Blood Lite

Bitches of the Night Nancy Kilpatrick

"Dis night, you vill take two each, a male and a female. And dis time, no AB negative!"

Istvan hated using the cheesy English-with-a-Transylvania accent. Sure, he'd been born in Transylvania, but his family had moved to what was now called Romania. He'd tried to teach these women his language—Romanian— but they were all too thick to learn. And although each spoke English, and their native tongue, of course, nothing worked as well at controlling them as the Englvanian. And Satan knew, they were hard enough to control. He felt lucky he'd stumbled on even one trick, which seemed to excite them sexually. At least when they were aroused they weren't think­ing about wrestling power from his hands. They were per­verse in the extreme, and he had to stay on top of his game or he was doomed; no wonder he felt perpetually exhausted! When was the last time he'd had a good day's rest?

"Am I understood?" he bellowed, Bela Lugosi-style, accompanied by Lugosi hand gestures.

The three females cowered, or two of them anyway. For the last century or so, he hadn't deluded himself that it was in real terror, but at least they played the game.

Sephora, the Spanish one, so voluptuous and juicy, the one who refused to cower, cocked her pretty head, dark eyes flashing, and positioned her fists on her ample hips. "Master, let me take two females. She can take two men." She jerked her head toward the willowy Celine, the French one, who arched a pencil-thin eyebrow and pouted her full lips until the tip of one snowy fang glistened against the crimson of that sensuous mouth.

"You think I want to take the men?" Celine snapped. " Tabernace!" she shouted, a Quebecois curse word that had something to do with a church. "They are puny in this city. Their balls shriveled and their cocks hungry like a moose's snot."

They all stared at Celine blankly. Istvan wished she'd stop using those indecipherable and obscure French expressions. Her language skills were pathetic.

Morgana, of Celtic origins, or so she claimed, always the impatient one, tossed back her long fiery hair and hissed at Celine. Celine clawed the air in Morgana's direc­tion. Sephora cackled, a sound like fingernails on a black­board.

Istvan's shoulders tensed. He felt a headache forming at his frontal lobes. They were driving him nuts! "Enough, bitches! I haf no time for your constant bickerings! I am busy man!"

"But Master," Sephora purred, moving close, and he became wary.

She smiled up at him and batted her eyes flirtatiously.

This was better. He snaked an arm around her waist. "Yes, my luf?" He cupped her chin.

"Master," she breathed seductively into his ear, "you are no longer a man."

And then the bitch cackled in his ear, so loud that headache pain flashed through his brain like lightning. The other two joined in. He shoved the Spanish bitch away, but that only made her laugh more.

"Poor Master," Morgana said, trying to run her hand up the hairs of his chest where his shirt was open to the navel and the gold chains dangled. He hated it when she did that, making him nearly lose it every time, and he knocked her claw away. "Are there not still kisses for all?" she went on sarcastically. "You said so yourself."

Great, he thought, now she's quoting from Dracula! Soon she'd be acting out a vampire-bride role from one of those stupid Nosferatu movies she runs continuously on the DVD player. She actually spent a thousand of his hard-earned dollars on a white wedding dress with a frilly lizard-neck ruff that imitated what Lucy wore in Cop­pola's Bram Stoker's Dracula. Would it never end?

How in hell did he ever get hooked up with these three? Each had seemed like a good idea at the time. He remembered fondly "acquiring" them one by one, turn­ing them from the light toward the darkness, from day to night. He had loved each, in his way, according to who they were as individuals, their special beauty and unique talents. He'd spent much time and energy and had given considerable blood to change them. But all too soon they succumbed to what appeared to be the fate of the females of his kind—intense viciousness fueled by vindictiveness.

And, unfortunately, familiarity did breed contempt and he was their main victim, or would be, if he let that happen.

He could see now he'd made a mistake, making three. One he could control. Two he could manage. Three . . . they had ganged up and nearly overpowered him!

"We want to go to the Vampire Lounge," Celine whined, her black eyes flashing, her newly bleached pony-tail that hung to her waist swaying seductively.

Sephora's brown eyes twinkled, and the fun lover tossed her long black hair back over her bare shoulders.

Morgana's blue eyes narrowed into cool agates. She folded her arms across her pert bosom. "Chicken again? We just had that last night!"

"Sweet eighteen and all fake fangs," Sephora said.

"Well, at least they are tasty!" Celine snarled. "And they can still get it up!"

Did she just glance at him? The impertinence! She turned her head toward him full-face and smiled sweetly. Maybe he'd imagined it. But it was one of the huge draw­backs of their vampiric state. The females could still enjoy copulation, but Istvan could no longer function up to speed.

"They're salty, too," Sephora added. "They sweat when they drink so much beer." She licked her thick lips, flick­ing just the tip of her tongue around an incisor—he loved that tongue in his ear! It aroused him, or would have, if he still had an appendage that could be aroused.

"They swing like a monkey's finger from cheesecloth over a warm lake," Celine said dreamily.

Istvan blinked in incomprehension just before pain blasted his head anew. He turned toward the window, wishing he could either catch his reflection in the glass or turn into a bat and fly away. A rest or a change. He'd give his eyeteeth—well, one anyway—for either. But all he saw was the empty parlor. No reflection of him. He had no fear that he wasn't there, though—he could hear the three airheads chattering incessantly like crows at dawn.

He glanced around the room as he saw it reflected. The Spanish wrought-iron screen, the French chaise longue, the antique Irish bellows and other fireplace implements ... something for everyone. Anything to keep them happy and the bitching to a minimum! Maintaining such a large house and an extravagant style that would appease proved costly, not to mention the yearly moves to a new city—he'd been wise to invest money in various airlines for nearly a century. But they were insatiable when it came to makeup, hair treatments, manicures and pedicures and facials and massages, jewelry and fancy outfits, expensive restaurants where they ate no food, and theaters where they could be seen—it's a wonder they hadn't bankrupted him! Celine was tall and slim with feline grace, Sephora short, full-figured and emotive, Morgana in the middle with tight curves and high pert breasts, plus a quick wry wit. Their tastes, they'd informed him often enough, were distinctive—although they all usually dressed like Elvira clones—and they had assured him it was impossible to wear the same clothing more than once. Naturally it took them until midnight to dress—every closet and drawer was stuffed with black fabric and evening after evening he watched them toss piles of designer clothing onto the middle of the floor, searching for a particular piece. They didn't bother picking anything up, which forced him to do it because he had been cursed by being born to his mortal life a double Virgo and then being turned when the moon was in Virgo, and he needed order. And demon knew, a century and a half of nagging had not altered their messy habits. If anything, they were worse than ever. He couldn't find a surface unmarked by makeup the color of fresh blood or dead roaches!

They were still bickering, now about who would get to go first tonight. Morgana was asserting her rights, as the first turned.

Sephora said, "Well, you are the oldest."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Morgana snapped, eyes narrowing.

"You are the old bat!" Celine snarled out a laugh.

"At least I have style!" Morgana shouted. "You two are worse than hags."

"Oh, we're hags!" Sephora responded snidely. "At least I don't try to wear microminis up around my fangs!"

Celine was applying black kohl to her eyelids. "That is because, cherie, they do not sew them in your size!"

"And they don't make men in your size!" Sephora snapped. "Except what's on ten-year-old boys!"

Celine hissed. Sephora threw a black pillow at her, that the svelte Celine ducked. Morgana draped yet a seventh Celtic crucifix backed by a copper plate around her swan-like neck and poked a fourth copper-backed cross earring through the lobe of her left ear. Somehow she had learned this—"Druid," as she called it—trick of wearing crosses without harming herself, although everyone else in the room had to endure the violent light they emitted. Istvan turned away from her to protect himself.

Wearily, he wondered how many more centuries it would take before they drove him completely insane. The true death was looking better and better. Was there a way to get rid of them and recover the peace and quiet he longed for?

"I am hungry!" he shouted. A rerun of The X Files would be on in ten minutes and he wanted to get the pint he'd socked away, plop in front of the tube and relax until close to dawn, when they would come scuttling in, shriek­ing, drunk on too much vitae and more obnoxious than ever.

"Be gone!" he shouted, raising his arm dramatically and pointing to the door. Getting them moving always took so much energy.

The three backed out of the room submissively like vapors receding in a cheap horror flick. They loved the­atrics. The door slammed and he heard them laugh deri­sively on the other side, but at least they had vanished from his sight. He watched out the window until he saw them depart the house giggling, arguing, touching one another like the whores they were, leaving the garden gate open, of course. Then they disappeared around the corner.

He took a deep breath and felt peace wash over him. Tonight, for the millionth time, he contemplated just leav­ing. But they would find him. Like iron filing to a mag­net, the vampirized always found the creator. He would have found his if she hadn't met the ultimate fate. Another breath turned into a sigh of resignation.

It was hard now to remember his plan, and he'd had a plan. Once. Something to do with making existence easier, more fulfilling. Take three women, a blonde, a brunette and a redhead—he really should buy shares in Clairol!—turn them into submissive vampiresses, have them go out and hunt and then, when they came home, he could extract all he needed from each. A bit of fondling whenever he was in the mood___Wasn't that every male vampire's dream? But the dream had quickly disintegrated into a nightmare. He hadn't anticipated that problems would develop because he could no longer perform sexually while they still pos­sessed functioning equipment. And he had not bargained on them forming a unit and turning against him. If he were not an honorable man, or a reasonable facsimile of a man, he would have abandoned them long ago and taken his chances, fleeing as they pursued until they, hopefully, gave up the search. But he had made promises—of which they were only too eager to remind him—and he intended to live up to his commitments, even if it killed him, which it just might. I will love you until the true death and beyond! What a fool he had been to say that to each of them!

He opened his coffin and felt under the satin along the false bottom until he found the little indentation. He then pressed the button and a panel slid open. He reached inside the tiny refrigerated box for the Hellmann's jar of O positive. His fingertips slid along the cold metal. It must be here somewhere; the hidden compartment wasn't that large. But after feeling around for a few seconds, then tear­ing away the satin so his nocturnal vision could confirm what his hand already knew, he faced the grim reality— the blood was gone. It, as well as the double metal box that contained half a dozen consecrated wafers he kept for emergencies—he never knew when he'd have to stop one of his "brides" cold.

Damn those bitches! They had stolen his blood! And his wafers! Rage boiled in his empty veins. He trembled and regaining control of himself proved to be a strug­gle. He knew it was Sephora—she was always sneaking around, prying into his things, meddling. . . . Well, when she got home there would be hell to pay! She would be severely punished! Black thoughts streaked through his mind in images of what he would do to the perpetrator. The tortures he would inflict. She had gone too far this time. No, he would not tolerate this!

He punched the TV's on button and sat down. There was still The XFiles—the TV Guide said it was a repeat of the vampire episode, one of his favorites because in the end, the female gets her just desserts.

It was five seconds after the hour and he expected to hear the familiar whistling, see the opening credits ... but the President of the United States was on television, giving a speech about war and budgets! He grabbed up the TV Guide and stared hard at the listing—nothing about being preempted. And then he glanced at the date. This was last week's TV Guide! Morgana must have taken the new one to look for vampire movies and forgotten to toss the old one again! Deflated, he picked up the remote. Surely with so many channels on cable he could find something that would amuse him. But the buttons on the remote wouldn't work. Not the channels, not the volume.... He shook the thing. He tapped it against the edge of the coffee table. Nothing. His arm dropped in despair and the remote slipped from his grasp, hitting the floor. The door of the battery compartment fell off and a small but crucial-looking plastic piece jumped up in the air at an angle, like an insect, and bounced beneath his chair. There were no batteries inside the compartment! He had a flash of Celine announcing that the batteries to the little digital camera she always carries with her were dead and she didn't feel like going to the store.

"Great!" he said to the air, throwing up his hands. He got up and switched off the TV, too defeated to manually change channels. This was turning into a very bad night. And he knew who was to blame—those three bitches!

Well, they wouldn't get away with it! He'd hunt them down, drag them back here by their dyed roots and give them what-for!

He strode to the closet for his cape. It was gone! Damn! He'd told Morgana to pick it up from the dry cleaner! Would they never listen to him?

Capeless, he raced out of the house and headed to the Vampire Lounge. They would not get away with ruining another night of his cursed eternity!

He hurried past the chic restaurants and cafes. Most of the women and some of the men noticed him, of course. Even after half a millennium, and capeless, he still cut a dashing figure. While he waited for a light to change, a lit­tle goth chick with ebony and mahogany hair, all in black, wearing a leather corset over her tiny latex dress, arid sexy stiletto boots that wrapped around her spider-webbed thighs, stood next to him at the curb. He gave her "the eye," that hypnotic stare he'd been famous for even when he'd been a mortal centuries ago. She looked at him and giggled. "Cool hair!" she said, and stepped briskly across the street.

He followed her farther south, past the Humor Museum—an oxymoron if he'd ever seen one. She turned into the doorway of the Vampire Lounge. He adjusted the pointed collar on his shirt—maybe the evening wouldn't be such a write-off after all!

The cretin at the doorway stopped him with the words, "Five bucks, man."

Istvan felt in his pocket. Damn! He'd left his wallet at home. Normally, he kept some spare cash in the hidden pocket of his cape. "Uh, I seem to be without funds."

"Yeah?" the tattooed goon said. "Well, bro, I guess that's where you'll stay—without!" And he turned his back.

Istvan could see through the large plate-glass window that the joint was jumping. The little gothette stood in the middle of the room, garnering appreciative glances here and there. Suddenly, she turned, saw him at the window looking in like a starving puppy and motioned for him to join her. It was all too inviting.

Istvan touched the bouncer on the shoulder. "You vill admit me!" he said.

Just then, a minivan pulled to the curb. A dozen black-clad kindergoths bussed in from the 'burbs began to disembark, wearing more chain mail and noir leather than Istvan had seen worn throughout the entire Middle Ages. While the muscle began collecting hard cash and stamping bats around the ripped-lace, fingerless gloves that covered hands, Istvan surreptitiously made his way inside.

Music that on the street had been loud bass became ear-splitting on the other side of the door. His acute hear­ing magnified each note ten times, and the pounding reminded him of a human heart beating beyond its capacity. In the pocket of his cape he kept a pair of earplugs for just such occasions as this, but without that cape. ... He really couldn't bear this, and turned to leave.

"Hey! What's your hurry?"

The warm gloved hand on his cold arm belonged to the goth chick, who was now standing close and smiling up at him. It had been so long since Istvan had experi­enced a welcoming and guileless smile from a female that he felt disconcerted.

"Come on," she said to him, and grabbed onto his arm, pulling him through the crowds and to the bar at the back of the room. En route he spotted the three bitches, each chatting up a morsel for later. They were all too busy with the business at hand to notice him, although he had no doubt they would be aware of his presence soon, just as he had been aware of theirs.

As they reached the back bar, the music dimmed a bit. Not enough for conversation, but at least the stabbing at his eardrums ceased.

The bar presented another problem. He had no cash, and mesmerizing the quick-moving bartender wouldn't be easy with so many thirsty pseudovampires crowding the brass rail. But as it turned out the girl said, "What are you having, Mr. Nosferatu? My treat."

"Vine," he said, using the accent. "I only drink vine."

"Yeah, me, too," she said, seemingly not noticing either the accent or the reference. "Red, right?"

He nodded and she leaned over the bar, signaled the bartender and ordered, slapping a bill onto the metallic bar surface.

The wine came quickly and she handed him his glass.

Protruding through the glove tips were nails filed to a point and painted black as a Transylvanian night. Well, he was used to that. All three of his women preferred noir nails, for some reason, although from time to time they used crimson polish, "Just to lighten my mood," Sephora had said.

The girl took a sip of wine and looked up at him. "Where you from?"

"Transylvania." It never failed to impress—except this time.

"Yeah, cool," she said, as if he'd said Buffalo.

"I was born in the Carpathian Mountains," he went on, knowing he was trying to claim her interest, wishing he would just let it go, but unable to. "That's where Dracula is from."

"I know," she told him, scanning the room as if search­ing for someone.

Okay, he thought, that's my best line. Where do I go from here? But before he could think of another bit of bio that would snag her, she turned to him quickly and said, "See that girl over there? The tall one with the long ponytail?"

She pointed in the direction of Celine.

"Yes," he said cautiously, and at that moment Celine turned in their direction. She began waving furiously and he scowled, lifting and moving a hand discreetly as if to brush her away. But she was not waving at him; she was aiming the effusive greeting at the girl, who enthusiasti­cally waved back.

Great, he thought, they know each other, and a gloomy mood descended as Celine made her way toward them.

He figured he'd sunk as low as he could go, the night now being thoroughly lost, when suddenly Morgana and Sephora showed up and he was surrounded on four sides. It can't get much worse than this, he thought, forcing a fanged smile, inhaling the scent of the cheap wine— something from Bavaria, no doubt—and wrinkling his nose in distaste.

"Master," Sephora said in her singsong voice, "we have a birthday surprise for you."

"And here she is!" Morgana gestured at the gothette.

Celine laughed, which always got his radar going, but then she moved to the girl and gently but firmly pushed her toward Istvan. "Her name is Doru. She is Romanian and means 'longing.'"

"I know that," he said. It had been his mother's name. And the name of the one who'd turned him.

He stared at the girl, who seemed to feel anything but longing. Clearly she was not affected by all the attention coming her way. She glanced around the room, waved at a couple of friends, did a few dance movements that mim­icked a mime pushing the air away from her body in slow motion. Maybe she's a hooker, he thought, rented for the night.

As if to confirm that, Morgana said, "She's yours until sunrise."

"Happy birthday, Master," Sephora said, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Bonnefete!" Celine added.

"Is it my birthday?" Istvan said, confused, racking his brain to try to remember the date of his birth, which he had a vague recollection of having been in the fall, not the spring. Perhaps it was the birth into this undead life, but he remembered it was cold outside and must have been winter. He just could not remember dates. These three were always chiding him for not acknowledging their birthdays—both living and undead—so why should they expect him to remember his own?

Morgana just stood there, arms folded across her ample chest and the hideous crucifixes that didn't affect her but bothered his eyes glaring like minisuns. She nodded at the girl, swinging her head slightly in Istvan's direction as if he were a piece of fruit in the market and Morgana was instructing her to "take that one."

Doru, with a small sigh, acted on cue. She placed her glass of undrunk wine onto the bar, took Istvan's arm and silently led him to the door of the club.

He heard laughter behind him and snapped his head around, but the three were still at the bar, smiling, waving, Sephora blowing him a kiss.

All right, he thought as he and Doru, still holding his arm, moved through the crowded streets, their feet in step though he was a good four heads taller. Maybe for once the three had gotten something right and had thought of him for a change! He glanced down at the girl and she looked up, her eyes twinkling like dark stars, her full black-painted lips a bit hungry-looking but nothing he couldn't deal with. She really is a cute little thing, he thought. What a shame to drain her blood.

As they strolled his thoughts moved along a familiar path and he fantasized about turning her. Maybe this was the one who would obey him. One that would love him unconditionally, and let him be. Give him peace. Meet his expectations. Maybe Doru, whose blood was from the same country as his own, would be the perfect mate. Maybe he could ditch the three bitches!

When he caught his fantasy grinding toward the ultimate perfect conclusion, Istvan reminded himself harshly that he not only had been down this road before but had suffered failure three times. He had thought the exact same thing each time he'd turned one of his "wives," and look at the results! There was no point thinking this way. Whatever good qualities this girl possessed now would alter after the change. And in truth, the change required an exchange of blood and he certainly wasn't in the mood to give up anything when he had almost nothing in his system tonight, thanks to the Furies!

Better to just drain this girl's blood and be done with it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, his mother had always said, although they had never owned a horse, either through purchase or gift, so he did not know where she got that saying.

They arrived back at the house and the girl took in the English garden, which Morgana, in her few moments of being industrious, tended. The house needed painting and the porch was awash in spiderwebs but otherwise the structure stood tall in its Victorian splendor. The moment he closed the heavy walnut door he was keenly aware of the incredible mess that the three had left behind. "It's not usually like this," he began, but Doru put a finger to his lips to silence him, meanwhile drawing him toward the red velvet settee.

All right! Istvan thought. These modern women are like that. He would let her lead. It would end the same way regardless and he didn't mind being passive. To a point. His eyeteeth ached in anticipation of piercing flesh, and he licked his dry lips, wanting to wet them on something thick and rich in minerals. He would enjoy a little erotic atten­tion, even if it wouldn't, couldn't lead to what she expected. But it would lead to what he expected. What he deserved. Once they were seated, Doru began unbuttoning his shirt, already open to midchest. She leaned over and pushed the chains aside to kiss his chest, which once had been darkly hairy and masculine but since he'd altered had become pallid like the rest of his reanimated flesh. Not very appealing, but she didn't seem to notice.

Istvan leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling her hands and lips all over him. Yes, she was a delight. Cute. Small. Attractive. He had not fed yet and his blood receptors were fully open, providing acute sensations. He fantasized about how he would take her blood slowly. No, quickly. Maybe a combination of both. He wondered about her family name and was just about to ask when he felt a sharp prick at his throat. Instantly he knew she had bitten him. He felt blood leaving his vein like water dripping from a tap.

Istvan instinctively shoved her hard away from him. She flew across the room and crashed against the wall. Infuriated, she snapped her head up and snarled at him like a wolf; her eyes almost glowed, and her lips were smeared with red that sparkled like jewels. He put a hand to his throat and felt... his own blood! "What in hell do you think you're doing?"

Laughter from the doorway forced his head to turn in that direction.

"Just a joke, Master," Sephora said.

"We wanted to surprise you," Morgana said. "She's from your land."

"She is like us, no? She will be like us," Celine corrected herself. "She is not like us but we will all be like her—"

"No!" Istvan shouted, losing control. "I won't change her."

"Oh, you don't have to bother," Morgana said, strid­ing into the room and helping Doru to her feet. "We've already taken care of that."

"Are you insane!" he shouted. "You made another? You have no right! I make vampires, not you!"

"Made," Morgana said. "We've taken over the job."

"If she is like us now, will she be like us later?" Celine mused in her language confusion.

"She is like us now," Sephora said. Then to Istvan, "We wanted a sister."

"And you should be happy," Morgana added. "She's of your blood."

"My blood?"

"Well, from your line."

"She's related to me?"

Doru, who had been listening silently as the others talked about her, suddenly rose to her feet. "I'm your cousin ten or twelve times removed. I lost count. Hi, cuz!" The girl waved at him, licking her lips.

Istvan put a hand to his head as if to hold his brain in. His eyes fell on the mirror and he saw an empty room. It was true. They had already turned her. Likely she belonged to all three of them, which meant she would obey them, not Istvan. Now there were four! Against him! How would he survive?

The four bitches Surrounded him. Sephora threw an arm around his shoulders, Morgana placed a palm on his thigh and Celine took his hands in hers. Doru knelt at his feet and looked up at him with dark flashing eyes, eyes that somehow resembled his own. "It won't be so bad," Doru said.

"Not at all," Morgana confirmed. "We can have parties—"

"And have fun and go to clubs—" Sephora added. "And buy chic dresses and makeup—" Celine contrib­uted.

"And go to fancy restaurants and shows—" Sephora said.

"And meet guys—" Morgana said. "And girls, too—" Celine added. "And—"

Istvan tuned them out. He thought for a moment of all the money it would take to add another horse to his stable, one whose mouth he should have looked into, despite Mama's warnings to not do that. If he had, he would have seen that Doru's fangs were not plastic implants but the real deal.

But his thoughts also flitted to cold winter nights when the winds blustered outside the house. When he would be home alone with the four of them, and what that would mean to his sanity. For fleeting moments, he imagined running, hiding, getting as far away as fast as he could. Putting distance between him and the four bitches. Would he never be free? When had eternity turned into hell on earth?

As if reading his thoughts, the young Doru ran a hand up his chest and tilted his face until he was looking into those eyes, bottomless murky pools. She moved close and the others with her. He felt himself tense, as if caught in a huge spiderweb.

"No! Absolutely not!" But before he could do or say more, they each had their sharp incisors in a vein or an artery and Istvan was being drained dry. He was already weak from not feeding, and the little resistance he could muster proved futile. They drank every last drop, leav­ing a starving, needy shell. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. But open they were, enough that he could see the sky lightening through a crack in the curtains. A crack that widened when Morgana threw open the drapes.

"Time for bed, my sisters," she, the eldest, said, and the other three giggled and followed her from the room like baby ducklings, leaving Istvan crumpled on the set­tee. As the brilliant sun scaled the horizon and its rays shot through the window like fiery arrows moving steadily toward him, he heard more laughter in the distance. And words like "boring" and "demanding" and "cramping our style" and when he heard "box of wafers," he knew that they were talking about him.

Oh, how could it have come to this! He had given them eternal life and they gave him nothing but vindictiveness! Some women would pay to have the blood drained out of them, but these bitches just wanted revenge!

And now death by sunlight and starvation. Oh, cruel fate! He deserved much better. But some part of his brain consoled him with the fact that soon it would all be over. His misery. The torment of those . . . those . . . creatures! The true death would free him at last!

Sounds dimmed. Light blazed through the window. His thoughts turned inward, remembering home and his mother and how at last he would be reunited with his family. Or burn eternally in hell. He wasn't sure which, and he wasn't sure which fate was worse because he had never gotten along with his domineering mother. Oh, he could see it now, how he had been set up from childhood so that he was drawn to controlling women. Well, the true death, regardless of where it led him, had to be better than what he'd been enduring. Good-bye, cruel world! Good riddance, evil brides!

But Fate, heartless as she can be, presented herself to him in the physical form of Doru, who appeared before his eyes as if materializing out of a mist. The lovely Doru at that moment seemed as pure and innocent as an angel.

Now she wore a seductive, diaphanous gown the color of new vitae. She held out a wrist, which she or someone else had bitten into until blood—likely blood she'd taken from him—flowed along her arm. He stared, mesmerized, at the seeping liquid as it slowly wove its way along her skin, hating the waste of it.

"Here, Master. Drink," she said. "Make me your bride."

Suddenly, the arm moved closer until the blood nearly touched his lips. "No!" he cried weakly. "Let me die! I'm just about free! I want to be incinerated, to fade with hunger from this wretched world." But she did not listen. He tried to resist, but the smell of the red stuff drove his depleted, immobile body insane with blood lust.

Instantly, instinctively, thoroughly against his will, he gathered the last fragments of his energy and lunged. He slurped up the coppery elixir like a hungry baby sucking milk. Istvan had the wrist to his lips and the blood down his throat faster than a bat flying out of a dark cave at night. Energy flowed back into him with every gulp, fill­ing his cells as if they were expanding balloons. He knew he was cementing the relationship between them, but, like an addict, he could not kick this habit and only stopped when she yanked her arm away.

He had drunk enough to be somewhat mobile again and wanted nothing more than to throttle her. But Doru had more blood in her veins than he did, and moved faster than he could, and in truth his first movements were to get out of the path of the encroaching light.

"Now we are truly family," she said dramatically. "One big, happy family!" And then she made a theatrical exit.

The realization struck Istvan that this one, this Doru, was more diabolical than the other three combined. Now his existence would go on and on and the four of them would torture him into infinity, to the limits of his endur­ance, if not beyond!

Weighted down with that grim thought, Istvan stag­gered to his coffin and pulled the heavy lid closed, imme­diately soothed by the balm of total darkness. He tried to cheer himself. Tomorrow, he thought, is another night. He could always get up early, buy batteries and there was bound to be a rerun that he'd enjoy, maybe Six Feet Under.

If only he could get the four bitches out the door before midnight. . . . Maybe he could score another pint at the blood bank without it being missed. He'd need a new hid­ing place, of course, for the blood and, if not more wafers, perhaps a stash of garlic as a safeguard, squirreled away someplace they would never find it. It was doable. Noth­ing could defeat the all-powerful vampire Prince of Dark­ness. Well, almost nothing