Tokyo, Japan

“You’re American.”

The woman’s voice shook him from his reverie. Reviewing a ledger on his computer screen, he hadn’t seen the woman enter.

She was a thin Japanese woman with long dark hair. She wore a white wool coat and a short black dress beneath it.

Her approach was so quick that the bell above the door rang a second too late. No one had ever bothered to come into his office during the time the club was open. Guests went straight downstairs, where the party waited.

Maybe, she’d followed his scent.

With her hands shoved in her pockets, she smiled.

“Yes, I’m American,” Scott replied.

“It’s great to speak English with someone. I’ve been here a while now, but my Japanese is not what it should be. Since this is the old country people naturally think my accent should be, like, perfect.”

That made him smile. “You’re from Los Angeles?”

“Close,” she replied. “And you?”

“Texas.”

“You don’t have a Southern accent.”

“I traveled a lot as a kid. Mom drove the accent out of us though. She’s an English teacher, so it figures.” He paused. “You’re one of our clientele?”

“Of course,” she smirked, revealing her perfect teeth.

“Do you need to be shown around?”

“No, it’s been a while since I’ve been here. Bruce Green is a friend of mine.”

“ He’ll probably be here anytime . Would you like to wait for him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t wait for men.”

“Let me walk you downstairs,” he offered.

****

He lead her down a narrow set of stairs into the club. The music, which he never heard through the sound proofed walls of his office, was so loud that he could feel it pumping in his chest.

She put a hand on his arm, backing him against a wall.

“You’re not all human, are you?” she said, her lips touching his ear.

“No, I’m not.”

“What are you?” she asked.

“Lamia. My name is Scott Ryder.”

She smiled. It was almost sweet. Except for the feral look in her eyes.

She leaned close, and he didn’t flinch. She traced the side of his cheekbone with her tongue.

“Lamia have the sweetest skin. And the most bitter blood.”

“Sorry,” he said, “that I can’t accommodate.”

She laughed. “Are you really?”

She took his hand and lead him around to the back, to one of the private rooms.

He wasn’t supposed to fraternize with the customers. He was the manager of this den, where Wolves and vampires congregated to eat from humans. Rules were in place for a good reason.

The vampires could not drink his blood. And the Wolves just wouldn’t. They considered Lamia to be their own, as they were part Wolf. To kill a Lamia would be considered cannibalism.

A dangerous job. But he liked it.

Bruce , Scott‘s boss, would not be happy about this. Especially if this woman was one of his many girlfriends…

Scott was curious. This woman was beautiful, and he couldn’t wait to see what she was up to.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Keiko,” she said. “Sit.”

The room was empty . She pushed him onto on of the couches and climbed into his lap, straddling him.

She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his mouth.

****

After that first night, they started to meet outside the club. Partially on his insistence, to keep their friendship secret. She waited for Scott in the park, beneath an old fashioned wooden bridge shaped like an arch.

She waited for in the shadows, wearing a long coat. Her gloves were satin, and closed around his fingers tightly. “You will get cold,” she whispered with a smile. “Will you be okay out here for a bit?”

 “I’m fine,” he replied.

“Wait here then,” she said. “ It won’t be long.”

Her heels echoed as she crossed back onto the path, and then was gone.

After a while, he started counting the minutes.

Eight minutes, and he heard the sound of heels again.

Keiko emerged from the shadows. This time she wasn’t alone.

The girl was small, though probably not shorter than Keiko. She was thin to the point of frailty. Her hair had been chopped into what should have looked like a punk style, sticking up in uneven, spiky places around her head. Her short skirt reveled bare flesh. She wore boots but they were badly worn. The girl’s flesh was was exposed in a black bustier, and a thin leather jacket that was left open.

“Meet my friend” Keiko grinned. “Shelley.”

Shelley wore a dazed expression. Looking up at Scott, fear registered in her eyes.

“Where did you find her?” Scott asked.

Keiko laughed, and wrapped her arms around the girl, who didn’t blink.

“I caught her at the airport. I’ve been playing host to her at my house the last few days. Saving her up for some fun,” she said, and kissed the girl’s cheek.

“She hasn’t tried to fight you?” Scott asked.

“No. I compel her not to. Do you know how to do that?”

Scott shook his head. “No.”

His eyes were fastened on the girl. He noticed the scars on her neck, dried with blood. Further down, on her breasts, deeper, round gashes.

Bite marks.

“Shelley,” Keiko ordered. “Show my friend an appropriate welcome.”

Keiko let go of her and the girl came to stand in front of him. She had to strain to reach his lips but she managed to do it, kissing him in one graceful moment.

He noticed the little bracelet she wore. It brushed his cheek lightly as she touched him. A band of mutlicolored stones on a string.

Back home, his little sister had one just like it.

Scott pushed the girl away.

“She is clean,” Keiko snapped. “I’ve been drinking from her nearly a week.”

The girl looked confused. She wrapped her arms around herself, looking from Scott to Keiko.

“Oh. Are you jealous?” Keiko said. “You shouldn’t be. We’re gonna have fun, me and you,” she told Scott, and pulled Shelley backwards with one jerk of her collar.

Keiko dug into the flesh of the girl’s neck, drinking.

Moments later, done, she dropped the girl like so much trash.

Moving forward, she placed her hand on Scott’s chest. He couldn’t have moved then, even if he’d wanted to.

Not that he did.

She kissed him, her mouth hot and sticky with blood.

 _________

 ©2010 Lori Titus　

LYCANTHROPY  CONTESTANT

“Why is this place called Nowhere?” the dark haired man said to me.

I sat my cup of coffee down. Looked at the white mug that had the word NOWHERE imprinted in bold black letters. Then I took a moment and glared at the man. He was a handsome fellow that looked as though he stepped right off of the cover of a GQ magazine.

His raven hair and murky-green eyes meshed nicely with his tight-fitting black t-shirt, that showcase a muscular physique. And with a boyish smile like his… I am sure that he’d broken many of young girl’s hearts.

“Because that’s where you are, young man,” I replied, licking my aged lips. “Is Nowhere. A place that doesn’t exist on maps. A place that nobody ever talks about. Because it’s a place that nobody has ever left.”

His jaw clinched. “What do you mean that nobody has ever left?”

I sighed with thick breath that smelt of stale coffee and cheap cigars. I hated it when people walked into my little rustic store and asked me stupid questions. Like Why is this place called Nowhere? or Why can’t I find this place on my map? I really wanted to just grab them by the neck and squeeze them until they turned blue. But I always restrained myself because I knew that the ruffians would take care of them for me.

There was a hint of rage in his voice when he rebuffed, “Ruffians?” He snarled his nose and raised his massive chest. This was the moment that I realized that the young man had some fight in him. A gumption that the other unfortunate tourists had lacked. Most of them at this point were cowering and crying to God for help. But not this man. No. This man was ticked-off and ready to kick some ass. He probably had military background but I never asked him.

“Yes, the ruffians,” I replied. “They’re a group of deadbeats that’s lead by a scrawny waste-of-a-cumshot named Lurkin.” I rolled my wheelchair over to the window and peeped out. All was clear… for now. “I’ve seen Lurkin’s group rip apart a whole family of five in less than three minutes. Hell, one time I even seen ‘em take care of school bus loaded-up with a whole football team. Those strapping young boys might’ve beat Fairvale by thirteen, but the ruffians whipped their asses then ate ‘em ever so slowly.”

The dark-haired fellow began to search the store. I knew what for, so I decided to help him. There was just something about him that I liked. It could’ve been his attitude, his grace, or his demeanor. Or it might’ve been that the man reminded me of myself when I was his age.

“You’re gonna need this,” I said, rolling back over to the register. I opened a secret compartment and pulled out a .357 Magnum.

“What about you, sir?” he asked, taking the gun.

I smiled and shook my head. “The ruffians don’t bother me, young man. I am, after all, the person who gave them life.”

He looked at me, as though, I was a madman. And, well, he is probably right.

I also handed him an old wooden box with a faded cross upon it and said, “You’ll need these too.”

He opened the box, examined the contents, then gave me a dumbfounded look. I nodded slowly as he pulled out six silver bullets and put them in the chamber. “Thanks,” he said, putting the remaining bullets in his pocket.

“You need to get out of Nowhere as soon as possible,” I said, grasping his forearm. “The myth about werewolves and a full moon is just that… a myth. They can change form at will, and they will as soon as you leave.”

I locked the door after he left, rolled over to my record player and put on an album. Then fell asleep listening to Hank Williams sing Your Cheatin’ Heart.

***

The next morning, I awoke to pounding at my door. I opened it and there stood Lurkin. His slender, unshaven face flushed red with anger.

“Problem?” I taunted.

“Yea, how’d that man end up with your gun?”

“He stole it from me,” I lied. “Even took what little money that was in the register.”

Lurkin leered at me like he knew I was lying. “That bastard killed nine of my men,” he scolded, chewing at his bottom lip.

I shrugged. “I can’t help it if he stole my gun.”

He paced around in a circle, let out a low growl and rebuked, “He better have, old man, or I’ll kill…”

“You’ll do nothing,” I barked, eyes narrowing. “You can’t kill me, Lurkin! Nobody can kill me! I made myth a reality in 1951 when I became a real werewolf! And, unlike you and the other ruffians, I am immune to silver and the other bullshit methods about killing our kind. There’s only one way to kill me, and I’m the only one who knows how.” I gave him a quick told-ya-so smile. “Now, did that man make it out of Nowhere?”

Lurkin lowered his head. The word came out of his mouth like it hurt, like it was laced with razorblades and barbed-wire. “Yea.”

I gave him a look of great disappointment, but I was smiling on the inside. I huffed, and closed the door on him. Then smiled big-time as I rolled over to the record player and started it up. Knowing that I was going to live forever, or at least, until Hank Williams himself rose from the grave to kill me, I decided to listen to ole Hank sing I’ll Never Get Out Of This World Alive.

____________________ 

©2010 Chad Case

Chad Case lives in Lawrenceburg, Kentucky, with his wife, Melissa.  He enjoys writing short horror fiction in his spare time.  To date his works have been published on MicroHorror.com, The New Flesh Blogzine, Flashes In The Dark, Flashshot, and in the anthology: Toe Tags.