An Unattractive Vampire Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2016 Jim McDoniel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Inkshares Inc., San Francisco, California, as part of the Sword & Laser Collection

  www.inkshares.com

  Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Cover design by David Drummond

  ISBN-13: 9781941758649

  ISBN-10: 1941758649

  e-ISBN: 9781941758632

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015944401

  First edition

  To George and Margaret McDoniel, who thankfully weren’t too freaked out by a three-year-old whose favorite color was black.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  List of Patrons

  Chapter 1

  The rising full moon cast its sensual yellow glow through the balcony window of the oldest, tallest, and most obnoxiously pink house in the town of Shepherd’s Crook. If moonlight could express surprise, it would have done so at this most unnatural occurrence. The curtains of this particular window were, as a rule, always kept closed to thwart the Peeping Toms the room’s occupant assumed would be trying to catch her changing. Tonight, though, the hangings remained parted, allowing light and shadow to dance merrily over a sight the neighborhood boys—who usually did try to catch her changing—would kick themselves for missing.

  A woman lay on a bed in the middle of the room. To say she slept would demean both her beauty and the act she was engaged in. To merely sleep would be to lie down and rest, perhaps drooling on a pillow and mussing one’s hair. However, in this bed, with this girl, not a hair was out of place and no saliva was to be found. Her wavy blond locks fell about her head and shoulders in a perfect cascade, being buoyed rather than crushed by the pure white pillows around her. Her closed eyes were just the lightest shade of purple, her eyelashes long and dark, and her lips a welcoming, moist crimson. One pale arm rested neatly over the sheet that covered her; the other stretched leisurely above her head. Her comely figure was pleasantly curved, outlined beneath the white silk sheet. The whole effect was topped off by the faintest hint of cinnamon in the air and the haunting sensuality of the moonlight glow.

  This girl did not sleep; she slumbered.

  There was movement outside the old pink house. The doors to a long-disused storm cellar creaked open, seemingly by themselves. A single cloud passed before the moon, and when it had gone, a new shadow loomed blacker and more substantial than the gloom around it. With fingers spread, two arms lengthened out of the darkness, more tangled and bent than the silhouettes of the tree branches they crossed. The spectre stretched across the lawn, past the windows, the sides, the door . . . and stopped.

  A sign hung on the door. The shadow read it, following each word with one crooked finger. When it had reached the end, the figure looked up at the second-floor window, beyond which lay the beautiful young woman, and then reread the notice more carefully. A smile spread across pale lips, only slightly ahead of a dry black tongue. Bony hands with sharp-nailed claws rubbed against each other in greedy anticipation. Dead gray eyes directed their gaze upward again.

  Inside the room, the moonlight dulled slightly as a cold mist drifted up from below. All manner of horrifying shapes wisped in and out of existence in this eldritch fog as it swirled and funneled its way toward the window. Drifting over the balcony railing, it crashed against the glass and began to seep into the room beyond. Silence dropped over the entire house. Creaky floorboards fell silent. Ticking clocks froze. The omnipresent hum of electronic appliances retreated. Even the girl’s breathing softened, growing shallower, almost as if held.

  The last bit of vapor trickled in, quickly rising to form the tall dark shadow from outside. With a certain air of relish, it languidly made its way across the room. At its approach, the girl stirred. Her body stretched ever so slightly, exposing her neck a bit more. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her lips, so red and luscious, puckered slightly.

  Gray lips, as far from luscious as it is possible to be, parted once more, revealing a grin of jagged, broken teeth. Its ears filled with the beat of her heart and the rush of her blood. Now was the moment it had waited so long for. It leaned down, ready to feed.

  The young woman’s eyes flickered, then parted, then stared up at the monstrous sight before them. She screamed and reached for her pillow. The shadow lunged for her neck, laughing as it did so. And just before its vision went black, it thought: Everything is going according to plan.

  Chapter 2

  Some three hundred years earlier, in the newest, tallest, and not-at-all pink house near the village of Shepherd’s Crook, Yulric Bile—The Curséd One, the Devil’s Apprentice, He Who Worships the Slumbering Horrors—stood by a familiar balcony window, letting his gaze wander across the landscape toward the approaching lights.

  “Ah. They’ve formed a mob.”

  A silence spread among his minions, slowly growing in strength until he could all but hear the panicked shrieks echoing in their minds. Bile smiled; their fear amused him. With an absentminded wave of his hand, he gave the nine cloaked figures leave to make a terrified dash for the window. From the other side of the room, Yulric had the perfect view of lumpy bodies in gaudy black robes, shoving and jostling for a view of their impending doom.

  For the record, their rather garish attire had not been his idea. Puritans were very specific on what constituted true evil. Black robes with arcane symbols for a start. Spectres that pinched people in their sleep. Naked dancing. Lots of naked dancing. Yulric didn’t pretend to understand where this notion had come from, but they were insistent, so every new moon, he took them to dance bare-assed under the stars. The know-it-all Pastor Collins—third from the right, wringing his hands, and crying—insisted they should be dancing during the full moon, but Yulric had put his foot down. After all, he had to watch the pathetic, sagging display.

  And for what? He had spent months working on this little cabal—corrupting them, teaching them the ways of madness and brutality, binding them to his will—and yet he doubted any were enthralled enough to even slow his enemy down. He suspected they would simply flee and hope no one noticed them. This was hindsight, though. At the time, he had had little choice in minions, as the native tribespeople knew enough to run screaming anytime he approached.

  Ah well, there is always the other option, Yul
ric thought, soaking in the ever more frantic hysteria of his followers. I wonder who will ask. “Master?” Of course.

  “Master, what shall we do?”

  Yulric opened his cloudy, dead eyes, with their pin-sharp, narrow pupils, and turned his gaze to the eight hooded figures still huddled by the window. Mostly old, mostly fat, and all scared. Of course they had sent the sole woman in the group to ask the question they were all screaming at the top of their minds. They hoped her gentle voice would soothe him, or failing that, they hoped he would kill only her.

  Yulric strode to the window, parting his followers as he went. Moonlight poured in behind him, casting his features into shadow. Except his eyes. They glowed eerily out of the darkness. “My followers,” he began, “the time has come for me to die, as it has time and time again. From the ashes of my death”—sin and damnation! He hoped there wouldn’t be ashes this time—“the dark lord shall resurrect me to new life.”

  He paused briefly to see if they were buying it. They weren’t, but they faked it well, nodding and prostrating themselves before him. Only the woman refused to make an absurd display of devotion. Good for her.

  He continued, “You, my faithful, need not follow me directly. You are free to go.”

  “Oh, thank God,” cried one of the hooded figures, likely the inept Daniel Cartwright.

  “Satan,” another whispered to correct him. That was Pastor Collins.

  “Right. I mean, oh, thank Satan,” said the admonished cultist.

  “Never fear, Master,” bellowed a bombastic acolyte who could only be Jeremiah Phillips. “We shall patiently await your return. Right, Samuel?”

  “Yes,” answered the man’s brother as he moved toward the exit. “And we shall spread your message of evil, decadence, and”—he was groping for the door handle now—“corruption.”

  “To the Master!” called Jeremiah Phillips.

  “To the Master!” the others replied. They all turned to leave as Yulric spoke again.

  “However . . .”

  The most dreaded word in the English language washed over Yulric’s followers.

  Their hope dead, a silence fell over the room, one so thick you could scoop it out of the air and serve it for dessert. Trying to mask the horror on their faces, they turned back to him.

  “I do . . . require a small service,” he said. Eyes widened. Breathing halted. Two or three looked past their leader toward the approaching mob. Time was running short.

  “To serve as a conduit for the power of darkness, to open the door for my eventual resurrection, I require the aid of a faithful servant. One of you must remain.”

  Thoughts sped through the robed Puritans in waves. The horrifying news that one of them had to stay began the swell, quickly replaced by the realization that one of them had to stay. Eyes darted left and right, picking out possible candidates while shielding themselves from candidacy. Then, almost in unison, an idea hit them, and they all turned to . . . her.

  Anne Stevens. The girl with “opinions.” Stubborn, headstrong, clever. She had joined not out of a desire to do evil but out of a desire to make at least a few decisions for herself. The men had always intended to blame her in the end. It was her fault, after all. Really, they had joined only to see her naked.

  Anne looked straight ahead as their eyes bore into her. She wasn’t happy about the situation, though she’d known it was coming. She was always the chosen to try new potions. To question the Master. To remove her robes first. Hands reached out, intending to push her forward, but she had had enough. No one was going to volunteer her. If she stayed behind, it was going to be her own choice, goddamn it. She gave herself extra points for blasphemy and stepped up. Several pairs of outstretched hands missed, and the men behind them toppled over.

  “I shall stay,” she said.

  Behind her, the men applauded.

  “Such courage, such devotion,” proclaimed Jeremiah Phillips as he picked himself up off the ground. “Of course, as your most loyal servant, my place is naturally at your side. However, I cannot bring myself to deny young Mistress Stevens the chance to prove her commitment to your cause, and so I cede my place to her.”

  “Likewise,” followed Pastor Collins. “Though, as your second in spiritual authority and natural successor, I find myself moved, and so step aside to let Mistress Stevens provide for your needs in this, your death and eventual resurrection.”

  The others followed suit, protesting that it was their right to remain behind while simultaneously renouncing said right so they wouldn’t have to. Yulric only smiled, having known how this would all play out from the beginning. As one of his “advanced” age had seen many times, events had a way of repeating themselves. Rather than be bored by their reactions, however, Yulric found them quite enjoyable. Like hearing a favorite joke.

  He took Anne by the shoulder and guided her to the door.

  “Wait for me in the cellar,” he told her. “I shall be there shortly.”

  With an air of determined resignation, she gave him a bow and stubbornly marched off to her fate. The men all watched her go, remembering better days when her naked body had brushed against theirs.

  A door slammed shut, a key turned in a lock, and the men returned from their Anne-filled reminiscence.

  “Now, where was I?” said Yulric Bile, slowly moving toward them. “Ah yes, I was about to release you.”

  • •

  In the cellar, Anne waited patiently, completely undisturbed by the bloodcurdling screams far above her. They had it coming, after all, the groping old bastards. She gave herself another point for vulgarity.

  Eventually, the Master did appear, his face still bloodstained in places, despite obvious attempts to clean himself.

  “You will want to change,” he said, handing over her clothes. She took them and disrobed. She was not shy about it; though, even had she been, it would not have mattered. It had always surprised Anne how little attention the Master paid her naked form, which really was quite exquisite. It was lithe, nubile, perky—all sorts of words that Puritans disapproved of. Yet her body held no interest for Master Bile. She would have wondered about him, only he wasn’t exactly chasing after the strapping young men of the village, either. It was almost as if such considerations were beneath him. Anne didn’t understand, but then again, she was a Puritan: her entire existence revolved around sex, if only to condemn it.

  She was just lacing her boot when the sound of breaking glass upstairs announced the arrival of the village mob.

  “It is time,” the Master whispered close to her ear.

  A desperate little gasp escaped her lips. Her breath quickened. Her heart raced. Her very soul begged her to flee, but she refused. She had made her choice months ago, when she had followed the wolf into the woods and knelt, prostrate before this hellish creature.

  Anne braced herself and summoned the remainder of her courage. “Whatever you wish, Master. My life is yours.” A moment passed.

  “What are you talking about, silly girl?”

  She opened her eyes to find her undead lord staring at her with a quizzical brow. The sound of the front door crashing down could be heard above them.

  “Well, out with it,” he pressed, in no apparent hurry. “What do you mean?”

  “My life,” she explained slowly, trying very hard not to condescend. “I give you my life, to aid in your resurrection.”

  “Oh. That,” he scoffed. “That is nonsense.”

  “It is not nonsense. I am ready,” she assured him, offended by his dismissal of her willing sacrifice.

  He waved her off. “No, no. Not that. The resurrection. The resurrection is nonsense.”

  Anne opened her mouth. Anne closed her mouth. This news just didn’t make any sense. It couldn’t be true. It wasn’t true. The deaths, the spells, the naked dancing—what had it all been for if not for the resurrection of the Master? Why all the games? Why all the lies? Why was he jumping into a hole in the cellar floor?

  Anne didn’t k
now what to say, and so, naturally, continued to argue her point. “But—”

  Before being cut off. “I am immortal, silly girl. What need I with resurrection?”

  “But the villagers. The—the witchfinder?” Anne shuddered merely at the mention. That man scared her, and she was not easily intimidated. The weak-willed men of the coven, God rest their souls—Anne deducted points for sentimentality—had been terrified of him.

  Even the Master winced slightly. “Yes, I am aware of Master Martin’s . . . thoroughness when it comes to his work. It is fortunate, therefore, that you got to me first.” He turned to where Anne knelt beside the hole and removed a long wooden stake from beneath his robes. “It was you who drove this stake through my heart.” He slowly plunged the spike into his chest, feeling his way around so it brushed just past the muscle in question. When that was done, he took a long, curved fingernail and ran it deep across his throat. He then tore away the flesh from his neck with both hands, until much of it had been removed. He spoke again, his voice now a low, chittering rasp that somehow vibrated its way out of his skull. “And it was you who cut off my head.”

  Subterfuge did not come naturally to the Puritans. Even Anne, who was as clever as they came, sometimes had to have deceit spelled out for her. He stared at her pointedly until awareness dawned. “Ooooh,” she sighed.

  The Master smiled, patting her hands and face tenderly in order to get his blood on her. “Go. Bring them to my ‘corpse.’”

  Anne nodded and rose to leave. Something was still bothering her, though. A question she needed answered. The Master smiled and waved his hand, giving her leave to speak.

  “Why me?” she asked. “You killed the others. Why spare my life?”

  The Master considered this for a moment before shrugging. “The others were driven by lust. You yearned for power. That pleases me.”

  “I wanted freedom,” she corrected.

  He gave a dismissive wave. “As I said.”

  She was about to argue the point when a cheer went up outside.

  “Go now,” he commanded, “before they set fire to the house.”