different, all right.”
Megga just sneered. “You don’t understand.”
“Maybe you’re the one that doesn’t understand. Maybe your head’s all fucked-up from reading Anne Rice and watching silly vampire romances on TV. Well, let me clue you into something: that’s all fantasy. There’s nothing sexy or uber-cool about those things. You saw that crone up there. You saw what she was. Did she look happy to you? She was nothing but a walking pestilence. I don’t think those things are anything more than hunger. But if they feel anything at all, it sure as hell isn’t contentment. That woman looked like she was in agony, she looked… defiled. Is that what you want?”
“Maybe it is,” Megga said. “Maybe I want the despair and the self-loathing.”
“You’ve already got that, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Megga shook her head. “I’ve always wanted death.”
Wenda just sighed. “What you need is a good psychiatrist.”
“Fuck you.”
“Whatever. All I know is that I’ve got enough problems without your morbid fantasies.”
“Oh yeah? And who put you in charge?”
Wenda sat forward. “I’m in charge because Morris is absolutely useless—”
“What?” Morris said.
“—and you’re not much better. I’ve got the only clear head in this room. We’re not going to survive unless we stand strong against what’s out there and stand together. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you let go of your teenage Goth fantasies long enough to see that?”
Megga laughed at her. In fact, her whole face and body laughed at her. Everything got in the act as if to show Wenda the absurdity of what she had just said like it was some naïve, childlike notion that you could possibly fight against them or stand strong against what they represented.
“Okay, Megga. If you don’t want to be a normal living, breathing human being, then get out of here. You’re no good to us,” Wenda told her. “Pack up your plastic fangs and your Wal-Mart Dracula cape and get the fuck out of here. Go outside. Let them have you. Go see just how content they are.”
When Megga made to open her mouth, Wenda said, “But understand one thing and understand it good: if you go out there and you come back trying to spread that plague to us, I’ll kill you. I’ll ram a fucking stake right through you.”
Megga just glared at her.
Wenda glared back. She picked up a length of oak from the woodpile. It was about sixteen or seventeen inches long, thick around as a bedpost. It would do nicely. So as she watched Megga watching her, she took the knife and began to sharpen it into a stake.
23
The bitch is serious. She’s absolutely fucking serious.
Little Miss Perfect, wouldn’t-swat-a fucking-fly Wenda who only came to life when she was Vultura had now morphed into the primo queen bitch, the cock-of-the-fucking-walk. She was large and in charge and even threatening…something Megga did not care for because she was the threatening one. It was the way it was supposed to work.
But… damn, look at her over there sharpening that stake. It wasn’t just threat posturing or some simple defensive mechanism, no, old Wenda was making a stake and she looked determined enough to use it. That gleam in her eye was steely, resolute, and bold. She’d already attacked one vampire tonight and Megga got the unpleasant feeling she was just warming up. That harmless Wenda Keegan was coming into her own, that at heart she was a fucking alpha warrior maiden that would kill vampires without hesitation and maybe even Van Helsing could learn a trick or two from her.
Interesting.
Megga felt threatened by her and feeling so, she wanted to yell at her, to tear her house down, to go up one side of Miss Wenda Keegan and down the other, screaming obscenities at her until she crawled back into the pretty pink box she’d come out of.
But part of her didn’t dare.
Wenda was beginning to look positively… predatory.
“You better make sure
Megga just sneered. “You don’t understand.”
“Maybe you’re the one that doesn’t understand. Maybe your head’s all fucked-up from reading Anne Rice and watching silly vampire romances on TV. Well, let me clue you into something: that’s all fantasy. There’s nothing sexy or uber-cool about those things. You saw that crone up there. You saw what she was. Did she look happy to you? She was nothing but a walking pestilence. I don’t think those things are anything more than hunger. But if they feel anything at all, it sure as hell isn’t contentment. That woman looked like she was in agony, she looked… defiled. Is that what you want?”
“Maybe it is,” Megga said. “Maybe I want the despair and the self-loathing.”
“You’ve already got that, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Megga shook her head. “I’ve always wanted death.”
Wenda just sighed. “What you need is a good psychiatrist.”
“Fuck you.”
“Whatever. All I know is that I’ve got enough problems without your morbid fantasies.”
“Oh yeah? And who put you in charge?”
Wenda sat forward. “I’m in charge because Morris is absolutely useless—”
“What?” Morris said.
“—and you’re not much better. I’ve got the only clear head in this room. We’re not going to survive unless we stand strong against what’s out there and stand together. Don’t you understand that? Can’t you let go of your teenage Goth fantasies long enough to see that?”
Megga laughed at her. In fact, her whole face and body laughed at her. Everything got in the act as if to show Wenda the absurdity of what she had just said like it was some naïve, childlike notion that you could possibly fight against them or stand strong against what they represented.
“Okay, Megga. If you don’t want to be a normal living, breathing human being, then get out of here. You’re no good to us,” Wenda told her. “Pack up your plastic fangs and your Wal-Mart Dracula cape and get the fuck out of here. Go outside. Let them have you. Go see just how content they are.”
When Megga made to open her mouth, Wenda said, “But understand one thing and understand it good: if you go out there and you come back trying to spread that plague to us, I’ll kill you. I’ll ram a fucking stake right through you.”
Megga just glared at her.
Wenda glared back. She picked up a length of oak from the woodpile. It was about sixteen or seventeen inches long, thick around as a bedpost. It would do nicely. So as she watched Megga watching her, she took the knife and began to sharpen it into a stake.
23
The bitch is serious. She’s absolutely fucking serious.
Little Miss Perfect, wouldn’t-swat-a fucking-fly Wenda who only came to life when she was Vultura had now morphed into the primo queen bitch, the cock-of-the-fucking-walk. She was large and in charge and even threatening…something Megga did not care for because she was the threatening one. It was the way it was supposed to work.
But… damn, look at her over there sharpening that stake. It wasn’t just threat posturing or some simple defensive mechanism, no, old Wenda was making a stake and she looked determined enough to use it. That gleam in her eye was steely, resolute, and bold. She’d already attacked one vampire tonight and Megga got the unpleasant feeling she was just warming up. That harmless Wenda Keegan was coming into her own, that at heart she was a fucking alpha warrior maiden that would kill vampires without hesitation and maybe even Van Helsing could learn a trick or two from her.
Interesting.
Megga felt threatened by her and feeling so, she wanted to yell at her, to tear her house down, to go up one side of Miss Wenda Keegan and down the other, screaming obscenities at her until she crawled back into the pretty pink box she’d come out of.
But part of her didn’t dare.
Wenda was beginning to look positively… predatory.
“You better make sure
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