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Authors: Nancy A. Collins
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enslaved themselves to the undead.
There were numerous postings from the likes of "NecroPhil" and "renfield236" reporting sightings of a mysterious female who was rumored to be a vampire slayer of great ability. Given that she was often spotted in different cities on the same day, he had assumed the Blue Woman was nothing more than an urban myth; a post-modern folied deux, similar to the mass hysteria that birthed the Satanist Daycare Trials of the last century. Especially, considering how unstable minions tended to be, it was reasonable to assume the Blue Woman was nothing more than a punishing mother projection born of psyches tortured by subconscious guilt.
The minions spoke of her the way children whisper of the bogeyman, and for good reason. According to the reports, the Blue Woman was Anglo, African-American, and Asian. She was tall and short, fat but thin. Some even claimed she was a pre-op drag queen. She was all of these things, yet none of them; all the descriptions were equally valid and equally dubious, since no one who actually laid eyes on her ever survived to tell the tale.
The very mention of the Blue Woman scared the living shit out of those who trafficked with the undead.
Knowing the power of myth, he doubted much of what was credited to her was true. But then again, he had also assumed she wasn't real at all until the night before.
He had to find some way of meeting her. Granted, she might not want to renew their acquaintance, considering that he'd put a bullet in her. Still, he had to try. This was the first time he had crossed the path of a fellow vampire slayer. And it was possible she might know something about the whereabouts of Blackheart. He refused to contemplate the possibility that the Blue Woman might have already killed the vampire. He was determined to reserve that pleasure for himself.
The moon looks down on the park's carefully maintained nature trails, and bike paths with all the warmth and expression of a baked fish. I move through the shadows, heading towards the lake, the liquid heart of the city. As I hurry along, I can make out furtive shadows moving between the trees and shrubbery along the trail. These do not concern me, as I recognize the figures haunting the dark to be more of a distinctly human, and decidedly carnal, nature.
In the moonlight the water looks as black as oil. A huge weeping willow hugs the bank, its verdant tresses dipping into the moonlit water, like a longhaired woman peering at her own reflection. A frog, startled by my passing, leaps into the water with a splash. I part the green curtain and step inside the natural canopy.
The willow's inner sanctum is darker than the night outside, not that it makes any difference to my eyes.
"Jen?" I find myself whispering, even though there is no need. "Where are you?"
"At your service, as always, dear cousin."
I tilt my head upward in the direction of his voice. Jen is nestled in the crotch of the tree, feet dangling in mid-air, grinning down at me like a laterday Puck. I wonder how he managed to scale the tree wearing five-inch platform heels.
Jen is slight of build, standing no more than five-seven, with graying hair kept in a medusa's coil of braids decorated with ceramic beads. With his heavily mascaraed eyes, matching rouge and lipstick, skin-tight crushed velour pants, and pectoral of gaily painted finger bones about his neck, he looks like a demented transvestite Peter Pan.
"I have a use for you."
"All things have their uses, even those of us trapped between the natures," he replies, smiling flatly.
"I seek a man."
Jen rolls his eyes and grins lewdly. "So those rumors I heard about you are true, eh?"
I choose to ignore his remarks. "He is a stranger to me. He is in his late twenties, early thirties. His hair is long and white and he keeps it in a ponytail. He dresses all in black and favors western clothes. I'm talking Johnny Cash, here, not Garth Brooks. He carries a pistol that shoots silver bullets,
There were numerous postings from the likes of "NecroPhil" and "renfield236" reporting sightings of a mysterious female who was rumored to be a vampire slayer of great ability. Given that she was often spotted in different cities on the same day, he had assumed the Blue Woman was nothing more than an urban myth; a post-modern folied deux, similar to the mass hysteria that birthed the Satanist Daycare Trials of the last century. Especially, considering how unstable minions tended to be, it was reasonable to assume the Blue Woman was nothing more than a punishing mother projection born of psyches tortured by subconscious guilt.
The minions spoke of her the way children whisper of the bogeyman, and for good reason. According to the reports, the Blue Woman was Anglo, African-American, and Asian. She was tall and short, fat but thin. Some even claimed she was a pre-op drag queen. She was all of these things, yet none of them; all the descriptions were equally valid and equally dubious, since no one who actually laid eyes on her ever survived to tell the tale.
The very mention of the Blue Woman scared the living shit out of those who trafficked with the undead.
Knowing the power of myth, he doubted much of what was credited to her was true. But then again, he had also assumed she wasn't real at all until the night before.
He had to find some way of meeting her. Granted, she might not want to renew their acquaintance, considering that he'd put a bullet in her. Still, he had to try. This was the first time he had crossed the path of a fellow vampire slayer. And it was possible she might know something about the whereabouts of Blackheart. He refused to contemplate the possibility that the Blue Woman might have already killed the vampire. He was determined to reserve that pleasure for himself.
The moon looks down on the park's carefully maintained nature trails, and bike paths with all the warmth and expression of a baked fish. I move through the shadows, heading towards the lake, the liquid heart of the city. As I hurry along, I can make out furtive shadows moving between the trees and shrubbery along the trail. These do not concern me, as I recognize the figures haunting the dark to be more of a distinctly human, and decidedly carnal, nature.
In the moonlight the water looks as black as oil. A huge weeping willow hugs the bank, its verdant tresses dipping into the moonlit water, like a longhaired woman peering at her own reflection. A frog, startled by my passing, leaps into the water with a splash. I part the green curtain and step inside the natural canopy.
The willow's inner sanctum is darker than the night outside, not that it makes any difference to my eyes.
"Jen?" I find myself whispering, even though there is no need. "Where are you?"
"At your service, as always, dear cousin."
I tilt my head upward in the direction of his voice. Jen is nestled in the crotch of the tree, feet dangling in mid-air, grinning down at me like a laterday Puck. I wonder how he managed to scale the tree wearing five-inch platform heels.
Jen is slight of build, standing no more than five-seven, with graying hair kept in a medusa's coil of braids decorated with ceramic beads. With his heavily mascaraed eyes, matching rouge and lipstick, skin-tight crushed velour pants, and pectoral of gaily painted finger bones about his neck, he looks like a demented transvestite Peter Pan.
"I have a use for you."
"All things have their uses, even those of us trapped between the natures," he replies, smiling flatly.
"I seek a man."
Jen rolls his eyes and grins lewdly. "So those rumors I heard about you are true, eh?"
I choose to ignore his remarks. "He is a stranger to me. He is in his late twenties, early thirties. His hair is long and white and he keeps it in a ponytail. He dresses all in black and favors western clothes. I'm talking Johnny Cash, here, not Garth Brooks. He carries a pistol that shoots silver bullets,
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