Real Vampires

By Phantom Bard

Disclaimers: Violence, dead pets, dead people, blood spillage, threatening situations, and ungenteel language are included. This is a horror story and is recommended for adult readers only, as some content may be disturbing. "Real Vampires" draws on current and historical beliefs about vampires, from the fashionable to the superstitious, as well as modern archeology and the mythologies of several ancient civilizations. It is an atypical vampire love story. I doubt much else here will shock this audience.

Note: This story falls into the Alternate/Uber category of Xena: Warrior Princess fanfic, featuring characters recalling those portrayed on the TV series, but created as OCs. Although their identities and actions are different from the characters of the series, they recall the relationship dynamics and orientation of the XWP TV characters...good-hearted but somewhat naive adventurer meets weary and worldly mentor who is redeemed as a lover and protector while they forge a relationship in an unforgiving world.

Somewhere in Cyberspace, 2001

Member Created Chatroom: "Real Vampires 1"

(2 Members Present)

Kate (10:04pm) Hi Valerie, I was wondering if I'd run into you here again.

Vampalerie (10:04pm) I just got in from work and nuked some leftovers g Good to see you again, Kate. You left rather abruptly when we were talking last time.

Kate (10:05pm) It was almost 6am…I had things to attend to.

Misc. reacquainting: deleted from log ~ 12 minutes ~ log resumed.

Kate (10:16pm) We'd touched on some interesting topics last time, was there more?

Vampalerie (10:16pm)Well, as I said, all my life I'd been called intense, mysterious, or something like that sigh. Back in high school I used to hang out with the Gothic clique…

Kate (10:17pm)Hey! I'm a Goth!

Vampalerie (10:17pm) Take it easy, I know you're a Goth chick, but you're 26 not 16.

Kate (10:18pm)Ok, ok, I suppose…

Vampalerie (10:19pm)Anyway, they were really my clique. Disruptive as I was, they'd do anything for me. vbg I felt like I was their dark princess, ya know? I confess that it didn't make me uncomfortable at all…I thrived on the attention. They thought I was so cool. bg I loved it. I loved being the center of their little world. The thing was, I never felt like I was really a part of them, you know?

Kate (10:20pm)…perhaps you didn't want to join the flock? Then what happened?

Vampalerie (10:20pm)Oh, well, I met this group on the 'net. They were into Satanism and stuff so I started chatting with them. I'd read a little bit about "devil worship" and at least we could have a conversation without them immediately asking, "a/s/l, gotta pic?" After a couple weeks they told me where they were going to have a meeting…they were just a couple towns over. Since it wasn't too far away, I went to meet them. Three of them had been renting this big house. It was pretty dilapidated, and at night it actually looked creepy.

Kate (10:22pm)Nothing like having the right atmosphere, I suppose.

Vampalerie (10:22pm)Exactly! Anyway, the meeting wasn't a ritual or anything. It was more like a cocktail party for the wannabe damned, LMAO. I could feel that they didn't have any real power or anything. It was all just an act. I spent most of the night talking to this girl, Demonique, the "priestess"? She was mostly into being a slut teehee. I guess Satanism was just her way of rejecting the church she grew up in, like rejecting the authority figures who'd disapproved of her behavior. Like most of them, she was a lapsed Catholic. They're into the devil and predisposed to rituals.

Kate (10:24pm)She sounds rather childish…and predictable. Hmmm, perhaps she needs a few changes tossed her way, and…nevermind, continue.

Vampalerie (10:25pm)They all were, really. I got the impression that I was just there as a potential fuck! The only thing of real value the whole night was that I talked with this guy who called himself Mephisto online, but his real name was Benny Putterman, ROFLMAO! He turned me on to some website he'd seen about "real" vampires.

Kate (10:27pm)Real vampires? As opposed to what, Count Chocula? Hahaha.

Vampalerie (10:28pm)Well no, as opposed to the movie images like Count Dracula, or the posers…the people like themselves, like they were as Satanists. Kinda ironic, huh? So I looked up the site and read their stuff, and in a weird way it all made sense to me.

Kate (10:28pm)You're speaking of something specific, I suppose?

Vampalerie (10:29pm)Actually a lot of it seemed way more than a little familiar. They claimed that vampirism was based on the ability to draw sustenance from the living energy of others. Some do this by actually drinking blood, others by feeding directly off a victim's prana, their life force. There's a whole complex of other traits too. Anyway, "real" vampires aren't some undead immortals. They're just regular people who have an additional way of finding nourishment. It's more direct, supposedly, since most people just eat food and get all their energy through digestion. Also, "real" vampires are able to walk around in the daylight, they look like normal people, and when they die, they stay dead. A "real" vampire can't make someone else into a vampire…you have to be born that way. The only reason "real" vampires have a bad reputation is that if they absorb too much of one person's prana,that person tends to weaken and feel wiped out. Theoretically I guess they could even die from it. I think that's where all the old legends come from. It must be hell on a marriage bg. I have to admit that my own relationships haven't lasted all that long.

Kate (10:31pm)Oh, please! This really sounds like something someone made up to justify their own eccentricities and empower themselves with an exotic identity. I suspect their "weak, wiped out" friends were narcoleptics, dopers, or insomniacs. It's 21st century scientific vampirism; logical and reasonable, and with a psychological bent. I'm okay, you're okay, and we'll get through this together. Ha! You're either an immortal or you're not; you either drink blood or you don't. God, listen to me, LOL! The modern world has made its monsters into a marginalized constituency with a simple congenital "difference"…the politically correct vampire!

Vampalerie (10:33pm)And you sound like a superstitious traditionalist, bg. Does thinking of vampires as the evil undead resonate more easily for you?

Kate (10:34pm)Actually, I suppose it does. Perhaps I'm old fashioned, but I'm more comfortable with evil really being evil and good really being good.

Vampalerie (10:35pm)Uhhh Ohhhh! g

Kate (10:35pm)You needn't worry. It's simply a philosophical issue. I certainly won't be panicking and calling a priest to do an exorcism or anything.

Vampalerie (10:36pm)Good! I never did like vomiting oatmeal, LMAO!

Kate (10:37pm)So, you sincerely believe you're a "real" vampire, Val?

Vampalerie (10:38pm)I don't doubt it at all now that I know what to look for. I've had a couple good friends get really sick…one on a road trip across country, the other when we went camping for two weeks. Both times I felt great while they got weaker and weaker, depressed and edgy too. As soon as they were away from me so much, they went right back to normal. The two great relationships of my life ended because my lovers claimed I was "sucking them dry" emotionally. I have to admit it was true. They both did better with their lives after we broke up. Being with people energizes me but sometimes I get manic. I don't mind being alone, but eventually I get lethargic or just feel depressed.

Kate (10:41pm)Valerie, I must confess that I find this morbidly fascinating.

Vampalerie (10:41pm) From what I read, people like me siphon away other peoples' auras. Of course I've never seen anything like that, but it sounds pretty amazing.

Kate (10:42pm) I'm rather attuned to people's auras…their "vibes", if you will. I don't doubt what you're saying about the people you've been around getting sick. I just have to be skeptical about the "real" vampire bit.

Vampalerie (10:43pm)When I was a kid, this one doctor thought I was bipolar, but the pills I got from him didn't do any good so I stopped taking them. Anyway, they made me feel yucky. I actually did puke up oatmeal once, and it was blue 'cause of the Kool-Aide I'd been drinking, LMAO.

Kate (10:45pm) How disgusting!

Vampalerie (10:45pm) Actually, I think it would really be interesting to have you take a look at my aura and tell me what you see. I haven't met anyone who could visually sense auras before. Uhhh, I went for a tarot reading once at this witchcraft store…after laying out the cards, the woman just got up and left and she never told me anything. Then the storeowner refunded my money and told me not to come back. At the time, it really pissed me off.

Kate (10:47pm)Frauds!Look Val, I'd be glad to meet you and look at your aura. I don't always sense something from everyone that's around me or I'd go crazy, but if I'm concentrating on it, or if it's really vivid, then I'll probably see what's there.

Vampalerie (10:48pm)That sounds like fun, Kate. Anyway, I've never tried it and I'm always looking to meet new friends. I'm in Hoboken…you're in Brooklyn, right?

Kate (10:49pm)Right. How about meeting in the city? Say, tomorrow sometime?

Vampalerie (10:51pm)Sounds fair to me…neutral ground and all, LOL. It's got to be at night after work for me though. Is that ok?

Kate (10:53pm)Works for me. Will you be driving or taking the PATH train?

Vampalerie (10:54pm)Driving…because I drive to and from work and I don't want to have to leave my car parked around the PATH station, etc…etc. It's a pain in the ass.

Kate (10:57pm)Well, might I recommend a Goth club called "Nightwings"? It's near the Holland Tunnel exit…if you think you can stand being in a Goth club, that is.

Vampalerie (10:58pm)Actually,I've heard of the place. I was out of the Gothic scene before it opened though, so I've never been there. But it sounds like a good plan, so sure, let's meet there. Is around 9:30 okay with you?

Kate (10:59pm)That's certainly acceptable to me. I'm in there a lot so if you don't see me, just ask the bartender, Stephanie, she's an old friend of mine. Hold on and I'll send you a jpeg so you'll recognize me.

Vampalerie (11:00pm)s2r, LMAO. I'll send you one too, BRB.

Kate (11:01pm)You've got mail.

Vampalerie (11:04pm)Holy shit! You weren't kidding you're a Gothic chick. g So are those real bodies and blood? BTW, you've got mail.

Kate (11:07pm)I was quite dressed up for that shot. The club uses it for advertising so you might see it on handbills and such. You're really quite lovely…I'd never guess you're a vampire. I'm going to sign off and go out for a late dinner…East Indian, perhaps. It seems I've got cravings.

Vampalerie (11:09pm)Beware the vindaloo, bg. I'll be looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Kate. G'night.

Kate (11:10pm)Nite!

"Real Vampires 1" is empty

It was already 9:30 and Valerie McCormack was running a little late. Of course the Holland Tunnel could be unpredictable, even after rush hour. Tonight, a family's SUV had broken down near the tunnel entrance. Their dog, a nondescript and painfully unpedigreed black hound, had escaped from the vehicle and was happily stretching its legs, barking and running back and forth across the lanes of traffic. It was a police car responding to the scene that had finally struck it dead and sent its body flying. With macabre precision rivaling a cruise missile, the limp cadaver had decked the mother, who'd been standing beside the SUV in a classy suit, completely preoccupied in calling a tow truck on her cell phone. The father had leapt out of the driver's side door and stood over her unconscious body; a jack jumping out of his box and screaming for help. The children had been watching the unfolding events with bulging eyes starting from faces that they'd pressed flat against the side window glass. Valerie had been sincerely impressed that a single family could have produced three such perfect little copies of Edvard Munch's "The Scream". She found it so irritating when life imitated art.

They'd all still been shrieking when traffic had finally started moving again after their 25 minutes of fame. By then Valerie had been rolling her eyes to the point of vertigo, while chewing on the end of a stray lock from her mane of dirty blond curls. A trickle of sweat had inched down her back, salting the wound her bra's bent fastener had chaffed on her spine. She'd had no patience left and her 36-year-old Rambler American had no air conditioner. Valerie McCormack had eventually been waved forward by a cop and had enjoyed the privilege of entering Clifford Holland's famous tunnel, where she'd made a life-threatening transit into New York City.

"And just how the hell did they ever decide to let them into the tunnel at the same time?" She griped. Driving behind a tanker truck emblazoned with hazard warnings that was dribbling "Flammable Liquid", and being paced by an open bed truck marked "Explosive Gasses", all the while imagining the stupefying weight of the water overhead as she passed 100 feet below the Hudson River, was nerve wracking at best. The tunnel walls showed numerous water stains resulting from "structural settling". Beside her aging American Motors compact, the compressed gas cylinders, (oxygen, acetylene, nitrogen, and argon), were shifting and loudly clanking against each other in their loose cordon of chains. That the driver in the welding gas truck had spent more time staring at her than at the road hadn't helped. The cigarette dangling from his lips and the lurid burn scars on his face had not been reassuring either. It was a situation that she found laughably threatening. Sensing the relief of hysteria impinging on the borders of her composure, Valerie thought, all we need now is for the lights down here to go out, or maybe another runaway dog. The welding gas truck edged into her lane, its driver leering into her car. The fuel oil truck swerved and jabbed its brakes as the driver reached out to adjust his side mirror so that he could stare at her as well.

"How the hell did they decide to let them into the tunnel at all?" She sputtered. They flashed past a coffin-sized glassed in booth attached to the tunnel wall. The traffic observation officer inside was slumped against the glass, probably dead of carbon monoxide poisoning, Val observed…the third one this month. Bracketed by an open bed truck hauling welding cylinders and a leaking tanker truck filled with fuel oil, she finally navigated onto Canal St. in the Borough of Manhattan. Being a mortal vampire had provided her no comfort at all.

The club that Kate had suggested was only a block north of Canal St., but with "No Left Turn" signs to thwart her, it took her another ten minutes to find the only available parking space close to Greenwich and Spring Sts. Valerie parked in front of a peeling tin facade that was painted a vomitous faded puce. It was an ex-commercial space that had devolved into co-ops. The proof of residential occupancy was in the reeking collection of trashcans clumped right next to her passenger's side door. They had congregated in an example of dark urban humor, overflowing with rotting food, loaded Pampers, and the ubiquitous pet walkers' baggies of dog droppings. The cans choked off both pedestrian traffic down the sidewalk and the flow of air through her nostrils. Valerie expected her car to be permeated with the stench when she returned.

"Of course it's garbage night. Fuck! This stench will soak into my car seats and I'll be smelling it for a week!"

Val was seething as she unfolded her slender frame from the driver's seat. She slammed the door, startling a couple of bulging rats that waddled out of the garbage heap. The vampire nearly sprained an ankle crossing the uneven cobblestone-paved street behind them, before backtracking up the block to the corner where Nightwings stood. Her evening, thus far, had been fraught with a remarkable load of ill omens. It was already almost ten.

Nightwings was the premier Goth club in Lower Manhattan. In fact, it was one of the top three Gothic venues in the city. Had she still been into the scene, Valerie probably would have hung out there often, since it was easier for her to get to than anyplace else in SoHo or the East Village. As it was, although she'd heard a lot about Nightwings, she'd never actually seen the place before. Late as she was, she still had to stop for a look.

Once upon a time, the address had belonged to the Munson Diner. The chromed 40s relic had originally been backed against an annex building that had quintupled its interior space. In that previous incarnation, the premises had been a local tavern and unpretentious eatery; an artist's hangout, back when artists could still afford to hang out in the area. Now the neighborhood was mostly a home to yuppies that worked in the financial district a dozen blocks south, and needed only a Starbucks to call the neighborhood home. (Valerie had noticed two of the overpriced caffeine pushers within three blocks, and had absently wondered where the nearest pizzeria or deli was). Proof of the current demographics could be deduced with a savvy glance. Looking into the upper floor windows of the surrounding buildings revealed designer halogen lamps, pricey exercise equipment, and imported track lights, where paintings and plants had once lived. Satellite dishes sat on windowsills now, while new alarm company signs nestled in the doorways beside small consoles with blinking lights.

Eight years before, a corporation of developers had bought out the Munson Diner and several adjacent properties. The popular assumption had been that these would be razed and an upscale yuppie tenement constructed on that prime locale, but, typical of New York City, a more eccentric scheme had materialized. The nondescript annex and the surrounding structures were completely gone. When the plywood contractor's barricades had finally been torn down, the architectural apparition that was revealed gave the impression that a deconsecrated and predatory Gothic church was feasting on the Munson Diner. In contrast to the diner's squat profile, the new building's proportions had been calculated for an imposing verticality. Each story was over twenty feet in height, 120 feet total, topped by a high-pitched roof, and embellished with a multitude of upward lunging struts, compound columns, high arches, and flying buttresses. The poured structural concrete had been rusticated to give the look of time eroded sandstone blocks. The entire five-story edifice, and the attached seven-story bell tower that rose to 175 feet, had then been painted a weathered black. Lead-channeled stained glass windows had been installed in the upper floors, and wrought iron detailed the structure throughout.

To passersby on the sidewalk, the war era diner appeared to have only been cleaned up and its detailing repainted, although a stylistically matching revolving door had been added. Now however, the diner was encased in, or was being digested by, the new Gothic structure. It was a perverted edifice overall; unexpected, unearthly, and unsettling in a visceral way. Even pigeons avoided roosting on it. On Greenwich St., the humanity of a humble and popular eatery had been corrupted with the creepy mysticism of a sanctuary fallen into darkness. "The devil had come to town with the carnival", and was flaunting his possession of an icon of innocence. It had made people cringe and editorialize, but it had all been nice and legal-like. A spokeswoman for the architects had upbraided the public for not appreciating the development company's efforts in retaining the familiar diner at street level. "So just don't look up," she'd told the reporters.

Valerie swept her halo of dirty blonde ringlets back from her eyes and spent several minutes looking up. Even though she was running late, she couldn't help it. The place was hypnotically compelling of attention. The pictures she'd seen hadn't done it justice. She could appreciate the quirky sense of humor behind the creation of Nightwings, pretentious as it was. Even more, she could appreciate the subversive sensibilities that had located it in the yuppie neighborhood, probably drawing a Marilyn Manson crowd. She considered a gargoyle downspout. It was a bizarre grotesque, carved with the body of a dog bearing three caricature heads, Britney Spears, Urethra Franklin, and Klaus Nomi. Another featured Pol Pot, Idi Amin, and the Ayatollah Khomeini. For a brief moment she wondered how the owners had been able to afforded financing such a club. It must have taken millions of dollars just to secure the land.

Valerie was startled out of her reveries when bells chimed the hour. The clanging came from the belfry that crowned the church-like addition above the diner. Unlike any church bells, Nightwings' chimes were disharmonic, and produced tones that "felt" smeared and amelodic. It wasn't discordant so much as profoundly upsetting, directly unsettling the soul rather than offending the ears. She looked up, (half hoping to catch a glimpse of Quasimodo), just in time to see a flock of small things taking wing from the open rafters under the tower's roof. By the fluttering and darting movements of their flight, she was reasonably sure that they were bats. Bats in the belfry, Val thought, how stereotypical. As the pealing died away, she noted the time.

"Shit, it's already ten o'clock," Valerie scolded herself, realizing, "I'm half and hour late. Kate'll be pissed and I've never even met her before." She hurried to the club's entrance.

As she prepared to push her way into the brass framed revolving door, she happened to glance up again and her eyes scanned the frieze that had been installed above. It was a tableau dominated by a torch bearing female figure, who stood between paired dogs or wolves, amidst the cadaver carts and open grave pits of a medieval plague scene. Stylistically, the figures displayed the blocky elongated rendering of cathedral sculpture. The frieze was flanked by medallions depicting crosses, but the crucified figures were inverted. She leaned against the door to start it moving. Typical Gothic image vocabulary, she thought before the door revolved and forced her into the diner.

"Welcome, my lovely one," Valerie heard a voice whisper as she crossed the threshold. The words had been spoken so low, at the very bottom of her aural acuity, that she suspected she had only heard them in her mind's ear, perhaps as a phantasmal creation derived from the whooshing of the weather-strips that sealed the revolving glass. She shook her head and looked around.

Once inside, there was no trace of the space having ever been a diner. Instead, the door opened onto a relatively low atrium with a ceiling about ten feet high. Opposite the door, the atrium was separated from the interior of the club by what looked like an actual medieval portcullis, which was currently raised about eight feet above the floor. A series of antique looking telephones clung to the wall on her right, beside a closed French door marked "Coats".

"Hello, and welcome to Nightwings," a hostess announced from Valerie's left. She was standing behind an elaborate wrought iron lectern that featured a built-in candelabrum bearing a half-dozen lit candles, a reservation book, and a chalice containing what looked like red wine. It was unexpected enough to slightly startle Valerie. She had never thought to see a hostess greeting the patrons entering a Goth club. A gruffty bouncer would have been more typical. Most of the places she remembered were as gritty and bulletproof as the owner could make them. Here, the atmosphere was upscale and genteel, if a bit dark and eccentric in theme. (Val noted a pedestal supporting a vase of roses that she assumed had been spray painted black). The hostess was dressed like Morticia Addams, appropriately enough, but she was a platinum blonde whose features screamed Nordic. While her hair color appeared natural, her skin looked as if it had been bleached. She probably hadn't spent a minute in the sun in centuries.

"Thank you," Valerie said, finally finding her voice, "I've never been here before and I'm already very impressed." She still couldn't keep from glancing around, even as she spoke to the hostess.

The hostess gave her a slight smile, revealing blindingly white teeth behind blood red lip-gloss. Her bright blue eyes appraised Valerie, who was still surveying the premises and searching a little nervously for Kate. She couldn't help feeling out of place, having come directly from work and having decided not to try to dress for the setting. Rather than black everything, ghost make-up, and a crucifix on a chain, she was wearing Gap blue jeans, a white short sleeved dress shirt and her usual cowboy boots. A simple pair of diamond studs accented her ears. Val realized that she looked like a tourist.

"There's no performance tonight, so there's no cover charge," the hostess informed her, "and it's actually pretty quiet. There are bars on the left side on each level, but the crypt and the upper mezzanines are closed. There's table seating on the ground floor and the first mezzanine. We also maintain a limited kitchen that's open until 1am."

The hostess noticed Valerie's eyes repeatedly straying towards the club. During one of those periods she appeared next to Val, having come from behind the lectern to join her at the threshold of the portcullis. She gestured once to the interior, and offered some general information.

"Nightwings is built on an open atrium design encircled by five levels of mezzanines. Each level has a full bar and restrooms, as does the crypt area below us, which also contains the dance floor and DJ booth. Performances are given on the stage to the right side of the main floor opposite the bar."

Valerie followed the description with her eyes, noting the bank of four steel cage elevators against the far wall, which serviced the broad mezzanines that encircled the chamber at intervals of roughly twenty vertical feet. The far right-hand elevator continued upwards, into a shaft that must have served the bell tower. The far left-hand elevator was accompanied on its ascent by a twisting wrought iron staircase that encased it. Between the central pair of elevators was a wide stairwell leading down, presumably to the "crypt" area. On her left and right, in the nearer corners of the room, single elevators with encircling staircases ascended to the mezzanines. The main room was lit with wall sconces that held real gas lights. She looked up and saw the exterior glow of the city lights sifting through the colorful stained glass windows on the levels above her. The space culminated in a high peaked roof with exposed beams, but around that was an area of struts that supported a wide loft whose access could only have come from the elevator that served the bell tower. The undersides of the loft and mezzanines displayed a network of steel struts, braces, and columns. The overall impression was reminiscent of the Bradbury Building's lobby, that she'd seen in the movie "Bladerunner" and a Heart video for the song "Nothin' At All", but with only mezzanines instead of offices surrounding the atrium, the open space in Nightwings was much vaster.

"This building has been cited in numerous architectural reviews. Are you just stopping in to have a look around," the hostess asked, gently pegging her as a tourist. Somehow, she'd returned to her lectern unnoticed while Valerie had been preoccupied searching the club's interior. Valerie realized that throughout the conversation, except for the small movements of her lips and eyes and one gesture, the woman had been completely still. It was almost like talking with a statue.

"Actually no," Valerie told her in a distracted voice, "I'm supposed to be meeting someone, but I'm running a half-hour late and I'm hoping she's still here and isn't mad at me."

"Ahhh, meeting a friend then. She should be easy to find with the lack of crowds tonight. Good luck."

"Thanks," Valerie paused. Her scan of the space hadn't revealed Kate, "by the way, is Stephanie working at the main bar?"

The hostess looked at her in surprise for a moment before asking, "you're here looking for Stephanie?"

"Uh, no, not really," Val answered. She thought the hostess had sounded…possessive. "I'm actually here to meet a woman named Kate, but she said that if I couldn't find her, Stephanie would know where she was."

The hostess did a strange sort of double take that she suppressed with effort, combining expressions of surprise, relief, and curiosity in rapid succession. She actually seemed to loom forward to examine Valerie more closely, displaying an intensity that made the vampire nervous. Their eyes were level, Val had noticed, both about 5'6" from the floor. Finally the hostess blinked and said, "Heh…uh, 'Kate' is on the first mezzanine, near the bar. I'm sure that she's already seen you…when you entered."

"Oh. Okay, thanks," Val said, now more uneasy than ever. She briefly wondered if the hostess knew the location of everyone in the building. "I guess I'll go and find her then."

The hostess gave her a slight nod of dismissal as she started walking away, but behind her back, Valerie could feel the woman's eyes boring into her. As she moved under the portcullis and into the main room, she glanced up towards the mezzanine bar. Kate was leaning against the wrought iron guard railing looking down at her, and gave her a small wave of recognition. She certainly hadn't been there a moment earlier. With a return smile, Valerie walked more quickly towards the nearest stairs.

To Be Continued