Selections from By Blood We Live Read online

  Selections from By Blood We Live

  by

  edited by John Joseph Adams

  Table of Contents

  Selections from

  BY BLOOD WE LIVE

  Edited by John Joseph Adams

  By Blood We Live © 2009 by John Joseph Adams

  This edition of Selections from By Blood We Live © 2009 by Night Shade Books

  This Sampler is licensed for individual use only.

  Cover art © 2009 by David Palumbo

  Cover design by Michael Ellis

  Interior layout and design by Ross E. Lockhart

  All rights reserved

  "Introduction" and author notes © 2009 John Joseph Adams.

  Internet edition

  Look for By Blood We Live (ISBN 13: 978-1-59780-156-0)

  at better booksellers near you.

  Night Shade Books

  Please visit us on the web at

  http://www.nightshadebooks.com

  Other anthologies by John Joseph Adams

  Federations

  Seeds of Change

  The Living Dead

  Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse

  Forthcoming Anthologies

  Brave New Worlds

  The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

  The Living Dead 2

  The Mad Scientist's Guide to World Domination

  The Way of the Wizard

  Acknowledgment is made for permission

  to print the following material:

  "House of the Rising Sun" by Elizabeth Bear. © 2005 Elizabeth Bear. Originally published in The Third Alternative. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Lifeblood" by Michael A. Burstein. © 2003 Michael A. Burstein. Originally published in New Voices in Science Fiction. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "For Further Reading" by Ross E. Lockhart. © 2009 Ross E. Lockhart. Original to this volume.

  "Infestation" by Garth Nix. © 2008 Garth Nix. Originally published in The Starry Rift. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu" by Norman Partridge. © 1994 Norman Partridge. Originally published in Love in Vein. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Peking Man" by Robert J. Sawyer. © 1996 Robert J. Sawyer. Originally published in Dark Destiny III. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "This Is Now" by Michael Marshall Smith. © 2004 Michael Marshall Smith. Originally published online in BBCi Cult Vampire Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "After the Stone Age" by Brian Stableford. © 2004 Brian Stableford. Originally published online in BBCi Cult Vampire Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Under St. Peter's" by Harry Turtledove. © 2007 Harry Turtledove. Originally published in The Secret History of Vampires. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  "Exsanguinations" by Catherynne M. Valente. © 2005 Catherynne M. Valente. Originally published online at www.catherynemvalente.com. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  Introduction

  by John Joseph Adams

  How do we define the vampire? Are they barely animated corpses, of a horrific visage, killing indiscriminately? Or are they suave, charismatic symbols of sexual repression in the Victorian era? Do they die in sunlight, or does it only make them itch a little, or, God forbid, sparkle? Do crosses and holy symbols work at repelling them, or is that just a superstition from the old times? Are they born, or made by other vampires? And anyway, are these vampires created through scientific means, such as genetic research or a virus, or are they the magical kind? Can they transform into bats? Or are they stuck in the appearance they had when they were turned? Are we talking the traditional Eastern European vampire, or something more exotic, like the Tagalog mandurugo, a pretty girl during the day, and a winged, mosquito-like monstrosity by night? Do they even drink blood, or are they some kind of psychic vampire, more directly attacking the life-force of their victims?

  Vampire stories come from our myths, but their origins are quite diverse. Stories of the dead thirsting for human life have existed for thousands of years, although the most common version we speak of in popular culture originated in eighteenth-century Eastern Europe. Why is the notion of the dead risen to prey on the living such an omnipresent myth across so many cultures?

  Perhaps the myth of the vampire comes from a little bit of projection on the part of the living. We have a hard time imagining our existence after death, and it may be easier to imagine a life that goes on somehow. But what kind of life would a corpse live? Our ancestors were intimately familiar with decomposition, even if they didn't precisely understand it. If I were dead, I know I would have a certain fixation for living things. And perhaps I might, finding death an unagreeable state, attempt to steal from the living some essence that defines the barrier between the living and death. Blood stands in for the notion of life easily enough. Now I just have to get that essence inside of me somehow, hmm. . . slurp.

  Or perhaps there's a darker, more insidious reason for the pervasiveness of the vampire story. Is there some kernel of universal truth behind all these stories? Many of the tales included here will offer their own explanations for the stories and myths. Because if there's one thing we love almost as much as vampires themselves, it's exploring their true natures. With the wealth of material accumulated on the nasty bloodsuckers, no two authors approach the vampire myth in quite the same way. The commonality of the vampire's story means their tales can take place in any time and in any place. The backdrop changes, and the details too, but always, underneath it all, there is blood. All draw from those dark, fearful histories, but provide their own fresh take, each like a rare blood type, to be sought by connoisseurs such as yourself.

  Hear again one of our oldest and most well-known fairy tales from a new, darker perspective in Neil Gaiman's "Snow, Glass, Apples." And just who is the mysterious Tribute in Elizabeth Bear's "House of the Rising Sun"? He seems so familiar. . . Visit the Philippines in Gabriela Lee's "Hunger," and see the world from the eyes of a creature of decidedly non-European origin. If that is not exotic enough for your tastes, then travel into the future and beyond with Ken Macleod's "Undead Again."

  Is your thirst still not satisfied? Hunt through these pages for stories by authors such as Stephen King, Joe Hill, Kelley Armstrong, Lilith Saintcrow, Carrie Vaughn, Harry Turtledove, and many more. There is a feast here to be had. Drink deeply.

  Under St. Peter's

  by Harry Turtledove

  Harry Turtledove—who is often referred to as the "master of alternate history"—is the Hugo Award-winning author of more than 80 novels and 100 short stories. His most recent novels are The Man with the Iron Heart, After the Downfall, Give Me Back My Legions!, and Hitler's War. In addition to his SF, fantasy, and alternate history works, he's also published several straight historical novels under the name H. N. Turteltaub. Turtledove obtained a Ph.D. in Byzantine history from UCLA in 1977.

  Turtledove says that part of the appeal of vampire fiction is that we humans like to think we're at the top of the food chain. "But what if we're not?" he said. "Vampire stories also often involve immortality—as this one does—and sex—which this one doesn't—and both of those are abiding themes to which vampires give a different slant."

  This story takes place in St. Peter's Basilica in Vatican City—one of Christianity's holiest sites—and tells the tale of the vampire living underneath it. It's a difficult story to talk about without giving away the good parts. Let it suffice to say that it's oh-so blasphemous. Say three Hail Marys and an Our Father after reading.

  Incense in the air, even down here behind the doors. Frankincense
and myrrh, the scents he remembered from days gone by, days when he could face the sun. Somber Latin chants. He recognized them even now, though the chanters didn't pronounce Latin the way the legionaries had back in those bright days.

  And the hunger. Always the hunger.

  Would he finally feed? It had been a long time, such a very long time. He could hardly remember the last time he'd had to wait so long.

  He wouldn't die of starvation. He couldn't die of starvation. His laughter sent wild echoes chasing one another in his chamber. No, he couldn't very well die, not when he was already dead. But he could wish himself extinguished. He could, and he did, every waking moment—and every moment, from now to forever or the sun's next kiss, was a waking moment.

  Much good wishing did him.

  He waited, and he remembered. What else did he have to do? Nothing. They made sure of it. His memory since his death and resurrection was perfect. He could bring back any day, any instant, with absolute clarity, absolute accuracy.

  Much good that did him, too.

  He preferred recalling the days before, the days when he was only a man. (Was he ever only a man? He knew how many would say no. Maybe they were right, but he remembered himself as man and man alone. But his memories of those days blurred and shifted—as a man's would—so he might have been wrong. Maybe he was something else, something different, right from the start.)

  He'd packed a lot into thirty-odd years. Refugee, carpenter, reformer, rebel. . . convict. He could still hear the thud of the hammer that drove in the spikes. He could still hear his own screams as those spikes pierced him. He'd never thought, down deep in his heart, that it would come to that—which only just went to show how much he knew.

  He'd never thought, down deep in his heart, that it would come to this, either. Which, again, just went to show how much he knew.

  If he were everything people said he was, would he have let it come to this? He could examine that portion of his—not of his life, no, but of his existence, with the perfect recall so very distant from mortality. He could examine it, and he had, time and again. Try as he would, he couldn't see anything he might have done differently.

  And even if he did see something like that, it was much too late to matter now.

  "Habemus papam!"

  When you heard the Latin acclamation, when you knew it was for you. . . Was there any feeling to match that, any in all the world? People said a new Orthodox Patriarch once fell over dead with joy at learning he was chosen. That had never happened on this trunk of the tree that split in 1054, but seeing how it might wasn't hard. A lifetime of hopes, of dreams, of work, of prayer, of patience. . . and then, at last, you had to try to fill the Fisherman's sandals.

  They will remember me forever, was the first thought that went through his mind. For a man who, by the nature of his office, had better not have children, it was the only kind of immortality he would ever get. A cardinal could run things behind the scenes for years, could be the greatest power in the oldest continually functioning institution in the world—and, five minutes after he was dead, even the scholars in the Curia would have trouble coming up with his name.

  But once you heard "Habemus papam!". . .

  He would have to deal with Italians for the rest of his life. He would have to smell garlic for the rest of his life. Part of him had wanted to retire when his friend, his patron, passed at last: to go back north of the Alps, to rusticate.

  That was only part of him, though. The rest. . . He had been running things behind the scenes for years. Getting his chance to come out and do it in the open, to be noted for it, to be noticed for it, was sweet. And his fellow cardinals hadn't waited long before they chose him, either. What greater honor was there than the approval of your own? More than anyone else, they understood what this meant. Some of them wanted it, too. Most of them wanted it, no doubt, but most of the ones who did also understood they had no chance of gaining it.

  Coming out of the shadows, becoming the public face of the Church, wasn't easy for a man who'd spent so long in the background. But he'd shown what he could do when he was chosen to eulogize his predecessor. He wrote the farewell in his own tongue, then translated it into Italian. That wasn't the churchly lingua franca Latin had been, but still, no one who wasn't fluent in it could reasonably hope to occupy Peter's seat.

  If he spoke slowly, if he showed Italian wasn't his native tongue—well, so what? It gave translators around the world the chance to stay up with him. And delivering the eulogy meant people around the world saw him and learned who he was. When the College of Cardinals convened to deliberate, that had to be in the back of some minds.

  He wouldn't have a reign to match the one that had gone before, not unless he lived well past the century mark. But Achilles said glory mattered more than length of days. And John XXIII showed you didn't need a long reign to make your mark.

  Vatican II cleared away centuries of deadwood from the Church. Even the Latin of the Mass went. Well, there was reason behind that. Who spoke Latin nowadays? This wasn't the Roman Empire any more, even if cardinals' vestments came straight out of Byzantine court regalia.

  But change always spawned a cry for more change. Female priests? Married priests? Homosexuality? Contraception? Abortion? When? Ever? The world shouted for all those things. The world, though, was a weather vane, turning now this way, now that, changeable as the breeze. The Church was supposed to stand for what was right. . . whatever that turned out to be.

  If changes come, they'll come because of me. If they don't, that will also be because of me, the new Holy Father thought. Which way more than a billion people go depends on me.

  Why anyone would want a job like this made him scratch his head. That he wanted it himself, or that most of him did. . . was true, no matter how strange it seemed. So much to decide, to do. So little time.

  A tavern in the late afternoon. They were all worried. Even the publican was worried; he hadn't looked for such a big crowd so late in the day. They were all eating and drinking and talking. They showed no signs of getting up and leaving. If they kept hanging around, he would have to light the lamps, and olive oil wasn't cheap.

  But they kept digging their right hands into the bowl of chickpeas and mashed garlic he'd set out, and eating more bread, and calling for wine. One of them had already drunk himself into quite a state.

  Looking back from down here, understanding why was easy. Hindsight was always easy. Foresight? They'd called it prophecy in those days. Had he had the gift? His human memory wasn't sure. But then, his human memory wasn't sure about a lot of things. That was what made trying to trace the different threads twisting through the fabric so eternally fascinating.

  He wished he hadn't used that word, even to himself. He kept hoping it wasn't so. He'd been down here a long, long, long time, but not forever. He wouldn't stay down here forever, either. He couldn't.

  Could he?

  He was so hungry.

  The tavern. He'd been looking back at the tavern again. He wasn't hungry then. He'd eaten his fill, and he'd drunk plenty of wine, wine red as blood.

  What did wine taste like? He remembered it was sweet, and he remembered it could mount to your head. . . almost the way any food did these days. But the taste? The taste, now, was a memory of a memory of a memory—and thus so blurred, it was no memory at all. He'd lost the taste of wine, just as he'd lost the tastes of bread and chickpeas. Garlic, though, garlic he still knew.

  He remembered the sensation of chewing, of reducing the resistive mass in his mouth—whatever it tasted like—to something that easily went down the throat. He almost smiled, there in the darkness. He hadn't needed to worry about that in a while.

  Where was he? So easy to let your thoughts wander down here. What else did they have to do? Oh, yes. The tavern. The wine. The feel of the cup in his hands. The smell of the stuff wafting upwards, nearly as intoxicating as. . . But if his thoughts wandered there, they wouldn't come back. He was so hungry.

  The tavern,
then. The wine. The cup. The last cup. He remembered saying, "And I tell you, I won't drink from the fruit of the vine any more till that day when I drink it anew with you in my father's kingdom."

  They'd nodded. He wasn't sure how much attention they paid, or whether they even took him seriously. How long could anybody go without drinking wine? What would you use instead? Water? Milk? You were asking for a flux of the bowels if you did.

  But he'd kept that promise. He'd kept it longer than he dreamt he would, longer than he dreamt he could. He was still keeping it now, after all these years.

  Soon, though, soon, he would have something else to drink.

  If you paid attention to the television, you would think he was the first Pope ever installed. His predecessor had had a long reign, so long that none of the reporters remembered the last succession. For them, it was as if nothing that came before this moment really happened. One innocent—an American, of course—even remarked, "The new Pope is named after a previous one."