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Welcome to the fascinating world of the undead! Please use this guidebook as a handy reference as you make your first steps toward eternity. Inside you will find information on vampire nutrition, relationships, and safety. But before learning about your future, a word about our past…
—From The Guide for the Newly Undead
After thousands of years operating right under mortal noses, the Great Vampire Coming Out of 2000 wasn’t the result of a TV exposé, a medical breakthrough, or a chatty vampire interviewee. It was a lawsuit.
Some of the undead choose to hold on to their original lives, continuing to work, pay taxes, and floss. In 1999, a recently turned Milwaukee tax consultant named Arnie Frink wanted to continue working for the firm of Jacobi, Miers and Leptz. But the human-resources rep, as ignorant as the rest of the world about the existence of the undead, refused to allow Arnie to keep evening hours.
Arnie got a fellow vamp with a two-hundred-year-old medical degree to diagnose him with porphyria, a painful allergy to sunlight, but the evil HR rep could not be moved. Even if leaving his condo before sunset left Arnie with second-degree burns and body odor similar to scorched dog hair, he was expected to keep banker’s hours. Mr. Jacobi was a bit paranoid about office security. This prevented Arnie from making a living (so to speak) and interfered with his pursuit of happiness. So Arnie did what any red-blooded American would do. He sued.
When the allergy-discrimination argument failed to impress a judge, a sunblock-slathered Arnie flipped out in court and demanded that his lawyer be fired so he could represent himself. As his indignant counsel slunk away, Arnie declared that he was a vampire, with a medical condition that rendered him unable to work during the day, thereby making him subject to the Americans with Disabilities Act.
After Arnie was hauled off by the men in white coats, his vitals were checked, and the doctors noticed that his heart wasn’t beating. Plus, he bit a nurse who tried to take his rectal temperature, but I think we can all agree she had that coming. After extensive psych evaluations, the doctors agreed that it was possible that Arnie was telling the truth. But they weren’t willing to put it in writing.
After several lengthy appeals, Arnie won his lawsuit and got a settlement, evening hours, and an interview with Barbara Walters. The international vampire community was incensed and formally voted to have Arnie staked to an anthill at dawn. But after the media firestorm (and the “I told you so” storm from Internet conspiracy nuts), most vampires realized they should have come out a century ago. If nothing else, maybe we all could have avoided the Goth movement.
A select contingent of ancient vampires from across the globe officially notified the United Nations of their presence on Earth and asked the world’s governments to recognize them. They also asked for special leniency in certain medical, legal, and tax issues that were sure to come up. Vampires tend to throw away receipts.
The first year or so was chaos. Mobs, pitchforks, the whole deal. The federal government issued mandatory after-dark curfews. Wal-Mart started selling “Vampire Home Defense Kits,” including holy water, crosses, stakes, mallets, and a book of quick blessings to bar vampires from your door. The fact that these kits were generally useless didn’t bother me nearly as much as the idea of holy water being sold at Wal-Mart.
Humans didn’t seem to understand that they’d lived around vampires all of their lives and never realized it, that they had never been attacked before the Coming Out, never been threatened. And vampires posed even less of a threat now that they had better access to legally marketed blood. Vampires would never get their teenage daughters pregnant or tie up the McDonald’s drive-through. Hell, vampires were less of a threat than Bud McElray.
Nevertheless, vampire safe houses were torched in major cities all over the world. The same international contingent of vampires, who called themselves the World Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead, appealed to the governments for help. Vampires were given certain global rights in terms of self-defense against angry mobs, but no real progress was made in laws prosecuting said angry mobs.
In exchange for vampire public assistance programs, the U.S. federal government demanded a certain amount of information. According to the 2000 national census, there are 1.3 million vampires residing in the United States. Of course, less than half of the vampires in the United States trusted the federal government enough to participate in the census. In fact, the results showed that two percent of census takers mysteriously disappeared in the course of their duties.
The census also showed that 63 percent of American vampires live in groups of threes and fours. This is called “nesting,” which vampire behaviorists attribute to their need to bond with other creatures who share their unique needs and abilities. I believe that even after death, we want someone to assure us that our butts don’t look big before we leave the house. Single vampires tend to live alone in historic family homes…with a lot of cats.
Very few surveyed vampires were willing to disclose where they get their blood. And those who did disclose their food sources gave vague answers such as “Willing private donors.” That was less of an issue after companies flooded the market with processed artificial blood, which can also be purchased at Wal-Mart. Synthetic blood was originally designed to counteract dwindling American Red Cross donations and support military surgical units, but vampires found they could live a violence-free unlife on the stuff. This, combined with vampire blood banks offering thirty dollars a pint for real human blood, was more than enough to promote those first semifriendly human-vampire interactions.
An unexpected side effect of the Great Coming Out was the emergence of all-night industries to cater to the needs of “undead Americans.” Electronics stores, delivery services, specialty dentists’ offices, window-tinting shops, and, yes, tax firms. There was a new skilled, taxable labor force available to work at night. And there were new companies and products, such as SPF 500 sun block and blood banks that actually allowed withdrawals. The economic development was incredible. The recession the government had told us for years that we haven’t been having? Gone. With the realization that the undead population generated more above-the-table disposable income, vampires were grudgingly accepted into the living world.
It took me a while to learn the rules. OK, it took the librarian in me weeks of careful, obsessive research to learn the rules. There was a label maker involved. I’d rather not go into it. Here’s what I learned: Forget what you’ve heard from the vamp PR firms. Vampires are not suffering from a skin condition that makes them anemic, sensitive to sunlight, and slow to age. Vampires are magical beings, creatures of the night, children of darkness. But don’t call them that to their faces—it really pisses them off.
The undead are highly sensitive to heat and daylight. Some older vamps can venture out in the day under controlled circumstances with no problem. But since their somewhat unstable molecular structure makes them pretty flammable, you get newbies who spend too much time outdoors and end up as little charcoal briquettes. Every vamp has a different level of reaction. I would find out later that I blister and smell like burnt popcorn, which I hate. That smell never comes out of your clothes.
A vamp’s sensitivity to religious symbols is directly related to his or her religious participation and ethnic background B.D. (before death). Vampire legends and lore predate Christianity by thousands of years. Some vampires wouldn’t react if you shoved a rosary down their pants, though I wouldn’t recommend testing the theory. For others, every mention of Jesus is like being punched in the forehead. The cross reminds them of what they once were, how far they’ve fallen away from God’s favor, the fact that they will never die. I don’t know how I will react yet, so I tend to stay away from churches.
As far as I know, vampires still have souls. They have the same capacity for good and evil that humans do. The problem is that the worst can emerge when a person is no longer answering to the “no stealing, no hitting, no bloodletting” constraints of human society. The bottom line is: if you were a jerk in your original life, you’re probably going to be a bigger undead jerk. If you were a decent person, say a juvenile-services librarian with a secret collection of unicorn figurines, you’re probably going to be a kinder, gentler vampire. There are rare exceptions when a repressed person gets turned and goes buck wild and evil. Generally, they calm down after two hundred or so years. Or they’re beheaded by angry townsfolk.
Also, for some reason, vampires tend to wear a lot of leather. Animal-rights issues aside, I don’t think that’s an indicator of evil. When vampires are turned, they buy leather pants. It’s kind of like when human men get divorced, they get a sad apartment and a boat. It’s a rite of passage.
The undead are, generally, more attractive after being turned. Even vampires who weren’t conventionally attractive in life have a certain sensual sparkle. As long as they keep up with basic hygiene, they will stay that way. In order to hunt and feed, they have to be able to attract prey, yes? Chameleons blend in with their surroundings. Anglerfish have those weird dangly-bait things hanging off their faces. Vampires have bright eyes, glistening white teeth, unnaturally smooth skin, and a certain animal magnetism. If they aren’t pretty, they starve. It’s sort of like life in Los Angeles.
As for the other legends: Vamps do not turn into swirls of fog or bats. They can see themselves in mirrors but not in water, for some reason. They haven’t slept in coffins regularly for almost a hundred years now. Leaving knots untied and scattering seeds to distract them will only work on vampires with OCD. Garlic can’t really hurt them, but they tend to stay away from it because, hello, supersensitive noses. Plus, it acts as a coagulant, making drinking from someone who’s just had Italian food like swallowing chewy Jell-O.
Like most aspects of vampirism, their highly developed sense of smell is both a blessing and a curse. Think about your physiological responses to anger, fear, or even arousal: sweaty palms, increased body temperature, release of certain pheromones. Well, vamps can smell all of that. So, if you’re a jumpy slayer wannabe with plans to stake your first bloodsucker, they can peg you at about fifty paces. The drawback is that layer upon layer of emotions and people can be overwhelming and, if dealing with stinky fear-based feelings, pretty unpleasant.
Vampires are allergic to silver. Touching it feels like a combination of burning, itching, and being forced to lick dry ice. If you want to repel attacking vampires, just tell them you’ve had recent dental work.
They are not invulnerable. A stake through the heart, decapitation, and setting them on fire will kill them, but that would kill most anybody.
You don’t become a vampire just by being bitten. Otherwise, the world would be overrun with bloodsuckers. To make a child, a vampire will feed on a victim until he or she reaches the point of death. This is quite an effort, considering that vampires don’t usually drink much more than a pint at a time. The vampire must be careful, as drinking too much can leave the initiate unconscious and unable to drink the blood that will change him or her. I know, it sounds gross. But when faced with death by sudden gunshot wound, it’s a tempting offer. The process takes a lot out of the vampire sire and is said to be the closest the undead can come to childbirth. It’s why a vampire will only turn a handful of “children” in his or her lifetime.
After taking the sire’s blood, the new vampire dies. The heart stops beating, the body shuts down. For three days, he or she is actually dead. In some very unpleasant cases, newbies have been embalmed and buried by mistake. I once asked an older vampire what happens to the embalmed vamps, but he just glowered at me and muttered some undead curse word.
So, in a way, it’s a good thing that no one found my body. Right?
After my death, I woke up in a stranger’s bedroom.
There were soft, deep blues in the carpet over the polished pine floors, in the thick drapes drawn across the windows. The room was gently lit by an old river-stone fireplace, strange in August. Wood carvings, brass knickknacks, polished bits of glass—little touches that spoke of years of travel—were scattered around the room with a careless sort of charm.
Despite the sluggish pace my brain was keeping, this was alarming. I probably should have mentioned that at this point, I had not had sex in about three years. That’s right, a twenty-seven-year-old almost-virgin librarian.
Take time to absorb the cliché.
It’s not that I didn’t have opportunities for sex. I had plenty of offers from bad dates, anonymous callers with breathing problems, various construction workers. But beyond a rather regrettable “let’s just get it over with” encounter with fellow virgin and close friend Dave Chandler my sophomore year of college and an even more regrettable “my first time was awful, maybe it would be better with someone with more experience” experiment with a teaching assistant my senior year, my sexual repertoire was somewhat limited.
My problem with sex was, along with most of my problems, rooted in my brain. My head was always speeding ahead of my libido. I could never relax enough to let nature take its course. And there was just plain bad sex. My partner mistaking me yelling when I caught my hair on his watchband for cries of passion. Having to go to the emergency room for a broken nose when Justin Tyler head-butted me. The guy who got a mid-thrust leg cramp and whined to the point that I walked out of his apartment half-dressed.
I always hoped for this spark of chemistry and compatibility, a flash of clarity to let me know that this was the guy, this was the time, so I should let go and enjoy myself. But it rarely came. And by no small coincidence, neither did I.
Between these extremely unsatisfying experiences and my apparent inability to develop that “spark” with any man on the planet, I just decided sex wasn’t worth the effort. If I wanted to spend an evening half-dressed, humiliated, and unfulfilled, I’d try amateur night down at the Booby Hatch. So I channeled my energy into my work at the library and obsessively collecting obscure BBC movies on DVD. The Woman in White with Justine Waddell is a life-changer.
So, after years of relative inactivity, the idea that I had participated and possibly been videotaped in some drunken one-night stand with an overdecorating stranger was upsetting. The most print-friendly version of my first undead words was: “What did I do?”
I sat up and found that I was wearing clothes, which was good. But I was wearing striped cotton pajamas that were not my own, which was bad.
My brain, my throat, my mouth, everything above my shoulders felt swollen and detached. Swallowing was an effort. I struggled to get my feet over the edge of the bed. I took some solace in the fact that I had been debauched in a well-appointed bed. I rolled off the marshmallow of a mattress and flopped facedown on the floor. (Ow.)
“Misery, thy name is Mudslide,” I groaned.
I braced myself against another tasteful piece, a cherry dresser with a high, narrow mirror. My considerable height allowed my head to rest just below the frame, against the soothing cool of the glass. As my eyes slowly came to focus, I thought it must have been an old mirror or some sort of carnival trick, because I was…stunning. My skin was clear, lineless, even iridescent in the low light. I was practically a Noxzema girl. My teeth were straighter, somehow, and a bright, unnatural white. My eyes, usually a muddy hazel, were pure amber. My hair had gone from plain straight-as-a-board brown to long waves of glistening chestnut with undertones of honey and auburn. And if I wasn’t mistaken, my butt looked smaller…and higher.
“She finally did it!” I screeched, clutching my cotton-covered rear. “Mama tranquilized me and booked me on Extreme Makeover!”
I opened my shirt to see if there was any change to my breasts. I’d always secretly hoped for a slightly fuller C cup. “No luck.”
“What’s Extreme Makeover?”
I made a sound not quite human and ended up clinging to the ceiling, my fingernails dug into the plaster like a frightened cartoon cat. And I was looking at an inverted version of Gabriel the Tequila Sunrise drinker.
“You!” I hissed.
“Yes?” Gabriel asked, making himself comfortable in a handsomely upholstered wing-back chair.
“Date rapist!” I yelled, wondering how to tumble off the ceiling and find the mace in my purse in less than three strides.
Clearly, this was not the response he was expecting. “I beg your pardon?”
“What the hell did you give me?”
Gabriel arched an eyebrow. “Give you?”
“Must have been some pretty powerful drugs to make me forget an entire night and then cling to the fricking ceiling!” I shouted. Some little voice in the back of my brain wondered exactly how my hands and knees were sticking to the ceiling, but since I was far more interested in whatever illegal substances might be in my system, I demanded, “Now, what did you give me?”
“I think it would be best if you came down from there before I explained that.”
“I think I’ll stay right where I am, thank you,” I said. “And you, you stay where you are, or I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do, but it will really hurt. You, I mean.”
He grinned. It was not a friendly smile, more of a “poor pitiful creature whom I’m about to devour, you amuse me” sort of smile. A very white, very pointy smile, set in an unnaturally pale face. This was when it dawned on me that I was dealing with a member of our less-than-living population.
“You’re a vampire!” I exclaimed. Not the most original or astute of observations, I’ll admit, but I was hanging upside down. I can’t emphasize that enough.
Gabriel offered that disturbing grin again. “Yes, and so are you.”
I’m not sure how long I hung there, staring at him. Eventually, I found my “talking to preschoolers” voice and drawled, “No, I’m a librarian. Or at least, I used to be, before I got fired today, or yesterday, whatever day it is. You stay right there!” I cried, scrambling back across the ceiling as he leaned forward. I had to admit, despite the weird wooshy feeling in my head, that was pretty cool.
“I wouldn’t dream of moving,” he said, sitting back again. “Perhaps you’d like to come down?”
“No, I—whaaa!” Whatever tentative grip I had on the plaster failed, and I landed safely on my feet. I straightened my pajama top. “I think I will get down, thank you.”
“So glad you could join me.” My undead host motioned for me to sit across from him. I plopped down in the seat, pulling anxiously at the pajama top to make sure everything was covered. “You’re a very unusual young woman.”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” He nodded.
“I was just hanging from the ceiling, right? That wasn’t a PCP-induced hallucination?” I asked. He shook his head. “How exactly did I do that?”
“You’ll be surprised what you’re capable of, particularly when you’re startled.” He smiled warmly. “You know, your mind is a fascinating instrument. It’s jam-packed up there. Even now, in the throes of panic, you’re observing, cataloging the information for later. I find that intriguing.”
“Well, thank you for noticing,” I said, standing up. “I am going home now and pouring every drop of alcohol in my house down the drain.”
In a flash of movement, he was at my side. His cool fingers stroked my forehead. I wanted to move, to dodge those long, elegant hands. Instead, I sat transfixed, letting him stream his fingers down my cheeks. His lips hovered near my ear, and he whispered. “Remember.”
I was watching movies in my head again. I saw it all, remembered everything in a hot rush of oily color. I watched lights fade away as I lay dying in the ditch. Gabriel was there, cradling me in his arms. I was drifting in that gray, misty world bordering on unconsciousness, but I could hear. I could see. He asked if I wanted to die. I shook my head, so weak, too weak even to manage “Duh.”
He pressed his face to my throat. I cried out as his teeth pierced my skin. I ripped the seams of his shirtfront as my whole body clenched. I dully registered the sound of his buttons plinking against the gravel. There was an insistent pressure as he drew my blood to the wound. After Gabriel took a few long drinks, it didn’t hurt anymore. I couldn’t even feel the gash in my side. I was floating. I was warm. I was safe.
Gabriel pulled away from me, leaving me cold, exposed. I whimpered, lamely trying to pull him back to my neck. That was embarrassing to watch, and it was also the point where it got weird.
Snarling, Gabriel bit into his wrist and held it over my mouth. Even in memory, I was disgusted. The feeling of his cool, coppery blood dripping past my lips was repulsive, but I couldn’t stop it. I knew, at a primal, instinctual level, that I needed it to survive. He whispered encouragements in a watery language I couldn’t understand. I swallowed, thinking of what was flowing over my tongue as medicine. And soon I didn’t care. I claimed his wrist, pressing it to my mouth and devouring. I was drowning, filling the crushing void that threatened to take me down with it. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t draw enough breath no matter how hard I tried.
Gently, Gabriel pried me away from his arm. He murmured against my forehead as I writhed, my brain screaming for air. I screamed noiselessly, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. Gabriel’s eyes held me, cradling me in their sympathy. In English, he whispered that this part was never easy, but it would be over soon. My heartbeat slowed to nothing. One last shallow gasp rattled in my chest. Everything was dark.
I was ripped out of the vision and into reality. I tumbled to my knees. If there was anything in my stomach, I would have gladly tossed it up onto the carpet.
“What did you do to me?” I whispered, shaking away the memory and wiping at my mouth.
“You know what I am. You know what you are,” he said quietly, as if we were talking about being Episcopalian. “I offered you a choice, and you took it.”
I shot him what I hoped was a truly scathing glare. “Some choice. I was dying. Some drunk shot me from a pickup. Why couldn’t I have just woken up with gonorrhea like every other girl of loose moral fiber?”
He barked out a laugh. “You’re very funny.”
I chose to accept that as a compliment and move on. “Thanks. Well, I’ve got to go.”
I’d taken about half a step toward the bedroom door. Gabriel was blocking my path. How did he move like that? It was really irritating.
“You can’t leave,” he said, closing his hands around my wrists. He seemed to enjoy the contact, judging from the way his eyes darkened and flashed. It was an epic struggle to ignore the drool-worthiness of the man currently stroking my cheek. Remembering that he’d just given me what amounted to an eternal hickey helped considerably. “You need to feed, soon. It’s been three days since you’ve taken anything at all.”
“I’m not taking anything from you.” I shoved him back even as my mind raced. Three days? He couldn’t be serious. No one can sleep for three days. Oh, right, I was dead. New rules.
“You must drink, Jane.”
“I won’t!”
“This could be much more difficult. I’m trying to make it easy on you,” he said, advancing on me.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said, pressing my hand against his chest to keep him away. It was like touching a brick wall. Hard, immovable, and lifeless. There was no heartbeat beneath my palm, no breath.
This was not good.
“You have to feed, and there are things we need to discuss,” he murmured. He moved closer, running the tip of his nose along my hairline. That worried me, considering the three-day bathing hiatus. But my general odor didn’t seem to bother him. Quite the contrary. He pulled my hand low, dragging me against him. I desired nothing more than to lean into him, let him wrap me in those long arms, and drink from him until I couldn’t care anymore.
And then my stupid logical brain piped up. I didn’t know this guy. I didn’t even know where I was, really. For all I knew, I was having some sort of bizarre allergic reaction to the GHB he’d slipped me. And now I was going to let him slobber all over me? Um, no.
“Stay away from me!” I threw him into a wall. Hard. Hard enough to knock some attractive watercolors off the plaster and to the floor.
I grabbed my purse, which was conveniently placed by the front door. Gabriel was such a considerate abductor/host. He even left the front door unpadlocked.
The sun had just set, leaving a muggy late-summer evening in its wake. The scent of growth, quiet and green, hung heavy in the air. I heard everything. I saw everything. I could count the craters on the moon. I could count every mosquito buzz past, bypassing my tender skin out of respect for a fellow bloodsucker. I heard the rustle of every leaf on every tree. I could feel animals in the woods, scuttling through the grass. Dark things feeding, running, feasting—and I envied them.
“Jane!” Gabriel was framed in the front door. He did not seem happy.
I’m not a “spring into action” sort of girl. And yet I was dashing headlong into the woods like an overcaffeinated gazelle. I bounded through the trees, sensing animals stop and watch me as I sprinted by. I laughed into the wind, amazed at this new freedom. I broke into an easy lope when I could no longer sense Gabriel behind me. I stayed away from the main roads, vaulting over barbed-wire fences and through pastures. I disturbed Hank Yancy’s cattle enough to send him running to his front porch with a shotgun.
It took about two miles before it registered that my feet were bare and stinging, but even that felt good. I’d never felt so alive, so aware, so ravenously hungry. I finally understood those crazy people who talked about runner’s highs.
I bounded up the front steps of River Oaks, the 147-year-old pre-Civil War farmhouse I inherited from my great-aunt Jettie, and threw myself on the living-room sofa, dazed and laughing. I had to figure out what the hell to do next. First order of business, I was starving. Where did a vampire get her very first breakfast?
I was evaluating the overall ick factor of that statement when Zeb Lavelle, my best friend since first grade, strode into my living room.
“Janie, where the hell have you been?”