Grace Athanasiou
Familiar
Covens of vampires are easy to find: just follow the scent of blood and rosewater until you reach some cavernous, underground hideout where the light can’t get in. Tonight, I find myself in some forgotten corridor of the sewer system on the outskirts of the city. As I pry the manhole cover open with a crowbar, the sweetness disappears under the crushing stench of sewage. I try not to gag. It’s alright, I tell myself. Get through the next few hours and none of it will matter anymore. No more pain, no more discomfort, no more loneliness. So I ignore filth soaking the leg of my pants and put one foot in front of the other until I hear the music. They’ve tucked themselves into a dark, dry corner, just like I knew they would.
Vampire gatherings aren’t over the top in their cruelty. There are no guitar strings of extracted sinews, no drums made from human skin. In fact, there are no instruments at all. Just voices. Harmonies, echoing in the dark. Listen long enough and they don’t even sound like people anymore.
I crouch in a crevice at the mouth of the opening as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark.
When they do, I bask in the coven’s glory. They chant and sing and dance in concentric circles, voices pouring from their bloodstained mouths. Sometimes, the coven themselves can be so mesmerizing that you don’t even notice the bodies that litter the floor. Most are human, of course, but some have those telltale fangs biting into the cold flesh of their lips. Dead humans look like corpses, but dead vampires look like grey, dried-out husks.
Starvation. It will not find me once I turn.
Once my legs start to burn from crouching, I stand. A small rock is dislodged by my shift in weight. The noise of it echoes through the sewer, sending the vampires’ song to a grinding halt. In an instant, dozens of faces turn to me. Their eyes glow in the dark like alligators. I forgot about that, in the haze of my search.
From the center of the circle, one vampire emerges. “Mortal. You are not invited here. Turn back now, and we will let you leave.”
It’s a lie, of course. Most vampire victims are found lying on their stomachs, back turned to the monsters. But I will make him turn me face to face.
“No. I will not leave. Whatever happens, I accept it.” I welcome it, I did not need to say.
The coven leader walks painstakingly slow until he’s a hair’s breadth away. He has no heartbeat, no breath for me to feel on my skin. For a moment, he stares at me with a mix of mirth and pity.
“If you insist.” His eyes flash red and his mouth falls open.
He lowers himself down to my neck, low enough that the tips of his fangs graze my skin. He must be able to tell that my heart is racing so fast that it’s on the verge of breaking through my ribcage.
And then he stops. His grip on my shoulders loosens and I watch as his fangs retract back into his gums.
“You’re a tricky one, aren’t you?” He runs a fingertip over the crease of my neck. “I can smell them in your blood. The wolf, the witch, the devil. But none of them took, did they? Not entirely.”
Hot, childish tears well up in my eyes. “Like you said. They didn’t take. So turn me.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re lying.” But even as the words leave my mouth, I can see the truth in his dead shark eyes.
It’s the vampire’s voice, but it’s also the leader of the wolf pack back in Crescent City, and the high priestess of the witches in Petaluma, and the demon I summoned at a crossroads by the Salton Sea. It’s a harmony of voices telling me that something in my blood, or my bones, or my aura says that I’m born to be alone. Something inside me repels them all.
I can see it now: me, bruised and battered, limping away from the vampires like I had the past three times. In a daze, I will get back to my car and drive myself home to my empty AirBNB. I’ll curl up on the couch there, or maybe on the floor, until the app figures out that I’m using a stolen credit card. And then I’ll run again, off to some public library in some little desert town to conjure up a new plan. One of these days, my hopes will be ground into glass for the final time.
As always, my fantasies rescue me. I am leading my own coven of vampires in song. I am running through the night, moonlight and wind on my fur. I am casting a spell, channeling the power of a thousand women. I am dancing in the flames of Hell. The visions grow brighter and brighter until they dissolve into a blinding white light.
I am everything. I am nothing at all.
When I come to, the sewer is silent. I am standing on a pile of death. Not bodies, but bones. Picked clean.
Armful by armful, I carry the remains out of the sewer and lay them to rest in a field, in the fresh air. Dawn is breaking on the horizon. It’s romantic, almost. Who knows how long it’s been since these bones have seen the sun?
When I’m finished, I shove the manhole cover back in place and clean myself off. Then, I get in my car and start driving west. I’ve heard there’s an epidemic of mushrooms in a town outside of San Diego. They grow overnight, all in perfect circles. Public health officials are reporting vivid nightmares, erratic behavior, and strange ranting from the townspeople.
It’s perfect. Fifth time must be the charm.
Grace Athanasiou is an author of speculative fiction. Her short stories have been published in Dracula Beyond Stoker Magazine, Altitude Press, and Reader Beware: A Fear Street Appreciation Anthology, among other places. Her story "Beautiful Monster" was recommended by editor Ellen Datlow for The Best Horror of the Year, Volume Sixteen.
She writes by night in New York City.
Find her online at:
chillsubs.com/profile/graceathanasiou.
Banner Art:
Photo by Himal Rana, Unsplash, 2021
