Page 49

A sole syllable, choked at birth.

Poised for flight, the vampire—by the light of his own wings’ blazing, studied her face. Behind her brow, his words.

The first rule, my little Sergeant: Leave nothing living.

Bones bells ringing.

Even mad as you are, you must see that.

Synaptic mortar rounds.

(incoming)

But you’ll die out there, Sonia thought. Then, instantly reconnecting her own dots with impeccable non-linear logic: Or maybe not—with my blood inside of you.

Up and down, the stairwells sang with running feet. Suddenly sure she’d probably never know one way or the other, Sonia gulped, then stared.

You made—me a—promise. Shaky breath. “Motherfucker.”

Blue eyes crinkled, half-amused.

So I did.

Sonia blinked. In that one second, she felt the last eight years drop away like a thought gone wrong; a flurry of sloughed skin. She was home, whole, happy. She’d never left. Married to Gio from down the street, womb full and kicking. Makeup perfect, home congenial, flesh unscarred except for a little acne. Sanity intact. Never split wide and left to bleed, under an empty sky. Never burnt and screaming. Never splayed in her own pain like a cow in razor-wire, black with flies, while faceless things stood by and laughed and laughed laughed laughed—

—but before she could react, dead man’s fingernails dug as her pulse. Lifted her, effortlessly, ceilingward.

And squeezed.

Hail Mary the Lord is with thee blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus—

Sonia’s chest narrowed; became a vise, screwed beyond its limit.

“Did it never occur to you, though,” the vampire said, “that I might have been—lying?”

And leaned down.

—now and at the hour of our deaths—

Smiling.

(IN)

In the Poor Girl Taken by Surprise

“Aren’t you a little slut, to eat the flesh and drink the blood of your own grandmother?”

—“Little Red Riding-Hood,” traditional.

THIS IS AN OLD STORY. Most stories are. Anyone who says different is lying, or perhaps simply misinformed.

/> But thus, and even so:

Once upon a time, my darlings, these woods were full of wolves—yes, even here in the wilds of Upper Canada, where the light which seeps between evergreens and maple trees alike is as brown and stinging as though it comes filtered through a thousand mosquito wings at once. Here where the sky is clogged with bark and cobwebs, where black biting flies hover thick under the branches and each step stirs the pine-needle loam up like hay, or sodden grey-brown snow; here amongst the tangle of crab-apple trees and blackthorn bushes, where even the quietest footfall is enough to send little toads hopping clear, like brown clumps of dirt with tiny, jewelled eyes . . .

Even here in these dim and man-empty places, where things leap from tree to tree far overhead, just out of sight. Where under the mulch and muck of dead leaves a veritable feast of dust lies waiting—a fine, dun carpet of ground and yellowed bones.

Which is why, if you hear footsteps behind you as you make your way along the forest’s paths, it may be best to stop and hide and wait—as quietly as possible—until they pass you by. And if you see something high in the leaves above, something that looks like eyes travelling fast through the darkness, it may be best to ignore it, even if one is sure it can only be swamp gas—though in truth, there are few real swamps nearby, unless that sump of downed maples and frozen mud you struggled your way through to get to The Poor Girl Taken By Surprise tonight counts as such.