Fantastic Tales of Terror

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

Tony Todd

THE DEEP DELIGHT OF BLOOD

Tim Waggoner

UNPRETTY MONSTER

Mercedes M. Yardley

THE TELL-TALE MIND

Kevin J. Anderson

TOPSY-TURVY

Elizabeth Massie

RAY AND THE MARTIAN

Bev Vincent

THE GIRL WITH THE DEATH MASK

Stephanie M. Wytovich

ON A TRAIN BOUND FOR HOME

Christopher Golden

THE CUSTER FILES

Richard Chizmar

RED MOON

Michael Paul Gonzalez

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS AND THE SHOWGIRL

John Palisano

THE SECRET ENGRAVINGS

Lisa Morton

MUTTER

Jess Landry

LA LLORONA

Cullen Bunn

THE LONDON ENCOUNTER

Vince A. Liaguno

BUBBA HO-TEP

Joe R. Lansdale

GORILLA MY DREAMS

Jonathan Maberry

ARTICLES OF TELEFORCE

Michael Bailey

SIC OLIM TYRANNIS

David Wellington

THE WASHINGTONIANS

Bentley Little

SCENT OF FLESH

Jessica Marie Baumgartner

ROTOSCOPING TOODIES

Mort Castle

LONE WOLVES

Paul Moore

THE GREAT STONE FACE VS. THE GARGOYLES

Jeff Strand

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

INTRODUCTION

When I was child, the internet did not exist. There were only three channels on TV. The local movie house had only two screens. During the long summer afternoons, there were only two havens for a boy with an active imagination.

The drug store and the library.

The drug store was tricky if you didn’t have any money. And believe me, I did not. I can’t begin to count the number of times I hunkered in the back aisle reading comic books and hoping the cashier was too busy or too lazy to notice. On a good day, I’d get through a few. On a bad day, I’d barely get through the door.

That left the library. It didn’t have comic books, but it had two things no amount of money could replace. Air conditioning and books. For a poor kid living in an even poorer neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut, it was paradise. Countless worlds to explore and countless thrilling adventures were at my fingertips and I accepted every challenge.

Whether they were tales of soldiers going to war, astronauts discovering distant worlds, scientists battling sea monsters or simple stories of love lost and regained, I read them. So many aspects of life in Hartford were difficult and if it were not for my Aunt’s unconditional love and my love of tales and stories, my life would be quite different today.

That is why I am writing this now. Fantastic Tales of Terror is an anthology steeped in unbridled imagination. An electric stew of fanciful what if scenarios. Historical figures thrust into the world of the supernatural. Speaking as an actor, these hypothetical situations are our manna.

Actors thrive on reinterpretation and reinvention. It is the foundation of my first love, theater.

Every actor does their best to bring something new and unique to the beloved roles and productions people have been attending all of their lives. I had the honor and privilege of originating the title role in August Wilson’s play King Hedley II. It was one of most satisfying experiences of my professional life, but as much pleasure that experience brought me, I gain even greater satisfaction from watching other actors interpret the character. Art has an organic life of its own and creativity should have no limitations.

Which brings me back to the book you are holding. This collection of wild what ifs takes the reader to the darkest sides of alternate histories and timelines. Ever wonder what would happen if Teddy Roosevelt decided to hunt werewolves? What if Annie Oakley squared off against Native American demons? Or perhaps Bela Lugosi was actually a vampire? And what reader could resist a tale of an elderly Elvis Presley doing battle with an ancient Egyptian mummy?

All of these dark imaginings and many more await you. Each author brings their unique voice to these twisted, bloody and sometimes surprisingly humorous stories. From my roles in Night of the Living Dead to Candyman to Final Destination, I am no stranger to good horror and the horror stories in this anthology are a good as they get.

So without further ado, the stage is set, the lights are low and the curtain is rising . . .

I hope you’re not afraid of the dark.

Love and peace,

Tony Todd

THE DEEP DELIGHT OF BLOOD

TIM WAGGONER

Mike Holland stood in the cramped gas station restroom. It had one toilet, one sink, and one very dead body lying on the floor. The body had blood all over it, and there was blood on the floor, the walls, and both the toilet and sink. The mirror above the sink was splattered red, and—somehow—the ceiling was stippled with it. And, of course, it was all over Mike. He was fucking drenched in the stuff. His face was a slick crimson mask, his hair a matted mess, and his clothes—army jacket, Lost Boys T-shirt, jeans, sneakers—were sodden with gore. He looked as if he’d just come in from a torrential downpour, except blood had been falling from the sky instead of rain. In his right hand he held a butcher knife, blade dripping red.

The body belonged to Kari Owen, a barista in her early twenties that Mike had picked out when he’d stopped by Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha earlier that week. He’d staked out the Starbucks for three days, waiting for Kari—he knew her first name from the nametag she wore at work—to walk out of the store when her shift was over and head home. He’d followed her for three days, driving his piece of shit Chevy Malibu, hoping for an opportunity to approach her. It had finally come tonight when she’d stopped for gas on her way home. He’d stopped too, parked, and followed her inside. She paid and then had gone to the restroom. Knowing his chance had come, he’d followed her in, drew his blade from an inside coat pocket, grabbed her from behind, and slit her throat from ear to ear before she could make a sound.

He had never cut anyone’s throat before, and he hadn’t expected so much goddamned blood to shoot from her wound like water from a fucking sprinkler. She’d pulled away from him and spun around and around, arms flailing, mouth gawping like a fish, eyes filled with terror and confusion. He’d been so surprised that he’d only stood and watched as she painted the bathroom—and him—crimson, finally collapsing to the floor when the blood jetting from her wound became a trickle and then stopped.

She lay in a fetal position, like a bug that curls in on itself when it dies. He’d found her pretty. Brunette hair up in a bun, black-framed glasses that highlighted her blue-gray eyes. But now she looked like a drowned rat . . . if that rat had been drowned in a vat of blood, that is.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The voice—heavily accented—came from directly behind Mike. He didn’t jump at the sound, and he didn’t immediately turn to face the speaker.

I did the best I could, Mike said. You know I don’t have fangs yet.

He hated how defensive and whiny he sounded, but he couldn’t help it.

Have you ever given thought to working in a slaughterhouse? I think you’d do quite well there.

Mike turned to face his companion. The man was tall and handsome in an old-world fashion, with a noble bearing beneath which lay a smoldering intensity. His midnight-black hair was short and swept back, each strand perfectly in place. It tapered to a light widow’s peak over his forehead, the style giving him a hint of satanic sinisterness. His eyes were arresting, almost mesmeric, and his lips were full and red-tinted. His skin was almost chalk-white, making him look as if he’d been carved from marble. He was dressed in old-fashioned formal evening wear, complete with a long, flare-collared black cape.

Béla Ferenc Dezsö Blaskó—better known by his stage name of Bela Lugosi—looked at Mike as if he were a puppy that had just vomited, pissed, and shit all over an extremely expensive antique rug.

It’s only to be expected that you’d spill some blood during your first attempt. But that is no excuse for turning this lavatory into a fucking abattoir.

Bela didn’t have so much as a single drop of Kari’s blood on him. No surprise. His clothing was always immaculate, no matter the situation.

Mike glanced over his shoulder at Kari’s body.

I didn’t expect there would be so much. Blood, I mean.

Bela sighed. The amount of blood in the human body is approximately seven percent of body weight. The girl is short and thin, so I estimate she had a gallon of blood in her. Perhaps a bit less. He glanced around the room. And it looks like you got out every last goddamned drop. He shook his head in disgust. And have you given any thought as to how you will escape? It’s not as if you can assume the form of a bat and fly out of here or turn to mist and simply drift away.

The restroom was located inside the gas station, and there was no direct exit to the outside.

Maybe there’s a back door I can use? Mike ventured.

Perhaps. But it will surely have a security camera keeping watch on it, just as other cameras observe the interior and exterior of the station. Bad enough that you were recorded when you entered. Far worse to be recorded leaving the scene of a murder drenched in your victim’s blood.

Fuck! He hadn’t thought about cameras!

But you can worry about that in a few moments, Bela said. First you must do what you came here for.

Mike nodded, feeling both excited and terrified, exactly as he had the first time he’d had sex, with Lucy Vargas during his junior year of high school. At least this time he didn’t have a partner to disappoint—not a living one, anyway—and that took off some of the pressure. But performing in front of his overly critical mentor just put that pressure right back.

He turned away from Bela and started to crouch down next to Kari, but his foot slipped on the blood-slick floor and he landed on his ass with a wet smack.

Bela rolled his eyes.

Fuck, Mike whispered, his face burning with embarrassment. He raised his hands and saw the palms were coated with blood. He looked at them for a moment, then moved them toward his face, intending to lick them clean.

"The neck for Christ’s sake. Don’t humiliate yourself further, boy."

Bela was right. If you were going to do something, you should do it properly. Mike wiped his hands on Kari’s jeans, then got on his knees and bent forward until his mouth pressed against the wide wound in her throat. He thought Bela would insist that he use his teeth to make new holes, but the man said nothing, so Mike went to work.

He tried sucking, like the vampires in his beloved movies did, but he couldn’t latch onto an open vein or artery, so all he managed to do was make loud slurping sounds as he drew in the blood pooled in her wound. He’d prepared for this first by drinking the blood left over in packages of meat, and then by cutting himself and sipping from the wounds. He liked his steaks rare—when he could afford them—but he’d still expected drinking his victims’ blood would take some getting used to. But the metallic taste and sickening thick texture nauseated him from the start, and now as Kari’s still warm blood filled his mouth, coated his tongue and slid down his throat like copper-flavored mucus, his stomach cramped in rebellion.

The restroom door opened then, and Mike drew back from Kari’s throat and turned to see who it was, gore dribbling down his chin.

A heavy-set blond woman wearing a violet-colored sweater and blue slacks—in addition to far too much eyeshadow, Mike thought—took one look at the horrific scene before her, drew in a deep breath, and screamed like a banshee on fire.

Bela sighed heavily. You forgot to lock the fucking door, didn’t you?

Mike’s only response was to open his mouth wide and expel the contents of his stomach.

***

It took three showers for Mike to get most of the blood off his body. His ruined clothes were stuffed into a plastic trash bag and hidden under his bed. He planned to dispose of them in a dumpster far away from his apartment. He wasn’t sure what to do about his car, though. He’d gotten blood on the seat, the steering wheel, the door, and who knew where else. Maybe he could take it to one of those do-it-yourself car washes and see if he could scrub out the stains. Then again, the station’s security cameras had probably filmed his car. He wasn’t too worried about the police being able to identify him from the security footage, though. He didn’t have a police record, and Kari’s blood covering his face and matting down his hair had acted like a makeshift disguise. Still, he probably should do something about his car. Maybe he should drive it somewhere, remove the plates, and torch it.

He’d never imagined that becoming a vampire would be so damn complicated. In the movies, vampires stalked their prey, attacked swiftly, fed, and then departed as quickly as they’d come, leaving nothing behind—except the slowly cooling corpses of their victims, of course. They didn’t have to worry about stupid things like evidence and witnesses and police.

Getting out of the gas station had been a nightmare. He’d knocked down the blond woman—who screamed even louder when she hit the floor—and then made a dash for the front exit, too rattled to think about searching for a rear door. He left a trail of bloody footprints behind him, and once the clerk behind the counter got a look at the blood-covered lunatic running through his store, Mike was certain he called 911 immediately. Mike managed to reach his Chevy and get the hell out of there before any cops showed up, but he couldn’t decide whether to go straight home or drive around for a while to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Although precisely who he thought might be following him, he wasn’t sure. In the end, he’d parked at a McDonald’s—well away from any other cars—and sat shaking for twenty minutes before finally heading home to his apartment. At least Bela hadn’t ridden home with him. He didn’t think he could’ve taken listening to the man bitch about how badly he’d fucked up.

Thankfully, he’d managed to hold onto the butcher knife as he’d fled the gas station. As soon as he was home, he’d tossed it in the sink, poured an entire bottle of bleach over it, and then put it in the garbage bag with the rest of the evidence he planned to dispose of.

He got out of the shower, but he let the water run a bit more to wash away whatever blood might remain in the stall. He’d need to buy some more bleach to clean it out thoroughly. He dried himself and then examined the towel for bloodstains. It looked fine, but he decided to throw it away with his bloody clothes, just in case. He stuffed the towel into the garbage bag, shoved it back under the bed, and started to get dressed.

His bedroom only had one window, but he kept the blinds closed during the day. He wasn’t a real vampire yet, but he figured he might as well start getting used to avoiding sunlight. That way, he’d be less likely to slip up and expose himself to the sun’s deadly rays once he officially joined the ranks of the undead.

The walls of his bedroom were covered with posters of women who’d starred in vampire movies. Ingrid Pitt from The Vampire Lovers, Catherine Deneuve from The Hunger, Sharon Tate from The Fearless Vampire Killers, Jamie Gertz from The Lost Boys, Kate Beckinsale from Underworld, and the queen of them all, Gloria Holden from Dracula’s Daughter. He was too embarrassed by his fuck-up at the gas station to meet what he imagined to be their disappointed, almost contemptuous gazes. He hurriedly put on a fresh T-shirt—this one featuring Johnny Depp as Barnabas Collins from Tim Burton’s version of Dark Shadows—and jeans, and then headed for the living room, closing the door behind him, as if to shield himself from the women’s disapproval.

Not that it helped much, considering the rest of his apartment was decorated with posters from other vampire movies. From Dusk Till Dawn, Near Dark, Blacula, Love at First Bite, Martin, Fright Night, Innocent Blood, and more. And then there were posters of the best actors to portray the legendary Count himself: John Carradine, Christopher Lee, Gary Oldman, Frank Langella, and the greatest of them all, Bela Lugosi. He didn’t want to face any of them right now, either, so he got an Orange Crush from the fridge in the hope it would wash the lingering taste of blood and vomit from his mouth. He then selected a Blu-ray from his voluminous collection, popped it into the player, and sat down on his worn, secondhand couch as Queen of the Damned began playing.

This film is a piece of shit.

Bela sat on the couch next to Mike, cape off, legs stretched out, his polished leather shoes resting on the old orange crate that served as a coffee table. Mike had no idea where Bela’s cape was. Sometimes he wore it when he appeared, other times he didn’t.

Mike didn’t acknowledge Bela’s presence right away. He took another sip of his soda and tried to concentrate on the movie. Bela went on.

This is cheap, garish entertainment, more about fucking than anything else.

It’s a metaphor, Mike said.

Metaphor, my ass. Fucking is fucking.

Mike tried to change the subject. Want an Orange Crush?

Bela shook his head. I never drink . . . soda.

Bela had first visited Mike one night at work. Mike had been behind the counter at Second Run, a small store that sold used movies, going through a box of DVDs someone had brought in to sell and calculating how much he could offer them. He was hunched over the counter, jotting figures on a small yellow pad when he sensed someone standing at the counter—which was weird because he hadn’t heard anyone approach. He glanced up and standing there, looking as if he’d somehow been transported from a 1930’s movie set, was Bela Fucking Lugosi in full Dracula regalia. He told himself it couldn’t be the real Bela, of course. The actor had died in 1956, and if by some miracle he was still alive, he’d be at least 130 years old, and the man in front of him looked to be in his late thirties, early forties at most.

The movie on top of the stack to Mike’s right was, coincidentally enough, one of Lugosi’s: The Devil Bat. The man dressed like Bela looked at the movie and then tapped the case with a perfectly manicured index finger.

I hated making this one. The stuffed giant bat they used looked like a teddy bear with VD.

There was something in the man’s voice—aside from his European accent—and in his bearing that told Mike this wasn’t some random cosplayer who’d wandered into the store. Somehow, amazingly, this was the real deal. Mike was too flabbergasted to say anything, and Bela soon turned and walked away. Mike watched him leave the store and head west down the sidewalk. When the man was out of sight, Mike’s paralysis broke, and he ran to the front of the store, where his coworker Tiffany Barnes stood behind the register, looking bored. She had long black hair and a dull glaze over her eyes, as if she were on the verge of falling asleep. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered her. There were often lulls in activity at the store, and it wasn’t uncommon for the staff to space out when nothing was going on. But he was too excited to keep quiet.

Did you see him?

He spoke so loud that Tiffany jumped, eyes wide with alarm. Once her gaze focused on him, she relaxed.

Saw who? she said, sounding completely uninterested.

He answered without thinking. Bela Lugosi.

Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head slightly.

Are you on crack or is this some kind of dumbass attempt at a joke? I know you’re a big vampire fan and all. Hell, I love ‘em too, but if you’re starting to hallucinate dead horror actors, maybe you should find yourself another hobby.

Her words stung.

Tiffany perpetually dressed in black, always looked slightly malnourished, and possessed pale skin and puffy dark patches beneath her eyes. She was exactly his type, but although he’d tried flirting with her, had even asked her out—with no luck—he hadn’t been able to catch her interest. Still, he had hopes of hooking up with her one day, so to try and redeem himself in her eyes, he said, "I mean I saw a guy who resembled Lugosi, that’s all."

She looked at him for a moment, as if trying to discern if he was lying.

I’ve been at the register for the last hour, she said. I haven’t left, not even to pee. If someone—regardless of which old-time movie star they looked like—had come in and then gone, I would’ve seen them. And I didn’t see any Belas. The only customer we’ve had in the last hour is the dude who brought in those movies for you to make an offer on.

She nodded to the man, who was browsing the Action-Adventure section while waiting for his offer to be ready. The guy was in his early twenties and of Indian descent. As Tiffany had said, no Bela.

I saw what I saw, Mike said, sounding more defensive than he liked. Without waiting for Tiffany to reply, he turned and headed back to the buy counter.

The next time he saw Bela was when he went to a small arthouse theater in town that was showing Werner Herzog’s Nosferatu, starring Klaus Kinski. It was a late afternoon showing on a weekday, so Mike was the only one in the audience—until Bela walked in and sat down next to him.

This one is not so bad, Bela said. Although I prefer the original. Vampires are more frightening in black and white.

Normally, Mike loathed people who talked during movies, but as they were the only two present—and this was Bela Lugosi—Mike figured he could make an exception.

I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, he began, but why are you here? I mean, you’re . . .

Dead? Bela sounded amused. As long as my films survive, as long as they are viewed, I endure. But as to why I am here sitting next to you right now, I have come to teach you. When did you first realize you wanted to be a vampire?

Mike was shocked at first. He’d never told anyone about that, not ever. His first impulse was to deny it, to insist that just because he loved vampire films, it didn’t mean he actually wanted to be a vampire. After all, vampires were make-believe monsters that were fun to read about or watch on the screen, but nothing more. But he couldn’t lie. Not to Bela.

"I guess it started when I was a kid. I was watching Dracula—your Dracula—on TV, and when you said ‘The blood is the life, Mr. Renfield,’ you said it with such conviction, such passion . . . I wanted to feel that passion too. I wanted to feel that alive."

Did you know that when I first played Dracula on the stage, I spoke very little English and had to learn my lines phonetically? I barely had any idea what the fuck I was saying.

That’s a showbiz legend, Mike said. "By the time you starred in Dracula you knew English. Well enough to get by, anyway."

Bela gave him a sidelong look before speaking again.

You wish to become a vampire. I have come to teach you how to do so.

Are . . . you going to bite me?

Bela burst out laughing.

"Why the hell would I want to do that? That is nothing but movie bullshit. You do not become a vampire by catching a supernatural version of the clap. You must become a vampire. It is a matter of personal evolution, a profound transformation, not unlike the way actors learn to immerse ourselves in a part. To surrender to it, our identity becoming totally subsumed."

And that’s how it began.

Mike never doubted for a moment that Bela was real. He didn’t know if he was a ghost or if he had somehow literally become Dracula. He’d asked Bela about it once, and the man had said some method acting bullshit about how true actors—ones who were willing to do the arduous mental and emotional work their craft demanded—ultimately became their parts, and in return, their parts became them. Mike didn’t really care about the specifics, though. All that mattered was that his dream—of power, of strength, of transcending mere humanity and becoming something more, something better—was now within grasp.

Bela spoke once more. A true vampire does not focus on sex. He paused, then added, "Not only sex. The soul of any great vampire story is romance. That is what lies at the heart of my Dracula. He is an immortal creature, cut off from a world that has passed him by. He wishes to see the modern world, to be a part of it. And he longs for a connection to a living woman who embodies her age."

Mina, Mike said, almost reverently.

Bela nodded.

"No more butchering anonymous women in gas stations. You must find your own Mina and make her yours. You must seduce her. Do you have a Mina in your life?"

Mike smiled.

I do.

***

Tiffany was scheduled to close on Tuesday night, so Mike called off sick—mightily pissing off his manager in the process—and took up a position in the alley across the street where he could keep watch on Second Run’s entrance. He knew Tiffany lived downtown and walked to work, and tonight he intended to follow her and, as Bela had said, make her his.

It was chilly out, and Mike—who wore only a dark blue windbreaker—was freezing. He hadn’t wanted to wear a heavier coat because real vampires didn’t feel the cold. Besides, a hooded parka was hardly a cool look for a vampire. He regretted his sartorial choice now, though, and he kept his hands balled into fists in his pockets and periodically stomped his feet in an ineffective effort to warm himself.

Wish I had a cape, he thought. I could pull it around me like a blanket and it would still look cool.

Bela wasn’t present. Mike wished he was, if for no other reason than he’d be company. But it seemed the old vampire was too smart to waste time hanging out in a cold alley with his student.

Second Run closed at ten p.m. every night, but there were always a few things left to do before anyone could leave, and it was close to 10:30 by the time Tiffany walked out of the store. She wore a black knit cap, a black leather jacket, and a pair of black gloves. She didn’t exactly look toasty, but she looked a hell of a lot warmer than he was.

He left the alley and followed, keeping to his side of the street and doing his best to stay in the shadows. He felt the cold metal of the knife he carried tucked into his left sock—concealed beneath his pants leg, of course—and he experienced a pang of shame. It was a smaller knife than the one he’d used on Kari the barista. The larger knife remained in the garbage bag with his bloody clothes beneath his bed, which he still hadn’t gotten around to getting rid of. He knew Bela wouldn’t approve of him using another blade, but until he sported fangs, he’d have to keep making do.

Block after block went by, and he began wondering just how far from work Tiffany lived. If they kept walking like this, they’d end up on the other side of town before long, and by then his testicles would probably have frozen off. But she eventually took a left turn and disappeared from his view. He stopped at the corner and waited a few moments before hurrying across the street and continuing after her. He quickly caught sight of her once more and felt a wave of relief. Bad enough that he’d made a mess killing Kari, but if he lost Tiffany, he was sure Bela would never let him hear the end of it.

Mike doubted this situation was exactly what Bela had in mind. This was more like stalking than romantic pursuit. But it was exciting. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and all of his senses were clear and sharp. He felt an electric thrill of anticipation in the base of his chest, adrenaline building for what was to come. This might not be as classy or dignified as Bela would like, but he did feel alive in a way that he never had before, a way that up to this point, he’d only imagined. Killing Kari had been rushed, sloppy, and ultimately unsatisfying. But this . . . this was what it was all about—the hunt and the anticipation of its culmination. He was surprised to find himself actually looking forward to tasting Tiffany’s blood. He bet it would be different than Kari’s, more like fine wine.

There was yet another layer to his excitement. He had a feeling that if all went well tonight—and right now he was confident it would—he might complete his transformation and at last become his truest, darkest self.

He couldn’t wait.

The road sloped downward toward a poorly illuminated underpass, and he knew that would be the place where he’d make his move. It wasn’t a bedroom where a woman in a diaphanous nightgown lay beneath silk sheets, head back and neck bared, waiting for her vampire lover to materialize by her bedside and penetrate her tender flesh with his sharp, rigid fangs. But Mike no longer gave a shit. Fuck Bela and fuck his advice. This was his hunt, and he’d conduct it any way he liked. To hell with Bela’s old-world bullshit. This was the twenty-first fucking century, and if you wanted something, you took it, and screw everything else.

He picked up his pace to decrease the distance between them. He wanted to be close enough to Tiffany by the time she reached the underpass so she wouldn’t be able to escape him. He paused, bent down, and drew the knife from his sock. He gripped it tight and began walking once more. He no longer felt the cold, no longer felt anything except a burgeoning need deep inside the core of his being. A need that could only be called hunger.

He was less than six feet behind Tiffany when she entered the shadowy gloom of the underpass. Traffic passed back and forth on the road above, engines humming, tires whispering across asphalt. But when he stepped into the underpass, the sounds of moving vehicles died away, and all became silent. He was so focused on Tiffany—on his prey—that he scarcely noticed.

When she was halfway through the underpass, he glanced quickly forward and back to make sure no cars were approaching from either direction. When he saw none, he raised his knife and sprinted toward Tiffany. He was almost upon her when she spun around and grinned at him, displaying a pair of long ivory-white incisors.

Hey, Mike, she said, and then opened her mouth wide and came at him.

***

Bela watched as Tiffany crouched over Mike’s body, face pressed against his neck as she drank. He sighed.

I thought he showed promise.

Bela wasn’t alone. Standing next to him was a tall man wearing similar clothes—cape included—but his were plainer, less ornate, with the sole exception of his cape, which had a striking red inner lining. He had a serious, patrician mien, and his eyes—threaded with small crimson veins—gazed upon Tiffany as well.

You shouldn’t blame yourself, the other man said in a British accent. I had better material to work with, that’s all.

I suppose you are right. Bela looked upon his failed protégé one last time, and then he smiled at Christopher. Until we meet again.

The other man gave him a measure nod, and Bela’s body began to fold in upon itself. Seconds later a large black bat resembling a teddy bear with VD flew out from beneath the underpass and rose into the night sky.

UNPRETTY MONSTER

MERCEDES M. YARDLEY

The Titanic was a grand ship, full of beautiful things and people. There were fine ladies and handsome gentlemen dressed in their best. Men and women with gowns and furs and threadbare knickers and skirts. There were children with scrubbed faces and perfectly brushed hair, and other children who wore their poverty like dirt on their faces. They were perfect in every way for what she and her sisters needed.

She met a human man on this ship. He had a strong, white smile and brown eyes that didn’t shy away from her. She realized her gait was awkward and her fingers were too long, almost otherworldly. She wrapped them around the railing of the ship and looked out to the sea, which called to her bones in a way that made her breath catch.

Are you all right? this man asked. He put his hand on the small of her back, kindly, protectively, an easy gesture that had been bred into him from years of impressive schools. She automatically tensed up under his touch, but then tried to remember the ways of humans.

I don’t mean any harm, he said, and drew his hand away.

She smiled demurely, careful not to show her teeth.

No harm. I’m simply a bit . . . unsteady.

His hand jumped to her back again. Shall we sit down? Please, let’s do that. My name is William. Will you tell me yours?

She had a name centuries ago, long and deliciously difficult, but that was a more complex time. It was a time where gods left thunderous footsteps on top of the mountains, and monsters openly vaulted against the sky. They didn’t need to hide or blend in or secret themselves away. They didn’t don the skins and trappings of their prey and move amongst them. Things were simple now. There was no grandeur or nuance in the way that things were. The earth belonged to artless creatures, and she had also let her wondrous name slip away.

Call me Nim, she said, and she liked the way he tasted her new name in his mouth like the finest fish in the sea.

It is unusual, he said, and nodded. Where are you from? I can’t quite place your accent.

She started. My accent? Do I not speak just like you? Do I not use the same words?

He was quick to placate. The same words, certainly. You speak beautifully. But the way you pronounce your words are unique. Quite lovely. I’m certain I’ve never heard such an accent, but at the same time it sounds utterly familiar. He blushed, a strangely human thing, and Nim wanted to reach up and feel the tips of his red ears to see if they were indeed as hot as they looked, but she kept her strange fingers to herself.

English is not natural to me, she said, and shrugged. It felt good to sit, to tuck her legs under her as easily as she would have tucked her tail. I spoke many things first. Greek was what I remember most, I think. After a while they all run together.

His attention was starting to drift, his pupils dilating at the sound of her voice, the cadence of her words, and she didn’t want to lose him yet to the siren’s curse. She cleared her throat.

What about you? What can you tell me about this ship?

She tapped her foot sharply on the deck, and his eyes focused.

I . . . what? Oh, the ship. Yes. Well, it’s very new. Very special. Unsinkable, they say, and filled to the brim with the nicest things.

Like what? she asked him. What do you consider nice things?

He hesitated. Well, it’s not what I consider nice, I suppose. It’s what they consider nice.

Who are they?

You know. They. The ones who make the decisions.

Like your king, then? King of the humans?

He blinked at her.

I suppose I never understand the concept of they. Others telling you what to do. Then again, I never listened to the gods themselves, she said, and smiled. This time she forgot herself and showed all of her teeth. They were sharp and pointed at the ends. This has been both my freedom and my bane.

Her smile was unlovely, she knew. She was always the homeliest of her sisters, the unpretty siren, but it wasn’t about appearances, was it? It was about the song. The desire. The raw need that she and her kind tapped into.

She quickly covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her teeth. She wanted to talk more, to ask questions, and more than that, to actually speak. To talk about sailors breaking against the rocks and the taste of men’s blood, certainly, but to speak of other things, too. Of her lost brothers, of sea foam, of the wonders far below the waves that so few humans had the chance to see. There were horrors and terrors and so much beauty their souls would ache.

She couldn’t speak of these things, of course. She couldn’t speak of anything, because opening her mouth for more than a few sentences would seduce anyone who listened, would drive them mad, and while she would be expressing her love for the sea or her fascination at the birds who float above it in their own ocean of stars, they would be slitting their own throats or throwing themselves from their bows in order to quiet the madness inside of their heads.

A siren is meant to sing, but must silence herself in order to not be a monster.

Do you find me to be a monster, William? she asked, but his fingers were already walking themselves to his throat, ready to thrust themselves inside and suffocate him with his own flesh.

She took his hands in hers, firmly, and held them until his fingers stopped twitching. His brows furrowed and he blinked rapidly.

I’m sorry, he said, and his words were slightly slurred. I can’t recall what we were talking about. Perhaps it is too much sun.

She nodded, and released his hands. She missed the feel of them, strong and warm with bones and blood. She heard his heart beat. A single heart, such a simple organism. Her three hearts were a perfect percussion in her body. Too ornate. Too intricate.

The ship, she nudged, and his eyes refocused.

Ah, yes. Let us go inside and we’ll explore, you and I.

There was a grand staircase made of polished wood. It reminded her of the ships of old, where the wooden figureheads were polished and painted, shining like the sun until they were worn down by the salt of the sea.

Show me more, please, Nim said, and William showed her different tables and dishes, with beautiful cloths and silverware. He showed her how the joints of the ship were