plunged into darkness.
Vicki froze as her eyes slowly readjusted to the night. Which was when she finally became conscious of the smell. It had been there all along but her senses had refused to acknowledge it until they had to.
Sunlight burned.
Vicki gagged.
The dragging sound continued.
The hell with this! She didn’t have time to wait for her eyes to repair the damage they’d obviously taken. She needed to see now. Fortunately, although it hadn’t seemed fortunate at the time, she’d learned to maneuver without sight.
She threw herself across the room.
The light switch was where they always were, to the right of the door.
The thing on the floor pushed itself up on fingerless hands and glared at her out of the blackened ruin of a face. Laboriously it turned, hate radiating off it in palpable waves and began to pull itself towards her again.
Vicki stepped forward to meet it.
While the part of her that remembered being human writhed in revulsion, she wrapped her hands around its skull and twisted it in a full circle. The spine snapped. Another full twist and what was left of the head came off in her hands.
She’d been human for thirty-two years but she’d been fourteen months a vampire.
“No one hunts in my territory,” she snarled as the other crumbled to dust.
She limped over to the wall and pulled the plug supplying power to the lights. Later, she’d remove them completely—the whole concept of sunlamps gave her the creeps.
When she turned, she was facing the mirror.
The woman who stared out at her through bloodshot eyes, exposed skin blistered and red, was a hunter. Always had been really. The question became, who was she to hunt?
Vicki smiled. Before the sun drove her to use her inherited sanctuary, she had a few quick phone calls to make. The first to Celluci; she owed him the knowledge that she’d survived the night. The second to Henry for much the same reason.
The third call would be to the 800 line that covered the classifieds of Toronto’s largest alternative newspaper. This ad was going to be a little different than the one she’d placed upon leaving the force. Back then, she’d been incredibly depressed about leaving a job she loved for a life she saw as only marginally useful. This time, she had no regrets.
Victory Nelson, Investigator: Otherwordly Crimes a Specialty.
VAMPIRE KING OF THE GOTH CHICKS:
A Sonja Blue Story
Nancy A. Collins
Nancy A. Collins is currently the writer of Vampirella and co-writer of Red Sonja: Vulture Circle comic series. As mentioned in the introduction to this volume, she’s best known as the creator of punk vampire/vampire slayer Sonja Blue, the protagonist/heroine of a series of novels and short stories that includes Collins’ debut novel, Sunglasses After Dark (1989) and a comic book series. Although the now-influential character may return someday, the last Sonja Blue novel, Darkest Heart, was published in 2002. More recently, Collins has penned three young adult novels, the VAMPS series (2008-2009), and three urban fantasy novels, the Golgotham series (2010-2013).
Here is a taste of the very badass Sonja Blue…
The Red Raven is a real scum-pit. The only thing marking it as a bar is the vintage Old Crow ad in the front window and a stuttering neon sign that says lounge. The johns there are always backing up, and the place perpetually stinks of piss. During the week it’s just another neighborhood dive, serving truck drivers and barflies, and not a Bukowski amongst them.
But, because the drinks are cheap and the bartenders never check ID, the Red Raven undergoes a sea of change come Friday night. The clientele grows younger and stranger, at least in physical appearance. The usual suspects that occupy the Red Raven’s booths and bar stools are replaced by young men and women tricked out in black leather and so many facial piercings they resemble walking tackle boxes. And there’s still not a Bukowski amongst them.
This Friday night is no different from any other. A knot of Goth kids are already gathered outside on the curb as I arrive, plastic go-cups full of piss-warm Rolling Rock clutched in their hands. Amidst all the bad Robert Smith haircuts, heavy mascara, dead-white face powder and black lipstick, I hardly warrant a second look.
Normally I don’t bother with joints like this, but I’ve been hearing a persistent rumor that there’s a blood cult operating out of the Red Raven. I make it my business to check out such stories. Most of the time it turns out to be nothing more