Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 17: Why fireworks make the best end to any story

Almost a day later, and I'm standing on an ugly grey-tiled balcony looking out over the orange-purple of the light pollution. The moon's up tonight, and naturally, it's about as full as can be. Apparently it's also the equinox. Fucking vampires. You'd think they'd learn. Or turn someone with an iota of originality. Maybe that part of a person dies when they get turned. I wouldn't know. The sort of conversation I tend to have with vampires doesn't exactly give me any indication.

Looking out at the city lights, I can hear others chatting in the background. Funnily enough, I'm not really in a chatty mood, so I'm standing out here alone.

No matter. My beer will keep me company.

It's good beer. Coutt has surprisingly good taste. My respect for him went up half a notch when he handed me the bottle, to go with the notch he went up when he invited me here to watch the explosion that'll mark when dozens of vamps get slayed tonight. The explosion that was partly his idea.

Yeah, my respect-o-meter is sitting at about seven for Coutt right now.

Don't look so surprised. If I didn't respect him at all, I'd never have invited him into the fold, so to speak.

Slayers like me have enough to fucking worry about without inviting some fuckup who's going to get everyone around them killed.

But this doesn't mean that I have to be fucking nice to him.

I look up at the night sky, but all I can see is the city lights being reflected back at me.

A pity really. I always did like stargazing.

I take a sip of my beer. It's this black stuff from Brazil, and it's pretty damn good. Bit of a chocolatey aftertaste, actually. If you don't believe me, then you've never had the good stuff, and trust me, most of the piss they have on tap is very much not a good example of “good stuff”.

It's almost a shame it's not strong stuff. I feel like drowning my sorrows, but I know I shouldn't. Right now I'd probably turn into a goddamned messy drunk, and no one likes a messy drunk.

Trying hard not to think about the events of the last 24 hours isn't working.

Nothing like trying not to think about something to get it stuck in your head.

And right now, what I'm trying hard not to think about is Tao.

I killed him.

He's gone.

Ten minutes later, ten minutes after I'd beheaded my ex, that nice boy who was turned into a bloodsucker, Jezebel barged in with Aarti a half-step behind her. For a minute I wondered where Tristan had got to- these two rarely worked without him- before I remembered that he was currently on crutches from the events earlier that day.

Which come to think of it was really partly my fault, but hey, he was the one attacking me.

If you know anything about me by now, then you should know that as far as I'm concerned, that's just not fucking on.

In those ten minutes, I'd stopped crying, but I hadn't moved from my spot up against the wall. The knife, my knife, that I'd used in my beheading of Tao was still in my grasp, dripping brown onto the carpet.

That stain's going to be a bitch to get out. Lucky Nana doesn't have pale carpets.

Jezebel took one look at me, and the body of Tao lying on the bathroom tiles, before she said to Aarti, “Right, you call Sam to help you get rid of this mess, I'm getting Bela out of here.”

Something about your average slayer- they don't phase easily. A normal, unaware woman would have seen the gore and probably screamed her head off then called the cops. I wouldn't blame her. The bathroom looked like the inside of a charnel house. I looked like some kind of bloodthirsty apparition fresh out of a Japanese horror film.

I need ed a shower. Badly.

For a moment I thought Aarti was going to argue with Jez, (though over what I can't imagine,) but then she glanced at me again. She just nodded then, and pulled out her mobile.

Fifteen minutes after that, I was dressed and sitting in the back of Tristan and Jez's four-wheel drive, headed to their place, and when another half hour was gone, I was showered, wearing one of Jez's old shirts, and (finally!) fast asleep on their extremely comfy couch with my knife under the cushion my head rested on.

The next thing I knew I was in the middle of a screaming nightmare, with someone shaking my shoulder.

“Bela! Bela wake up!”

Before my eyes were even open, I lashed out at them with my knife, or I would have, if it weren't for the manacle-like hand gripping that wrist, having pulled off a masterful block.

“Fucking let me-”

“Bela! For fuck's sake! It's me! Jezebel!”

Cautiously I open my eyes, and see her grey ones inches from mine.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Oops. Stabbing the lady you called up to come and help you out with your vampire ex... not exactly a good plan. Even if she didn't show up in time to be useful... though if I'd been turned, I guess I'd have given her the chance to have first shot at me. And Jez never works alone, so she could have probably dealt with vampiric me and Tao... shit, I really don't want to think about that.

Now that I have time to actually think, I shiver a little.

That was too goddamned close. The thing with Tao, nearly getting Jez with a knife.

I'm not a safe person to be around...

I'm glad I didn't stab her then, in anycase. Jez is good people. Werewolf or not, the occasional argument about “kill-stealing” or not, like her or not...

I guess the fact it was Jez I called says a lot about my opinion of her.

She also didn't say anything about the nightmare, or my reaction upon being woken up.

I have little doubt she's seen that kind of thing before. It makes me wonder how often she or Tristan wake each other up due to dreams of blood and violence. I hope that it's not as often as me. The worst part is trying to sort actual memories from fears. After a while it sort of all blurs together. Blurs together until all you see when your eyes are closed is blood and too-swift movements and teeth and ashes and screams.

Screams of rage, screams of fear, screams of defiance.

I've let out more than a few of each in my time. Caused a few too. Usually with more than a bit of relish, if I'm honest.

You think that sounds unhealthy? You bet your fat aunt it is. What part of “professional anthropomorphic monster killing” sounds like the sort of enterprise any sane person would get involved in voluntarily?

I've been through hell and back the last day or so. I kill more than half of the beings I sleep with, and last night I killed what was left of the closest thing I've ever had to a real relationship of the non-family variety. Of course I'm not bloody okay.

I haven't been okay for a bloody fucking hell of a long time.

It's at this point, as I'm gazing out at the city lights and thinking morbid thoughts that Tristan decides to join me.

“Hey Bela.”

“Hey fuckwit.”

He just laughs at me. I've heard more cheerful sounds at funerals.

I turn to look at him. Were those circles always under his eyes? He looks about as shitty as I look.

“You okay?” I ask him before I can stop myself.

Tristan rolls his eyes at me. “Course I'm okay. I'm just getting a little too old for this shit.” He sighs.

I shrug. “Who isn't. Apart from Gareth of course.”

Tristan snorts, and mutters something that I don't quite catch. I can't help but wonder how much I rub off on people.

“Are you alright, Bela?” he asks me. Huh. I don't remember the last time someone asked me that.

“Define 'alright',” I reply, and take another sip of beer. Damn, I'm going to have to ask for another. Just ran dry.

“You know...” Tristan pauses, takes a slug of his beer, and then plows ahead. “Relying on other people a little more often isn't going to kill you as fast as playing 'lone ranger' will.”

Huh. From Tristan, that was practically affectionate. A little abrupt maybe. The way that tumbled out I can't help but think he's been sitting on that one for a while.

I shrug. “I work better alone. Mostly because I'm yet to meet someone who's still active who would want to put up with all my crap on a near-daily basis.”

Tristan laughs, and this time it's a lighter sound. “You're not so bad. You only try to kill humans when they wake you up or startle you,” he winks at me.

“Hey,” I retort, shoving him in the shoulder a little, but not enough to knock him off his crutches. See? I can be nice. “I'll have you know those reflexes have saved my taut pretty arse more than once.”

“And I can attest to both the tautness and prettiness of that arse,” Tristan winks again. Does he have something in his eye? Seriously, what the fuck is with the winking?

I frown at him. “You're not going to do something stupid now like declare your undying love to me are you?”

Tristan snorts. “Fuck no. Jez would kill you, then she'd probably kill me. Besides,” he grins, “I've always preferred blondes.”

Ugh. Men. Can't help loving them, but goddamn, I could often live easier if they could keep their damn mouths shut.

Maybe that's why I'm an equal-opportunity lover.

I turn to look at the clock on the wall. It's green with big, white, pre-school hands, so it's easy to see the time. A couple of minutes to midnight.

Not long now.

As though everyone heard my thought, the others join me and Tristan at the balcony.

Apart from Gareth and Sam, pretty much the whole gang is here.

Sam's not here because I am.

His loss.

Gareth's “supervising” at the warehouse.

Honestly I think it's got more to do with the fact that he wanted front-row, close-enough-to-smell-the-flesh-burning seats to this little endeavour, but he'd never admit to that.

Aarti is drunk already, hanging off Jez and talking excitedly about something in a mix of Hindi and English. Jez is nodding. Either she understands Hindi, or she's humouring Aarti.

Huh, how about that. Judging by the fact she's just started translating to a perplexed Georgie, I'd say it's option A. I never knew she spoke Hindi.

Seeing Coutt, I wave my empty bottle at him. He wordlessly hands me a fresh one.

Good minion. Maybe I should start being nice to him after all...

Nah.

I look out towards the warehouse, and I see a plume of smoke rising. We're about a kilometre away, so it'll take a moment for the sound to-

BOOM.

Oh shit.

I just spilt half my fucking beer on Tristan. What a fucking waste of good beer.

Well. Despite my overreaction to the loud noise, that was a little underwhelming, really.

While Tristan swears loudly, and Coutt runs off for a towel, I finish my beer, mumble an apology to Tristan, nod an acknowledgement to everyone else, and then leave.

No point sticking around anymore.

Show's over.