Vampires Don't Sparkle! by Michael West

Author:Michael West
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-937929-69-5
Published: 2013-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Skraeling

Joel A. Sutherland

Joel A. Sutherland is the Bram Stoker Award nominated author of Frozen Blood and Be a Writing Superstar, a creative writing guide for children published by Scholastic. His short fiction has appeared in many anthologies and magazines, including Blood Lite II & III and Cemetery Dance Magazine. He has a Masters of Information and Library Studies from Aberystwyth University in Wales and works in a public library near his home east of Toronto. Sutherland also appeared as ‘The Barbarian Librarian’ on the first season of the Canadian edition of the hit reality show Wipeout.

He has yet to meet a vampire without a single redeeming characteristic, but some of his favourites can be found in Salem’s Lot, 30 Days of Night and I Am Legend. He’ll also admit (in the right company) to enjoying watching True Blood with his wife.

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A speck.

Nothing more than a pinpoint of black on a sheet of pure, brilliant white. Like a star in reverse. Like the smallest pupil surrounded by the largest eye.

Just a speck.

But it’s enough to set my pulse racing. Enough to clutch my heart within an iron hand and squeeze my lungs so every breath is pain. Enough to make me contemplate abandoning my task and turning around.

It’s only a second or two before I shake the thought and carry on. I can’t head back now – I know that. But it’s tempting. Oh, so tempting.

Because that speck of black, although small, is far, far away. Must be ten or fifteen miles, I reckon, across snow-covered ice on the empty horizon. And if I can see it from this distance, it’s big. Much bigger than an elk, moose – hell, even bigger than a damn polar bear.

And I know it can only bring one of two things.

Life.

Or death.

-----

I hope for life but plan for death.

My gloved fingers dance over my body in a well-rehearsed pattern like a horny teenage boy getting frisky with a girl under a sleeping bag. But my motions are much more practical than anything hormone driven. I finger the guthook hunting knife, twelve inches, at my waist. The scaling knife, eight inches, sticking out of my right boot. And the micro dagger, three point five inches, strapped to my left wrist. Check, check and check.

Next, my fingers snake over my shoulder and grip the crossbow strapped to my back. With a quick, strong pull it slides out of its holster and into my hands. It feels so right there, its weight reassuring. I always keep an arrow preloaded but I check it anyway. My remaining six arrows are always kept in a quiver on my left side but I check them anyway, too. Safety, safety, safety – three rules that have kept me alive so long in this frozen, skraeling-infested world.

I return the crossbow to its holster and drop my hands back down to my sides, but I know their idleness will be short-lived. I’m too jittery, too anxious, and my hands will restart their silent checklist of my weapons in a few minutes.

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