Blood Lite

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!