Blood Lite II: Overbite (23 page)

Filiméala felt the call of death, and a moment later tinny music began to play in Harry’s pocket. He pulled out his iPhone and stared at it.

Suppressing the desire to keen, she leaned forward. “Does the voodoo in your phone tell you the name of who is going to die?”

“No.”

“I can tell you,” she said, her voice a rough whisper as she held back the song.

He snorted. “You said before that you couldn’t.”

“Things are different now. I think after all these years in America, my
Bean Sídhe
power is tapping the strength of America, rather than Éire.”

“Right, then,” he said. “Is it one of the O’Malley boys? I sent them to deal with some Italian troublemakers.”

“’Tis neither of the O’Malley boys,” she said. “The name of the one who will die is Harold Standish O’Grady.”

His eyes widened as Filiméala unleashed her full voice. He leaped from his chair and clapped his hands to his ears while screaming an inaudible order to his guards. The force of the song slammed him back against the oak-paneled wall and pinned him there.

The flesh of his face rippled, then piece after piece tore away. The bones of his skull fractured, then refractured again and again until they were ground to powder, held in place only by the standing waves of sound produced by Filiméala’s keening.

She stopped, and the remains of Harry “Hair-Trigger” O’Grady collapsed into a wet heap on the floor.

Filiméala became aware that the guards had their guns pointed at her. They were repeatedly pulling the triggers, resulting in ineffective clicks since they had run out of bullets. Metallic dust lay on the floor a few feet in front of them, remnants of the bullets shattered by her song.

“Now, now, lads,” she said. “I have nothing against you. And if you behave yourselves, it will be a good many years before I sing for your deaths.”

They stopped pulling their triggers but continued staring wide-eyed at her.

She walked around the desk and poked at Harry’s corpse with her toe. “It seems the O’Grady mob lacks a head, and somebody needs to stop the mob war the late Mr. O’Grady began.” In a whisper, she added, “You’re the one who told me this was the land of opportunity.”

Filiméala sat down in what had been Harry’s chair and swiveled to face her guards. “Tell the rest of the clan that I’m in charge now.”

“What should we call you, ma’am?” one of them asked.

“Filiméala O’Grady,” she said. The continuity of the surname was important. But she also needed a nickname, so she added, “The American Banshee.”

The Epicurean

AMY STERLING CASIL

By summer’s end, Vanpirs had grown somnolent, not leaving his flat for days before the Schlachtfest was to begin in the
Alter Markt.
He sat at a small yellow table by the iron hearth, reading a French tourist guide about the preparation of Pomeranian
Tollatschen
, a dish rich with pig’s blood, bacon drippings, and raisins.

For the
Schlachtfest
, Stralsunders gathered in hundreds, the women in their dirndls and men in old-fashioned suits, gobbling pig knuckle,
leberwurst, knockwurst
, dozens of waxy, greasy boiled potatoes, and of course,
blutwurst.

It was the smell that brought Vanpirs to loiter near the
Schlachtfest
in an alley paved with thirteenth-century stones. Standing quietly in his close-fitted black jacket, Vanpirs looked only slightly different from the Stralsunder men. One would only have noticed that his hair was darker and straighter than most, and his face was more chalk than pink. Few Stralsunders could maintain such a trim profile after years of Schlachtfests and, following that orgy of pig meat, Oktoberfest
bier
, drunk in competitive German quantity.

Vanpirs spied three Deutsche maidens leaving the
Alter Markt
, holding each other by the elbows, laughing.

“
Ja, das Tollatschen! Zu viel!
” said one of the women.

“
Weit zu viel!
” said the one in the middle.

Even Vanpirs’s suspect German told him that they had eaten a great deal of
Pomeranian Tollatschen
, the bloody dish he’d been reading about. His nose told him they had washed it down with
weissbier
.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, two of the women stood mesmerized as he fed on the first of them that reached his waiting arms. Ah, the rich sweet-sour flavor of Tollatschen, full to bursting with pig blood, bacon fat, and plump raisins. The late summer beer was also not bad, Vanpirs thought.

At the end, Vanpirs was as full as the women had been, and he staggered from the alley.

“Ho! You’ve had a bit much!” called some town revelers.

“Indeed I have,” Vanpirs called back.
“Pommerische Tollat!”

They laughed.
“Ja! Pommerische Tollat!”

It was not until Vanpirs had nearly reached his flat when he felt the most curious sensation. His limbs were heavy and would not move as he wished. He tried to leap up the steps as was his usual habit, but instead, he found himself lying on his back, staring at a torn veil of clouds wisping across the rising Baltic moon.

He lay there for some time, slowly moving his fingers and toes but nothing more, until at last his elderly neighbor Herr Kahler arrived.

Herr Kahler, a stooped and balding man who limped around Stralsund in a black leather jacket studded with
Polizei
and ABBA patches, leaned over Vanpirs and said, “Eh, what? You’ve had too much
bier
, young fellow.”

“No,” said Vanpirs.

“Moderation in all things, I say!” He poked Vanpirs with his cane.

In any other circumstance, Vanpirs would have fed immediately on the old gent. But Vanpirs’s limbs would not respond.

“Please, Herr Kahler,” he whispered. “Help me.”

“Bah!” Herr Kahler said. “I cannot. My health card authorizes me to lift no more than two kilos.”

“Please, lend me an arm,” said Vanpirs. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer of the morning sun rising over Stralsund’s ancient spires.

Herr Kahler turned and saw the flicker of light as well. He bent slowly, and held out his arm.

“You will forgive me, Herr Vanpirs,” Herr Kahler said. “It is unwise to come too close to a gentleman of your persuasion.”

Vanpirs grabbed Herr Kahler’s arm. Slowly, he managed to lift himself to a kneeling position.

“Your condition seems most unusual,” Herr Kahler said. “I would urge you to consult Herr Glücklich, the
Apothek
, at your earliest convenience.”

Legs trembling, Vanpirs managed to stand.
“Ja,”
he said.
“Danke.”

“Now get inside. For myself, I plan to fix a cup of hot tea. I should think by the time the water boils, the sun will have risen over the cathedral.” With a brief nod, Herr Kahler indicated the spire of Stralsund’s oldest structure.

“Danke,”
Vanpirs said, inching toward the door of his flat.

“You’ll have no trouble seeing Herr Glücklich tomorrow evening. He keeps late hours.” Herr Kahler smiled, and for such an old gentleman, he had remarkably strong white teeth.

“He’s in Lindenstrasse?”

“Ja,”
Herr Kahler said. “Please be kind enough to let me know what he says. I shall be taking a brief trip tomorrow, but I’ll be curious to find out your prognosis after that.”

Vanpirs looked up at the clouds sweeping across the moon. To the casual eye, it would have seemed a full moon, but Vanpirs saw that it was waxing gibbous. He suddenly understood the true nature of his neighbor, wondering how he had not noticed before.

“Herr Kahler,” Vanpirs asked, “Why it is that you seem so enfeebled?”

“Ah,” Herr Kahler said without turning. “Some of us know how to thrive in the present day.”

Vanpirs, wondering whether Herr Kahler had meant his hideous jacket or aged appearance was the secret to successful lycanthropy, entered his flat just as the sun began to rise and fell to the floor in a heap.

The shop of Herr Glücklich the Apothek looked like an ordinary pharmacy to Vanpirs, but he entered anyway, as he felt so wretched that he would have snorted packets of Dr. Oetker’s dried custard if it could have improved his condition.

To the young, pimply man behind the pharmacist’s counter he said,
“Wo ist Herr Glücklich?”

“I can help you,” the young man replied.

Vanpirs reached across the counter and grabbed the young man’s jacket. “Herr Glücklich,” he growled.

“Oh, Ja!”
replied the young man, and he craned his pocked neck, calling,
“Herr Apothek!”

A tidy man of about fifty emerged, straightening his glasses.

“
Danke
, Herman,” he said. “Go and clean the
klo
.”

After two or three rabbitlike blinks, Herman scrambled away and disappeared to the rear of the shop.

“I come on the recommendation of Herr Kahler,” Vanpirs said.

“You’ve been attending the
Schlachtfest
?” Herr Glücklich asked.

“Ja,”
Vanpirs said.

“And you did as all others do, I suppose,” the Apothek said. He busied himself with arranging a display of ribbed condoms on his counter.

“I don’t feel I did anything out of the ordinary,” Vanpirs said. “But as I went home, I found myself unable to climb the steps to my own flat.”

The Apothek looked sharply at him, and Vanpirs said, “I needn’t tell you how unusual
that
is for a man of my . . .”

“Proclivities? Hmmn,” said Herr Glücklich in a businesslike tone. “Roll up your sleeve.”

Vanpirs undid his cuff and complied with the Apothek’s request.

“Press the flesh with your fingers,” he said. “Just so.” He lifted the loose sleeve of his pharmacist’s jacket and pressed his own forearm with two fingers.

Vanpirs frowned but pushed his left forefinger into his wax-pale arm.

“Now take the finger away,” Herr Glücklich instructed.

Vanpirs removed his finger. A neat dent remained in his flesh.

“How long has this been going on?” asked Herr Glücklich.

“I don’t know,” Vanpirs said, staring at the dent.

“It is the curse of our modern age,” the Apothek concluded.

“I don’t—” Vanpirs thought he knew all imaginable curses and this was not one of them.

“You should be aware that I am a senior authority in my field,” Herr Glücklich said.

“That is very good,” Vanpirs said, staring at the dent and feeling faint.

“Gentlemen such as you are not immune to the complaints suffered by the general population.”

“But I am immortal,” said Vanpirs.

“We are all dependent upon our environment, Herr—”

“Vanpirs.”

“Herr Vanpirs,” the Apothek repeated, not unkindly. “This is why I asked about the
Schlachtfest
, although I was quite certain that you had attended, merely by examining your color.” He leaned across the counter and took Vanpirs’s dented arm, holding it up and turning it this way and that.

“So,” said the Apothek. “Here you clearly see an abnormality. And I will tell you its source.”

“Please,” Vanpirs said. What would cause such a dent! In his perfect flesh!

“Cholesterol,” the Apothek concluded.

“What?” cried Vanpirs.

“Ja,”
Herr Glücklich said. “Although your metabolism would seem flawless, maintaining you through dozens of ordinary lifetimes, even it is no match for today’s high-fat diet.”

“But I do not eat . . . food,” Vanpirs said. “This is impossible.”

“Most possible. It is the fat-rich blood of those you are feeding on. Cholesterol deposits itself directly in the altered cells that comprise your flesh. This is a buildup of many years, Herr Vanpirs. Today, with the number of people out there with fatty blood, it’s becoming increasingly common among those of your
persuasion
.”

“Fat, in my flesh?” Vanpirs asked, stunned. He had not loosened his belt in three hundred years.

“Ja,”
said Herr Glücklich. “There is only one cure. You must change your diet. I would recommend oat bran under other circumstances.”

“How can I—”

“Herr Vanpirs,” the Apothek interrupted. “My advice is to eat more simply. Frequent athletic events and health resorts. Perhaps consider enrolling in a commune of environmental enthusiasts.”

“Vegans?” Vanpirs said. “That’s—disgusting. Can you not give me a—pill? A shot?”

Herr Glücklich shook his head. “This has taken years to develop. It will take years of correct eating to rectify.”

“Ridiculous,” said Vanpirs. “I can’t understand why Herr Kahler sent me.”

“Herr Kahler is also afflicted by our changing times. He has developed a sensitivity to modern chemical products. I’ve advised him to switch to biodegradable infant laundry soap, among many other changes.”

“A werewolf using baby soap?” Vanpirs said, laughing. As he buttoned his cuff, Vanpirs noticed with satisfaction that the dent was entirely gone. Perhaps he should feed upon the Apothek. That would teach the smug fellow.

“I thought you could help me,” Vanpirs said. “But this is absurd. I suppose that I’ve come in contact with some sort of holy water perfume.”

Herr Glücklich shook his head. “In that case, your lips would have blistered,” he said.

Vanpirs felt his lips. “It was something like that. I’m certain of it.”

“Tell me, then,” Herr Glücklich said. “Do you particularly enjoy feeding on those who’ve finished a tasty meal?”

“Of course,” said Vanpirs. “Do you think I’d prefer some pimpled youth eating nothing but fried chicken?”

“Ah,” Herr Glücklich said, holding out a business card. “Of course not. Let me give you my card.”

“I do not need more absurd advice,” Vanpirs said, throwing the card down on the counter. “Or a diet.”

Herr Glücklich appeared nervous for the first time since the discussion began. He cleared his throat, tapped his fingers lightly on the counter, and said, “You are playing with fire in this matter. Quite literally. This fatty material is most combustible. And unlike your victims, your body is not comprised of seventy percent water, which does not burn. Surely you’ve heard that the percentage of water in the bodies of the obese may decrease to less than fifty percent. In that case, I would not recommend those individuals stay in the sun on a hot day!”

Vanpirs looked down at his completely flat stomach, then back at the Apothek. “You’re mad,” he said. “I’ve never been fat—”

“It is the concentrated fat collected in your flesh and not your external size or weight that is of such great risk,” the Apothek said. “Why else do you suppose the old films such as
Nosferatu
encouraged the myth that vampires burned to a crisp upon exposure to daylight? When too close to little boys with magnifying glasses, some have!”

“Rubbish,” Vanpirs snapped. Then he smiled, most unpleasantly.

The Apothek’s voice quavered only a bit as he said, “I should let you know that I am myself a strict vegetarian, and I had a dish of anise bulbs and garlic this morning, as I do every day.”

Vanpirs’s nose had told him so, and this was the reason he now left without even the tiniest drink of the Apothek’s blood.

Idiocy, Vanpirs thought as he strode home. Risk of fire, burning like some fat, roasting pig? He was as fit and slim as he’d ever been—why, he’d never even gotten a sunburn and one day stayed out for hours on the beach at Cannes, attracting juicy young women with his slender, perfect physique. He stopped for a moment in an alley behind an oyster shop, waiting for a brief, moist snack. It turned into a bit more than a snack; after leaving the two overfed university students piled neatly beside the restaurant’s trash can, he went home, feeling very much improved, and fell into a dreamless slumber.