Introduction by Addison Cain
Look, it’s all fun and games until they bleed on your best shoes. That gooey, decades-past-postmortem sludge that just stains everything.
And the smell.
Vamps pop when you stick them. A bubble of corpse one moment, a burst of ash the next. A truly morbid tar and feather for those of us doing the work of ridding the planet of blight. The bottles of shampoo my slayer sisters and I go through…
But I love that sound. I ache for that sound in a way I imagine bloodsuckers ache for a feed. I crave it almost as much as I crave a hard dicking from the bartender smiling my way as I sip a martini.
As I promise with my eyes that I’ll slay something else when his shift is over. And if I’m really lucky, his handsome roommate might want to join our games.
Takes a lot to satisfy a slayer.
We feast on pleasure because we have so little. Not when you know what we know.
Not when you’ve seen what a manic vamp can do to a pretty college student in five minutes flat. Not when the knowledge is carried between us. Even now I feel my sister Violet stabbing an ice pick deep into her prey. I may not be there to hear it, but I feel the pop. I share the victory with her. My special slayer gift, telepathy. A bit mundane, considering what some of my sisters can do. I can’t shift into a dragon, but I do get to enjoy the never-ending mental true-crime documentary taking place night in and night out… even if it is my night off.
And I order another drink.
It’s my night off, for fuck’s sake. So I’ll fuck, and those sweating to keep it safe for you to slumber soundly in your beds will get a taste of something other than grave rot and a demon’s deception. I’ll roll in the sheets until Mr. Bartender can’t walk, echoes of my fun sparkling over them.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake in the sun.
And leave my pretty bartender and his pal. Return to our base, happy to make the walk of shame. I won’t even shower the smell of life off my body. Because night will fall, and it will be my turn to strap on the leathers, the knives, the guns, the stakes, the poisons, the cross.
I take another sip, eager for intoxication.
Because my favorite sister died last night when her stake missed the mark. Soon she’ll be waking up as something new. Something I exist to end.
I’ll be keeping my vow to her.
I’ll spend the rest of my days hunting her down, wearing her thin. Starving her of blood until she shows herself.
Then I’ll kill what they made her. And give my life to draw her soul from hell so she might know peace.
And say a prayer for the thirteen slayers who still live—my sisters who have no pleasure but that of service. It’s a thankless job.
But oh, the shiver that runs down one’s spine with that pop.
Read on and you’ll feel it too. But be warned and brace—for once you know, you can’t unknow. And you, too, might just be called to the sisterhood.
My martini is empty, pity. I think I’ll order another. And another. However many it takes to suck all the pleasure I can from my last night pretending everything is peachy keen.
That my sister was not turned. That her soul is not in constant torment. That she’ll never get to finish the PhD she’d been working on instead of sleeping.
She was so fucking smart. Limitless potential to change the world.
Me? I wanted to be a housewife with five kids and a dog. Maybe even an orange cat, the kind that bosses you about and then loves on you when it wants food.
The kind that cuddles up close at night.
My favorite sister had a cat. Not sure who’s going to feed the fluffy, white monster while I’m chasing her vamp ass through this shithole city.
I’ll leave that to one of my Slayer slayer sisters. I’ll leave that to whoever gets called forward to replace Loey.
I’ll leave it all, but not until I get some dick.
And another drink.
My story is over. Yours is just beginning.
Thirteen tales of thirteen slayers that will give you that shiver and pop. That will leave you aching and enlightened and oh-so satisfied. Read on. Read on for Loey. Read on for her cat.
Read on and know.
By Amelia Hutchins
Copyright ©October2020 Amelia Hutchins
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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