I’ll be hosting a guest post soon (tonight mayhap?) from Gayleen Froese! Check out www.drolleriepress.com for info on this month’s new-style blog tour involving sharing with some non-drollerie authors!

This short story is the first thing I ever had “officially” published.  It originally ran in Byzarium e-zine and has since been published by Drollerie in an issue of Membra Disjecta.  I hope you enjoy it and please check out the charities linked to at the bottom of the story!

Saturday Night

“No, really! I’m a vampire!”

“Sure. Love the fangs…”

It’s rare that I want to throttle someone but tonight was looking like it would be the night. “Look, not all vampires drink blood, right? Some of us thrive on energy, on essence…”

She rolled her eyes and made a show of looking bored. “Look, fella, this is a vampire bar. Unless I see fangs and a reasonable make believe of being a bloodsucker, out of my face!”

My ears burned a little as the idiots in line, plastered with fake blood and fake leather, pushed forward and I moved away. I have nothing against that sort of crowd, but I frankly didn’t need that crap right then. Saturday nights are usually my favorite night of the week because of the sex. Really. Incubi need it to live. We thrive on it. We demand it. We can’t exist without lust. Especially female lust, though some of us have branched out to men who would never admit it outside their dreams. We think it’s funny. But this Saturday night, I was in trouble. This Saturday night, I was locked out of every single bar, club, party and get together where blood would be pulsing and libidos rising… I blamed the vampires. No, not the wannabes. The real ones.

“Asmodeus…how are you doing, love?”

That one, in particular. “Just dandy, Sam. And you?”

“Ooof…stuffed…” He flashed me a grin, fangs barely showing but obviously recently bloodstained. I could smell it on him like cheap cologne. “You look so sad, little incubus.”

“Just bored with the mundane sexual fantasies of these Londoners.” I yawned and shrugged. “Only so much leather and spanking I can take in one night, you know?”

“Lucky me then. So long as they have blood, I could care less what their kink is. Walk with me a ways, Asmodeus old man…”

Like I had a choice. I may be immortal, but in human form I still bleed. He flopped his heavy arm over my shoulders like a restraint and led me down the dark street to a side alley, then out onto another street where traffic was sparse and prostitutes plentiful. “This is a veritable buffet for your sort, isn’t it? Why don’t you pick one? No disease worries for you, eh?” he laughed. Sam always made the same joke and it was never funny. Not even the first time.

“Mmmm…sorry, mate. Unlike you bloodsuckers, we demons require a little more…finesse and…” I smiled fully and let my eyes shift from plain brown to their usual red-gold, “well, frankly, Sam, your choice in humans leaves something to be desired.”

His smile never faltered but he knew as well as I did that we were having a pissing contest over prey. “Little incubus, you are quite mouthy, aren’t you?” He laughed at his words. “I suppose it is compensation.”

“Suppose so,” I sighed. Samael had the worst sense of humor of any deader I’d ever met. And that’s saying something—vampires are not known for their funnies.

Samael fell silent as we walked up the street, the prostitutes offering wares we were far from interested in. “Asmodeus, why do you come here?”

“You brought me.”

“No, here, to this plane…” He frowned and bit his lower lip, the tiny wound healing instantly. “There are so many to choose from. Aren’t there?”

“What do you know of the planes?” I paused to look in a darkened storefront. “You’re bound here.”

“I hear things,” he shrugged. “But tell me…”

“There are many, yes…” I searched for an answer he would accept and understand. I finally seized on, “But this one is the easiest to feed on.”

“Of course,” he smiled. If I didn’t know better, I would swear he looked sad. “Tell me something else, Asmodeus old man…”

I didn’t like the pause. “Yeeeeeeeees?”

“Why do we do it?”

“Are you having some sort of crisis, Sam?” I have to admit—I would have loved it if he were. It would have brightened my millennia.

“Not as such.” He chose a corner of the nearest stoop and sat, hands dangling between his knees. “You know, I honestly cannot remember my life before I became a vampire.”

Great. It was going to be an even longer night than I had anticipated. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I don’t remember if I had a family…a job…a birthday…”

“Don’t your sires remember this sort of thing?”

“My…what?”

“Sire…whoever made you…”

“Oh. Her.” He lay back on the stone steps and stared up at the sky. “I think I’d like to sell shoes.”

“Huh?”

“Shoes. Useful things, you know. I’d like to sell them.”

“Sam…you don’t need a job, you know…”

“I know, but I’d feel useful.”

“Like shoes.”

“Yes…” His face became something like it’s old self again and he laughed. “Just like shoes.”

Samael was not given to moping so his mood surprised me. I had seen him angry, maudlin and ecstatic, sometimes all at once, but never mopey. “I think I had better be going. The night won’t last forever.”

“No, it won’t,” he sighed, rising to his feet. It struck me how oddly human he was in that moment. He moved slowly for a vampire, his skin barely translucent under the glaring streetlight. “You’re staring.”

“Are you…okay?” The words left my mouth unbidden. I tried to avoid blood drinkers at all costs, usually, but for some reason I felt a twinge of pity for the one before me. He made my life Hell, baiting me, harassing me and generally being an ass, but I felt obligated. One life sucker to another.

“I’m fanfuckingtastic,” he sighed. He turned his face up to the light and closed his eyes. He did not even bother to pretend to breathe, as he must around humans, so the appearance of true death was strong. “I have walked this earth more years than I can truly remember, Asmodeus,” he murmured. “And only recently has my existence displeased me.”

If there is a vampire equivalent of drunk, Samael was it. “Then sleep,” I suggested. “Take a dirt nap. Isn’t that what you all do when you get that overwhelming sense of ennui?” Two teenagers coming, young couple, left to their own devices and scurrying around town like rats on a sinking ship, trying to cram as much life into their precious few hours alone as possible… their approach distracted me so I missed the first part of Samael’s rant. “Huh?” I rejoined inelegantly as he paused for my response.

“I said,” his voice had taken on a thick quality. His fangs were out. He felt them, too. “That my sire, as you refer to her, has died. Truly died.” His eyes closed and he seemed to sway slightly on the balls of his feet. They were getting closer, close enough now for me to hear them clearly. They were talking about a girl who had gotten mugged just a street over from us the night before and drawing a comparison to Jack the Ripper. “Messy work,” Samael murmured, a smile flitting over his face. “Impressive drive, though.”

“You’re not doing much for the stereotypes,” I grumbled. The footsteps stopped. They had seen something in a shop window and were looking, talking… I exhaled slowly, almost relieved. I needed to feed, but for some odd reason did not relish the idea of Samael being part of this, injecting his dark humor into the seduction. “Samael, what do you mean your sire died?”

He seemed irked at me changing the subject back to the original. “She died. Dust. Gone.” He opened his eyes again and fixed me with his sharp gaze. “How are you useful, Asmodeus? Why haven’t I drank of you yet?”

I could not see the correlation between the two questions at first but it dawned on me as he swayed closer, his fangs ivory with age and blood. “Demons taste like seaweed,” I responded tartly. “We’re not that good to drink.”

He looked at me for a moment as if he would tear my throat out with his bare hands, then he laughed. It was oddly hollow, ringing metallically off the street and buildings. Unlike a human’s laugh, his did not seem full of joy and life. His seemed to come from some place within the earth itself and fill the small street for a few moments. The teenagers had stopped again and I could taste their nervous fear at the sound of his laugh. “Asmodeus,” Samael sighed, letting the laughter fade, “you are a complex creature. You’re not like the other incubi I’ve met. You lack a certain…”

“Charm? Je ne sais quoi? Suavity?”

“Aroma, I was going to say, but those will do.” His quick grin was an attempt at showing me he was being funny again, or trying to. “Definitely shoes. My dame—you know, that’s the proper word for a female sire—had the most amazing pair of black boots with these small silver buckles all the way up to her thighs…” His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, but I could not tell if it was in memory of his dame and her boots or because the teenagers, their blood pumping hard and breath coming in short, nervous gasps, were drawing closer. “She wore them the night she Died.”

I could hear the capital in his voice. “How did it happen?” I asked casually, shifting to put myself between Samael and the humans. I did not value human life as such but I did not want to see two such innocents die brutally. His fangs were fully out, thickening his voice and giving a slight slur to his words.

“I killed her.”

I paused, my mouth open, uncertain of what to say. “That’s so…” I paused again. “Trite.”

“Pardon me?” His fangs retracted almost fully. “Trite? The death of my maker at my own hands is TRITE?”

“Well… yes…” I couldn’t help it. I had to giggle at his outrage. “How baby bat can you get? It’s like those stories you see all the time in those bad Gothic bookstores… all have titles like Love’s Grave or Grave Love and willow girls swan about in black, moping in the night, while wraithlike boys pine and whine for their lost love and then end it all with a spectacular dive off a mausoleum or something messy…” I was really giggling now, partially at the look on his face and partially at the antics of humans who fancy themselves to be some sort of dark lords and ladies of Death.”

Samael’s gaze nearly flayed the skin from my bones as he crowded me against the shoe store behind me. “I killed her because she asked me to. She was tired of this half life we live, tired of our existence… she had ceased to feel pleasure at all, ceased to feel anything! I drove the stake through her heart myself and left her corpse where the sun would find it!”

His speech had taken on a distinctly archaic cadence despite modern words. I was quickly becoming nervous. He seemed to be slipping in the control department and I could feel the cold touch of his skin on mine as he leaned closer. “Samael, stand down,” I said softly. The teenagers were close now, mere yards away. They might think we were lovers, I thought, or I was being mugged. I doubted they thought we were two immortals, or mostly immortals, having a snarkfest.

He tilted his chin and stepped back, regarding me as one might regard a particularly annoying child. He turned away then and walked several paces back in the direction we had come from, away from me, away from the teenagers. I sighed and pushed away from the wall, starting after him, but he was faster than I had expected. In a blur, he turned on his heel and rushed the humans, a roar rising from his gullet and exploded in the silent street. The couple screamed but still he came at them. They ran down the street, screaming wordlessly, the girl tripping and falling, the boy dragging her by her wrist, tearing the skin on her knees and her right palm. Samael did not stop until they had reached the last street light.

“That,” I said a tad shakily as he strolled back, his fangs retracted and hair slightly askew, a few locks tumbling from the red ribbon holding it back off his face, “was entirely uncalled for.”

“It was either scare the hell out of them or bite the hell out of you,” he said mildly, his mood entirely changed. “Pardon the pun.”

“That wasn’t a pun. It was poor humor. And if you were going to go to all the trouble of scaring them, why didn’t you just bite them?” I did not draw away from him but neither did I welcome his closeness as he leaned against the wall next to me. It was all beginning to make my head ache, the story of his dame, the irrational moods… I was tempted to ask him if he had some sort of vampiric PMS but I doubted he would appreciate the question.

“I haven’t felt useful for a long time, Asmodeus,” he said quietly. “Before, I would say that I fed on the blood of those who craved death, then later I fed on those who had done wrong. One evening, my dame asked me how I could determine who had done wrong. I told her it was because I could read it on them, smell the crimes and vile stains on their souls. She said no… how could I, who had lived for centuries, who had killed and destroyed and made war countless times, who had done things even the most reprehensible human could not conceive of, could determine who had done wrong. How dare I? she asked.”

I did not speak then. I let the silence stretch. Being next to a silent vampire is unnerving. They do not breathe, really, nor do they move. When they hunt, or scent prey, they take the air in through their nose and mouth, tasting the fear and heat of their intended, and when they decide to move, it’s with a purpose, controlled and strong steps, moving so silently it’s no wonder most humans never know what hits them when these creatures hunt. But just standing there, next to Samael, I was reminded how he had come to be this fearsome creature. He closed his eyes and resembled the corpse he would be in a few hours when the sun rose. “You want to feel useful,” I said finally when the silence became too much, “because you don’t want to die.”

“I died once already and I do not remember it,” he sighed. “I have been told it is painful, the way I perished. I do not remember my native tongue. I don’t think it even exists anymore. I don’t remember my family, my friends…” His eyes opened and shifted to fix on me. “I think you are my only friend, Asmodeus. After all of my centuries, you are the only friend I have.”

I stared back at him. I didn’t know if I was supposed to hug him, laugh at his attempt at humor, or do the manly thing and nod, tightlipped and understanding. I just stared. “Samael…”

“It’s late, Asmodeus,” he cut me off, pushing away from the wall. “I have yet to feed and you’re looking worse than usual.” He glanced skyward, looking for signs only one with his eyes could see. “I have but a few hours before I need to return home.”

“I understand there’s good feeding to be had north of here,” I said hesitantly, “near Grove Park. A group of Americans are here on vacation and don’t lock their doors at night.” I paused, adding, “One of them is supposedly a murderer though his friends don’t know it yet.”

He raised a brow. “How do you know this?”

“People get chatty,” I shrugged, smiling. “They don’t realize what they think during…” I let it trail off, implying my particular feeding method.

He laughed softly, a ghost of his early, full throated laugh. “You are useful sometimes, Little Incubus. Good night, then. Be safe.”

“I’ll be leaving London tomorrow,” I said suddenly, not sure why I was telling him this. “I’m going to Barcelona, then Dallas, and maybe up the east coast of the United States for a bit…” He nodded and I took his forearm in the ancient gesture of friendship, neither of us saying another word. I did not know when I would see him again but I did know he would find me when he wanted to visit. He disappeared into the darkness between the buildings and I could have sworn I heard him whistling as he vanished.

Several months had passed before I returned to London after that night.

I had seen all the places I had set out to see but found I missed the city where I had last seen Samael. I thought of him often during my travels and wondered if I would see him in some dark corner in a Manhattan club or waiting for me when I returned to my hotel room in some small town between here and there.

I found myself back in London on a summer night, the streets still wet with evening rain and the stores closed for the night save for a few news stands and curry shops. The street had not changed very much in the months I had been gone. Maybe a new coat of paint on some of the storefront signs but nothing remarkable.

It was easy to remember the conversation, if it could be called that, with Samael.

No humans were out, at least none nearby. The weather had driven them indoors to clubs and comfy living rooms where televisions and music kept them distracted from the knowledge that work would be waiting for them in a few days and their relaxation was fleeting.

I thought of going to one of the clubs, of trying to feed, but the idea left me, pardon the pun, cold. I had been thinking too long of Samael and his story, of how he had felt useless and too long-lived. I wondered, standing near the spot where I had last seen him, if he had done himself in, maybe sired a new little vampling for the duty or even done it on his own, laid out on some beach to await the sunrise and turn into the sand and tide.

A faint wind picked up around the corner and scuttled down the block, sending some bits of paper and street debris scurrying ahead of it. A blue piece of paper, slightly damp and stepped on, blew against my leg, begging for attention it seemed.

“Good bye, Samael,” I sighed softly. Absentmindedly, my imagination still churning out images of Samael in death throes, wondering if I should grieve or just go on, I glanced down at the flyer.

OPEN FROM DUSK TILL DAWN, the words screamed out at me. CRAZY SAM’S SHOE EMPORIUM FOR ALL YOUR FOOTWEAR NEEDS!

Click any of the text below to donate to the Haiti relief efforts

DONATE to Doctors Without Borders

DONATE to Rainbow World Fund

Or Visit Charity Navigator to choose an organization

Crossed Genres (click for link) has started this wonderful movement to help raise funds for  the Haiti relief efforts.  Authors and artists are encouraged to post works for free on their blogs and have a DONATE button at the bottom for relief organizations of their choice so readers can donate as they see fit.  I’m going to post the first short story I ever had published–Saturday Night.  I hope that y’all can donate to the charity I link to at the end of the story!  If not, check out relief efforts in your community and see what you can do to help!

It’s been rather chaotic of late… I had a baby in December and shortly thereafter had a pulmonary embolism.  I prefer the baby!  But all is well now *knocks on wood* and BACK TO WRITING! Whooo! I got a good, solid kick in the rear to get back on the stick, so to speak, when I saw this review of Unseelie over on Joyfully Reviewed.    I set my writing goals for 2010 and the first one is to finish Horned Moon (working title) by the end of next week–sooooooo close! And then finish the sequel to Unseelie and then on to some demon-centric stuff!  We’ll see how it goes–the baby is naping a bit now so off to write I go.  And for those who emailed and asked… I *did* name him after a literary character!  Well, in part lol.  He’s got a lot of family names in the middle but his first name is one that we both really liked AND just happened to be a favorite character from Lois McMaster Bujold’s Vorkosigan Saga–Miles.  Though we tend to refer to him as Spawn. 

Two Drollerie books are up for Eppie awards! Scars on the Face of God and Things that Go Bump in the Night!  Lemme tell ya, I’m geeked out about being part of the anthology!  *happy pagan dance*

And not enough time to say it since I’m on a borrowed computer!  I’ve moved and am on the verge of giving birth in the next few weeks AND am almost done with the sequel to Unseelie!  I hope hope hope to get it in to Drollerie before the kid comes! But until I have the intrawebs back on at the new house (thanks, fail ISP provider for being fail…*snerk*), it sits on my hard drive, being re-read, polished, poked at, prodded… The Demon Trilogy is still in the works–I’m just trying to make the demons behave (good luck, huh?)  More to come soon!

Welcome Heather Parker for the October Blog Tour!

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The Sweetest Day

Or Cats Are People Too

Here in England, we don’t celebrate The Sweetest Day. Or if we do, the custom has never made it to the wilds of the Lake District, which seems a pity. Maybe the world needs more days like this. I looked it up on Wikipedia and discovered it’s “an opportunity to remember not only the sick, aged and orphaned, but also friends, relatives and associates whose helpfulness and kindness we have enjoyed.”

Someone else described it as a cynical ploy by sweet manufacturers to sell their products but I prefer the first definition. I’m rather partial to chocolate.

I tried thinking about sweet things that have happened to me during Octobers in the past - and one stands out in my memory. Actually the events occurred over a few days and involve cats rather than people but perhaps I might be allowed artistic licence. And without these cats, my novel, Middlewitch, would never have been born…

It all began six years ago, just before Halloween, when I spotted a painfully thin, ginger and white cat peeping out of our barn. This little mite turned out to be the first of five half-grown feral kittens, lost and roaming our Lakeland valley. We think the mother had been driven out here and abandoned because she was pregnant. People aren’t always sweet.

At first we couldn’t get near them. They were young, terrified and had never known a human. Gradually we persuaded them to take food in the barn, and everyday we moved their bowls closer to us. Four of the pathetic kittens were barely surviving but the fifth one was desperate. Finally my husband decided to take a chance and grabbed him. I think pussy must have been taken aback but Chris survived without stitches. And his hand only hurts now when it’s cold.

We carried him (the kitten) into the house and kept him there, desperately trying to persuade him to trust us. Only a few days later, he reached out a small, tentative paw and I offered him a ping-pong ball. A simple show of good faith and our battle was over! After our initial success, we managed to cajole and trap the four remaining kittens without major injury and a local animal shelter found good homes for three of them. Which only left two remaining…

The first tamed was Tango, one of the two cats in my novel, and the inspiration behind the original idea of Middlewitch. We knew we couldn’t part with him, but he was devoted to his ginger and white brother, so what could we do? And anyone who’s read Middlewitch will recognise that one as the famous Domino, although in the book he’s been mysteriously transformed into Tango’s father.

Strange village, Middlewitch…

Gradually they became friends with our other cats and dogs and these extraordinary wild creatures have given us endless pleasure over the years. Their devotion has been intense – almost as if they’re trying to show us how much our home and companionship have meant to them. Tango and Domino are proof of the old adage - a kind action always brings its own reward. Or, alternatively - no good deed ever goes unpunished. Domino is still partial to a tasty houseplant and Tango enjoys sharpening his claws on the banisters. We’re still glad they found us. And without the friendship of these two cats, Middlewitch would never have happened.

My husband commented casually one day, “Why don’t you write a book about Tango and Domino?”

Actually I suspect he had a non-fiction book in mind or maybe a picture book for children. But it still gave me the idea. And the cats can’t really be held responsible for the witches, vampires and demonic possessions in the book. They’re much too nice for that…

Thanks, Meredith, for hosting this post for me on your blog. And congratulations on your book, Unseelie!

Before we get to Jessica’s post (on this month’s ‘theme’, music), I just wanted to mention that, on September 27th, Drollerie’s monthly author  chat will be taking place so make sure to visit the site’s main page and join in the chat for a chance to win some of the books on Drollerie’s shelves!

However, there is something from when I was fairly young, that is part of how I started writing, and why I keep going. When I was a little girl I read Anne McCaffrey’s Harper Hall series from her books about the world of Pern. And I was really inspired; in case you don’t know, the series is about a girl named Menolly, who wants to be a harper (read: bard). She travels the world and gets ten fire lizards by accident. I thought she was so cool at the time, and really wanted to be her, or just be like her at all. I think I’ve read that book twenty times at least!

It’s carried over into adulthood, too. I used to have terrible stage fright when younger, and eventually started saying something to myself that others said to Menolly when she had it: “Walk, Menolly: walk.” It’s small and simple, and it reminds me to keep going.  So does that book. I love the Pern books, I love Anne McCaffrey and have most of her books, but I especially love that trio of them. I love music and this is a great mixture of writing and music. Music keeps me going.

There are now bards all over Kritter, which has the honor — in my personal tally — of having the first story of mine as one published by a semi-pro publication, and also several years later a story in the first anthology I’ve ever been in… the latter of which was about a bard, in fact! Kritter’s even going to become part of a gaming campaign module for DnDOnline Gaming. And trust me, there will be bards in there: I promise!

Another world I’ve been working on over time has been called Fylde. That one is based on different eras of history, and so Fylde proper is based on American Colonial times as well as the capital which is European Colonial, while Germania to the south of that land is based on steampunk Victorian Era. The capital of Fylde will have music in it of the Colonial times, therefore — which my husband-to-be is thrilled about!

You know, I just got my first book deal up. Scares me out of my mind, to tell the truth. “A Nirvana of Many Allahs” has no music in it — maybe there’s a tiny mention of it within the celebration of Eid at the very beginning — but the point is that I’m scared. Whether this book, this ebook-to-be, does well or poorly, I’ m feeling extremely nervous because it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever done.

So that’s why I was thinking of Anne McCaffrey tonight. Because I’m nervous, and because this book is so far part of the climax of my dreams — that and the DnDOG thing, both of which came at the same time!

So I’ve been saying to myself just that:

“Walk, Menolly: walk.”

my website: http://howewriter2000.4t.com

Drollerie is going to be having the mother of all sales in October…watch this space, the home page and my facebook page for more info!

I have a guest post up on Ginger Simpsons’ blog! check it out at: http://mizging.blogspot.com/2009/08/guest-post-meredith-holmes-of-drollerie.html

Right now, I’m working on repairing some massive damage to a manuscript brought on by sudden and unexpected computer failure. I’m a month behind–I should’ve had it submitted by now–but you know, I’m okay with that. It’s a chance to make it better, to rebuild the story in such a way that it is stronger. Maybe it’s pregnancy hormones making me so optimistic! If so… I’m not sure how to feel about that, lol.