Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,205

fangs would produce the milk, the blood. Which ones I should drain first. She looked down, stared at my belly—her expression frozen between joy and horror. Saliva wet on her lips.

“Oh, Ada.” She got up, searched for something on the coffee table, on the armchair, the dining hutch. “Oh, Ada. My baby.”

“I kept my blood-rags safe, like you said.” I twisted in my seat, followed her bewildering progress from room to room. “You can have them—might not be fresh, but—they’re yours. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

Dishes smashed in the kitchen, pots and pans clanging as Ma pushed them aside.

“I remember exactly where I hid them,” I continued, clearing a path to the front door. “Just outside—”

“No!” Ma raced over, clasping a hammer. “Don’t leave.” Her eyes were wild, her breathing frantic. “I swear I ain’t never gonna touch a drop from you—from neither of y’all. Them bloods ain’t mine, baby. They’s yers. All I ask is for you to stay. I swear to God.”

And before I could stop her, she kept her promise. Twice the hammer connected with her mouth, an unholy collision of flesh and iron. “Don’t leave me alone.”

Her words bubbled red as she spat shards of teeth on the floor.

Banjo gathers Ma’s few belongings, I collect mine. There’s nothing more for us to say: no apologies, no forgiveness. One’s not his to give, the other’s not mine to request. For now, that’s enough.

We wait until nightfall to bundle Ma into Banjo’s truck, swaddled in the first cloak she ever sewed: hooded black felt, fringed in elaborate lace. The iron tang of her injury follows us outside. I brush it away with the flies.

“Keep safe,” Banjo says, handing me a shotgun and a pouch of ammunition. From its heft, it’s filled with enough lead to last until doomsday. Messy bullets, these. The thought of testing them on Mister Pérouse makes me smile. I keep one eye on the horizon, but neither my master nor my father show by the time we say our goodbyes. I check Ma’s seatbelt, kiss her forehead, and swear I’ll visit soon.

Her words are muffled but I can hear the smile behind them. “That’s what you always say, Ada.”

No point in waiting until morning; I’ve grown accustomed to night. Before I leave, I take one last tour of the house. I don’t take anything more than I can carry: a sleeping bag and tarp, a good coat, one of Banjo’s old packs. A sackful of Ma’s finer creations to sell or to cherish—at this stage, I’m not sure which.

Her boots, good as new. Comfortable on my swollen feet.

I tip the candles we lit in the sitting room, wait to make sure they catch. The carpets, curtains, couches wick the eager fire, spread it rumor-fast. Soon the whole house is ablaze. Walking out, I leave the door open.

My lungs stretch full with fresh air.

Flames gnaw at the veranda, chew away the front porch. As I hike down the driveway, I can hear jars shattering, popping. I smile. None will find them now. The heat of my past is warm on my back; before me is only darkness. Gusts of fiery wind urge me forward and I comply. It’s time to move. I won’t go far; just far enough to be both here and away. To stay alive and reacquaint myself with this land; its lore and its language. Maybe I’ll study Ma’s pieces, teach myself to sew. And when my daughter is born and can wield the right tools, maybe I’ll teach her too. With each stitch she’ll discover our history: Ma’s and mine. Hers. A child made for darkness, she’ll be my shadow as I walk across fields drenched in sun. Wherever we end up, when she’s draped in suits of our making, my girl will know where she belongs.

And when it’s time, be it a dozen years from now or sixty, she’ll know where to bury her blood.

FATHER PEÑA’S LAST DANCE

Hannah Strom-Martin

Hannah Strom-Martin’s fiction has appeared in Realms of Fantasy, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, OnSpec, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and the anthology Amazons: Sexy Tales of Strong Women. With Erin Underwood she is the co-editor of Futuredaze: An Anthology of YA Science Fiction. She currently resides in Northern California and attempts to blog at www.nocommonplace.wordpress.com.

The Argentine tango is a sensuous, passionate dance; to combine it with vampires is understandable. There is ardor in “Father Peña’s Last Dance,” but that does not always guarantee romance …

The woman finally approached me across from La Recoleta