was purposely low so no undead could overhear. “The moped is behind a garbage truck. Second alleyway to your right.”
Poe stared mutely at him or rather his cleft scar.
She felt like she ought to belt him one but was distracted by his nice manners. The vampire’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Plenty of time to stare later, Poe. You’ve got to get out of here.”
Her face immediately warmed. Without turning back, Poe ran, ignoring the wound in her thigh and the shards still embedded in her skin that burrowed deeper with every movement.
True to his word, the green Vespa was parked behind a garbage truck a short distance away. Poe took the key from around her neck, her fingers fumbling.
“Quit shaking, nincompoop,” she ordered herself and hopped on her trusted vehicle. The Vespa’s dependable engine burst to life. Maneuvering the little moped out of the clammy, cockroach-encrusted alleyway was cake.
“Penny girl, hope you’re still holding on. Forgive me for wishing you dead back there. I meant what I said about needing a reason to live,” she cooed tiredly 83
Rono/That Which Bites
to her new pet. “I’ll treat you real good. You can’t leave me.”
The slick road wasn’t as easy to manage in the dark, however, especially around the water-swept areas. Poe had no idea where she was going. It was too damn dark. She couldn’t go directly to her bunker because she was sure an undead was on her tail already. She decided to lead whatever was following her down to Santee Alley, in the heart of the Fashion District.
“The whole world’s a Skid Row cesspool,” Poe whispered to the dog.
The freezing rain added to the physical and mental beating that left her blue and shaking. Her waterproof trench coat wrapped warmly about the little dog. Poe had nothing on but her black Pixies t-shirt full of holes and soaked army cargo pants. With no weapons of any sort, only candy bars as hard as shin bone, Poe almost wished that the vampires would just hurry up and finish her off.
She could have ended it with a bullet had it not been for Sainvire’s interference. The creature was not ugly enough to be a wretched vampire.
“He didn’t even look pasty!” she grumbled. She’d never heard of a vampire with healthy skin color unless they were halfdeads. Even Trench had the complexion of bleached rice.
“He knew the name I go by,” Poe gritted, realizing too late.
Sainvire hadn’t called her Julia like the contemptible Trench vampire. He called her by her last name – a name only Goss, Sister Ann, and a few smugglers knew about. Her two friends were dead.
Maybe Sainvire ordered their torture. Was he there when Goss was bled to death? The thought made 84
Rono/That Which Bites
her insides boil. She stopped being cold, her body shook with rage.
“You’re dead, Sainvire,” she promised, vowing that she would kill the bastard before offing herself.
Poe cranked harder on the gas.
“Why didn’t he let me kill myself or leave me behind for Pengle?” she asked the rain.
She knew the answer. He believed the horseradish Sister and Goss had spread; there were hundreds of organized humans waiting to stab, behead, and hack to pieces the city’s vampire population while they slept.
A vampire’s worst nightmare to be sure. Her friends’
only means of making their deaths meaningful was by chiseling away the undead’s sense of safety.
They were able to fool Trench and Sainvire into thinking that they would be summarily executed. Very smart. Why, even Trench easily believed the hogwash she fed him about underground guerillas numbering over a thousand. To her knowledge, the outfit consisted of about three dozen, seven of whom she’d personally met.
She could feel it in the back of her neck.
Somebody was following her, probably after some extra brownie points. Having the reflex of one acquainted with a two-wheeler late in life, Poe cranked the throttle nervously, causing the moped to skid into a pool of murky water that stank like shit marinade. The Vespa fell on its side and pinned Poe’s injured leg. In that helpless position, two vampires advanced. They jogged. Some vampires had less impressive powers than others.
A golden-haired undead with a drawn-on pockmark on his chin hissed and roughly grabbed Poe by the shoulder. He wore a delicate cotton shirt with fluted 18th century buccaneer sleeves. Only the last few 85
Rono/That Which Bites
buttons from the mid-abdomen down were clasped, exposing his chesty hair. He wore red lipstick to boot.
“Great. Anne Rice fans,” Poe muttered under her breath and rolled her