Except for movies and books, she’d never even seen another of her kind. If she’d known another vampire, she would’ve asked what was going on. She only knew it had started about a month ago and had yet to abate. Most blood-human or otherworlder, it didn’t matter-now left her writhing in a dirty alley, vomiting and moaning in pain for hours. Lately, though, she couldn’t eat indiscriminately without severe consequences. But hungry as she was, weak as she was becoming, she needed to feed. She supposed, to a human, finding a tasty meal among this stretch would be the equivalent of picking between oversalted pasta, the charred nibblets left in the bottom of an oven, or stale toast seasoned with week-old mayonnaise. All those smells…Back to that already, are we? The bile threatened to spill over. Unfortunately, tonight’s buffet was lacking. Bride was looking for her next meal: warm blood from a live, jugular tap. Only difference was, they were shopping for clothes and shoes. Men and women, both human and nonhuman, bustled in every direction, some in a mad rush to reach their destination, some as unhurried as her. Already bile rose in her throat, burning.ĭeep breath in, hold…hold…deep breath out.

Mind on the task at hand, or you’ll puke. McBean burgers, fried chicken, and the ever-popular syn-milk…the list could go on and on. Her too-sensitive nose wrinkled in distaste. Perfumes and body odor, flowery laundry soaps and car exhaust. Not a bad smell, but when paired with the reeking public…Ugh. Now, almost eighty years later-eighty years in which Bride had barely aged-everything was comprised of unattractive, dirt-scented stone. Good-bye extraneous use of pretty glass and sweetly fragranced timber. Windows were now made of dark “shield armor,” and wood was scarce.Īfter the human-alien war, everything had had to be rebuilt for strength and durability, even while resources had been limited, the world a shell of its former self. Neither of which she would be enjoying anytime soon.

She loved peeking into shops and imagining owning whatever was being sold just as much as she loved the smell of pine. Red brick buildings stretched at her sides, each fairly new, no clear, breakable glass or blink-and-it’s-in-flames wood in sight. Bride McKells meandered along the crowded street in the pulsing heart of New Chicago, moonlight and multihued shop lights blending together to create a sparkling canvas of dream and shadow.

The Vampire's Bride by Gena Showalter