Wren.
Another town, another gig in a smoky dive, another name to cross off my list. At least two such names were regulars at The Sundowner Bar. One happened to be sitting at a booth. He was already drunk before I opened the show. That would make things easier when the time came.
I sang, but the lyrics were on autopilot. Good thing, too, considering how my mind swirled with memories, repeating its own chorus: They killed your mother. Show no mercy.
It helped to repeat the facts to myself so emotion didn’t jack up my plans: Rusty Grimes, Rt. 2 Box 295, Silversage, Alabama. Age forty-two, weight approximately 310 lbs. Carries a 44 Magnum with Remington hollow-point silver-tipped bullets.
Torn vinyl seats made a squeaky fart noise every time Rusty shifted or got up to take a piss. This redneck smelled like sour pickles and gun grease. But they all shared the same subtle scent of rotten fish and old blood – they certainly had enough blood on their hands, figuratively speaking.
Rusty’s phone buzzed, the ring tone some power-to-the-rednecks Toby Keith bullshit. He picked it up, put it to his ear. I homed in on the conversation between songs:
“Yeah, what?”
A woman answered. “Where you at?” She had a phlegmy voice that sounded like a three-packs-a-day kinda gal.
Sometimes having a super sense of hearing was more curse than gift.
“Just stopped for a drink. What d’ya need?”
“You drunk?”
“Naw.”
Liar and murderer. Quite the resume.
“Can you get some Taco Bell? I want one o’ them big chicken burritas.”
“Yeah, okay, what for the kids?”
So he had reproduced. I couldn’t imagine who would want to see him naked. She must have been hideous.
“McDonald’s nuggets, large fry, apple pies.”
“All right. Ya got dranks?”
“Yeah, got some Meller Yellers.”
“Okay.” He put down the phone, chugged down the rest of his Coors, then belched and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
Well. The man had a family. They didn’t know he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. A twinge of guilt plucked at my eye and made it twitch. In another second, the moment passed. My mother had a child too. And she’d been the only family I ever had.
They killed your mother. Show no mercy.
No matter how badly I wanted to fly off that stage and rip his head off, I had to be patient. There could be no witnesses. I just wished my damn wig wasn’t so scratchy and hot. It had looked much better on the mannequin head - a black chin-length bob that went well with my Southern grunge act. The brown suede high-heeled boots weren’t my favorite, but they worked with the half denim, half calico patchwork skirt. The shirt was a favorite, a long-sleeved tight black hooded pullover with thumb cuffs. Black eye shadow, falsies, brown contact lenses, and dark red lipstick completed the illusion.
My band consisted of me, my Fender Stratocaster electric guitar, and whatever backup musicians I could afford to hire locally. In the tiny write-ups in newspaper entertainment sections, they said things like, “Melody Songsmith’s voice is an eclectic mix between Janis Joplin and Bonnie Raitt – gritty, bluesy, and unapologetic.” I’m not sure about that, but I often performed their songs and got totally lost in them.
Tonight’s crowd-pleaser was the Joplin hit, “Me and Bobby McGee.” I rocked out to the high-energy chorus, fingers tapping to the beat on the mic. My body shimmied, shook, and swung uncontrollably to the music like a woman possessed by a rock-n-roll demon. My voice resonated through the speakers, mouth open wide, eyes squeezed shut. We brought it home – the kind of finale that conjured up goose pimples on anyone who paid attention.
Applause rang out as the final notes faded. Rusty lifted his Coors bottle high in the air and hooted his appreciation. I grinned at him, perhaps a little too long. He went quiet, his smile sinking into a tight-lipped expression of leery confusion. I liked making them squirm a bit. Made it all the more satisfying.
Some idiot yelled, “Play some Skynyrd!”
Never fails.
In the booth adjoining Rusty, another man sipped a whiskey sour he’d been nursing for the last hour and a half. He looked like the real straight-laced type, broad-shouldered, dressed in a white shirt and navy blue tie, his black blazer draped casually over the back of the booth. Basically the kind of guy you’d find in a big city bar, not this podunk metal-sided excuse for a nightclub. As soon as my eyes met his, he focused on his smartphone. It had been a recurring pattern all night. Something was up. Didn’t matter. I had a mission, and I wasn’t about to stop until I eliminated every nasty-ass redneck murderer who’d killed my mother.
I turned to the only temporary musician I could afford tonight, a doughboy bass guitarist with Willie Nelson braids named Keith.
“Every Breath You Take,” I said.
“Huh? The Police song?”
“Yeah. Just follow along.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
I always ended hunting nights with this song, whether the mark was in attendance or not. Very cliché, I know, but hey, it’s a classic. It sounded especially haunting with a slow tempo and breathy lyrics. As I sang, Rusty got fidgety.
His phone buzzed again. He picked it up and stared at the screen, flicked his eyes toward me, and then texted something. His drunken red cheeks paled. The text probably read something like this: Ted’s dead. Lost his head. Get the hell out of there. Or maybe his wife had sent him a picture of her cooter. I’m sure it would have had the same effect.
As I sang the final verses, Rusty took a wad of cash from his raggedy wallet with a trembling hand. He slapped the cash on the table with his receipt, eyes darting around like a nervous prey animal, and stood up.
The guy in the other booth stood, too, tossed some cash on the table, and slipped into his blazer. His eyes met mine once again, lingering a heartbeat longer than they should have. Then he headed for the door. I hoped he just thought I was super good-looking or super freaky. Otherwise, he could complicate things.
As I sang the last verse, Rusty went for the back exit. We wrapped up the song. People clapped and hollered. A fat, wannabe cowboy with a bolero and man nipples showing through his white shirt threw two twenties on the stage. I snatched them up, winked at him, and gave half to Keith.
I set the mike in the stand. “Be right back. Gotta hit the ladies’ room.”
“Okay. Uh…” Keith scratched his chest and averted his eyes.
That was one of the bad parts about not having your own band. Trust issues were inevitable.
“You’ll get your forty percent of the cover. Just give me a sec, okay? I’ll leave my guitar here as collateral.”
“Thanks, Melody.”
Cowboy Wannabe wasn’t done with me apparently. He whistled. “Aw, come on, can’t I at least see some titties? I’ll throw in a hundred for a handy.”
I stuck the twenty in my bra and gave him the middle finger.
“Dumb bitch!” He hurled his beer bottle at me. It hit my knee and splattered the cheap brew all over my skirt.
He would seriously regret that. My eye twitched. I stopped the bottle from rolling off the stage with my boot and stepped down on the glass until it shattered. He started laughing. I swooped down and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him until the toes of his boots barely touched the floor. He went dead quiet, his eyes as big as saucers.
I peered straight into them, letting the natural growl of my voice emerge as I whispered, “What’s your name?”
“R-Ricky.”
“Do you have a death wish, Ricky?”
“N-No, uh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s right. You’re a real sorry excuse for a human.”
“Wh-What are you?”
“Wanna find out?” My canines started to elongate, but then I realized this little exchange had attracted too many sets of eyes. The bouncer was headed toward us. I tossed Ricky on a table. “He’s all yours.”
“Yeah, okay, no problem,” the bouncer said, hand hovering over the Taser on his belt.
Shit, I’d wasted too much time already. Trying to keep my pace at an acceptable speed, I ran down the back hall and out the back door. Standing still for a moment, I tried to catch Rusty’s scent. Flies swarmed around the dumpster which stank of rotten potatoes, cigarette butts, and a confusing mess of human nastiness.
Letting my natural speed take over, I zipped out of the alley and into the parking lot of a nearby school, where I melted into the darkness behind a big poplar tree to avoid the security lights. I picked up Rusty’s scent, but it was too faint to tell which direction he’d gone. I couldn’t let him get away, not this time. Luckily, I’d been in disguise, but someone had tipped him off. It was only a matter of time before they discovered my true identity. Not that it mattered much. I had no family left to protect, nothing left to lose.
The squeal of metal sliding against metal drew my attention to the school’s playground. Wind blew the swings haphazardly from side to side. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, I dashed over to them and held the two cold chains of a swing in my hands, letting the rusted links press into my palms. Indulging my memory for a moment, I sat in the seat, closed my eyes, and pictured another time and place.
The moon spilled silvery light over a playground just like this in some other town. Mama and I both swung, higher and higher. I thought we might fly off into the starry sky if we got high enough. Our laughter mingled together like the harmony of birdsong at twilight. And in those moments, we were simply Bronwen and Wren. Mother and daughter. We loved playing outside, even on a frigid winter’s night like that one. Snow crunched beneath our boots as we raced one another to the slide. The cold never bothered me. I complained about wearing a coat, but Mama had insisted.
“Wren, what will people think, if they see you with no coat? They’ll know you’re not human.”
We ducked behind a snow drift when headlights illuminated the night. It was all a game back then.
“Stay out of sight,” she said, “and if you can’t, blend in. Be one of them. Never show anyone what you really are.”
“What am I, Mama?”
I’ll never forget how sparkling white her teeth were when she smiled. “You’re special, my Wren, very special. One day you will know just how special you are.”
As the memory faded, I swung higher and higher, until yellow light shone through my eyelids. My eyes popped open. Headlights, dissected by the hexagonal wire pattern of the chain-link fence, nearly blinded me. I squinted and gripped the swing chains so tightly they hurt as the truck barreled toward me.
I let my teeth fully emerge and stood up in the swing, which still swooped back and forth like a trapeze. Gun metal glinted in the security lights. Rusty popped off a shot as he raced by me on the road. The bullet clinked as it ricocheted off the swing set and cut a fiery streak across my ankle.
No time for a damage assessment. Using the momentum of the swing at its highest point, I launched myself straight at the truck and landed in the bed. I plunged my fist through the back glass and caught Rusty around the throat, nails digging in to get a good hold. He slammed on the brakes. But I held tight, bracing myself against the metal frame of the truck bed.
Rusty made a gurgling sound as the truck fishtailed and skidded to a jerky stop. I dragged him through the back glass and into the truck bed, crashing him down onto the floor. Crouching over him, I stared straight into his eyes, those same eyes that had flashed with wicked glee as he’d kicked my mother in the ribs and laughed as she writhed under the mesh of a silver net.
He stretched his hand in vain to reach the gun that had clattered into the truck bed with him. I knocked it away. That’s when I noticed the tattoo on his arm - it looked like some kind of stick man with a diamond shaped body. Every single one of the killers had the same mark. It had to be some kind of gang symbol. Blood spurted from his neck where my nails had pierced his artery. It gurgled in his throat. He spat it out, straight into my face.
I laughed and licked my lips. “Hi, Rusty, remember me?”
His voice was bubbly and wet as he tried to speak. “Who are you?”
“I’m Wren. But you can call me Karma. She’s a real bitch, isn’t she?”
My fangs fully emerged. I plunged them into his neck and gulped down his blood as he keened pitifully like a deer caught in the jaws of a wolf. I drank until death throes wracked his body with involuntary spasms. I drank until my lips felt the last faint beat of his heart.
Sitting up, I closed my eyes and let my head fall back to relish the taste of another name crossed off my list. Then I swallowed down the final mouthful of thick, hot blood and let it settle in the pit of my stomach before wiping my mouth with my sleeve. Black clothes did a lot to hide a good night’s meal.
The tiniest shuffling noise in the shadow of the poplar tree grabbed my attention. My eyes popped open, and I could smell him – the spicy cologne, a whiff of whiskey sour, new leather shoes.
In a flash, I zoomed in, being sure to crunch some gravel on the ground with my boot before I bounded up into the tree branches. Just as I expected, the well-dressed man from the bar rushed around the trunk and into the glow of the security lights, gun ready. He scanned the area quickly, and as soon as he turned and looked up, I grinned and pounced, knocking him onto his back. The gun went off and blew off a chunk of the concrete sign that read Silversage Elementary School.
I pinned down his arms as I straddled him. “Somebody brought the big guns, I see.” My fangs emerged again.
When I dove in for his neck, he yelled, “Wait. I can help you!”
I paused just a hair’s breadth from his racing pulse. He smelled even more interesting up close, like lemons and lavender. A smell I could savor for hours. Blinking myself back to reality, I raised my head and looked into his eyes. They were wide, full of fear, but also with an odd sense of finality, as though he were ready to die. As though he had nothing left to lose. Like me.
“What do you mean, you can help me?” I quickly glanced around us, making sure he hadn’t brought reinforcements. We seemed to be all alone on the vacant schoolyard.
“You’re looking for the ones who killed your mother, right? So am I.”
I had to laugh at that. “Pray tell, why would you be looking for them, and why would you care...” Leaning in close, I added, “human?”
“Detective Zac Palmer. I’m investigating a crime ring involving vampire clans. I think they’re responsible for your mother’s death. I’ll need someone like you to help me get information.”
I really had to laugh then. “What are you talking about? Vampire clans? There was my mother, and there’s me. That’s hardly a clan.”
He raised an eyebrow, looking truly dumbfounded. “You don’t know?”
“Know what? Are you telling me there are more like me? More…vampires?”
One side of his mouth slanted up in an amused grin. “Oh honey, did you really think you’re the only one?”