Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 10: Why Bela hates cliffhangers... and 'crats

Filling the small, cosy lounge-room of Nana's terrace house are expressions of dawning realization. Shock and not a little chagrin seems to be in fashion as the men come back to themselves, their expressions not unlike those of a man who has just realised that his wild night out has ended in a coyote ugly.

They all look fucking ridiculous.

It's not that I'm not aware of why they all look this way. Being mindraped by a telepath tends to make one feel vulnerable and slightly soiled, like someone with fingers reminiscent of those of an unwashed sewerage farmer has been rifling through one's head.

“Pleasant” is not the word used to describe this sensation, though I've heard there are a few individuals who claim that a consensual mind-reading can be quite pleasureable, particularly if the telepath has the ability to trigger the medial forebrain bundle, also known as either the “pleasure” or “addiction” centre.

Screw that black and blue. If I want an orgasm I'll organise it the old fashioned way, without any of this “soul-bonding” shit. If I ever meet the moronic sapsack who coined the term “soul-bonding”, I'm going to kick their asses from here to the nearest landfill.

Most people who are Aware of the existence of telepaths and who aren't clinically insane take “precautions” against them, including, but not limited to regular meditation, practicing “mind attacks” (including getting truly obnoxious songs stuck in the telepath's heads, Aqua and Rick Astley anyone?) and wearing tinfoil head pieces. The first two can have a certain amount of usefulness, but the last merely makes the wearer look ridiculous whilst giving them a false sense of security, not unlike your average tourist attempting to “dress like a local” at any of your more exotic travel destinations.

Anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with telepaths should know that when it comes down to it, all it takes to get a telepath out of one's head is generally pretty simple- once you know they're playing with your thoughts, all you need to do is stop thinking, and just act.

One would think that Cooperative flunkies would have the experience to break out of a telepathic cycle, or at least be carrying one of those amulets that negate any fondling of their brainwaves.

Seriously unprofessional to get so completely caught when it's often part of their job to deal with thought-riflers.

Though come to think of it, these guys look like newbies... they don't have that super-polished cohesion that I've seen in Cooperative ranks before... even Tristan got caught up in this one.

Definitely going to have to give him shit about that later.

Speaking of which, behind me, Tristan swears loudly and falls to the floor with a thump like a stunned buffalo. To be fair, his foot's probably hurting him something vicious since I stomped on it with my heel.

Should have known better than to grab me, under the influence or no... usually for someone to get the picture I only need to step on them once in my working boots. Once.

Nana's just come thundering down the stairs looking absolutely livid. One of the telepaths must have been keeping her out of the way, which was fortunate.

For them.

“De hell is happening here!” she shrieks. “I been sitting in my room for last twenty minutes unable to get off bed because someone here playing mindfucks! Let me at him, I will cut his ears and nose off and feed them to him! Then I'll-”

Have I mentioned that I fucking love my Nana?

Tempted as I am to let her continue her tirade though, I have some things to settle first before I succumb to my increasing urge to slaughter my braincells with alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

It's that or kill something, but frankly, I'm fucking exhausted, and this isn't really my area. Time to sort these bozos out then call for backup.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm dying of shock too. But sometimes a lady just has to accept that some things simply can't be solved by her thrustings.

Of one kind or another, if you know what I mean, wink wink nudge nudge say no more.

“Slow down Nana, show's not over yet,” I interrupt her blood thirsty rant, nodding towards the other people in the room, the two bruised and unconscious telepaths, six very dazed-looking men in identical grey suits, Tristan sitting on the floor cradling his foot and moaning.

Oh. It's bleeding. Oops.

“How did you know he was controlling us?” One of the suits, in a voice that sounds half-amazed, half-impressed, asks me.

The kid looks like he's barely out of highschool. That in itself should have been enough to tell me that this wasn't a fully trained squad from the Cooperative, but in my defense, I'd been just a little distracted, thinking more about the threat they posed than checking their IDs.

Why do I always get stuck with the rookies?

I can see a few (slightly) more seasoned agents in the crowd of five who look like they've figured out what must have happened, if the grim expressions are anything to go by.

I decide to explain anyway, to make sure everyone's up to speed, because if too many people ask dumb questions in the next while or so I might get an impulse to stab them.

“I could tell you were all being controlled, because none of you were acting coordinated, you were all dull and inflectionless. I've met some of your people before, and they were impressive, not to mention ruthless. It wouldn't have been hard for one of you to get me off Dickhead over there,” I indicate the Suit Telepath, “but even when I threatened his life you were all sitting around like a pack of zombies. So either he's suicidal, because I sure as fuck wasn't kidding about the intended violence thing, or someone was controlling him.” At least three of them are nodding, which is a relief, because my patience is about three seconds from snapping.

“If I were you guys I'd call someone up the chain of the command. I don't know how the hell a 'path managed to get ahold of you lot, but something tells me your bosses might want to know the missing interns aren't playing hookey at the local strip-club.”

One of the more seasoned suits (he's probably seen like two months more action than the others) seems to take that as his cue to take over, and I'm grateful, as I honestly hate having to organise sheep. There's a good reason I work alone, apart from my delightfully engaging personality and all-encompassing love of humankind.

Sarcasm aside, I'm almost relieved the bureaucrats are about to get involved, because I'm starting to think I might be in over my head.

Send your garden variety vamp in my direction and I'll have it staked faster than you can say “sexy barbeque”, but evil, gorgeous, completely confusing telepaths?

Fucking I'm good with. Mindfucking not so much.

Within fifteen minutes the room is swarming with Cooperative agents, half of whom appear to want me to tell them, personally, what I already told the younger Suits, the other half generally trampling around being efficient, and herding everyone out of the house so that they can get some “psychic imprints or Traces” of what went down.

The latter lot I don't mind as they're obviously being professional, but the harrassment from the formers is something that can go fuck itself.

“Look, do you... people want my statement?” I demand. No calling the flunkies donkey dicks Bela, it's not professional.

“Yes, of course,” one of the more intense ones pipes up in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, “now if you could just explain to me what exactly...”

I wave my hand at the irritating falsetto speaker.

“I am prepared to make one official statement,” I snap, “but that is exactly what I want it to be. Happening one time only and officially. So set me up somewhere nice and officey with some of your bureaucrats and a tape recorder, and then we'll go from there, okay?”

“Madam,” replies one of the flunkies in a condescending tone, “what makes you think that we would have such a facility. We are not the police.”

I stare at him, expression incredulous.

“You guys are the fucking Cooperative. You're the motherfucking go-to guys for supernatural intel. Bullshit you don't have some nice cushy premises where we can't do this in such a way that your higher-ups are going to get my story verbatim. There is no fucking way I'm going to trust you minions to not play spindoctors to make your mates look good and fuck this up for me.” I scowl, and am interested to note that one or two of them look decidedly uncomfortable. Either my rep is getting better, these guys just don't know how to deal with me, or I hit the nail on the head.

“Besides, I have some complaints to put forward, regarding the inconvenience of having your lot invade my Nana's house, not to mention figuring out what in the name of hellfire and damnation is really going down with this Rutley bozo.”

Faces begin to look decidedly shifty, and one of the flunkies mutters something about “lack of liability in case of mindcontrol.”

That kind of thinking right there can go fuck itself with a sledgehammer.

I threaten to call Gareth, and suddenly things are moving much more in my favour.

I like having a mentor who is scarier than I am.



Did I mention that I fucking hate bureaucrats? I finally convinced the Cooperative boys (my god is that a Children's Python of a misnomer) to set me up all legit like for my story-telling session (they called it an “evidence-gathering debrief” but I avoid bureaucratese if I can avoid it... shit, next thing you know they'll be talking about “synergy” and “creative spending” and then we'll all be fucked,) but then they managed to pair me up with a guy I would have to say was the anti-Bela.

Seriously, sitting before me was this beige-wearing, balding, varicose-veined, bulbous-nosed, frump of a male 'crat with nicotine- and coffee-stained teeth, a clipboard as well as the dictaphone, and a fucking tie-clip on his “quirky” Bugs Bunny tie to keep it out of his most likely accurately labelled novelty coffee mug. What kind of man actually drinks from a mug that says 'I had sex 8 times last night alone- and I Do mean alone'*? Seriously, that shit takes an amazing amount of... something.

“Ex-girlfriend or petty co-worker?” I ask him.

“What?” he asks, looking confused.

“Your mug, I assumed that it was a gift, unless of course you have a particular wish to tell the world about your sexlife or distinct lack thereof,” I say, gesturing towards the internet-order monstrosity.

“Oh this? My Aunt Matilda got it for me.”

Okay... either the 'crat's aunt is particularly cruel or she can't read.

“...Why?” Does she hate her nephew that much or does she simply have a cruel and twisted sense of humour? Or both?

He shrugs. “People used to steal my coffee cup. They don't anymore.”

...That makes much more sense than it should.

It's about now that he clicks the “record” button on the dictaphone, and suddenly becomes even more personalityless.

“If you could please state your full name for the recording?”

“You had better be shitting me.”

“Excuse me?”

“What are you, a robot? You know my name, you label your own bloody tape.”

“'Bela' is not going to be enough for our records. It's Cooperative policy to attempt to gain complete records of slayers when we come into contact with them.”

“Oh, hell no. No, no, no. There is no fucking way you guys are getting anything that's not common knowledge about me!” The motherfuckers! If anyone with a grudge got ahold of my info and sold it to a Bumpy, I'd be up shit creek before they could say, “intelligence leak”. Uh uh, fuck that noise.

The 'crat has the gall to actually try a slightly superior look. Oh for the love of Christ. He's going to pull a “please let me do my job, it's regulations” on me.

“Actually, we already know your name Ms Isabela Magdalena Hagelow, resident of a small house in Summer Hill, aged mid-twenties. Our file on you includes confirmed kills, names of associates and lovers, several eye-witness accounts detailing your suspected capabilities, and the fact that you order lattes at Wheels, unless you've had a bad night, in which case you tend to order black coffee with two shots of whiskey.”

....Fuck.

Either he's making this up, I wasn't discreet enough, or these guys are much better than I ever suspected... or a combination. It wouldn't be hard to track me to Summer Hill- I sometimes catch the train, so there's probably security footage of me leaving the station out there, but the personal details are not making me happy. Someone's ratted me out. Either that or these guys have got a 'path to do a scan of one of my nearest and dearest, and if that's the case then well.

There's going to be a world of trouble, either way.

“It's company policy to keep an eye on new slayers, in case we have to send home a body- don't hurt me! I'm just a desk-worker!”

Oh, heh, I hadn't even realised I'd drawn my knife. And placed it under his chins. Wow, my kill reflex is starting to get knee-jerk. I mean, I can't go to the movies anymore because last time I watched an action flick I ended up accidentally throwing my second-favourite hunting knife into the screen when there was a “insert sudden movement to make the audience jump” bit. The fact it was a kids' movie was just depressing. I never did get my knife back either.

I stare at the 'crat until his face glistens with sweat and oil, then slowly lower myself back into the chair.

“Hang on, why did you ask me to tell you my name if you already knew it?”

“It's standard procedure to gauge the paranoia levels of anyone we interview. You pulled one knife on me and didn't make me bleed, so you're a 6 on the RIP scale.”

He looks expectantly at me and I glare at him again. He quickly resumes babbling.

“Officially it's the 'Reflexive Instinct Paranoia' scale, but around the office we generally stick to the acronym- serves as a warning to the new recruits. It goes up to 11 in case you were wondering.”

What? I only rate a 6? Bullshit!

“Keeping in mind that the only slayer to earn an 11 in history killed an entire wing of the Cooperative men because one of them was called 'Valentino'. Before him the scale only went up to 10.”

Oh schadenfreude. On the one hand, of the three Valentinos I've fucked, two were vamps and one was a wannabe Unaware (don't even get me started), so I can see why this guy might have freaked. On the other hand: just when I was worrying that I might be a bit nutball, I hear about this guy. It's always good to know you're not the worst case in the asylum.

The 'crat's starting to cool as I sit here mulling this over. Guess they train them to recognise when a slayer has decided to let them live. Or this guy has had previous experience. Hard to believe a throwback like this slick asshole might be used to dealing with people like me, but now that I'm looking past the frumpy exterior, I notice the fact that his hand is positioned in a slightly awkward position reaching under the table (a panic button?), and that despite the stream of babble, he's inspecting me like I'm an autopsied specimen of a rare species of lizard.

Now that I think about it, he's probably trained to act all unthreatening and pathetic in case of potential psychotic slayers like me. He is a Cooperative agent, and they're well known for being right sneaky bastards.

The change from trembling jellyfish to tiger shark scientist though is forcing me to reassess this man. Obviously despite the act, this is not a person worth fucking with, if only because he could potentially summon half a building of agents to suppress any homicidal urges I might have.

Now that would really be counterproductive.

Now, either he's underestimated me, or he's testing me. I can tell by the way he's relaxed his guard that he either doesn't respect my powers of observation enough to make a huge effort in convincing me that he's just some poor dumb clerk here to do his job, or he's waiting for me to call him on it. Not going to happen. I might be insistent on respect from my colleagues, but slayers are generally pretty straight-forward once you figure out their motives.

This 'crat, however, is a paper-shuffling member of an intelligence organisation that's well known for their We Know Everything So Don't You Fuck With Us policy.

I honestly couldn't be arsed getting into a fight with one of their minions. Assuming I haven't already made a bad impression, I don't have anything to prove with this man. Once I've said my piece and got my info, I'm getting the fuck out of here.

I decide to break the silence with sarcasm. If my profile is as complete as he implied, he'll be expecting that.

“So do you guys really know where I live, or did you leave my address out for the fun of it?”

“It would be improper procedure to say it out loud while recording,” he replies calmly.

“But my full name is fair game, never mind the fact that there are plenty of hedge-witches who could make my life a living hell if they managed to get ahold of it, and for that matter could then use the phone directory to find out exactly where I live,” I scoff. They're fucking pushing it, they are.

Wait a second... “Who has access to my file?”

For the first time, a slight frown crosses the 'crat's pock-marked, oily visage. Maybe I've been over-playing this, but here was I thinking that that was a perfectly natural question to ask.
“Why is this pertinent?”

“Recently a vamp tracked me down to my house. Stupid thing had a crush on me. It tried to impress me with roses and bad poetry, and I staked it with my umbrella.”

The 'crat blinks, his mouth opening slightly in an effort to form some sort of words, but I interrupt him. “Somehow the little bloodsucker found out my address. Even Gareth doesn't know where I live, and he's one of four Aware who actually knows my full name. The other three are my niece, my Nana, and my sister, so you had better tell me where you're getting your information from buddy or there's going to be hell to pay.”

The 'crat rolls his eyes, clearly bored by my question.

Why do I have the feeling I'm really not going to like this?

“Gareth is one of our best operatives. He gave us your stats years ago when you first stumbled across Wheels when you'd only killed three vamps.”

Well, fuck.

I think about his words for a minute, and right then I feel like the idiot this 'crat seems to take me for.

It all makes a stupid sort of sense. Of course Gareth is still keeping his hand in the game. Of course he's a source for the Cooperative. It would only make sense- he must hear all sorts of interesting tidbits as we come through his joint looking to wind down after a night of vamp-hunting, so it wouldn't be hard at all for him to then feed that goss to the Cooperative. Now that I think about it, it's probably where he got the capital to start his cafe- vampire hunting is not generally a well-paid vocation, and that spot in the City can't be cheap.

And he told them about me early on. Damnit. Must have had about the same amount of faith in me as I'd had in Coutt.

Now that's just fucking depressing.

The 'crat's still watching me. Cagey bastard. Why he bothered to tell me about Gareth is something I'm going to worry about later- right now, I have older vamps to stake.

“Okay fuck this conspiracy shit. Do you want to know what happened or not?”

“Please,” he replies, calmly, condescendingly. The prick. “Start from the part where you entered your grandmother's house.”

I tell him the story, with occasional interruptions as he demands clarification of what I'd consider minutiae, but what he calls “essential details to ensure the fullness of my report”. About the point where I'm telling him about what Rutley was saying to me, I notice his face turn pastier, but for a change he doesn't interrupt.

Weird.

I get to the bit where the Cooperative showed up, and the 'crat stops me, then turns off the recorder.

“On behalf of the Cooperative I would like to state my deepest apologies for the trouble you and your grandmother endured. You will both be compensated for your trouble.”

I can feel my eyebrows attempting to escape to my hairline.

“What, that's it?”

The 'crat's lips purse.

“Unless you think you have any insights that we could use, then yes, we are done.”

The dismissal in his tone is obvious, and that irritates me into saying, “Well, it just so fucking happens I do have a theory, and if I'm right, you're not going fucking to like it.”

The 'crat snorts derisively. Fucking hell, he's not even pretending to pander to the slayer ego anymore. Must have figured out it was a waste of time. Whether it's because he thinks I'm some sort of bimbo or because he's realised I don't give a shit about his little act and have no interest in killing him because it would be wasteful is anybody's guess.

“Oh do tell. I'm sure the higher-ups would love to hear what you have to say about this debacle.”

Okay, that is fucking it. No one sasses Bela.

“You know, the first time I met Rutley, he called himself 'Taylan', and he was trying to tell me and Gareth about some bullshit prophecy. He was prudish, quiet, and frankly a little too well-informed about some things and surprisingly ignorant in others.” He'd heard of me, he'd heard of Gareth, but he hadn't heard of Wheels? Now that right there was fishy. Wheels was famous- we'd had a few pilgrim-types come through even, up until Gareth had blown his top at a pair of particularly obsequious “Zombie specialists” and issued a general “Tourists fuck off” notice. People still show up every once in a while, but at least they aren't dumb enough to ask Gareth for his autograph anymore.

“Then suddenly barely two days later, Taylan becomes Rutley, asshole extraordinaire, who threatens Nana, puts the mojo on everyone in the house, and then when I break free, starts alternately spouting absolute filth, and having some sort of bizarre fit over my inner monologue.”

'Crat looks like he wants to say something here, but I ignore him and steamroll onwards.

“Then we're suddenly beset by a pack of baby Cooperatives, with their supposed minder controlling them and making some pathetic attempt at attacking me.”

I take a breath.

“Now ignoring the fact that this fracas seems to look suspiciously like its fulcrum is yours truly, and any comments I could make that might disparage your personnel screening process, it looks like we've got at least one 'path being controlled by another. Now, for a second there I thought it might be Rutley, but if he was powerful enough to control another 'path, then no way should I have been able to break out, annoying song repertoire or no. No, seeing as Rutley himself was acting like he had MPD and he similarly showed a lack of concern for his person, I'm thinking that there is something very wrong with this jigsaw puzzle. I thought I was doing a 300 piece gloomy castle, but right now it's looking like a 5000 piece fractal clusterfuck.”

The 'crat has stopped looking like there's a bad smell under his nose and appears to be fighting a battle against the corners of his mouth.

Yeah, yeah, laugh it up Mr. Creepy 'Crat. See how you like it when you defend two paranormal personal attacks within about three hours. I don't want or need any kind of fucking support group, but I sure as hell won't want to be him when karma catches up with him for finding my predicament so amusing.

“You have a way with words Ms. Hagelow,” fuck you too mister, “but you're in over your head,” he tells me, pressing a button under his desk. He looks me directly in the eye, and has the balls to give me the hackneyed line: “If you're intelligent, you will forget about this.”

Before I can protest, or smash his face in for being a colossal prick, the door opens and three Cooperative agents stroll in. I consider resisting their silent “request” to let them escort me from the building, but I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that that little “you're in over your head” comment was a “STFU nOOb” order. Frankly, I'm still off balance, and letting them have their way is unusually tempting.

They aren't famed as intelligence gatherers because they invite people in and ask them nicely over tea and biscuits what the fuck is going on. The fact that they don't seem overly interested in me can only be a good thing, right?

The agents give me a rather polite bum's rush and as they shove me out a side door into an alley, I hear the lock click behind me, followed by the sound of several dead-bolts being driven home.

Hmmm, they really wanted me out of there then. Interesting. I was mostly blowing smoke with my little theory... but if they were so casual about sending me away, why bother making sure I can't get back inside?

Either I was completely wrong... or I might just have been onto something when I said Rutley, or Taylan, or whatever the fuck his real name is wasn't the one running the show...

The fact that this shit seems to be somehow centred on me is another thing making my slaydar go into hyperdrive. In that my instincts are screaming at me to go out and find something to stab, repeatedly, until the bad things go away.

I got into this business for revenge. I stayed in ostensibly due to “duty” but also to have a callous sort of fun. There's nothing more satisfying than the feeling of a sick squish and then a dull burst of decayed flesh that comes with a good bloodsucker slaying, and with each successful slaying, the guilt I felt over what happened with Tao was slightly assuaged.

But this isn't like before. They know where I live. They know who I am. They know about Nana. They have fucking mind control, and I honestly don't know what can do to stop them.

This isn't bloody Harry Potter. I don't have a secret power that they know not. I'm not really in this for the good of humankind, and I am not the only one who can do my job. My name is well known because I'm considered bizarre, an embarrassment to the “brave tradition of slaying”. I'm the non-incestuous mother-, father-, sister- and brother-fucking Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer, and the most vamps I've ever taken on at a time without backup is three, and that was very nearly a quite fatal mistake.

I'm a total enigma to pretty much everyone else in the business, and they'll be frankly relieved when I'm gone, because then they won't have to keep delegating the task of attempting to explain me, the black sheep of the family, to the new recruits.

The drinking would have been okay. The bad attitude is hardly unsual. But luring in vamps the same way they lure in prey and then showing them a good time before I kill them?

Now that one confuses the shit out of them.

Hell, I know I'm fucked up. I'm a twisted bitter old whore and I still have a few years to go until I hit 30. That's assuming I hit 30. I never went into this business expecting to come out alive.

Ironically, the fact I have a hellbent desire to take as many of them with me has forestalled my deathwish. I've cut it close so many times I barely even get a hit out of it anymore. Stupid survival instinct. One day it won't serve me so well.

A crunch of broken glass from the alleyway to my left, and I'm whirling around, knife out, before I've consciously thought “threat”.

I stare into the shadows trying to make out the face of whoever interrupted my train of thought, when they speak up.

“Hey Bela, belladonna sweet. Why, you look good enough to eat.”

Oh balls, it's my greatest nemesis.

Bad poetry.


.............................................................................................................................................................
*The coffee mug was inspired by an honest to God real slogan on a T-shirt. I shit you not.

Okay, I'm sure I mentioned to someone that this one would only take me two weeks. Apparently I'm a big fat liar. I got about halfway through this chapter, then life happened. On the upside, I have already got a decent chunk of the next chapter done, due to sudden brainwave- it took me ages to figure out a decent way to do the interview in a suck-free manner. I'm still not entirely happy with it, but I needed to get some of the filler out of the way for the action that'll be coming in during the next couple of chapters.
Thank you all for all the wonderful reviews- it's you guys that are keeping me writing this monster- well, that and the cartharsis value. Nothing like writing a scene about Bela tearing into someone when I'm feeling a bit stressed out :P.

Anyway, I'm always interested in what you guys think about this story, so if you liked it, or hated it for that matter, send me a line, and hey, you never know, your suggestion might become plot.

Catchya,
Erisah