Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer

Chapter 7: Why Bela likes to eat sardine and pickle sandwiches on her day off.

I wake up the next afternoon at about half past one, and I feel like utter shit.

It must have been about 5am when I stumbled inside this morning, because the sky was getting that kind of light-grey, even-the-sun-thinks-it's-too-early kinda look about it.

If I was a normal person this would be a problem, because it would fucking suck flaming donkey balls to come home at such a time only to have to drag myself to some beige and grey nine to five office monkey bullshit desk-occupancy gig.

Honestly, can you see me ever willingly signing up for that?

If you said 'yes, I could totally see Bela in a tweed suit pushing pencils' then clearly you're too dumb to live, and I'd probably have to consciously restrain myself from pointing you towards the nearest vamp nest so I could keep a more kosher record of community service killings.

I think I'd more realistically see myself tying myself to a tree in Hyde Park and slitting my wrists, calling out “Heeeeere Vampy, Vampy Vampies! Come and get yourselves some fresh B negative!” first.

The part about sending you to the vamp nest would, believe it or not, be an almost necessary step in this plan to kill you, though if anyone from my world found out I would be in some pretty serious trouble.

Seeing as it's kinda against the spirit of the whole business, They kinda frown on slayers sending innocents out to be bitten, or staking anyone who isn't undead.

Jokes in poor taste aside, usually if I came across such a person I'd be the one doing the frowning.

Or the hauling of said murderer to the nearest police station to give a full confession.

I've had to do that before, too.

It was about three years ago now, when there were a few disappearances out Blacktown way. Disappearances are generally a fairly effective way to pick up vamp activity (which is how Tristan's lot tend to do their pinpointing) and there had been enough in this one area over a relatively short period of time that I was starting to suspect that there must be either one very hungry vamp or a group of them that wasn't feeling particularly discreet.

As you can imagine, either of these possibilities would be a slight problem.

Kinda in the same way that having the brakes of a schoolbus give out when going down a steep incline in the Blue Mountains region might be a slight problem, really.

A whole lot of innocent people were about to play Russian Roulette with their lives, and they didn't even know it.

Blacktown is a slightly different area to my usual territory. As you've no doubt ascertained, I usually stake out the CBD club scene, pretending to be a bit gothic so I can blend in with the usual crowd of young pierced pill-poppers.

Blacktown on the otherhand is out in the western suburbs, an area that is considered by those living in the prettier, more expensive suburbs to be the area where the less privileged live. It's got a reputation for being a rough area, full of bogans and ockers, with knifings and a roaring drug trade going through the school systems.

Apparently one of the lesser moral panic obsessed commercial channel “news teams” pretty much stakes out some of the highschools down there, not unlike a group of sharks that might remain near a jetty that is a popular place to dump the entrails of gutted fish.

Actually, it's not really different to anywhere else in Sydney- mostly it's just people living their lives, trying to stay afloat and solvent despite high unemployment rates and credit card bills.

Main difference between highschool kids in this area is that there is a little less money for them to splash about, so the drugs of choice are generally booze and pot instead of booze and tablets of E.

My point being that on this particular job, unless I wanted to stick out like a pair of pink socks in a parade of waiters, I had to leave my leather bodice at home.

Fuck that felt weird.

Fortunately it was cold out, so I compensated by wearing a slightly-oversized navy parka that had enough pockets and drape for me to hide my usual arsenal, over a beige button-up blouse I'd been meaning to chuck since I'd acquired it one Christmas from my mother. A pair of baggy “well, if I have to burn them it probably won't be a huge loss” jeans I'd acquired from some ex-lover I'd kicked out prematurely for being a dickhead, and a big glittery pink and blue headband that Georgie had bought for me one year as a joke, matched my $2 eye shadow completed the look.

I felt disturbingly comfortable in that get-up, and even the fact that I was still wearing my steel-tipped stillettoes didn't make me feel any less ridiculous and out of uniform.

So hear I am, all boganned up and nursing an ice-cold beer that was nonetheless warming me up a little in the corner of this dingy little dive called the Royal, or the Crown, or something to do with fusty monarchs, that I'd gathered to be the common denominator so far as the disappearances went, when this man walks in and suddenly sends all of my “Kill him before he kills you” instincts into overdrive.

It was in the noiseless, effortless, prowling strut. The clean-shaven well-disguised contempt towards every person in the bar. The way he moved as though he owned the place, as though he was a feral cat amongst shrieking guinea pigs.

And he wasn't a vampire.

It was that part right there that chilled me to the fucking bone. He wasn't dressed in anything overly vintage, he wasn't anaemic looking, and he wasn't supernaturally graceful, but something about the way he stood, looked around the bar with this slyly smug “I'm a threat and you don't even know about it” look, and I knew, even before I noticed that there was a tiny fleck of blood on his shirt-cuff.

After a while in my occupation, you start to just know the difference between blood and tomato sauce stains. I wished it had been the latter.

He was your classic smiling assassin, and it was all I could do to repress a shiver of revulsion at the very sight of this predatorial creep.

Thus, you can imagine my consternation when Mr Creep received a quite enthusiastic welcome, a general burbling of “Hey hey! It's Bernie!” rolling its way about the bar.
When it comes to figuring out how to gain social capital, sociopaths are always scarily adept.

He did a round of the bar, smiling, shaking hands and slapping backs. He threw a few notes on the bar, and announced that the next round was on him, to the accompaniment of raucous cheers. Throughout it all, I could feel his eyes continuously flicking towards me.

Predators have a talent for recognising fellow predators in their midst, and so it took “Bernie” all of about thirty seconds to spot me on my lonely barstool.

On the other hand, this was the sort of place where people had regular spots, and seats that were by unwritten law, theirs, so I probably stuck out like a sore thumb, even if I had left the sparkly headband at home.

He probably thought I was some kind of cop, the way he casually sauntered over to me and scoped me out, his eyes laughingly telling me that my disguise sucked.

Of course it did. Obvious outsiders always make better targets for wily vamps, as the locals would be unlikely to sound the alarm if I, having appeared at the local bar for one day, were to just as suddenly disappear. Catching the attention of the local predator had been my intention, and the fact that this man wasn't a vampire didn't make him any less of a predator.

Actually, vamps made me feel less physically ill. At least their killing was partly a survival thing. Though like cats they liked to play with their food, in the end, they hunted to eat.

This man however...

I was beginning to suspect that here was a man who was in it entirely for the “play”.

Forcefully suppressing shudders, I smiled up at him, returning his offer for small talk as he bought me a drink and proceeded to pretend to flirt with me.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw a greying woman in a denim overall and lurid purple skivvy look our way suspiciously. I wondered if this man had been the last person she had seen one of her friends with. By the way she gritted her teeth and skulled her schooner of dark beer, I could see that she was uncomfortable. I watched as she wiped her mouth, and decided to try a gamble. Smiling at the man who was calling himself Bernie, I excused myself, heading for the toilets that were located ten paces to the left of Purple Skivvy.

Shouldering through the creaky, paint-chipped door, I planted myself in front of the tiny plastic-framed mirror over the sink and adjusted my hair under the head band. A few seconds later, I heard the door creak behind me, followed by clonking footsteps towards me.

I checked in the mirror, and sure enough, it was Purple Skivvy.

Figuring I'd rather not waste any time, I turned slightly towards her and said, “If you're going to warn me off from that fucker, don't worry about it honey, I have a feeling I already know the basics of whatever you're going to tell me.”

Purple Skivvy seemed unimpressed. “Oh yeah? Think you can cope with a policeman and public figure who is investigating the 'disappearances' that I know for a fact he's caused?” As she talked, I couldn't help but notice the little flecks of spit that came from her mouth. I moved aside a little to avoid a shower, and showed her just how unconcerned I was.

“Sure I can. It's my job to deal with scum. He's not too different from the usual diseased cloacas I deal with.”

The woman snorted. “Sure. You look so green that Martians would come to you on bended knee with space roses. You ever dealt with a serial killer little girl? Who the fuck you think you are, Bela the Nymphomaniac Vampire Slayer?”

At the time, I'd never heard this particular string of names added to mine, and I wasn't sure whether to be flattered that this chickie had heard of me or pissed off beyond measure about the comment on my sex life.

Where the hell do they get these titles? If I ever find out who started that one, they're going to be in a world of pain.

Bet you it was Tristan. It would be just like him, the dirty son of a whore.

I decided to be nice to the poor oblivious thing and not bite her head off for her unfortunate choice of epithet. “So that's what they call me these days. Didn't know I was getting infamous.”

Purple Skivvy goggled at me. I sighed. Great, if she walks out of here, my cover is so blown it's going to think it's a glory-hole gigolo, I thought.

“Stay in here.” I didn't add the “or I'll make you by means you are guaranteed not to like”, but Purple Skivvy clearly got the message because she backed into one of the stalls quicksmart and locked the door.

I smiled. Smart girl.

Giving my reflection one last smirk, I walk back out of the bathroom and give Bernie the Soon-to-be-regretting-the-day-he-was-born Serial Killer my best flirtatious smile.

“You wanna get out of here?” I simpered, inwardly rolling my eyes at the nakedly predatorial expression on Bernie's face.

Goddamn, you'd think he'd at least respect my intelligence enough to damp down his “I am eager for your entrails” vibes, but then maybe at this point he'd got complacent. He muttered something about taking me home via a “shortcut”, so I simpered and giggled brainlessly as he dragged me into the dark expanse of the park, deciding to wait until he left some evidence of rough handling on me before I returned the favour- it wouldn't do for anyone to feel too sorry for the foul prick, and an “uneven” assault might produce just that reaction.

As soon as we reached a copse of trees, beyond eye and earshot of the bar and any residences, he grabbed my arm in a bruising grip, pulling me close to him, so that my back was against his chest.

Oooh, subtle, Molesting Motherfucker.

Pft.

It was all I could do to keep from rolling my eyes at the ham-handedness of his actions. I guess if I hadn't managed to get myself out of this situation before with vampires that were both more intelligent and stronger than this lout I might have been frightened.

As it was, I thought of all the untrained, inexperienced girls he must have got off on scaring this way in the prelude before he tortured them to death, and all I could feel was cold fury.

His left arm held me tight against his chest, as he used his right to rip my blouse open and mash my breasts with his hand.

Again, part of me suggested that maybe I should be scared, but I'd trained myself out of freezing up when I was in a situation that involved bodily harm a long time ago. Any pain I felt was dim compared to the adrenaline rush of rage.

“Hey! That is no way to treat a lady! Get off me you fucking oaf!”

The line had escaped my mouth before I'd really thought about it, and later I laughed about it. Hah, nice one, telling a motherfucking serial killer about how to treat a woman. Sort of as useful as telling a Sea Shepherd that whaleburgers are quite tasty.

As one might have guessed, Bernie didn't take to being told what to do very well.

Throwing me against a tree, he spun me around and punched me hard on the cheekbone, before pushing me so that the bark dug into my spine and rubbing himself lazily up against me.

I shuddered with revulsion, which he seemed to take as some sort of sign of capitulation.

“Oh you like that, don't you you dirty slut.” He shoved me, letting me go so that I stumbled backwards to the ground to the left of the tree.

He ended up regretting that.

In one practiced movement, I rolled to my feet then round-house kicked him in the chin.

Bernie dropped like a rock, but to make doubly-sure he wasn't going to get up any time soon I put a choke-hold on him until he was completely unconscious.

I had what I'd wanted: a few assorted cuts and bruises and a torn shirt made for a very strong case for self-defense.

It turned out to be a little anti-climatic after that. Once I'd knocked the bastard out, I tied him to a tree and waited for him to come back around. I wanted to have some damn good evidence on this prick when I dropped him off at the police station, locations of where the bodies were buried the first thought that came to mind.

Poor little Bernie sang like a birdie as soon as he saw my favourite knife positioned next to his balls. Funny how there's a tendency amongst males to value that part of their anatomy above all others, to the point of preferring potential life imprisonment over their removal.

He told me everything. I made bloody well sure he did.

It was horrifying. Grostesque.

I hadn't felt physically ill over violence since the fifth time I killed a relatively fresh vamp, but as Bernie continued to outline with a kind of sick relish that he couldn't repress even in light of his predicament.

The things he had done to his victims. Few vampires went that far.

His intention had been to do that to me.

I could feel the gorge rising.

At one point I had to go for a walk, to stop myself from killing him with my bare hands. It was only by sitting under a tree for ten or fifteen minutes, controlling my breathing that I managed to refrain from throwing up at the very thought of some of the “games” Bernie had played with his victims.

It was at that point that I called Sam. You might remember him as the guy Gareth called for me to do clean-up when I staked that Freshie vamp a couple of chapters back.

Oh, and that I'd had a bit of a fling with his girlfriend, but that happened later- damn that girl is smoking hot... Esther I think is her name but at the time I'd called her 'Honey' for her sunstreaked blonde hair and golden lacy underwear.

Who would have thought that normally dull-eyed dreamer would be such a firecracker after a few shots of Kahlua?

Fuck, thinking about that night we spent making out under the verandah of Jezebel's place out in the suburbs while everyone was getting smashed and watching the New Year's fireworks on TV...

That memory is almost as good as the one where Tristan and I first fucked on an abandoned matress on some random rooftop, having just slain a nest of five vamps. I'd staked three, he got two and I still occasionally rub that in his face when I don't mind remembering when we used to get on.

I almost miss those days when we used to almost work together... When we were still naïve and had killed less than thirty vamps combined. He thought he was Batman, I thought I was an Eartha Kitt Catwoman- sinister, sexy, and a thousand times smoother than all the other incarnations of “bad girl”.

That was about four years ago now, and I wear a lot less black than I did then, though a lot of my “work clothes” are still tight. These days though it's less for the look and more for the drawing-power... if you can really pull off the skin-tight look, then others will want to pull it off you.

Being enticing has become one of my useful work skills, and it's one of the few that translates well into my non-slaying part of my life.


Shit, I'm off-topic again aren't I?


What was I even... oh yeah, I was telling you about calling Sam, wasn't I? Well, basically at that point in time, before I'd shared a night to remember with his gorgeous girlfriend, we were on fairly good terms. His dayjob was working forensics for the homicide department, so he knew precisely who to call who would make sure that my effort with Bernie wasn't a waste of time. I bought him a bottle of Kahlua as a “thankyou” present, which is kinda ironic when you think about it.

Anyway.

Half an hour later, a police car rolled up, lights and sirens blazing, to find me sitting on a rock with my knife still out and Bernie yelling abuse at me from where he was tied to the tree.

If he had been a vamp I would have staked him long ago, but if he'd been a vamp, tonight's events wouldn't have played out the way they did. Even now I am yet to kill a human.

The sickening part is that for me, it would most likely be very, very easy.

The fact that I don't have a particularly high amount of respect for the majority of the human race means that I have to wonder if I'd even regret it.

So far I've managed to stop myself, living by the simple maxims that I use to both justify my actions and keep myself in check.

Humans can't help being stupid.

Vamps can't help being violent sadistic killers.

I can't help detesting stupidity, and slaying violent sadistic killers.

Humans have a habit of being okay at sex.

Vampires have a habit of being phenomenal at sex.

I have a habit of wanting phenomenal sex.

If I killed everyone I thought was stupid, I'd end up very lonely indeed, and lose a few quite moderately competent bedmates. Conversation would probably get dull after a while too, as I'd have no one to yell at for being an ignorant pig-arse.

If I only had phenomenal sex, then I'd only fuck vampires, and thus never manage to sleep the sleep of a woman who hasn't just filled her bed with vampire ashes.

Again.

Sometimes I wonder: is it worth it?

When the human race can produce horrific monsters like Bernie, is it really worth protecting?

I've heard vampires trying to justify their existence by saying that they are the next step in evolution.

I refuse to believe such utter moldering tripe of course.

But sometimes I have to wonder if they don't have a point- vampires rarely attack their own, and when they do, it's never simply for the pleasure of it.

That particular impulse they save for their “natural” prey, ordinary people. Like the girl who ignored your compliment about her earrings yesterday, the wrinkled cardigan-wearing septagenarian whose fart made you gag on the train on the way to work. The annoying siblings, the inconsiderate neighbours, the snooty checkout personnel, the shoving trolley-pushers at the supermarket with screaming kids, the joggers who act like the footpaths were made solely for them to sweat and grunt and wreck their knees upon. The occasional beggar listlessly demanding for your spare change, spare change that you know you shouldn't give to them as it'll simply go up their veins but that you feel guilty for not parting with.

People that you wish wouldn't bother you, but who the human race would be quite boring without.

That's who I protect everytime I go out there on patrol, acting as bait so those more innocent and less able to defend themselves from me can be safe.

Oh fuck, listen to me, I sound like some half-arsed caped crusader.

Next thing you know I'm going to start calling myself something ridiculous like “Stakette” (geddit!?) and have business cards printed.

Man, that would be a laugh.

I look over at the clock on the wall and realise that it's already close to three in the afternoon.

Godbefuckingdamn it.

This is what I get for lying around dreaming. I'm supposed to go over to Nana Isabela's for some coffee and liqueurs.

It's lucky she doesn't get too miffed about me being “on time” or goddamn, I'd be in for it.

Stripping off my clothes from last night, (bar the corset- that I'd already removed before sleep, as whilst being functional, the damn thing doesn't exactly make for the comfiest sleepwear,) I step into the shower, and turn on the cold water, using the temperature to shock myself properly awake before I roll my hair up into a messy bun and secure it with one of the ties hanging off the tap.

A quick scrub, and the dirt and blood of last night has vanished down the drain, and I look relatively human again.

I yank on my favourite pair of black jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan “Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the ground in the morning the ground trembles and the Devil says, “Shit! She's awake!”. Georgie bought it for me one time, without specifying an occasion, saying that it was clearly my shirt.

At the time I wasn't sure whether to be flattered or annoyed.

I grab the essentials: keys, mobile, wallet and hunting knife, and pull a sardine and pickle sandwich out of the fridge.

People always tell me I'm gross for liking them, but I have a good reason.

I start to eat the sandwich on the way to the door, toeing on my leather scuffs as I grab my sunnies.

I open the...

Bloody fucking hell!

Fuck! What the fuck is a fucking vamp doing on my doorstep in broad daylight?!

Reflexively I throw my sandwich at him, distantly noting that the pickles stood out quite luridly in his shoulder-length chestnut hair, and jump backwards, grabbing ahold of the spiky umbrella from the stand and brandishing it in front of me.

“I'm sorry I startled you.” The vampire saunters over the threshhold, admiring his reflection in the hall mirror as he passes.

Oh to be Buffy, where all you need to keep a goddamned fucking vampire out of your house is a fucking three dollar crucifix.

“Stay the fuck away from me!” I hiss, holding my ground as I desperately try to figure out where I fucked up.

“Bela, Bela, Bela, be calm my sweet!”

Fuck fuck fuck he knows my name! FUCK!

“I told you we would meet soon...”

How could a vampire have followed me home? I'm always so careful, oh shit, I'm so dead...

“Did you like my gift?”

Wait, what?

I stay in my defensive crouch, but I stop backing away.

That's just a little from the left field.

Gift...

No. No fucking way, that's just...

Oh for fuck's sake.

“Wait a second, it was you who sent those roses?” I'm sure my voice sounds like an incredulous harpy's screech, and the vamp cringes a little. A very small part of me realises that it's from my sardine and pickle breath, and does a little victory dance as a larger, more incredulous part of me demands: “Hang on, what?!”

“Don't you like roses or something?” he sounds almost pouty, like a spoilt sixteen-year-old who's just been told that they can't have a new 50GB iPod to replace their 20GB one.

Bewildered, I reply, “I hate roses. They're almost as cliched as that creepy poem.” I'm getting a good look at the vampire now. Along with the chestnut hair and the usual anaemic's skin, this vamp has pale brown eyes, a lacy-collared shirt, brown velvet frock coat and boots that any pirate cosplayer would die for.

And either he has had a very recent feed, or this one is wearing blood-red lipstick.

For some reason that bothers me more than the rest of the outfit.

“I slaved away at that poem for days, and pawned a very pretty pendant so I could buy you all those roses, and you didn't like them?!” he shrieks in a vaguely hysterical way.

Was there acid in that sandwich?

Why do I feel like I'm in a decidedly Unaware teenager's fictionblog?

What the fuck is going on?

I see the time out the corner of my eye and realise that whilst I was running late before, now I'm really late.

Fuck it, I don't have the time for this shit. I'll figure out what it was all about later.

I wait until the vampire gets slightly closer, then stab him in the chest with the umbrella.

What appears to be genuine shock, with a hint of betrayal crosses his face, and he has time to say, “But, I love...” before my improvised stake skewers his heart.

I'm decidedly relieved when it turns out to be a more ancient one- all that's left are a few bone fragments, which I sweep up and put aside to throw out later.

I straighten up, and shake my head, baffled.

That was fucking weird.

Hopefully Nana hasn't finished off the liqueurs, because I could really use a drink.

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