On The Brink: Paranormal Vampire Short Story

Brink of Eternity in Vampire Collection

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Lincoln had gone into Oslo to see the bloodline again. He had been going more and more often since her arrival at the cabin with him and she knew that they were becoming restless without their true leader. She also knew that Lincoln was growing tired of having to try to control the bloodline for her. He would never say it, but she could sense his fatigue and the stress that always lingered around him whenever he returned to her. Which he was due to do tonight. She could feel him getting closer already, could sense him through the bond they shared, and she knew that when he came to her, it would be with more news of unrest and he would again ask her to go to the bloodline and take command.

Lilith was afraid though. The thought of taking command of a bloodline and being responsible for any human death at their hands frightened her. The vampire in her was ashamed of her weakness. They were so similar to her old ones that she was already accustomed to them. Lincoln often gave his own blood to her, or packs stolen from the main hospital in Oslo. She knew that he only did it to be kind to her, and she appreciated his understanding, but she also knew that one day she would have to drink human blood from the source. As she grew stronger, it did too, and now she was beginning to feel a dark need to make her first kill.

It was against the law and she had seen enough of the Law Keepers to last her eternity. It would be her death this time. They had only been lenient on them because Lord Hyperion had given her, as the new master of her bloodline, the final word on the verdict. She had chosen to save their lives. If she exposed their existence to the world by taking blood without killing the human, then she would face the Law Keepers and the sentence would be death. The fat moon rose higher, clearing the mountains and casting white light down on their snow-capped peaks.

Lilith sighed and stared at the moon, asking it with her heart what she should do. It spoke to her as it did all vampires, calling her to hunt and to feed, to surrender to her true nature.

Perhaps it was time that she faced her bloodline and accepted responsibility for them. It was time that she accepted herself. She had chosen to give her life to Lincoln and be reborn as a vampire. She was the only person she knew who had a genial relationship with her alarm clock. Everything about this vision, however, invited chaos, the very thing she strove to avoid every day of her existence. Funny how her conscience, and not desire or drive or hope or even fear, would dictate her future.

She finished up in her office, going through her ritual: She stared at the trash can. Would she even be here after the weekend? On Friday night, a single woman should be going out, maybe with girlfriends, maybe to a regular bar, meeting men, meeting normal men, not tracking down former vampire warrior boyfriends from other dimensions. Two or three expletives, a habit learned from said boyfriend, flowed through her mouth and hit the air.

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She took off her professional white coat, folded it up, and put it in her tote. She had a stock of coats so that she could rotate them through the cleaners. She never wore the same coat twice in a row. She liked everything fresh, clean, in its place, which meant that what she was about to do went against the grain. She never went against the grain. Gideon in all respects, in every sense, had been totally and irrefutably against the grain.

The last one to leave, she set the alarm, then locked the door to the building. She had a thriving practice that she shared with several other optometrists. Imagine, a clairvoyant setting up shop as an optometrist. She headed to her car, her very sensible Audi, white, of course, against the endless months of strong Phoenix sunshine.

Once inside, she buckled up. She sat for a minute staring through the windshield at nothing in particular. She leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. She took deep breaths. The hum of the motor and rush of air eased her nerves. If she felt the routine of her life slipping away, too bad. She sat back in the seat and withdrew her iPhone from her simple gray leather purse.

She touched the screen again. The ringtone chimed along, not caring that she resented the hell out of this conundrum. Oh, God his voice. Her body knew that voice, every varied resonant timbre. She rocked her hips forward, trying to get more comfortable, trying not to feel so damn much, trying to push all that sudden familiar desire away.

Neither of them really understood the concept of flow. She rolled her tongue around her mouth. I see the future. She heard him breathe for the space of eight long seconds. She had to pull the phone away from her ear. All those familiar expletives rattled through the airwaves and burned up the inside of her car. A cursed tear slid from her right eye. Another from the left made the same unhappy journey.

But I have something critical I need to tell you. Another eight seconds passed, filled with his muttering this time, deep and low. The issue rose up, a solid wall in her chest. She had nothing to give, except guilt. She cut through another string of expletives. You call them pretty-boys. Are you telling me that you know about death vampires? Dread worked claw-like fingers into her chest and grabbed hold.

Death vampires, otherwise called pretty-boys because of their overall beauty, alignment of features, extraordinary power, long dark hair, and glossy black wings, evidence that these monsters drink people to death in order to get at the highly addictive dying blood. No seconds this time. She let him mull all these truths around, unspoken from the beginning of their relationship, that she knew all about the multi-dimensional world of ascension, that she had a boatload of preternatural power, and that she had never truly been honest with him. And there are two bridges, small bridges.

Tell me when you can get there.

But what else was new? He was high in the ranks, answering only to Colonel Seriffe, who headed the Militia Warriors in Metro Phoenix Two, and when the occasion demanded, the militia worldwide. This time, she paused. He stood in the stone foyer of his home in north Scottsdale Two, Second Earth, like a suit of armor, unmoving and rigid.

When some life started flowing back into his limbs, he touched the screen of his Droid a couple of times. She could front with the best of them, a family trait. She hid her unhappiness about living on Second Earth really well. He drew his phone back up to his ear. How can I keep you safe if you do this? He debated his next course of action for about three seconds. Beyond that, you know why. She was into peace and love and vegan food. And she really hated that her own brother served as a Militia Warrior.

So, yes, she was unhappy. The night was full of dead air spaces. He heard her take a deep breath through her nose. Love you, Gid, so much, but my instructor scowls if I cross the threshold past seven. Rachel had already hung up. Thousands of vampires left Second Earth to live in exile on Mortal Earth. He just never thought his sister would join those ranks.

And how the hell was he to protect her if she went rogue? She could say whatever she wanted to say, but death vampires hunted vulnerable women who tracked life alone, like culling the weak from the herd. He could contact Bev, who worked the grid all night, and have her start checking for power signatures over northern California. He withdrew the thin, credit card—sized warrior phone from the pocket of his jeans.

He swiped the front and a moment later Bev came on the phone. And … this is critical. An hour later, Gideon leaned against the tall side of the nearest red velvet booth at the Blood and Bite. Fighting and making war shaped his days and nights. As a Militia Warrior, he battled death vampires six nights out of seven every fucking week of his life, serving and protecting.

He could handle wielding a sword, but waiting for his ex gave him the scratch.

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This last thought went straight to his hands. He watched them ball up into fists. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then shook out his hands. He needed to calm the hell down.

Unattached Militia Warriors milled around waiting for the next female to arrive. Mortal women came in droves to the Blood and Bite.

That fulfillment brought them back every time. For the most part, the warriors held to the rigid club rules: As a section leader for the Phoenix Two Militia Warriors, he had to investigate even the whiff of an infraction. Every once in a while, he prosecuted warriors who crossed the line. He glanced to his right in the direction of the dance floor. The DJ kicked up the Black Eyed Peas and the strobes made those couples dancing look like zombies on crack.

He knew Elise had arrived because the air in the hot, sweaty club suddenly smelled of strawberries, ripe, lush, sweet, juicy strawberries. In fact, the only known case of the phenomenon had occurred recently when a myth, which proved to be not a myth, afflicted one of the elite Warriors of the Blood. That Gideon could scent Elise had always troubled him. What did it mean that she gave off a scent he could detect? Was this a case of the infamous breh-hedden? Impossible, on so many levels. For one thing, the breh-hedden was supposed to be a myth.

And for another, only Warriors of the Blood were known through all those ancient myths and legends to have experienced the ritual. Sure, the WhatBees had a place, but not on his turf. They served Madame Endelle directly, answered only to her as the ruler of Second Earth. Okay, so he was a little on edge and he should think nicer thoughts, because they did lay it on the line every night. That they had advanced powers was just the luck of the fucking draw. But courage for courage, give him a Militia Warrior every damn time. Punched, then punched again. Thank God for the strobes. He pushed away from the bank of tall-backed red velvet booths and headed toward the entrance.

When he reached her, two Militia Warriors hovered over her, attempting a thrall.

Dark Needs at Night's Edge

He might have laughed, because no way could either of these bozos bust past her shields. Instead, the sight of two men hitting on a woman he would always think of as his woman brought his head down and his fists up. The first warrior jerked back in his direction ready to do battle, then looked up. He looked at the woman whose body he knew every which way from Sunday, and all those familiar sensations rushed back at him, her under him, her on top of him, her lips around him, taking him deep. God, he missed her. Even standing in front of her, yeah, he missed her. And he blamed her for his goddamn celibacy as well.

Her voice, low and melodic, did him in every damn time.

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The music had just cranked up again. More Black Eyed Peas. He leaned close and spoke against her ear. She drew back and nodded. She looked tight around her eyes, even angry. What the hell did she have to be angry about? He was the wounded party here. She moved to the right, in the direction of the booths. He crowded her, his hip up against her hip, his hand at her back, then around her shoulder, pulling her close to keep her from touching other men. But how was that anything new?

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