That's right, I'm not above writing fan fiction

 March 27th

It's a thankless job working in an asylum. The way movies and comic books paint us you'd think we're all a bunch of sadists and authoritarians with no better outlet. The warden will probably have some kind of fascism fetish and, invariably, there'll be an electric-shock therapy scene set up to look like some kind of medieval torture. Then of course the patients will all be cured when some eccentric newcomer crashes down the walls and teaches them how to live again. Bonus points and maybe an Oscar nomination if they tack on some half-baked philosophy about how the outside world is the real asylum and we're the crazies with our consumer culture and internet-induced ADHD. People look at me funny when I tell them I work at Arkham Asylum, like the expect some kind of evil supergenius. It's gotten to the point where I just tell women I'm a doctor and leave it at that.

I'll give them this much credit though: all the urban legends and pop-culture stereotypes are a hell of a lot more interesting than what we actually do for a living. In truth I pack a bag lunch and a briefcase to work like anyone else, then I play nanny to a bunch of grown men and day after day make a futile effort to help them change their lives. I might sound ungrateful, but believe me, I'm not. Less than a year ago I was fetching coffee and double-checking paperwork for the people who had my job. I was Dr. Crane's intern when I started. He hand-picked me after reading my post-graduate thesis on the fear-inducing properties of certain sub-species of the red monkshood flower. It was the biggest honor of my life to get that kind of distinction from my idol. Ironic, in a way, that he's my patient now. It's always the sad ironies that put things in perspective.

I had Crane for a session of hypnotherapy today. We sat across from each other in my small, drab office. It was one of the few rooms in the upper levels of the asylum that didn't carry the emptiness or the gothic feel of a Victorian mansion. He sat in the psychologist's chair while I took the couch. He likes to pretend that he's still the one running the asylum, and I humor him or else it's all tantrums and night terrors. “You've been getting thinner,” I remarked, observing his slimming frame. His skin was impossibly pale and his hair a starker black by contrast. He resembled the Jonathan Crane I once knew in the same way a fresh corpse resembled a living body: all the components were there but something vital was missing.

“I can't eat while it watches,” he whispered, staring nowhere in particular. “Have you tried the food here? You'd lose a few pounds yourself,” he replied with a suddenly cool expression, glancing my way. He had a way of making even passing eye contact feel like piercing stares. He asked how my research was coming along and I indulged him. We didn't talk long; he loathed idle chatter and I didn't like the idea of getting to personal with my clients, especially one with whom I had such a history. I lulled him into a trance using a simple countdown, and once asleep he told me about his childhood and his family's farm.

“I was always quite fond of crows,” he explained, “They were clever, elegant creatures that just fit perfectly into the mysterious quietude of the night. Sometimes when I couldn't sleep I'd stare out my window and watch them scurry around the cornfield.” There was a childlike calmness about his face that lacked the arrogance or the piercingly cold demeanor that I was used to. “I had an issue of Superman that I hid between my volumes of Goethe and Chaucer. My father disapproved of such base entertainment, but I sometimes read it by candlelight. I had imagined,” he paused to laugh, “This will sound dreadfully silly but I always imagined that if I were a hero, I'd wear a black cape and fight crime by night, like a human crow. My parents, of course, didn't share the same appreciation for crows. My father put up a scarecrow in the center of the cornfield to keep them out of our crops. After that the crows stopped coming. It was only then that I was aware of the vast loneliness on those sleepless nights, and there were many. I could feel the scarecrow stating at me, taunting me. Even when I slept he'd be there watching me in my dreams. And when I didn't sleep I'd imagine him in my exhausted state, with a voice stern like my father's, but with a hollow echo like there was nothing inside. It was then that I had my first inklings of an idea: an idea that I wouldn't put into action or even into coherent words until years later. I knew that one day I would master fear, perhaps even become it, and then my own fears would be solved.”

It was a touching story, I'll admit. It was also the third touching story he'd given me in less than a month, each contradicting the last in some major way. I still haven't quite figured out which pieces are true and which ones he either subconsciously believed or just made up in retrospect. What I did gather, though, was that there was always a watchful father figure that preceded the nightmares and hallucinations. I think that's why he trusted me, insofar as he trusted me at all. He saw me as more of an adopted son, as someone outside the Asylum's strict patriarchy. Though sometimes I get the feeling that, even from the depths of his subconscious mind, he's just having a laugh at me, spewing out one cliched Freudian riddle after another just to keep me off his trail.

The session ended and I had Crane escorted back to his room. “Thank you, Dr. Crane,” was all I said before the orderlies took him back. Of course his doctorate had been revoked after last Halloween's incidents, but it's the only name he'll answer to. Well, there's also the the other name he'd given himself, but I make a rule of not humoring my patients' alter egos. It only gives them an inflated sense of pride in the crimes they've committed.

My break dragged on longer than I hoped. I sat in my office trying to make what I could of Crane's story. I tried to draw parallels between Crane's own breakdown and the psychoses found in rats exposed to his fear gas, but the differences were too extreme. I read through some of Crane's own papers from his years working here looking for any sings of mental instability; whatever killed time until my next appointment. When the clock read more or less five I left to meet with my next patient: Edward Nigma. Today I had orders from Gotham PD to ask him some questions in relation to a recent spree of crimes.

Two security guards accompanied me down the lift to the lower levels of the asylum. The basement floors were the servants' quarters back when people lived here by choice, though one would never guess from looking that the place wasn't made to be a madhouse. I braced myself for the smell but somehow it always caught me off-guard. It was a graveyard smell of death and fresh earth. To the inmates it probably smelled like home. The place was a maze of rooms and corridors under hazily dim fluorescent lights. I got the usual mix of profane jeers and suspicious looks from the patients as I passed one room after the next. Waylon Jones gave me a hungry stare when I walked by. He sat perfectly still, basking under his heat lamp; only his bright red eyes moved, following me like a portrait's eyes in a bad horror movie.

The smell got worse as we passed Solomon Grundy's cell. Grundy's appearance always baffled me. His massive build seemed impossible, almost surreal, as if a child had drawn him to life and taken some liberties with the proportions. “Born on a Monday,” he greeted me in a low rumble. I returned with a nod. That scared the hell out of me the first time I was down here. I was born on a Monday myself and no one had told me about his, um, condition yet. That coincidence between us was the reason he liked me more than the other psychiatrists. I mean, he'd still try to strangle me if I got too close, but by his standards it counted for something.

“You're early,” Edward taunted as I approached his room. Nearly every inch of wall around him was covered in puzzles, mazes, riddles, and cyphers. In isolation he had only himself to outsmart.

“Well, Mr. Nigma, maybe I was just so eager to see you,” I quipped back. His eyes opened wide. He sensed a challenge.

“You're a terrible liar. If I had to guess, you're early because Crane just told you about his childhood.” He had a foxlike grin on his face as he said it. I'd like to say say I was shocked by his Nigma's perceptiveness, but after months of working with him it had more or less become the norm.

“Alright Edward, I'll bite,” I replied casually, “How did you know?”

“Well, it's quite obvious, isn't it?” he answered. It never was to anyone else, which is why he always said it with such relish. “Why else would you be down here even two minutes early? I've seen the way you recoil at the smell and the sight of us. In all probability you had a little journey inside your former role model's mind and didn't like what you saw. You didn't want to be alone with your thoughts afterwards so you came down here to the safety of our sick and depraved but nonetheless familiar company. Seeking asylum, if you'll pardon the pun. You figured as ugly as exorcising our demons can get, it's better than facing your own. Am I right?” He knew he was right no matter what I might say. Asking just gave the illusion of fallibility.

“Now where's the sport in me just telling you?” I replied. It spoke to his love of competition. He moved in as close as the thick glass screen between us would allow.

“So then,” he posited, “Another futile foray into the mind of yours truly?”

“Not today, Edward,” I answered flatly, “We need your help with something a little more pressing.” I slid an item the slot in the glass and pushed it his way. “Gotham police recovered it from the scene of a murder. I think you know what it means.” I knew immediately that it would pique his interest.

He picked up the card and studied it carefully, grinning back at the grinning joker's face on its front. He scrutinized every detail, holding it so close he could all but taste it. “A little bit too heavy to be a real playing card,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “The slight imperfections in the cross-hatching would be too obvious a tell, so clearly not from a trick deck. Definitely inked by hand, and painstakingly so. This isn't from any kind of deck at all; probably made by request for a customer with very particular tastes. And this tiny spot of red here, doesn't quite match with the rest of the color scheme. An inking mistake or...” He held the card to his tongue and then lingered on the taste for a moment as if evaluating a fine wine. “I stand corrected: it's blood. And not fresh blood either. How recent was the killing?”

“A day ago at most,” I replied.

“This is older.” He paused, staring into the card's face with a familiar hatred. “It's unmistakable. The chance of this being the work of another imitator....less than 0.5 percent” He slipped the card back into the slot and shoved it my way. “He's back.”

Two Moths

Two moths suspended, green and white
Madly twitch and pull in vain
Snared on silk threads like dueling kites
In the gap between the windowpanes.

Fragile wings beat without reprieve
Only to be further bound
Web-strings pulse like a rippled stream
To the frantic splashing of the drowned

Nocturn

This is the beginning of what will be the centerpiece of the Nocturn series, which is a collaboration with Jake Reinhard. Before you think I'm crazy, yes, it starts with an epilogue.


Epilogue Part 1: Who Wants to Live Forever?


The sun’s orange haze crept slowly toward the blackish horizon. Oliver sat alone on a park bench and watched with a mix of anticipation and dread like watching the climax of a horror movie. He felt a faint spark spread across his skin as if awakening from numbness. Deep instincts commanded him to shield his eyes, to turn and run without hesitation, but he kept himself still. In less than an hour the sunrise would find him, engulf him, and leave behind only ash for the winds to carry where they willed. It was a clean way to go, he thought, a dignified way.
A subtle warmth, barely more than imaginary, sunk into his face and hands. He knew it would soon get worse. He didn't care. Hard as it was, he kept his regrets to himself. They were too petty to dwell on in the face of death, and tears had long since become a vestige of a former life. He’d only get one chance to face dawn with a smile and a bit of class; he figured he deserved at least that in his final hour. It wouldn’t be too hard, he thought. Dying would be easier the second time around. All the sentimentality and human trivialities attached to life died with him the first time.
The coming dawn’s stillness was a welcome reprieve from the past month’s chaos, but as much as Oliver tried to keep his mind clear, he couldn’t help but let his memory wander.
Lily. Poor Lily. What had he done?


Chapter 1: Fullmoon


A few dim rays of moonlight pierced through the heavy clouds, giving only enough light to add texture to the darkness and cast livelier shadows onto the forest floor. The moon was a faint ring of white behind the gray and black, but its image was bright and vivid in Caleb’s mind. Breathing slowly, he prepared himself.
Anton Miró paced back and forth, whispering some incomprehensible mantra to himself. He had his nose to the air like a dog sensing danger on the wind. “Focus, Caleb,” he said in a calm yet commanding tone, “No matter what, keep focus.”
Caleb’s muscles tensed, his breathing got faster, but reddening with strain, he kept himself still.
“Good. Now keep the moon in your mind’s eye. Picture it waning back into nothingness, into a tranquil black sky.”
Caleb felt something coursing through his blood, like adrenaline but warmer, faster. His joints ached and his hands clenched into a half-clutching grasp like paws. His hair stood up on end and a something sharp yet satisfying jolted through his vertebrae.
“Keep…awr! awr!” Miró coughed, “Keep your body still, your mind at peace. Focus on your breathing. Feel it breathing in time with you but know that it is not you. No…awr! Keep your focus!”
Impulsively, Caleb fell to his hands and knees, as if slammed down by something heavy. He gave out a choking howl of pain as his spine and limbs bent and stretched into foreign yet familiar shapes. His vision turned to a frenzied blur of black and white. He exhaled a deep sigh, then the pain was replaced by a feeling far more primal. Caleb tore away at the shreds of his clothes and stretched as if he’d just awoken. He felt warm beneath his thick, gray fur and comfortable in his proper body. Only one pain still pulled at him: he was starving.
Miró met Caleb’s hungry, snarling stare and shook his head like a disapproving father standing over a smashed vase. “What are you looking at me for? I’m not feeding you until you get this right.”
Caleb inched toward Miró, barking savagely, saliva dripping from his quivering fangs. Miró flashed a furtive smile and tossed a Caleb a small piece of raw meat from his pack. “Oh fine, one small piece. But it better not spoil your appetite.” Caleb pounced on it the moment it hit the ground and devoured it within seconds, then looked up at Miró, still hungry. “No, that’s all you get. You want more, go hunt. If you can’t resist the call you…rar…might as well embrace it properly.” In an instant Miró changed, mid-breath, into a tall, silvery-white-furred wolf and immediately ran off toward the smell of food. Caleb eagerly followed.

The Ritual...

...was almost ready to begin. Cyrus slipped the jeweled amulet over his neck, the pendant hanging squarely over his heart. One by one he lit each candle. They cast a fluid, shifting aura of orange firelight as the flames bent and flickered in the mild evening wind. Slowly and carefully, Cyrus double-checked every corner of the pentacle he'd carved into the ground, knowing the slightest gap could mean disaster. Then with the same care he circled around the triangle where the black dog was was chained. With a subtle nod and the faint crack of a smile he deemed the spot ready.

He stood in the center of the pentacle and waited patiently until the setting sun was just a blood-red haze on the horizon. Grinning with anticipation he pulled his book out from under his cloak and opened to the right page almost by muscle memory. He rolled his finger over the proper incantation and silently mouthed the words in latin. It was just a formality of course; he knew the words by heart. He closed his eyes and whispered the phrase the to himself. Then he repeated it, louder, then again, louder still, keeping precise time and perfect meter. He continued, again and again, until his voice became a chorus that snuffed out every other sound. And from that eerie silence a voice called out “Cyrus...”

“Cyrus! There you are!” Sarah shouted from the other end of the backyard. “Mom was looking for you. Wait, what's the neighbors' poodle doing here?” Cyrus didn't answer. “Oh Jesus, you know mom's going to kill you if she finds out you've been playing Faust again. Why can't you just play cops and robbers like a normal kid?” Rolling her eyes, Sarah turned back toward the house. “Make sure you clean up the pentagram or whatever before bed. And give the Jensens back their poodle or else I'm telling mom.”

Red with embarrassment and rage, Cyrus kicked over the circle of old birthday candles, leaving him alone in the dark. He smeared the pentagram under his shoe until it was buried in the dirt and let Mr. Barkley off his leash. He ripped off the hooded cloak from his Dr. Doom costume and the cardboard pendant fell off with it. Welling with tears, he stomped the cloak into the dirt-covered ruins of his pentagram.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot,” Sarah's voice called out again, “Dad wants his Black Sabbath records back. And he said quit playing them backwards. It scratches the vinyl.”

Feeling powerless and ashamed, Cyrus ran back home home and shut himself inside his room. Mr. Barkley drooped his ears in disappointment, thinking he had the kid for sure that time.

Here Comes the Sun

 This is my first completed short story, and the first of the  Nocturn series, which is a series of short stories and novellas about the everyday lives vampires,werewolves, gargoyles, and other storybook horrors  all living in the same so far unnamed city. I'll put out more of the series as I finish writing it. Hope you enjoy.

“…Well kid, I got good news and I got bad news,” Teddy said to the quivering mess sitting before him. He took long drags of his cigarette between sentences, his face nearly featureless behind the shadows and smoke. “Good news is you’re still alive…well, more or less. Let’s not quibble over technicalities.”

It didn’t do much to comfort Alan, who was still shaking on the floor with his arms curled tightly around his knees. Teddy was never very good at consolations but he had a talent for getting his point across. “I know that doesn’t seem like much to you yet. Part of you’s still thinking you should be dead, thinking you’d be better off dead. Believe me, we all go through that. But the bottom line is you’re alive. Hell, better than alive, damn near immortal, long as you don’t do anything stupid. ”

Alan looked up at Teddy, forced a crooked half-smile, and asked, with a dreading shiver in his voice, “And…and the bad news?”

Teddy paused for a moment, exhaled a mouthful of smoke then said, “The bad news you’ll figure out piece by piece, and some of it’ll creep up on you long after you think you have it all figured out. Like it or not, kid, you’re one of us now, and tonight’s the first night of the rest of your life.” He took another drag and cringed. “Eh, scratch that last part. Too melodramatic. Tonight’s…well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Teddy dropped his cigarette and stomped it out on the dusty hardwood floor. He turned toward the door. “I got some business I have to take care of but I’ll be back soon. You got three hours ‘til sunrise, and I left a thermos on the table in case you get hungry.”

“What’s in the thermos?” Alan knew he’d dread the answer, but he asked anyway.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, kid. You know exactly what it is,” Teddy answered and made his way out the door whistling what sounded like some old rock song Alan had heard but couldn’t remember the name of.

Alan got up onto his knees then slowly, carefully onto his feet. His joints still ached from the transformation. The last night’s events were a drunken blur, and trying to recall them only made his head hurt worse. He reached up and felt his neck. The two gashes from the night before still stung a little but were somehow nearly healed. The bite marks served as a counterpoint to the voice in his head telling him this can’t be happening. At the very least, though, he was glad to have Teddy’s voice out of his head. If he were in a better state of mind he might have found some humor in Teddy’s crash course in vampirism.

He observed the dark, dusty room. The walls were covered in spider-webs and the windows covered in thick black sheets. A barren bed lay in the far corner, and a small wooden table draped in a white, moth-eaten cloth stood in the center, the thermos resting on top of it.

Alan had felt a sharp hunger since he’d woken up, yet the thought of food repulsed him. He knew exactly why, and he didn’t see any point in pretending otherwise. From halfway across the room he could smell the blood in the thermos. He could almost taste it, detecting flavors and undertones he didn’t think blood had. It was inevitable, he thought to himself, better now that than when driven half-mad with hunger. Guided by impulse, he walked over to the table, sat down, and poured a cup of the thick, red liquid from the thermos. He didn’t wonder too hard about how Teddy acquired it. He was rarely the type to believe that ignorance is bliss, but in this case he felt ignorance was sanity. The pain in his stomach got sharper. He picked up the cup, thinking he’d probably drunk worse to cure hangovers in the past.

After a moment of nervous hesitation he downed the cup, trying not to pay attention to the taste. He felt an immediate kick then a mild warmth flowing through him, like vodka without the burn. The ache in his neck and limbs disappeared almost immediately, and his head began to feel lighter, clearer.

Alan sat, pondering in silence for several minutes, maybe an hour, trying to remember the past night’s events. The memories came to him slowly in jumbled fragments. His girlfriend, Nina, was shouting at him, he didn’t remember what about. He remembered leaving and arriving at some bar, but nothing in between. He had a few beers, five or six maybe. Then some guy in a yellow sweater tried to pick a fight with him, or was it the other way around? They took the fight outside into a nearby alley, then some blurs of a of fists and insults, a sinister look on the guy’s face, and then a blank until he woke up in this room with Teddy standing over him, cursing over the phone, yelling something about a parcel. So that’s how it happens, he thought, black out one night human, then wake up a vampire. It didn’t seem right: no full moon, no scared villagers, eerie omens, or profane rituals, just a bad night in a seedy bar. Somehow that disturbed him more than the human blood he’d just swallowed down like vodka.

He spent the next hour or two looking for ways to take his mind off his situation. He wandered around the rooms and hallways of Teddy’s house, curious how a vampire spent his days, or rather his nights. There was a dusty, discolored piano in the main hall with an autographed poster of The Beatles on the wall above. The mirrors were absent from all the bathrooms, and the windows were all covered over, except for one in what appeared to be the library that gave a beautiful view of the city. There was a vast collection of books in the room ranging from Shakespeare to Spider-Man. He could tell from the dust and lack of wear that the Shakespeares didn’t get much use. He noticed a lone shelf full of worn spines and cracked covers: a Lord Byron collection, histories of Vlad Tepes, I am Legend, a few volumes of Preacher, various editions of the Bible, at least six copies of Dracula all full of underlining, corrections, and copious marginalia, and a faded letter addressed to “Master Edward James Martin” in incomprehensible Victorian script.

Alan heard the front door open and Teddy speaking, on a phone maybe, “Alright, Lloyd. I trust the parcel will arrive in time. I can’t risk the new kid becoming a threat to me. Fine, midnight at the latest.” Alan immediately smelled the same presence as in the small, dusty room. He could hear Teddy walking up the stairs to the library, probably going by smell.

“Good to see you up and about, kid,” Teddy said. “Smart move. Most of ‘em don’t touch the blood ‘til they’re half-crazed with hunger.”

“So I’m not the first you’ve taken in like this?” Alan asked.

Teddy reached into his pocket, pulled out a new cigarette, and lit it ask he spoke. “There were a few others over the decades.”

“Did they all get the same pep talk?”

“Only the clever ones.”

Was it always this hard to get a straight answer out of him? It struck Alan then that he didn’t know a single detail about Teddy. “This you?“ Alan asked, holding up the letter he’d come across.

“Hm?”

“Edward James Martin.”

“Used to be my name back when it came with a title and a reputation. Only my old friends use it now.”

“Vampires?”

Teddy nodded. “Only old friends I got left.”

“So why’d you take me in?” Alan asked, immediately regretting the straightforward tone. “I mean, not that I’m ungrateful, but I’m still trying to make sense of all this.”

Teddy paused as if caught off-guard. He took a long drag, exhaled, and answered, “You were a liability. Couldn’t have you out on the street, still green, knocking over the veil.”

“The veil?”

“It’s the first rule of being a vampire: as far as humans are concerned, we don’t exist. They get to feel safe at night. We get to live and feed in peace. Everyone wins.”

“Is that the only rule?”

“No, there are others: no turning children, no feeding on anyone famous or important, or anyone who’d draw a big investigation, no direct involvement in crime, or at the very least, no getting caught, and so on. But really they’re all just corollaries of the first rule; it’s all basic common sense. We don’t have judges and juries to enforce the rules. You compromise us, we kill you. That simple.”

Alan found something in Teddy’s tone unsettling, as if he’d enforced the veil before, but he didn’t want to ask and he had bigger issues on his mind. “So what do I do about my life then? I got a job a, girlfriend.”

“And now you don’t,” Teddy replied with a shrug.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“What did I tell you about stupid questions, kid? Whoever you were before you woke up here, he’s dead now.” Teddy paused for a moment. “Look, if I seem cold it’s only because I’m preparing you for the inevitable. People come and go, and none of them are irreplaceable. You go back to your job or your girlfriend, in the long run you’ll just hurt yourself and compromise all of us. Look, it’s, uh, starting to get bright. We can talk about this in the evening if you want. The guest room you woke up in is yours for the time being.”

Alan left without saying anything. He had too much to think about. The obvious details: the blood, the nocturnal lifestyle, meant little to him in comparison; it was the fear of abandoning his old life that really got to him. He hadn’t spoken to his mother since college or his father since the divorce. His job as a file clerk was only supposed to last him through law school, and he suspected Nina was going to break up with him soon. Still, it wasn’t a life he was willing to just let go of. Maybe it was the people he’d miss, the loose ends and unfinished life goals he’d left behind, or the knowledge that Alan Harris came and went, and one way or another they’d all replace him in time. Alan poured himself another cup of blood, raised a toast to his own memory, and downed it without hesitation. For a moment his mind was clear.

It was dark again when Alan awoke, 8:30 according to his watch, which was badly cracked from the bar fight. Instinctively he smelled Teddy and his cigarette, and another presence he didn’t recognize. He heard the two of them talking outside the house. They were barely talking above a whisper, but Alan could make out the conversation clearly. He didn’t know whether it was some new vampiric ability or just the unusual silence about the mansion.

“This won’t do, Lloyd,” Teddy announced in a strictly business tone.

“But Master Ed-”

“Teddy.”

“Right. My apologies, Teddy. This is exactly what you asked for, isn’-”

“No, I asked for silver bullets. These are silver-plated. I can smell the difference from where I’m standing, which makes me wonder how you managed to miss such an obvious detail holding the box right in your hand.”

“I-”

“Never mind. Just show me the parcel, and don’t disappoint me twice in one night.”

Alan heard a trunk open.

“Perfect,” Teddy said in a far more relaxed tone, “Just get me the bullets by midnight and the money’s yours. You know where to find me.”

“Wait!” Lloyd called out.

“What is it, Lloyd.”

“Are you sure about this plan? I mean, doesn’t this seem a bit drastic?”

“First off, yeah, I’m always sure. You don’t survive a week, let alone a century in my business without complete certainty in your plans. Second, I don’t like this any more than you do, but we don’t really have a choice. He’s a walking liability right now, and now that I’ve gone and stuck my nose into this mess, that makes me a liability too. We eliminate him, we eliminate the problem. I’ll go wake the kid now. You don’t breathe a word of this to him.”

Alan’s mind was scurrying for any plausible alternative, any explanation for the conversation he’d just overheard that didn’t involve Teddy trying to kill him. That’s what silver bullets were for, weren’t they: killing vampires? And he didn’t even want to know what ghastly item was in the trunk. He imagined his heart would be racing now, followed by a sobering flow of adrenaline, but his body was still. Did he even have a heartbeat anymore? Alan heard every metallic click and wooden squeal as Teddy was opening the front door. He ran to the window, ripped the black curtain away, and forced it open with both hands. It was a two-story drop, but with Teddy inside the house it was the only exit route he had. He closed his eyes, jumped, and hoped a vampire might fare better against gravity than a human would. His muscles jerked reflexively in mid-air, and he landed on his feet barely feeling the impact. Not wasting a second he sprinted in the direction he assumed was downtown.

Alan kept a sprinting pace for maybe half an hour through countless city blocks, amazed by his newfound stamina, then finally stopped when he reached a street he recognized. He was only a block from Nina’s apartment. He was certain no one was pursuing him anymore if at all, though he hadn’t dared look back for more than split seconds during the run. He had the crude beginnings of a plan worked out, and it would be enough for the time being. He would say goodbye to Nina; she deserved at least that much. He would take the first bus out of town and find somewhere to take shelter for a while. And finally, he would sleep with a stake under his pillow until the name Teddy Martin was a distant memory. Not a great plan, he thought as he slowly made his way to Nina’s, but he still had a little time to work out the kinks.

Alan approached the door and sensed a familiar warmth and perfume scent that he recognized as Nina. He hadn’t yet considered what he’d tell her. He began to cycle through excuses as she approached the door, but he stopped himself in mid-thought. He didn’t their last moment together to end in insincerity.

The door opened and Nina stood dumbstruck. Her eyes were red and her usually silky blond hair stuck out like dry straw. She hadn’t gotten sleep in days. “Good God, Alan. I…are you alright? Where have you been? You look half dead. Did you get into a fight or something? ”

“Yeah, pretty bad fight,” Alan said. He was hoping for a smoother introduction, but considering the circumstances that was probably the smoothest it could have gone.

“That’s it? ‘yeah, pretty bad fight?’ Do you have any idea how scared I was, you just disappearing?” She took a moment to breathe and collect her thoughts. “Well, come in. God, I must look like a proper mess right now. Your fault by the way. Had me up all night worrying.” There was obvious relief in her mock-chiding tone.

“Listen, Nina, I can’t stay long, I-”

“Alright,” she said, a hint of worry returning to her voice, “But at least sit down have some coffee with me. God knows we both probably need it.”

“No, no coffee. Nina, I need to say something.”

Nina stood with a quiet, dreading look on her face. Those words always prefaced something grim.

“Nina, I need to leave. I don’t know for how long, but I have to get out of town for a while.”

“Oh, Jesus, Alan. What’s wrong? It’s Tony and that damn blackjack scheme, isn’t it?”

Alan shook his head. “No, worse. I got mixed up in some bad business. That’s all I can safely say. Look, I know I got no right to put you through this, and I understand if…if…you” No, far too late for excuses or apologies, Alan though. He grabbed her shaking, sweaty hand, put his other hand around her warm cheek, leaned in hesitatingly, and kissed her. Immediately he felt her warmth, she felt his coldness, but she didn’t mind. He felt a twitch in his teeth and hands that moved in rhythm with her heartbeat, a sudden impulse with only one logical conclusion. Alan pulled back and jerked himself away before it took him over.

Nina’s reddened eyes were fixed in disbelief “You’re so cold, Alan. Are you-”

“I need to run.” Alan made his way to the door. “For what it’s worth, I always loved you. I always will.”

“I lo-”

The door closed behind Alan. Nina’s last words were drowned out by a hellish squeal like startled bats or rusted car breaks. A black Oldsmobile with tinted windows pulled up by the old red-brick building. Alan knew who was inside before he scent of fresh blood and Marlboros hit his nostrils. Teddy stepped out, cigarette between his lips, the look of a true businessman on his face.

“Don’t even think of running, kid.” He pulled a silenced pistol out of his jacket. Alan was struck by an offensive smell, most likely silver.

“How did you find me?” Alan’s eyes darted frantically around him until he realized there was no escape. Teddy didn’t seem like the type who could be reasoned with, and begging would only piss him off.

“Connections. That’s all you need to know.” A moment passed in uneasy silence. “You didn’t tell your girl anything about, well, you know?”

“Not a word.”

“Smart move.” Teddy walked slowly over to the trunk of the Oldsmobile, keeping his eyes fixed on Alan.

“I’m not going to like what’s in the trunk, am I?”

“Only one way to find out,” Teddy replied.

Alan walked over dreading every step he took. The stench of silver was stronger, nearly unbearable. Looking inside the opened trunk, it was just as he had feared. An empty black body bag was in the trunk. A neatly crafted silver stake lay beside it with ornate but illegible script inscribed into it. “I suggest you put on some gloves before handling that,” Teddy said. He held the gun mere inches from Alan’s chest, but now he was gripping the barrel, the handle facing Alan. “You did a smart thing not squealing, kid. I was worried for a minute I’d have to use this on you.”

Alan was at a loss for words, or rather an overflow of words: too many questions and profanities to even string together into a sentence. “Then what…damn, I don’t even know where to start with the questions.”

“You got tangled up in some shady business, kid. The veil’s been breached and I’m getting paid a pretty nice sum to, uh, correct that mistake. I’ll need you to tell me everything you remember about whoever turned you.”

“So you can hunt him down shoot him?”

“He broke the rules, kid. It’s how it works. And no, the gun’s for just in case.” Teddy pointed to the stake. “Killing him’s not enough. Gotta send a message across so the next vampire’ll think twice before doing something as stupid as turning someone in public and then just letting him loose When the obituary comes back saying ‘stake to heart,’ everyone who matters within fifty miles of here will get the message..”

“This is all a joke, right? I mean, you can’t be…serious?” Teddy shot Alan a condescending look. “I know, I know. Stupid questions.”

Teddy closed the trunk, dropped his cigarette, and moved back to the driver’s seat. “You hungry, Alan?”

“A little.”

“Good, hop in. We got a lot to talk about before dawn breaks.”

Alan got into the passenger seat and the Oldsmobile drove away with the same hellish squeal. Teddy put on the classic rock station and whistled along to “Here Comes the Sun.”

American Wizard Book 1: The Mundane and the Magic

This is a teaser of a story I'm working on. It's an urban fantasy piece (and hopefully the first  of a tetralogy) based on American Mythology and folklore. More to come in the near future.

Prologue:

An owl screeched in the distance. It was the only sound Simone could hear over her own heartbeat and her struggled breathing. Rupert was gone. The path ahead snaked violently, nearly lost in the faint moonlight. Simone kept running, not certain where it would lead her, only certain that she wanted to get far away. Just seconds ago Rupert was holding her hand, guiding their escape. Before she had even noticed, he'd disappeared somewhere along the shadowy path. She ran, desperately hoping to catch up. She held her wand firmly ahead to stave off whatever horrors she imagined might be stalking her.

A hungry, metallic roar came from somewhere in the darkness, and two lights like eyes gleamed at Simone from beyond the edge of the forest. She froze in place, for a moment unconcerned with what might be chasing her. She stared, paralyzed, at the glowing eyes.

“Simone! Simone, where are you?” Rupert's voice broke her stupor, and she realized he was somehow causing the lights.

“Ru...Rupert?” She drew closer to the lights, following the now illuminated trail. Not looking back, she escaped the forest, then stared out disbelievingly at what she saw.

“Get in the car, Simone!” Rupert shouted. The Buick's frantic revving drowned out the surrounding chaos.

Simone stood unmoving in protest. Her tears made snaking trails on her cheeks that shone in the headlights. “Are you crazy, Rupert? You don't know how to drive that thing. You don't even know who it belongs to.”

Rupert cursed silently and slammed his fist on the steering wheel, missing the horn by half an inch. “Damn it, Simone, we don't have time!” Palms quivering at the wheel, he did his best to calm himself. “Look, we can talk about this when we're far away, but right now we need to run. Come on, Simone. Just trust me on thi-.” He bit his tongue, remembering those were the same words that got them into this mess. “Please, just come with me. I can't leave you here.”

Reluctantly Simone forced herself toward the car. She looked back one last time at the broken forest trail where they made their escape and recoiled at the vivid memories it brought. Still sobbing, she hopped into the passenger's seat and leaned her head against Rupert's shoulder.

“It'll be alright,” he said, stroking her bright red hair, “I'm sorry I yelled at you. I just got a little scared.”

“I know,” she replied, closing her eyes.

Rupert swung the car around in a wide and rapid arc. He floored the accelerator and made for the nearest road. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Rupert kept his eyes on the dashboard, figuring out bit by bit what all the buttons and symbols meant. Simone sat back half-asleep, startled back to awareness every few minutes by Rupert's reckless driving. Neither wanted to acknowledge the night's misadventure, or their current predicament, but it seemed insulting to talk about anything else. In a half-whispered, weary tone Simone eventually broke the silence. “We can't go back now, can we?”

Rupert paused, caught slightly off-guard. “What, go back to that forest, to that old house? Hell no, not in a mil-” He stopped himself mid-breath. It struck him suddenly that she wasn't talking about the old house they had escaped from. “No, I'm afraid we can't go back,” he answered, “We can't undo what we did tonight, but we can sure as hell outrun it.”

“So we're outlaws then.”

Rupert sighed. “I guess so.”

Simone had stopped crying but her eyes were still glazed and bloodshot. She was too dazed and too tired to fully comprehend the situation. “So where will we go?” she asked, half-asleep again.

“I don't know, Simone,” Rupert answered, “Some place where our kind won't find us. It's a big country. We'll find our place.” He pulled a small, oaken wand out of his pocket and tapped her head gently with it, whispering a brief incantation. She fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.