normally come with this much banter.”

“I figured as much,” he said, sitting down in front of her, pushing the wheeled cart aside.

“What will I do,” he pondered, half to himself. “I can’t torture anything, never have, probably never will. But if I don’t my father will torture me.”

“He’d torture his own flesh and blood?”

Iscarbiel laughed, and pulled down the front of his tunic a little to reveal a score of scars, aged and healed whip-scars. “it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Anabiel went quiet. “I’m sorry about your father,” she paused, as if shocked that she had said something like that. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that to a demon,” she explained.

“Well, I’ve never met an angel in my existence, so I think we’re both in rather uncharted territory.”

“Shouldn’t we loathe each other with every fiber of our existences?”

“Probably,” he said, “But I’ve never been particularly demonic or malicious, even for a demon. Especially for a demon,” he paused, then the questions came pouring out, “Why did you come to Hell? If I left, I’d never come back. Ever. Why risk it?”

She bristled, and then began to speak, “I can’t tell you that. Is this your endgame? Pretend to be incompetent and then hope that gets me to spill all the answers? I have to admit, that’s clever.”

“No, nothing like that! Honest!”

She spat on the ground again. “A likely story. Get out of here!”

He got up, a little in shock, and walked out of the room. Outside, he found someone waiting for him. Jimarciel was standing there, a disgusted look on his face. “I knew you couldn’t do it. Father’s right, you’re weak.”

He pushed Iscarbiel aside, and with a wave of his hand, disguised himself perfectly as Iscarbiel. “Leave,” he said. “I’m going to make her talk, and you’ll get the credit for it. I hate your weakness,” he growled, “But you are my blood, for better or for worse.”

As Jimarciel turned to the door, Iscarbiel grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do it, Jii.”

Jimarciel turned back, and pushed Iscarbiel across the hall, to the base of the stairs. “And what will you do to stop me, whelp? You are a weakling. You can’t even torture a human soul – how could father have trusted you to torture an angel?”

Iscarbiel got up, shakily. And walked forward. “Back away, Jimarciel. I’m warning you.”

Jimarciel laughed and drew his longsword, blackened, infernal steel hissing with the evil with which it had been tempered. “Warning me, now, are you? Run away, you little fool, before I destroy you.”

Iscarbiel took a stumbling step forward, unarmed. Jimarciel laughed and took a stance, with his blade in position so it would be ready to strike. The air smelled of ozone as the blade crackled. “Don’t hurt her,” said Iscarbiel, shakily but resolute.

“Don’t hurt her,” mocked Jimarciel. “She’s an angel. She’s our enemy. Given the power, she would destroy us all. Don’t you care for your flesh and blood? Turn and flee, cur. It’s what you’re good at.”

A million memories flooded Iscarbiel’s mind. Of being bullied by his brothers, of Jimarciel and Falzlynnel laughing at him, beating him into a pulp and him being afraid to speak back. “Not anymore.”

Iscarbiel charged. He did not know what he had planned, but Jimarciel was ready. Driving the blade towards Iscarbiel, he expected an easy kill. But Iscarbiel was not so obliging. Diving into a roll, he went beside the blade, punching Jimarciel in the throat with all of his meager might.

Jimarciel gagged, a hiss, as his blade cleaved into the floor. Running into the cell, Iscarbiel grabbed a blade from the rolling cart of torture equipment. He looked at it, a simple enough dagger, and he readied himself to fight. Jimarciel growled, ripping his blade from the ground and turning to Iscarbiel.

“What will you do now, little one,” he hissed, “What will you do now that you’ve cornered yourself? I will take no mercy on you now.”

“I expected as much,” muttered Iscarbiel, readying himself to die.

Jimarciel laughed and charged forward, bloodlust making him foolish. This time he made sure to be ready for a quick dodge, but this time Iscarbiel was not going to dodge. Throwing himself onto the blade, he drove his dagger into Jimarciel’s heart. “What...?”

Jimarciel let go of his sword, looking down at the blade that had pierced his chest. The blade was of hell-forged steel, like his own. Pulling it out, he watched blackened ichor pour from the wound. Kneeling, then falling over, he moved no more.

Walking over to his brother’s corpse, with the longsword stuck through the right side of his stomach, ichor leaking from his pierced side. Groaning, he groped around on his brother’s corpse, finally finding it. His master key. Walking over to the angel, he unlocked her shackles. “Go,” he said, falling over and leaning on the ground, pain overwhelming, “Run. You can escape.”

Anabiel knelt next to him, lifting his head. “Go!” he hissed, barely able to breathe.

She put her hand to the base of the wound, then, reaching up, pulled it free from his stomach. He screamed, but she covered his mouth. Putting an ichor-soaked finger to her mouth, indicating silence, she put a hand on the wound, whispered a word in Enochian, and it stitched itself shut. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Catching his breath, he nodded.

They made their way up the stairs as quietly as possible, and he whispered to her, “At the top of this staircase is my father’s throne room. If I distract them, you can escape out the balcony at the back of the room. You can still fly, can’t you?”

She nodded. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll guard your escape and follow if I can.”

She looked worried.

“Don’t concern yourself with me,” he whispered. “I’m demonspawn, remember? I’m not capable of redemption.”

They reached the top of the stairs, and Iscarbiel ran into the center of the room, quite a sight, covered in black ichor as he was, both his own and his brother’s.

“Father!” he screamed. Lucifer rose from his throne, holding his pitchfork resolutely. “I’m tired, father. I’m tired of my brothers. I’m tired of this court. I’m tired of you.”

“Watch your tongue, boy! I have fought gods! Destroyed nations! What have you done, apart from embarrass my bloodline?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel sneak out the back, and he laughed back at his father. “Embarrass your bloodline? Don’t make me laugh! You were defeated, what have your fights wrought you but this wretched place?”

Lucifer howled, his appearance shifting as he took a more suitable size, similar to his son’s. His skin was black as coal and his face a triple, with one on each side save the back. The eyes of each face glowed crimson, and his wings burnt black and skeletal. “Know your place, boy!”

Iscarbiel drew his blade into a ready stance, ready to fight. Lucifer charged, his attack pattern more sophisticated than Jimarciel’s. Within seconds, he had gripped Iscarbiel by the throat, lifting him into the air. “What has the angel brought out of you, boy? What hidden nature is this?”

Iscarbiel saw Anabiel, wings spread, flying off of the balcony and away, further and further, into the distance.

“Love, father.” Iscarbiel choked out.

“Love,” sneered Lucifer.

Dropping the boy, he struck forward with the pitchfork, driving it through Iscarbiel’s chest.

“Love will not save you, boy.”

Iscarbiel lay back onto the floor as ichor drained from his body, and he blacked out, and saw no more.

 ---Epilogue---

Iscarbiel awoke in a white, formless landscape. Standing across from him was a muscled angel, who seemed normal enough, save for the third eye in the center of his forehead. Getting quickly to his feet, he stood in a defensive stance.

“Fear not, worm. I am not here to harm you. I’m here to save you, per my sister’s request.”

“Who?” Iscarbiel began.

“Don’t be rude, Metatron,” spoke a familiar voice behind him. Turning, he saw Anabiel.

“Anabiel! How-,” Iscarbiel stopped himself before he said it. How was he not dead?

“I petitioned my father for your return. He sent Metatron to draw you out of the void. I accompanied.”

“Why?”

“I saw something in you, Iscarbiel. Something no demon has shown before.”

Metatron began to speak. “I see all, boy. I was there when your father betrayed his, and his brethren like me. I see in you what was in him before he turned from the light. Bravery. Honor,” here he paused, “Love.”

“Your bravery in offering your life to save an angel was enough to make you an anomaly; expecting nothing in return made you a hero. And heroes deserve heaven’s blessings, regardless of their father’s sins.”

Anabiel gripped Iscarbiel’s hand. “Follow me,” she said, and lead him into paradise.

You’re a demon. A pretty awful one, might I add. You should have been an angel instead. The other demons constantly harass you for not fitting in or being like them. You end up falling in love with an angel and you have to convince her that you’re not like the others.

@oopsprompts

You’ll understand when you’re older.

I am twice your age.

Life is a fickle thing.

One day, you’re a ten-year-old boy, playing in a park. It’s near dark, sure. You shouldn’t be there, sure. But your house is across the street, and anyone could hear you shout. Playing on rusted swings and waiting for the call from your mother to come home and have dinner, bathe, and head to bed.

But destiny, it seems, has other plans for you. Destiny, it seems, plans for the man… no, the creature… dressed in black and hiding its face to attack you. To rip open your throat and drink deep of your blood and leave your body – little more than a lifeless corpse – behind for your mother to find not long later.

Without a chance to scream, or cry, or do little more than gasp as you die.

But destiny is not finished with you; for within your fragile husk of a form a few drops of blood remain, and your heart beats still. Weak, but enough to allow a strange change to occur. The change, of course, kills you first, so as when you’re found, your ears are death to your mother’s screams, to the ambulance, to the morgue. A closed-casket funeral in a funeral home barely worth remembering.

Indeed, your body sleeps for a long while, before the curse goes to work, knitting flesh and repairing bone. Within time, you awaken, coughing up the dust that had settled into your lungs, opening your eyes in the dark, six feet underground. Screaming and crying, beating your way into the lid of your coffin until it breaks with your unholy strength.

Crawling your way through the dirt, until you find yourself in the darkened night, a ghoulish sight. A gravedigger spots you on your way, runs over to you, trying to assess the situation. His death is quick and decisive, his neck broken and his blood drained as you come to terms with the situation.

Leaving his corpse behind, you flee into the night. For thirty years, you hide from your former life, learning as you go, learning to drink as you need to survive, and finding kinship with small clans – groups of interrelated vampires who have learned to survive on the bare minimum in the modern world.

I survive.

I watched. I watched as my mother and father came to terms with their grief; indeed their love perhaps kept them both sane. Ten years later, they have another child, a daughter this time. For nineteen years I watched, kept an eye on my sister, first out of jealousy, but soon for a sense of the life I could have had. From a distance I watched as she played in the same parks, this time with my father nearby at nearly all times. I watched as she went to school, all the way from elementary to high school.

She was nineteen, and I watched from the shadows as something from a nightmare I once had returned.

She was walking alone at night, from the community college she had been going to – an easy way to save money that she could use when transferring later on. I saw it then – a creature whose form seemed a distant memory. I was a distance off, shrouded from view with both shadow and a mild illusion.

The creature to whom I owed my existence.

I had learned in my time, of the different types of vampires.

The wandering clans of vampires were the most common – survival works best in groups, after all. They fed as necessary, typically, and murdered rarely if at all. Their desire for blood was tempered with a sentiment that could probably be called humanity.

Then there are the sedentary vampires – usually loners, and in big cities, these creatures feed as sparingly as possible – but are more often killers.

Then, there are those who vampires call ghouls. They are vampires who murder with each feeding, who travel from place to place and kill as they please. Though one only needs a couple pints of blood every couple of weeks to keep going, these creatures feast and over time, become more bestial. Their fangs – which every vampire possesses, one of the few actually true legends – become elongated and larger, their other teeth fall out and are replaced with pointed hooks. Their skin becomes more and more pallid, and hair begins to fall out. They regenerate health at a rate that makes death through typical injury next to impossible, but their weaknesses are more pronounced as well.

An average vampire can go out in sunlight, but it causes weakness with overexposure, akin to heatstroke but can only be cured with blood. One who goes out for eight hours a day, sometimes called Lifers, would have to drink a pint of blood every couple of days to maintain their charade of normalcy. Lifers are notorious for turning into ghouls, because of their tendency to overfeed.

A ghoul cannot go out in sunlight for more than a couple minutes without their cells degrading and the resultant failings resulting in death.

An average vampire is capable of entering the dwellings of whomever they please – they aren’t bound by the superstitions of men, and do not require invitations.

Ghouls were cursed in ancient days to never be able to enter a home without an invitation. To do so results in madness and death.

Vampires can use their limited magical abilities to remove recent memories from the mind of a mortal, knock them unconscious, and even heal wounds to a limited degree. Making one go unnoticed by mortals took little will.

Ghouls’ magical abilities bleed from them like a noxious gas. Mortals in their presence are often paralyzed with fear.

This was clearly a ghoul, and a familiar one at that. After the initial trauma of the transformation, I had done my research. I found others like me, learned the basics of my abilities, and learned self-control. But I sought my sire – for knowledge or revenge, I had known naught. I found his trail – of a sort – after almost a half-decade.

Called by some tabloids as ‘New Jack’ – for his brutal methods of murder – he went randomly across the US killing as he pleased. I was among his casualties. I regretted my first kill – but I learned to live with it. But Jack exulted in his murders. He wandered far and wide in his kills, far enough that few even believed his existence.

But here he was.

I watched him stalking my sister, at a safe distance of almost a block and a half. But he was nearby, and I knew a vampire with his abilities would be able to cross that distance in less than a second.

I watched, as she was listening to music on her phone. I don’t think she had noticed. Then, he stopped. He lifted his head and sniffed the air like a hound. He did this for a few seconds, then darted out of sight. I couldn’t see him, so I kept an eye on my sister until she had gotten a distance away. I was about to follow at length, when I heard the guttural growl in my ear.

“Hail, kinsman…” I felt my heart stop – or rather, the illusion of it stopping in terror, because it hadn’t beaten in nearly two decades. I turned quickly, trying to bring my arm down into his neck, sever his throat quickly. Maybe it would have been enough to get away.

He caught my arm in a crossblock near-instantly, and I heard a repetitive growling noise. He was laughing. “Well met, child. It has been too long since I have had the thrill of meeting another of my kind.”

He paused for a second, “I think they try to avoid me! It’s rather disappointing, to be frank.”

He sniffed closely at me. Though I was immune to whatever magical effects the ghoul possessed, I was still paralyzed in fear. I could barely move into an almost defensive stance.

“You smell… familiar. Have we met before?”

I was at a loss for words. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that even if my life had been so thoroughly altered by his presence, he may not even be aware I existed. He had, by my count, almost four hundred kills, perhaps more, in the past two decades.

“Or perhaps I met your sire? Tell me boy, who made you? Was it a clan? Or perhaps a wanderer – or maybe a ghoul like me?”

“I – I don’t-“ I was stuttering, trying for an answer that wouldn’t reek of suspicion, but was coming up blank.

“Ah, well. What does it matter?” The ghoul chuckled. “What were you doing here, stalking my prey, boy? Or perhaps this one is yours?”

“She’s….” I composed myself. If he didn’t recognize me, this could very well be an excellent opportunity. “Yes, she’s mine. I’ve been hunting her for a long while now, and I don’t take very well to ghouls attempting to horn in on my targets.”

The ghoul raised his hands in front of his torso as if in surrender. His hands were weatherworn and long-fingernailed. “I meant no offense, child. After all, one such as I can understand and enjoy the thrill of the hunt, and know what it’s like to lose your prey to another.”

He lowered one hand and closed the other, save for the pointer finger. “But if I may… suggest a mutually beneficial decision?”

I decided to raise an eyebrow as if in skepticism. It’d work better than outright hostility. I knew it was only by chance he hadn’t already killed me. “Go on.”

“I am… hamstrung… it seems, by my state. I cannot follow her, though together, we could lure her out and feed together. After all, your vengeance would normally put you at risk of becoming like me, and we couldn’t have that. So if you draw her out, you could drink your fill, and I’ll finish the job. We both have our prey, and we both leave in peace, never to see one another again. I’ll avoid this city, for I know it is your… territory.”

My mind was racing. If I took his offer, my odds of being able to protect my sister were greater, than if I said no, and he killed me as well. But all the same there were little odds of being able to put him down without her death. And that was truly unacceptable. My family had already lost one member to this monster. I wouldn’t let them lose another, even at the cost of my own life.

“By all means, I can wait. I’ll give you two days to decide, but after that I expect an answer. After all, I can wait to feed, but an ally… those take time to make. You can find me at night in the old railcar. Don’t disappoint me.”

And with that, he was gone.

Looking around for any sign of him, I turned quickly and then fell into a kneeling position. I was hyperventilating, an odd vestige of a mortal habit, as I didn’t normally breathe.

I had very few options. So I had to decide.

My odds were slim, of being able to defeat Jack, at least not without help. The wandering clans wouldn’t help me, even if they were near enough to get within two days. While killing a ghoul is permitted, direct interference was bad form, especially if he hadn’t broken one of their laws. Speaking of magical laws, there are a couple I should probably make you aware of.

Rule the first:

No mortal can know of a magical creature, be they fae, undead, or construct. To do so is to break the veil, and is punishable by death.

Rule the second:

While mortal death is permitted, slaying another immortal outside of your niche – a fancy term for species, or specifically clan, if you are a vampire or werewolf – is punishable by death.

The second rule wasn’t much of an issue, but the first… there were only a couple was around it.

-

The next day, I dressed in a grey hoodie and sunglasses, simple garb meant to disguise my appearance and protect me – somewhat – from the sun as I followed my sister into the city. She had the day off, and was stopping in where she worked to pick up her paycheck. I had her schedule memorized, and had no intention of letting her slip away.

I followed her, listening carefully to her conversation with her friend on the phone. She was discussing a soon-to-be arriving movie. Something to do with scifi. I don’t particularly know. When she had hung up, and was in a secluded enough part of town, I swept up close to her and dropped my illusion – she would be able to notice me. I moved faster than the human eye could process to be a few feet in front of her and facing her. She stopped suddenly, as one would, I suppose, if another were to appear in front of you, and began to speak. “Are you lost, kid? Where are your parents-“

I lowered my hood and took off the cheap plastic sunglasses I was wearing underneath. I looked up at her. She gasped a little.

Though I figured my parents didn’t talk much about it, I had figured she’d known who I was. Maybe seen a few pictures of me, and had asked my parents. I had even broken into their house a couple times to see what changes they had made. For a while, they hid my existence, but eventually, they displayed my pictures openly. They had learned to cope in a way that didn’t require blocking me out. I suppose that meant I was truly dead to them.

I put a finger to my lips as if to gesture silence, but then I layered my voice with magic and said a single word. “Sleep.”

She fell unconscious and I caught her before she hit the ground. Moving quickly, I took her to a nearby place where I’d often hidden. A darkened, abandoned motel. I had figured a way in long ago, and continued to be a very capable lockpicker. Laying her on a sofa that I had once-upon-a-time rescued from a curb, I waited for her to awaken.

I lit some candles, trying to be considerate of her mortal senses. After all, most weren’t as acute as mine.

My plan was simple – I would explain the situation, that a ghoul was hunting after her and that I could only beat him with her help, or rather, her cooperation – and there was only one way I could do that.

My only option was to make her a member of the vampire race – of a sort. While the only way to become a vampire was much the same as mine – drink blood until the target is near death, and let the transformation take hold. The creation of thralls, on the other hand, was something of a different sort. Feeding a target a few drops of your blood ushers in a different transformation – making the target bonded to you, and making it so that you can ‘break the veil’ as it were.

I watched her as she slept. It was strange, but as a creature that didn’t really require sleep, save for maybe the occasional hibernation of sorts, it was cathartic. She looked like mother, dirty blonde hair, similar facial features. I looked more like father, but I was young. My hair was darker, a brown.

After a few hours, she finally stirred.

She stirred slowly, stretched, and raised herself into an upright position. She yawned, then looked around. “Where am I-?”

She looked over and saw me, sitting across from her. “So… I suppose I owe you a bit of an explanation.”

She got up and started backing away from me.

“Amelie, please, let me explain.”

“No, you’re – Richard – you’re supposed to be dead – how do you look exactly like when – I saw the pictures – I even tracked down the paper with your obituary. How are you here? Are you a… ghost?”

She almost whispered the last word as if it was the weirdest idea.

“No, I’m not a ghost. For a start, they’re kind of a bunch of assholes.”

“But you’re not… you’re not?”

“I haven’t been alive since June fourth, 1987. It’s true, I am undead.”

She seemed confused by this.

“I’m a vampire, Amelie.”

“What? But that’s impossible. Vampires don’t exist.”

“Yes, well, you were the one who was willing to assume I was a ghost. So, please, keep up and treat all breaks in reality equally.”

“So are you… gonna kill me?”

She was whispering the last bit, and I shook my head in response.

“Actually, quite the opposite. I’m but to go into details, I’m going to need you do something that you aren’t going to really like, but believe me, it’s necessary.”

I bit into my own wrist and offered it to her. She stared blankly. I shook my wrist. “Drink, girl.”

“But, won’t I become a vampire?”

“For g-“ I cough a little bit, being incapable of saying any variation on the name of… well… whatever it is,” ‘s sake, if it were that easy, I’d be dead instead right about now. Once you drink the blood, you’re going to be a part of my world, it’s true, but you’ll still age. You’ll still be able to live your life. Trust me when I say it’s better than the alternative.”

She looked into my eyes. We had the same eyes, I now realized. “If you’re lying to me, kid, and I turn into a vampire, I’m going to use whatever superpowers I get to tear you a new asshole.”

“Yes, well, if I were lying, I’d admit I’d deserve it.”

She leaned over and put her lips to the wound on my wrist and drank a couple drops. I willed the wound shut.

Wiping her lips, she looked back at me and began – “So what happens n-ah!”

She stopped gripping her head. I suppose it hurts, to have your world change like that. The transformation isn’t as extreme as one of a vampire, but she was changing. Her senses a little more acute. Her mind a little sharper.

It only took about a half an hour before she was done gripping her head and crying, which I do feel guilty for, but it was the only way to keep her alive, I told myself. When she awoke again, she ran over to the empty kitchen area, with a sink and a mirror. Looking at her reflection, she opened her mouth and looked at her teeth.

“For the love of…” I stopped, looked up, and then looked back at my sister, “Amelie, what on earth are you doing?”

“Checking for fangs, asshole.”

“I told you that I wouldn’t turn you into a vampire!”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t tell me that it would hurt like a bitch, whatever you did!”

“We didn’t have time.”

She turned back to me, apparently satisfied. “So, why did you do this now? You know my name, so I guess you’ve been following me for a while.”

“Well, yes and no…”

“Bullshit.”

I stopped and looked at her. She had pulled out a pack of gum and was unwrapping a piece.

“What – what do you mean?”

“You do the same thing my – our dad does, when he lies, I mean. You both look off into the middle-distance and fidget your hands.”

“Well… um… I,” this was awkward.

“Well, apart from you stalking us, what else have you done with your time? What’s being a vampire like, I guess?”

I shrugged. “It kinda sucks, but then again, I was only like ten when I was turned, so…”

“You don’t really look ten. I mean, sure, you look pretty close to the photos, but you’ve definitely aged a bit. You look… maybe thirteen?”

I laughed a little. “Oh, thank god, I look like I’m on the cusp of puberty. That’s a relief.”

“Vampires do age slowly until they look somewhere between late twenties, early thirties. But judging by this rate, I’m going to look like I need an adult until I’m in my eighties. Great. Just fucking great.”

“Hey, watch your fucking mouth, you little shit.”

“I’m the older brother, I should be lecturing you, little shit.”

“Yeah, well, who’s the one who’s actually been to high school?”

“Low blow.”

She continued chewing her gum and shrugged.

“All’s fair in war.”

She came back to the couch and sat down. “So, why’d you do all this? I’m guessing you had your own little weird non-interference policy until now.”

“Well, it’s the person who… who killed me. He’s back. And I need your help to kill him.”

“Why my help?”

“Well… it’s kind of because he’s after you now.”

She bolted upright. “Wait, what the fuck? Why is he after me? Is it something you did?”

I thought for a second. Maybe he had misunderstood why I was following her in the first right, and thought it would be fun to interfere.

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh, well, this is great. I have finals in a couple weeks, you know. I can’t just go around killing all my little –“

“- older,” I chimed in

“-brother’s enemies.”

At this juncture, her phone began to ring. She drew it from her jacket pocket and looked at the ID. I got a glimpse. It was David.

“Now isn’t the time to answer calls from your boyfr-“

She had already answered the phone. “Oh, hi, Davy. How’s it going?”

I could hear the other end too, but I blocked it out for the sake of her privacy.

I waited out the remainder of their conversation, listening to them talk about going to a movie on the weekend, you know, typical couple-ish stuff. Needless to say, I was sickened. After she hung up, I began again.

“Yeesh, what was that about?”

“You’ll understand when you’re older.” She winked knowingly.

“I am literally twice your age.”

“Well, all’s the same. No more interruptions.”

“I’m going to need your help to take out Jack –“

“Jack’s the one after me?”

“Well, I’ve taken to calling him Jack. He’s a ghoul, kind of like a vampire serial killer.”

“So what’s his actual name?”

“Well, I don’t know. None of the clans I’ve talked to know who he is.”

“Clans?”

“Wandering vampire families. If I could’ve gotten one of them to help, I wouldn’t have dragged you into all this. But anyway, the problem is that Jack is… well… not going to be easy to kill.”

“Well, how can you kill a vampire? Stakes?”

“Well, shoving a piece of wood would definitely hurt, but ghouls are made of stronger stuff. We’d need a couple things. A silver dagger consecrated by a priest, a holy book once owned by a saint, and probably enough ashwood stakes to shish-kebab a small army.”

“Okay, where do we get that?”

“Meet me at 1211 Harker street tonight. I don’t think that Jack is following me, but if he is, we shouldn’t stay together long.”

“1211 Harker street… isn’t that the one place belonging to that crazy old lady?”

“Well, she’s actually a nature spirit, a member of the fae. Kind of lucky to have her around, really.”

“Any other surprising revelations for me?”

“Yeah, the president is a moleperson.”

“What? Really?”

“No, I just don’t like him.”