In a hurry, Poe approached the portly toker clutching at his throat. She quickly pulled out her throwing knife from his neck. The thin wound oozed like lava flow, yet the man still lived. With a grunt, Poe wiped the small blade on his filthy shirt, placed an Adidas foot on the pothead’s throat, and put all her weight on it. The cracking sound disturbed her, but she waved the feeling away.
“Fucking leech,” she muttered, picking up her gun and turning to the old man. “C-collect your things and get everyone downstairs.” She had a terrible compunction to kick herself for stuttering.
Mayhem continued on the floor below. The sounds of scraping furniture and large objects thrown 33
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against the wall compelled Poe to hightail down the stairs to investigate.
“Mom, please let Sister Ann and Goss be alright,”
she prayed, gripping her weapons mercilessly.
Sister Ann was down, her stained habit hiked up to the knees, exposing lightning feelers of blue and purple varicose veins. An enraged bruise quickly spread its red-blackness over her forehead. Her sawed-off shotguns lay ineffectual beside her on the floor.
The sight of the indomitable and seemingly indestructible nun on the floor was a stab at Poe’s lungs which seemed to plunge to her stomach. Her organs took further nosedives when a halfdead massaging his knuckles spotted her from the other side of the room.
Sister put up a hell of a fight.
Before she could even raise her guns to the daywalker, something long and eel-like snaked up to snatch the guns from her hands. Fishy slime passed over her flesh. When Poe realized what the pink tentacle was, she nearly fainted, a first in her eight years of cattle rustling.
The tongue tossed her weapon recklessly to the floor. She’d heard of certain vampires with peculiar abilities such as flying, crawling on walls, and superspeed, but never one who possessed a tongue like pulled taffy. Poe shuddered at the anomaly and wondered what other grotesqueness was in store for her.
“Ah, a girl,” the creature said with a smile once he retracted his tongue. “I thought this nun was my boon for the day. Everyone’s itching to get their hands on pain-in-the-ass rustlers who’ve been stealing our cattle.
Come here, lovely, so I can inspect that whopper scar of yours.”
34
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The redhead vampire had been turned in his forties. His earlobes proved to be more interesting than his bland face. Tattooed on each lobe in black ink was an iron cross. The oversized jersey he wore sported a Public Enemy logo in the center.
Great, thought Poe. A neo-Nazi that listens to rap.
Poe’s eyes flickered from the vampire’s eyes to his ear. The man nodded in understanding. “Oh, don’t worry about my tats. They’re just for effect. Fads borne out of boredom among day managers. And this city is so damn boring with everyone interesting drugged out of their fucking minds. Even rape has gone stale like the rotten breath of these cattle,” he said, indicating the two slumbering women in crusty PJs.
Do not stutter. Not now. Please.
“How do you do that thing with your tongue?”
“Dunno. But my tongue’s become superdooper long after I turned. Cool, huh? Would’ve been cooler if my little man got the extender power, too. Shoulda seen this guy I met last year. His eyeball balloons and can actually lift him up to places. Almost as good as flying.”
Poe repressed a shiver. “Nice sweatshirt you have there,” she said, carefully enunciating each syllable in her husky voice. She swallowed nervously when the man began to walk toward her. “My cousins liked old school hip-hop,” she lied.
“So do I. There’s nothing better than Slick Rick, NWA, and Too Short.” He cracked a sweet smile once again and traced the scar on her face. Sheer will alone kept Poe from turning tail. “Too bad about this. You’re such a beauty, too.”
“Yeah, it’s just too fucking cruel,” she concurred.
In a blink, Poe snapped a knife from her left wrist and buried it into the vampire’s ear. His scream died in his throat when Poe took a step back and let him have two 35
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thunderous kicks in the groin. Before she could embed her other wrist knife into his heart, the poser-Nazi snaked his tongue to coil around Poe’s arm.
The wet, sandpapery feel of raw muscle holding her arm hostage more than disgusted her, but she ignored it.
“Ou soopid mutt itch,” he croaked, unable to speak ably with his tongue far removed from his mouth.