Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,216

Slatter is the author of the Aurealis Award-winning The Girl with No Hands and Other Tales, the World Fantasy Award finalist Sourdough and Other Stories, Aurealis finalist Midnight and Moonshine (with Lisa L. Hannett), as well as the 2014 releases Black-Winged Angels, The Bitter-wood Bible and Other Recountings, and The Female Factory (again with Lisa L. Hannett). Her short stories have appeared in periodical such as Fantasy, Nightmare, Lightspeed, and Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, and anthologies including Fearie Tales, A Book of Horrors, and Australian, UK, and U.S. “best of” anthologies. She is the first Australian to win a British Fantasy Award (for “The Coffin-Maker’s Daughter”). Slatter blogs at www.angelaslatter.com about shiny things that catch her eye.

Perhaps not surprisingly—since she is Australian—Slatter’s take on a contemporary or near-future vampire is distinctly and delightfully set Down Under.

I tap the fingers of one hand against the steering wheel, beating out a rhythm to replace the one that went missing when we got beyond the reach of any radio reception. It helps me to ignore the noises from the back seat.

The window is down so I can blow away the smoke from a hand-rolled ciggie. Barry hates it when I smoke in his car. Few things in the world Barry loves more than this old Holden, with its mag wheels, racing stripes, flames painted on the bonnet, and the fluffy dice dangling from the rear view mirror like a pair of square, furry testicles. He adores it better than any woman. I wouldn’t be allowed to drive if it weren’t an emergency of the most urgent kind.

Me? I think he looks like an idiot driving it, like some clueless pimp. But I’m not stupid enough to tell Barry that. Nope, not stupid enough at all. And it’s not as if I’m paid for my opinion. In fact, I’m not paid. Just here to shut up and earn my keep, as Barry says. Just like my Mum did before me and her mum before that, all serving Barry for as long as we can remember.

Two hundred years give or take. It’s a long time to be a slave.

Outside it’s cooling down, which is a blessing because the air-con died a few hours back. The sky is splashed garish pink by the setting sun and now it’s low enough to not hurt my eyes. I push the cheap sunnies to the top of my head, hook the earpieces into my hair so they stay put. I enjoy the rush of the breeze moving in and out of the car. In those brief moments when the engine doesn’t howl, I can hear the sounds of the night: cicadas, possums, snakes, lizards, hares, wallabies. All manner of nasties that don’t come out in the sunlight.

Kinda like Barry.

I can’t hear the words he’s shouting, but he knows the dark’s come and he wants out. I’ve got a fair idea what he’s saying. Terry, open the fucking box. There’ll be that for a few more k, then Teresa, love, sweetie, please open the box. Please let me get some fresh air. It’s cold in here.

I leave it just until I sense he’s about to move to threats, then I reach behind, keeping my eyes on the road, feel around on the back seat, find the cooler and flip the lid off. It lands on the floor with the sort of noise only falling polystyrene can make, both offended and humble, a sort of squeal like it’s not happy but doesn’t want to bother you.

“Thank fuck for that!” Barry’s got quite a voice on him for someone currently without lungs. “Are you deaf?”

“Couldn’t hear you, Barry. Engine’s too noisy.” And the machine doesn’t make a liar of me—it rumbles and protests like an old man with emphysema. It’s been a long trip.

“Well, this thing better keep going, I can’t afford to get stuck out in the middle of nowhere in this state.”

Barry’s “state” has been a cause of concern for a couple of days now. There have been gang fights on the streets of Sydney—not the usual sorts, not the drug peddlers or the slave traders, not the gunrunners or the money launderers. Not this time anyway. Rival gangs of bloodsuckers, all trying to survive, to reach the top of the tree. All trying to be the big dog and negotiate with the breeders, those few Warm who are in the know (even with the current state of societal decay, there are some things you don’t want the general populace