Colt Harper: Esteemed Vampire Cat Read online

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  “I’ve come to the conclusion that the world is full of idiots and people who get offended far too easily. If this offends you, you’re probably an idiot.”

  – Colt Harper: Esteemed Vampire Cat

  ot one human comes to the theater these days. Not a single bloody one. You can’t imagine what it’s done to my self-esteem.

  Sure, the werewolf got loose and turned someone. Maybe the Leshi killed a few civilians. As for the Bakhtak… I don’t even know what the Bakhtak was doing.

  But big deal. It was one bad show! Did I really deserve a one-star review for something that was so out of my control?

  Exactly. Unfair treatment.

  I suppose I can blame St. Damian for this. He was the one who called me to Mount Imaus in the first place.

  Did I want to go? Of course not. I can’t stand planes. Or buses. Or humans. But considering it was either community service or spending an eternity as a creature with backward feet running with animals in a rainy valley, then I think my decision can be justified. May whoever thinks otherwise raise their paw.

  One Week Earlier

  I had my doubts about meeting St. Damian at Mount Imaus. Breathing its air for too long makes it difficult to breathe anywhere else… rendering escape impossible. So yeah, not ideal.

  But he’s a good guy, even if he specializes in cases like mine. The regular folk aren’t supposed to know about demons and monsters. We’re an “unnecessary stress.” Apparently we’re second class citizens compared to the oh-so-pure humans.

  Give me a break.

  The cabin we meet in is always the same, but the location constantly changes. Convenient, but irritating. I don’t love change. I have to travel halfway around the world every time I do something “naughty” just to get assessed and find out my punishment. Last time it was in the Amazon, which involved a ten-day hiking trip to reach St. Damian. Good grief, it’s a memory I constantly try to block out.

  The bus is acutely small, gut-churningly odorous, and rocky as Hell on a windy day. I’ve never been so utterly bored in my life.

  I’m the only passenger, so there’s no one to silently judge and mock. The rain is so pervasive I can’t see anything through the dusty window. I can’t even listen to music, thanks to some obese woman who squished my headphones on the plane.

  There’s just the incessant downpour and the driver’s low humming. He taps his fat fingers on the steering wheel to an imaginary beat, each thwack a slap to the face. Everything about him drives me up the wall. Pun intended.

  “Driver?” I yell, fumbling for something to hold on to when we go flying over a pothole the size of Texas. “You got a radio or something?”

  “I’m your damn radio! Like it or lump it!” He hums louder and whacks his sausage fingers harder against the wheel.

  What an oaf.

  With nothing else to do, I make faces at my transparent reflection, still unused to my human form. It’s about thirty years old, give or take, with dark, floppy hair. Its chest is broad and its chin heroically wide, with a poor excuse for a beard. Its… I mean, my eyes are light green, so at least that’s one thing that stayed the same. It’s a nice enough looking form. Probably had a lot of potential. It just never should’ve stroked that cat’s fur the wrong way.

  The bus rolls to a squeaky stop.

  “Get out,” the driver grunts.

  I force myself up, trudging down the aisle as if it’s death row. I jump over the puddle by the step, running for cover underneath the dilapidated stop, with outdated promotional posters and swear words etched into the walls. I slip my hands between my sides and underarms, struggling to keep warm. I hate rain. Water in general feels sticky and… messy.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I glance at the driver, who rests his chins on the steering wheel. His shirt is so tight, the buttons have popped off, and he has coffee stains all over his slacks.

  “It’s what the navigator said.”

  “Yeah, but…” I glance past the bus stop. Sure enough, the lifeless cabin is back a ways. Surely I can do something not to go back there. “I think you’ve accidentally set your coordinates to Hell. Because that’s clearly where we are! Let’s turn back.”

  The driver shrugs. “Not my problem. Now scram and let me close the doors. It’s freezing out.”

  “You don’t say?” I motion toward my bare arms, where the goosebumps have morphed into clusters of tiny hills. All I’m wearing are jeans and a white collared shirt after some moron picked up my leather jacket at the airport. Man, I hate humans. And airports. And planes. And—

  The driver coughs and closes the doors, but I leap forward and wedge my shoulder and face in, the door pressing into my cheek.

  “Excuse me.” My voice is tight, but it’s important I speak politely. I refuse to stoop down to the human form of communication, otherwise known as unnecessary rudeness. “I’m not usually that guy who bellyaches and demands, but you gotta open these doors. I think I heard a rib crack. Besides, this is obviously the wrong place. You can’t leave me here!”

  “Not my job to babysit. I drive, I drop you off, and I leave. Simple as that. Good luck, mate.”

  “Mate?” Oh, I am so not his mate. I slap my free arm on the door. “Mate, I’m genuinely stuck. Could you please open up? Mate?”

  The driver snorts—a noise so repugnant, it’d make Chuck Norris gag—and reaches for the gearstick.

  My eyes widen. “Whoa! Wait! Dude, what are you doing? Stop!” My voice is muffled by the low rumble of the engine as the bus slowly but surely rolls into action. I run to keep up with it, stumbling over my feet as it speeds up.

  “Stop!” I yell, but the driver only turns red with each thunderous cackle. “Dude, this isn’t funny!”

  “Yes, it is, mate! Ha-ha!”

  I reach my breaking point.

  At first, there’s a shooting pain down my arm when thin talons poke through my fingertips, but that’s quickly replaced with a sense of relief, like when you’re busting to use the toilet. My eyes roll to the back of my head to reveal the glowing yellow I relentlessly concentrate to conceal, and my jaw unhinges just enough to bite into the steel door and crush it into pieces.

  “What the hell?!” the driver screams, swerving off the side of the road.

  Before I’m thrown out, I leap inside the bus, sticking my claws into the seats to hold on. The driver can’t take his piggy eyes off me, even when we hurtle toward a big ditch.

  “Trust me, you’ll want to look at the road,” I say, but my voice no longer belongs to this meat suit.

  “Huh?”

  I lick my lips and spring for his flabby throat, which tastes particularly salty. He screams as I tear into his veins, his blood quenching my eternal thirst. We plunge into the ditch, the impact flinging my erstwhile mate through the window. He
lands with a delightful slosh, unmoving as he sinks into the mud.

  I wipe my mouth and retract my talons, climbing out of the bus and into the rain. Phew. No wonder I’d been so grumpy. I haven’t had a good meal in months. Mind, he was pretty fatty, so I’ll definitely have to run him off.

  “Colt.”

  My shoulders slump when St. Damian appears in the middle of the road, his perpetual scowl stern like nobody’s business. He’s huge, well over six foot, his skin as dark as his size 14 boots and coat.

  “Evening, sir!” I salute, counting on the rain to wash out the driver’s blood that splashed onto my shirt. “We had a little accident. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting.”

  “What have I told you about eating humans while on parole?” he enunciates, as if I speak a foreign language. He should know by now I speak every language. “You’re a vampire cat, Colt. Your thing is to kill and possess humans who murder cats. That bus driver only ever ran over a dog.”

  “True.” I clear my throat. “Good point, sir. But, I’ve since decided my new thing is to annihilate silly humans prone to excessive rudeness. The species will probably go extinct, but hey, we all need a vice, right?”

  St. Damian shakes his head, and motions for me to follow. “I’ll look the other way for this one, Colt. But only this one, mostly because that driver was an A-grade tool.”

  “I know, right!” I jog after him. I have to—his strides are too long and quick.

  We reach the cabin and St. Damian jingles his keys, taking his time to unlock the door. When it finally forces open, we’re greeted by a small room with a fridge, tiny TV, messy desk, and two crooked chairs. It’s dusty, and the floorboards creak every time I so much as breathe. It kind of looks like a forgotten basement, without the clutter and homely touches.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.” I motion toward the Lord of the Rings poster. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

  “Last time was supposed to be the end of this nonsense.” He pulls up a chair and rummages through his coat pockets until he pulls out a cigarette and lighter. “I don’t care if it’s in your DNA, Colt. I don’t care that your entire existence revolves around avenging cats. This isn’t Ancient Egypt; cats aren’t important anymore. The council will not allow any more human killings. Times have changed.”

  “Councils ruin everything, don’t they? Sir, it’s like if I told you to stop breathing. I can’t just stop avenging cats. It’s my job, my purpose.”

  “Colt…” St. Damian rubs his forehead, which is wrinkleless despite his age. “I’ve managed to get you community service again, but then you’re on your own. If you make just one more wrong move, they’ll send you to the valley, permanently. You’ll morph into an Abarimon and live out your days running backward.”

  I sigh. “I don’t want to be an Abarimon! They’re just a pair of red legs! Seriously.” I pause, wincing at the thought of my potential future. “Look, I promise I’ll be good this time. What’s the service, eh? Street washing with the hags? Riverboat guide? I’m up for anything.”

  “Good, because you won’t like it.”

  “I live amongst humans who, might I add, are the real monsters in this world. Of course I’m not going to like it, but I’ll still do it.”

  “Right then.” St. Damian sits back in his chair, puffing on his cancer stick with a proud grin. “You’ve been sentenced to help a local theater group put on a production, all in the name of charity.”

  I blink. “Let me get this straight. My community service is… community theater?”

  St. Damian blows a perfect circle of smoke. “Yep.”

  I splutter, waving the smoke away. “Sir, you do know those ghastly, stinky, rotten things are deadly to your kind, right?”

  “Then it shouldn’t bother you, yes?”

  Ugh. Maybe my new revenge system should be eradicating cigarettes. And alcohol. And opinionated know-it-alls who are way too politically correct. I was labeled a racist because I called a Japanese person Japanese. Seriously. What is even up with that? Does that mean it’s racist to call my form American? No. The answer is no—just in case anyone was wondering.

  To the idiots consuming this fragile world: screw you and the high horse you’re on.

  “Let’s get back to this theater thing. I mean, why? What on earth would compel you to dish this sort of punishment?”

  “It’s simple. Any human who thinks they’re mildly decent at acting always refuses to stoop down to small-town theater. If it’s bad enough for humans, it’s definitely bad enough for monsters. You leave first thing in the morning.”

  “More planes, I’m guessing? Please tell me no.”

  “Now why would I want to do something so underhanded as that? Planes it is. You’ll meet your fellow felons.”

  “Swell. The one thing worse than humans are other monsters. Boy, I can’t wait!” I click my tongue in annoyance. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  “And you are verging on rudeness—something I know you don’t stand for.”

  I glance down at my boots, beads of water still resting on the toes. “You’re right. I’m sorry, sir. It’s so easy to be influenced by your surroundings.”

  “It’s even easier to find excuses, isn’t it?” The cigarette is barely finished before he puts it out on the table, adding to the various stains. “Colt, you know I’m fond of you. And I mean this in the best possible way; but I never want to see you again once you finish your service.”

  “Yeah, I get that. I really hope so, too. It’s just so hard not to punish humans who abuse cats. I mean, they’re cats. The most majestic creature born into existence. I was born to protect them!”

  “Uh-huh. Do yourself a favor; possess a mad old lady and adopt a hundred cats. Trust me, it’ll be better that way.”

  I smile, but it’s a fake smile. I shiver, my clothes still wet and the fireplace unlit. Nothing like a dingy, moldy cottage to make you feel at home. We must look like right fools. Me, a supernatural criminal chatting awkwardly with a Matrix-style parole officer. At least there’s no real prejudice between us, especially considering I eat his species. St. Damian is the father of cool.

  “I suppose we better hit the hay? I’m guessing you get the sleeping bag by the fire and I get the one by the leaky corner again?”

  St. Damian stands, the chair scraping against the wood. He taps his nose and winks. “Bingo.”

  “Quotes are an excellent way to make you look a) smarter and b) narcissistic. Me? I use them to fill my word count in essays.”

  – Colt Harper: Esteemed Vampire Cat

  t was the first time I actually woke up not wanting to leave the cabin. I’ve been sent here loads of times, and it was always the same. St. Damian would lecture me, we’d eat fish pie by the fire, swap manly stories, sleep, and then go our separate ways for about three years until I screwed up again.

  Usually my community service involved something less horrific; like hospitality or gardening—basically anything that ‘served’ the humans.

  But theater work? Prancing around onstage? That’s the stuff of nightmares.

  Sure, when I possessed a woman, I may or may not have enjoyed wearing fishnets and high heels. The frilly underwear was also surprisingly pleasant. But that’s the extent of it. Besides, I’m in a manly form now, and I can sense the whole concept of dressing up and performing is freaking him out.

  “Come on. You don’t want to be late.” St. Damian slips his boots on while munching on a cheese-filled bagel. I’d like to know where he got that from because I checked every drawer and there was nothing remotely edible after we polished off the fish pie.

  “Of course I want to be late,” I say, wishing I had a post to scratch.

  “Colt, you’ve been here twelve hours. It doesn’t take long to adapt to the air. If you want to risk it, be my guest. You can live out your life in this rotten cabin.”

  I throw my hands up and pull a face. “I already said I don’t want to be a pair of red
legs! Feet can’t eat pies, and I really like pies. I mean, really.”

  “You got your stuff?”

  “What stuff? I knew you’d have a sleeping bag for me.”

  “Change of underwear?”

  “Please. Monsters don’t have to worry about that kinda thing.”

  “How glamorous.” St. Damian jingles his keys. “Let’s go.”

  I take one last look at the dingy cabin. Maybe this really will be the last time I’ll ever see it. Even though it has its negative connotations, I’ve actually grown fond of my sessions with St. Damian. It’s better than spending days on end in a court that will rule in favor of the humans every blumming time. At least St. Damian does all the dirty work to get me a bargain punishment.

  It’s not raining this morning, but it’s still overcast. I keep slipping in the mud as we make the fifteen-minute walk to the concealed truck in the middle of the field. I always hate the walk to the Ute. It’s parked a little too closely to the valley and it’s not uncommon to hear the pained screams of monsters and demons as they slowly morph into Abarimons.

  “Where do you live?” I step over a dead toad. A kind cat would’ve brought me that as a present.

  “In my body.”

  “Ha ha. No. Where do you physically live?” I huff, struggling to keep up with St. Damian. “You don’t live in the cabin, do you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “But you can leave, can’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m human. The air doesn’t affect me.”

  “Right. So when you leave, where do you go? Do you have an apartment? A wife? A family?”

  St. Damian stops. He doesn’t look at me straight on—he rarely does. Just peeks from the corner of his eye, like he’s worried I’ll turn him to stone or something. “Why does it matter?”

  My gaze drops to the mud, and I kick at a rock that’s half-submerged. Call me crazy, but it bothers me that St. Damian has devoted his whole life to protecting monsters. “This might be the last time I see you. Let me entertain the thought that you have someone to go home to.”

  He smiles, only for a second, before turning his back and marching ahead. “You know, for a vampire cat, you’re a real pussy.”