The fire. It was afraid of the bright fire.

Roberto still held his torch. He thrust it toward the vampire and it cowered, staggering backwards, wings turned. It staggered back through the cave and we pursued, realizing its vulnerability, chasing it out into the night where we saw it take flight like a giant bat, sending its dark wind into our faces as we stood by the cave's entrance.

Smoke filtered out behind us and we quickly made our way back through the jungle into Ba.n.a.lica.

With the a.s.sistance of the townsfolk, we built a bonfire outside the church and spent the night there, watching the skies for the flying creature, knowing deep inside that Ba.n.a.lica would now be safe from harm's way.

It has been six months since my experience in Ba.n.a.lica. I have relocated my plight of G.o.d to Cocina, where many of its padres have perished in attempt to rescue the faithful from evil.

With Roberto at my side, we waitaawait for word of some other villa that has been absorbed by evil.

And then, in the memory of Juan-Carlos, we will fight again.

Window Across the Street.

JAY CASELBERG.

Her window stands across the street, framed by white wood, by bricks, fawn shaded in the dimming evening light. Curtains are there, half-closed. A gentle breeze stirs them back and forth. The same breeze moves a tree branch and the leaves sway to and fro, occasionally obscuring then revealing the shadowed s.p.a.ce beyond. My eyes are sensitive to every twitch of movement in the same way my cat's ears dart at every soundaalike radar. Sometimes he sits with me as I watch and I stroke him gently from head to tail, my cat, my long time companion.

Late at night, across the street, she closes the curtains, chequered, glowing dimly in the darkness. Half-formed man shapes move behind them, and I can but imagine what goes on in there, in that private place shuttered from the world. She leaves the window open, but the curtains closed. The breeze sometimes parts the cloth tantalizingly, revealing the barest sliver of the s.p.a.ce beyond.

She always looks before closing them, across the darkened street, glancing up before letting the hair fall across her face, a cascade of blond, as if she does not know. The lingering glance before she drops her gaze sets my heart pounding and dries my mouth. I speak to her then, my lips forming words, but no phrases come. The wind and the gentle rumble of my cat sitting beside me are the only sounds to break the stillness.

Winter will be upon us soon. The leaves will drop from the tree, leaving the branches to sc.r.a.pe at the sky, but revealing larger gaps that I can see between. Sometimes she wears a red silk robe, gilded dragons worked with fine embroidery at the shoulders. It's interesting, that choice of dragons. As she walks across her room the robe drifts behind her, flowing in her pa.s.sage. She never bothers to tie it closed. With winter, I wonder if she will. So then, with the tantalizing gaps within my viewpoint made larger by the season's pa.s.sing, I might see less instead of more. That would be rich irony. But I believe she will not allow that to happen. Perhaps she'll close the window to retain the warmth.

I discovered her by accident, one day as I sat on the edge of my bed, leaning down to tie my shoes. A flutter at the limits of my vision drew my gaze. It was only a brief flash, but it was enough, enough to draw me to the window's edge. I stood, using a finger to open the curtain a fraction so I could look across the street. I kept my face hidden by the frame and watched. The room was dark, but I could see her movement, her blonde hair a lighter patch within the colourless s.p.a.ce. I noted it and put it from my mind.

Later that same night, again by accident or so I thought, I saw that flicker, that movement once more. This time the light was on in her room. Bathed in yellow, she walked from one side of the bedroom to the other, arranging things, folding clothes. She wore the red silk robe. As I watched, only glancing at first and then transfixed, she stood in the centre of the room where I was afforded a clear view; then she dropped the robe from her shoulders. Naked, she stood upon her bed as she reached for something on a shelf above.

Her form was milk-white, svelte. Though distance separated us I could see the contours of her shape, the movement of her muscles beneath the skin, and as she turned, the fine blonde down below her belly. Her body arched as she reached above her, a gentle curve. I became nervous then, guilty for watching, but I could not help myself. She moved to face me, placed her hands upon her hips and stood there, framed in wood and gla.s.s. Did she not see me? Unknowingly, I licked my lips. My heart was racing. A pause, and then she reached across and drew the curtains closed.

I watched the illuminated shadow play for half an hour or more, but eventually the light went out. Someone walked by on the street below and I pulled back from the window, feeling ashamed of what I was doing. I sat on my bed just thinking, well into the night, savouring the way my heart had raced, the thrill of discovery and the inner conflict about the morality of what I'd done.

Who was I? Who was this woman that I could invade her privacy like that? I put it from me, deciding that the brief sweet glimpse had been nothing more than chance.

Two days later, in the morning this time, I saw her again. I was at my window, looking at the state of the world, considering the weather and what I might wear for my day when I glanced across. She stood barely masked by her open curtain. She trailed a towel across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She rubbed it back and forth, flicked her hair back. Then she dropped the towel, trailed a hand across her belly and turned. I caught my breath, not believing that this could be happening. She was facing away from me now and, unable to help myself, I stepped closer to the gla.s.s. She lifted her arms to run her fingers through damp hair and I marvelled at the arch of her back, the curve of her hip, the firm roundness of her b.u.t.tocks, the slight dimples above them. My breath fogged the small patch of gla.s.s and I stopped myself from breathing, allowing the place to clear. Slowly she leaned down; then just as slowly she dressed, unhurried in her movements as if she had forever. At the last, she moved to the window and drew her curtains closed.

The way her hand lingered, the way she looked out onto the street before dragging them shut set me wondering.

I soon established the pattern. Three times a day she would be there and before long I had narrowed it down to particular times of the day. I knew when she rose. I knew when she came home. I knew when she went to sleep. I became a sentinel at my window, hovering in the shadows and waiting for her to appear. Once or twice she would break the schedule and leave me disappointed. It only made me want her all the more. The first time she didn't appear I waited in place for more than an hour, until my eyes played tricks and conjured vague movements in the darkness. I could barely sleep that night, feeling as if at any moment she might reappear, that perhaps I had misjudged the time.

She was back the next morning, the barest hint of a smile upon her lips. Yet still I did not know whether she knew I was standing there, watching and waiting. I could do little more than suspect. But the suspicion grew, for always there was that lingering pause, the barest glance, before she drew the curtains shut again.

Some time later she went away. For two weeks she was gone, her room hollow and empty. The chequered curtains fluttered mournfully in the breeze, ballooning into the shadowed room before flowing out. I was there waiting for her, morning, evening, and late at night, but for two full weeks she failed to appear. My vigil was in vain.

The way I stood, holding my curtains slightly parted for more than an hour at a time took its toll, for that was when the pain started in my arm. It was only a slight painaadull, running from my shoulder to my wrist. When at last I would give up for the night, I would flex my arm, try to stimulate some feeling and banish the annoying twinges that were becoming more and more regular. The discomfort was slight beside the knowledge that she wasn't there and I thought nothing more of them.

The two weeks pa.s.sed, and that night my heart leapt as I saw the light flick on in her room. The pulse was loud in my ears, almost deafening. I felt as if I could feel the blood flow within my veins. My mouth was dry, my breath coming in short shallow gasps. She had returned. I leaned against the window frame, relief mixed with excitement, and watched. She was back and she wore the red silk robe. I had been right to wait, to stand vigil for her return. She opened the curtains wider and ran fingers through her hair. The action was just for me.

That was three weeks past. The pain in my arm has not left, but she is back, still here. That is what truly matters.

She is in her room again, and I am in my place, half-obscured behind my curtain. She wears the red silk robe, shiny, the golden dragons catching and sparkling in the light. For the first time I notice they have green eyes made from small polished stones that seem to shine. I frown, wondering why I have never noticed this before.

She steps towards the window and looks out across the street, directly at the place where I stand. Her robe hangs open, exposing the marble curve of breast and belly. My arm is throbbing but I banish the sensation. She presses up against the window, and just for a moment, I swear I can see the gilded dragons move and writhe upon her shoulders.

She looks at me. I can feel her looking. And then I know she sees me. With that sudden knowledge, a deep and thrusting pain stabs in my chest.

I frown again. With one hand I keep the curtain in place, slightly open so I can see her, but with the other I knead at my chest, trying to banish this pain that has sprung from nowhere. Instead of bringing relief, it intensifies, hot and burning, blossoming inside me. The strength of it makes me gasp.

She lowers her face, watching me still, her hair hanging to one side like a fine silk curtain. My vision is slightly blurred now and those gentle curves seem larger than they should. I can feel her leaning forwards at her window, as if straining, waiting for something. She pa.s.ses her tongue over her lower lip.

Pain, beating inside me. The edges of my vision are fluttering with blackness. My legs are growing weak, barely able to support me. And still the hurt tears through meaawave after wave.

The darkness and blunt-edged pain flower like a hard jewel inside and finally I feel my knees give way. As I slip to the floor, I see her face, watching still, wreathed with her smile and golden hair. Surrounded by red silk and dancing dragons, I can see her eyes. They're deepest green and filled with lightaathe colour of an impossible ocean.

Lover's Triangle.

COLLEEN ANDERSON.

It was so cold I expected the ozone grids that waffled the sky to hiss from the rain. They continued to glow a false green. Their reliability didn't matter much; rad couldn't get through with the weather so s.h.i.tty. The rain wouldn't matter anyway, once inside Fundamental Glue.

I saw the garish orange even in the deluge, and ran to the door. Wiping water out of my eyes, I palmed the door and entered Fundamental Glue. Warm ecstasy. It was dark inside, and my eyes gradually adjusted to the diffused wraith-lights that bobbed above each table. Inside was nearly as garish as the front with long diagonal stripes of green, blue and red that covered the kylar plastiplate walls. Keg had taken no chances and had made Glue impervious to almost all types of razing, except for old world bombs, which no one was fool enough to use. No one in their right minds, but we had long ago lost that perspective.

I walked into the din and pushed through the crowd, close as maggots, to the bar. The place would soon writhe in gyrations of bliss when Bore Hunter started playing. I searched through the mix of humans and Wireheads for Sharman and Claxon but couldn't see them. Turning back to the bar, I yelled at Keg. "Hey, Keg, Brosia please. How's biz?"

Keg, lean, angular and with a hooked nose, glowered under bushy eyebrows as he filled gla.s.ses with coolants. "Not bad, Agate. You gonna read futures tonight?" He plunked the can in front of me.

I patted my coat's pockets. "I've got the decks. Wasn't planning to but maybe I will for a while."

"Please do." He turned away to the far side of the bar and yelled back, "Quiet spot's at the back."

I squeezed by three Wireheads whose eyes sheened with a silvery metal. Probably housed special opticsaaunnerving to look at them. I bit back an old curse at such unnatural use of flesh. At least it was their bodies, not mine. I sat at a table scarred with initials and faced the stage.

I rooted into one pocket and felt the rea.s.suring presence of stiletto and wand. The decks lay wrapped in silk in the opposite pocket and I pulled one out. The Romany Wanderer. I shuffled through the Gypsy patteranaasymbolsaaand decided to use the Mythic deck instead, with its strong traditional images for the Emperor, the Fool, Death, etc.

I laid a piece of red silk patterned with black sickles and roses upon the table, and began shuffling the cards. Eyes closed, I concentrated, centering myself to the earth, letting the sounds of the Glue drift away. Once inner calmness blanketed me, I opened my eyes, feeling connected to the symbolism of the cards. The portents and messages swirled within me, waiting to be released into sequence. I let out a long breath and sipped the Brosia.

As I shuffled the cards, a shadow fell across the table and I looked up. The wraith-light obscured the features, but by the white skin color it had to be a Wirehead.

"Do you tell futures?"

I looked up into the shadowed face and answered, "Only if you ask."

"Then I ask." He pulled out the chair and sat. Cla.s.sically handsome, with a strong brow and deep brown eyes. A Roman nose and a narrow chin were framed by auburn hair that just brushed his shoulders. He looked at me, waiting.

I held out my hand. "I'm Agate."

"Gamaliel." He shook mine and I pa.s.sed the cards to him. I noticed the carbon steel nails and guessed cybersonics or lasers lay beneath them. He set his drink at the corner of the table and said, "What do I do? I've never had a reading before."

"Never?"

"I thought my future was fairly evident." He smiled. Pointed teeth. White skin. One of the undead. I tried to hide my unease.

"Oh, well ... shuffle them, keeping the, uh, question you have in mind. When you feel ready, cut them into three piles on the silk and I'll take over from there."

I shivered slightly with dread, but was still fascinated at this man's nonchalance. From the moment I was old enough to understand, my parents and uncles, aunts and cousins, all the Rom had instilled in me the fear of death and the dead. Because my people feared death so much, we worshipped itaanoaagave obeisance to keep the dead away. It had always been so: treat the dead with respect and they won't come back to haunt you. It was all I could do to keep myself from chanting a warding spell before this man.

It was difficult, but I recentered myself as Gamaliel cut the cards into three piles. I picked them up, then turned over one after the other until there were twelve in the sun-wheel spread, with a thirteenth card in the middle. I pointed to the middle card, the Emperor; an a.s.sured man sitting upon the throne.

"This represents you and shows you are strong, a leader. Um, that is beyond your, uh, natural attributes. You're in control." And I wasn't. Undead so close, I was unnerved and feeling foolish. I took a deep breath and tried to get through the reading.

I had forgotten to ask him what his question was. No matter, the cards would still reveal an answer. The past and present cards showed several swords cards, the Moon, the eight, and three of wands, and the king of coins.

I sipped my Brosia and said, "Your past shows there was a time of confusion and strife, partly caused by your view of magic. You were shaped by it and dealt with a great hardship.

But it shows here," I pointed to the wands, "that you have worked hard and become comfortable. You do not want for anything in the world of material gain, and have attained what you tried for."

I looked up and saw he watched me, not the cards. Looking down, I pointed to the next three cards: the knight of wands, the Fool, and the queen of cups. "Your future shows that you search for something more and that it will lead you on the Fool's journey. You must be careful, for you might be so blinded by what you seek that you will fall to someone who is charming, yet potentially harmful. You must remember reason, but don't overa.n.a.lyze the situation."

He picked up his drink and sipped it, still watching me. He hadn't said a word and I wondered about the undead drinking normal drinks.

I licked my lips and continued. "These last three cards show the outcome of what you seek." The cards were strong: the Lovers, the Lightning Struck Tower, and the five of cups. I was surprised that the Death card hadn't figured in a spread for the undead. But then, I knew better, that card hardly ever meant the literal interpretation. "Your search will lead you into a relationship, possibly a partnership. This card signifies that you must make a choice and that there is the possibility of rivalry. The Tower indicates sudden change and a collapse of old structures. I don't think this relationship of the Lovers will last through it, but in the end there will be something left to build on. You will find that choices for the future will have changed, and the old beliefs will have broken down."

Gamaliel leaned back in his chair and smiled. "An apt reading, and an interesting one. I should do this more often. Thank you."

I finished my drink and couldn't help saying, "You're not like the others." I had, of course, "encountered" my fair share of roving undead or gangs in this chaotic world.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, while I avoided his eyes and wrapped the cards in the silk to put them away. I didn't feel like doing any more readings. Too hyped.

"Do you mean, like other Wireheads, or vampyrs?"

"Vampyrs. They're usually not so public, or so I thought, unless ... "

He smiled widely, enjoying my discomfort. "I'm not on the hunt, if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh." But how did I know he told the truth? I fiddled with objects in my pockets and tried to maintain the cool facade.

He stood and I realized he was very tall, over six feet. "If you don't mind I'll buy you a drink. Partial payment for the reading."

I just nodded, hoping I wouldn't make a bigger fool of myself. I watched him walk to the bar, calm, barely parting the crowd.

Gamaliel returned and set the Brosias down. He took off his long, green lacquer plast coat and tossed it on the back of the chair. Its hard scales clattered and caught the wraith-light hovering above. His muscled arms were bare and he wore an insul t-shirt that said 'Go with the flow, it's here to stay.'

He moved his chair to the side, so he half-faced me, and so that he could watch Bore Hunter, a band of stocky men and women with strobing gemstones adorning their heads. One guitarist had silver tusks that protruded from her lower lip. A singular beauty.

Gamaliel leaned over and whispered, his breath hot and sultry in my ear, "I promise not to drink you if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh." I tried to laugh. "No ... well, yes I was. Sorry, but I don't know many ... of your type and well, my people have always had a great fear of the dead returning to haunt us."

"And do you think I'm haunting you?"

"No. But you do have to eat sometime."

After watching the band for several minutes, Gamaliel turned to me just when I thought he hadn't heard. "Yes, I do have to eat, but I choose carefully and usually those who deserve it."

That didn't ease my nerves. I'd met enough crazed Wireheads who arbitrarily decided what someone deserved.

"How do you decide? And wh ... what do I deserve?"

Amus.e.m.e.nt sparked his eyes. "To be paid, for one." He tossed some creds on the table. "Don't worry, I won't touch you."

"That's what you say." I gulped my drink. "How do I know it's the truth?"

"Well," he leaned close. "You just have to trust me. Besides, I know that Gypsies have charms against the undead. I'd have to wait until you didn't suspect me."

I smiled, feeling that I could trust him. My intuition was rarely wrong. I finally relaxed enough to talk with Gamaliel about the city packs, and the music of Bore Hunter, and the other new band, Acid Reign, that was. .h.i.tting the scenes.

I realized as we talked that my perceptions, and old legends of the undead had clouded my view to the person beneath the vampyr image. Gamaliel talked warmly. I was fascinated by this friendly vampyr. This man could literally give me the kiss of death and yet he seemed at ease, lighthearted. But then, he could be. It wasn't he that had to worry about having his life stolen.

The evening pa.s.sed and Gamaliel and I danced, sucked into the desperate ambiance of people trying to forget the world. We were still talking when Keg came over and said, "Time to run, folks. I need my beauty rest." I found myself attracted to this man, this dead ... thing. He seemed so alive, and yet, again I found preconceived warnings that my people had given coloring my views.

I pulled on my voluminous, many-pocketed coat and patted it to make sure everything was there. Gamaliel stood and pulled on his shiny coat. "Look, Agate, I'll walk you to your place. Too many packs out lately."

"I live at Stanley's Green. That's almost an hour from here."

He raised one eyebrow and motioned with his arm toward the door. "I have nothing but time."

It was a tomb outside. The rain had stopped. The only sound was the ever-present hum of the grids overhead. We walked down the quiet crumbling roadway, well away from the crypt-like depths of abandoned buildings. Neither of us talked, our boot heels the only living sound.

Suddenly I whirled, the sense of someone watching too strong to ignore. Behind us, emerging from a doorway, were two Gorgon pack members. Their fibril hair writhed about their shoulders. They smiled carbon steel smiles and razor nails glinted in the streetlight. I looked around as Gamaliel turned to face them.

Quickly, I pulled the stiletto and wand from my coat. I waved the wand through the air in a pattern of pentacles and chanted a warding against the Gorgons' hypno-sonic stares. I thumbed the safety on the laser stiletto. The blade hummed and the edge of white light lit my hand.

Gamaliel calmly fished a leather band from his pocket and tied back his hair. "I suggest you hunt somewhere else."