My eyes open; this time I wish I was dead. The pain is still there, and now I need something, I don’t know what, it hurts… I raise my head up and JESUS FUCKING CHRIST what has happened to me!? I’m a frigging split open carcass, I can see my ribs shining slick with my blood, those are my entrails, goddamn, those are my entrails spread across the seat beside me, I think that’s my liver, I can’t look any more—that damn bitch is looking at me and laughing, laughing, what kind of sick people are these? She sees me looking at her and leans over, holding a glass, a goblet, and wants to know if I’m thirsty—thirsty hell, I need a hospital, I need to get out of here, I need… What is that smell? What is she offering me? It’s thick, red, god it looks like blood, these are the fucking sickest people—I have to have it now, even if it’s my own damn blood being offered up to me—I snatch the cup from Tank Girl and drink, gulping down the liquid, it is blood, and it is the best damn thing I have ever drunk in my life, it fills my veins like liquid fire, it’s the best, longest orgasm I’ve ever had, I can’t believe I’m feeling like this when I should be dead and all I want is more, the cup is empty and I’m sucking my own blood from the ends of my soaked t-shirt, everyone in the car is laughing at me, but I don’t care, I want more blood but there is none, the pain comes back and as I slide out of consciousness again I see my entrails slide completely out of my body and hit the car floor with a soggy splat…
The car’s not moving anymore; everyone’s getting out. Are they leaving me here? I croak out “hey!” and Tank Girl looks back at me. “There’s something for you in the trunk,” she says, and keeps going. “I need help, a doctor, I’m hurt” realizing as I say it how silly my words are, of course she knows I’m hurt and so far she’s not been too much of a good fucking Samaritan. “Help yourself—you can do it, just think about it,” and dismissively she was gone, followed by the others. I’m alone here, I can’t even question why I’m not dead anymore because by all appearances I should be. The car doors are all open, and I find that I’m able to pull myself out. I can’t look at the pile of gore on the floor or I’ll go mad. I probably am mad. I can’t think of anything better to do so I pull myself along the side of the car around to the trunk. Impala’s a fucking big car, funny how normally you never notice quite how big. The trunk, it’s locked, but locks and I have an understanding. When I want them to open, they open. I pull out one of my earrings, trying not to think about the irony of losing all my innards but none of my jewelry, and pick the lock. Christ, I should have known. What else could be in the car but a dead body, it’s my client and his briefcase. I’m staring at this damn yuppie, his face a pulp, gray trousers stained with urine, and with hardly a thought about it I’m bending over the trunk, tasting the blood on his face, he’s still warm, maybe alive, I don’t know but he’s not alive anymore because I’m slicing into his neck with my teeth and drinking, drinking, drinking until I can’t suck anymore out of him, thinking what a pretty picture this must make, a disemboweled zombie sucking the life’s blood from a yuppie corpse. I sink against the side of the car, feeling stronger and I remember what Tank Girl said about helping myself… it wouldn’t be any stranger than anything else that’s happened tonight, would it? I start to think about bones knitting, muscles seamlessly melding, skin flowing over my wounds… shit, it’s happening, I can feel it, don’t question, just do it—and it’s done, I can stand, I don’t need to lean against the side of the car anymore. I stare down at the man and see nothing, just meat and an ugly suit, and I’m devoid of horror. Maybe I’m in shock. I can’t think about it so instead I think about the fact that he was delivering some files to me, and that it must have something to do with what’s happened tonight, since these people knew where to find me, and I was only there to meet him, and they did take him after all... I try to open the briefcase; locked, but a joke of a little lock, I don’t know why people even bother. Nothing in the case except a zip cartridge; I pocket that.
I hear a noise, a repetitive bounce. It’s the little girl, bouncing a ball on the side of the car. She doesn’t look up at me. I’m conscious of how I must look, blood encrusted, it’s everywhere, even in my hair, and for a moment I’m afraid of scaring the child, then I remember her at the Christie’s, shot gun in hand, and remember that she was in the car when my guts—well, we won’t think about that right now. “Hi,” I venture. She doesn’t stop bouncing the ball, but she looks over at me. “Hi,” she says back, and you could swear she was an ordinary little girl except for the flecks of dried blood on her shoes and stockings. “What’s your name?” she asks me. “I’m Angelica.”
“I’m Electra. Who—“
“Electra! What kind of a name is that? What’s your real name?”
“Um, that is my real name. Why—“
“No, what name did your mother give you? What’s your real name?”
“I don’t have any mother. It doesn’t matter. How—“
“What do you mean, you don’t have any mother? You’re strange, I don’t think I like you very much.” She picked up her ball and turned to walk away. I’m desperate not to let her go, she’s the only one who didn’t leave me, so I say the unsayable.
“No, wait, um, my mother, she named me, um, Priscilla Marie but nobody—“
“Priscilla Marie!” Angelica shrieked, and she ran from the car to a door, opened it and ran up the stairs on the other side. “Guess what Electra’s real name is! Priscilla Marie!”
This is not off to a good start. At least it’s something to focus on besides—nope, can’t think about that. I’m healed now, I’m fine, no guts spilling out. Come to think of it, no guts at all. At least I know where the others went now. I head up the stairs and find myself in your basic crash pad, couches the Salvation Army would throw away, graffiti on the walls, empty bottles all over, and the other three people—no, face it, if you’re any indication they’re goddamn vampires, aren’t they—sitting around, laughing, Angelica standing in the middle of the room.
“Oh Priscilla…” singsongs Tank Girl, and I lose it. She and these others have sent me to goddamn hell and now she’s calling me that name, and she’s going to pay. Out comes my ankle knife and I’m across the floor—and smack, I’m sliding down the wall on the other side of the room and I don’t feel quite so good any more. How the hell did she move so fast? I’m no Jackie Chan or anything, but ordinarily I can handle myself in a street fight.
“Don’t ever try anything like that again,” Tank Girl spits at me, then she smiles. “But because you did try, I’ll call you Electra from now on. I’m Calliope. I made you. You’re my bitch now, and don’t forget it.”
“what the fuck are you talking about?” I hope to hell my voice didn’t quiver, but I have the bad feeling it did.
She laughs a short impatient laugh. “I’m your sire. You’re my childe. You’re a vampire now, just like all of us here, and you’re a Brujah, just like all of us here. You’re one of us now, but don’t ever forget that I own your ass. When I whistle, you jump. And if anyone else gives you any shit that you didn’t deserve, you come to me about it. That’s about all there is to it.”
“I don’t get it… I mean, I guess I figured out the vampire part, but Brujah? Sire?” I am confused. Somehow I’m starting to feel, I don’t know, not attracted to Calliope, but I see her differently, respectfully perhaps? Her saying that I’m one of them has calmed me somewhat; that didn’t stop her from smacking me, but I guess I was going at her with a knife after all. Maybe the point of all this isn’t to kill me or drive me mad. Except that there’s no way I could be alive… don’t think about it.
She sighs and rolls her eyes, but I think perhaps she can sense the change in me, because she says somewhat more gently, “You’ll learn all that soon enough. Now you’re going to meet our primogen, Andre.”
Whatever the hell that means. She gets up and I follow her out of the room into a long hallway. This seems to be one of those old warehouses renovated into apartment spaces. I think we were on Comm Ave before, so we must be in Allston-Brighton. As we walk, a glimpse into an open door makes me spin in my tracks. Equipment, shit I’ve never even seen before, not even in the babiest of beta, and lots of it. “What?” says Calliope, more than a little impatiently. This seems to be a basic state of being with her. “What is all this stuff? Where did you get it? Who made it for you?” the words tumble out, my body straining to enter the room but not quite daring. “I don’t know, some computer shit, c’mon, we need to see Andre.” Definitely impatient. This stuff will have to wait, although I crave to get my mind into those boxes; it’s not just my ordinary covetousness, but the reassurance of something familiar… I follow Calliope, who is clearly not willing to stop here. I don’t think she knows anything about high tech; for the sake of my self-esteem, I allow myself a tiny crumb of smugness. Keep it hidden though.
Andre. He’s better dressed than the rabble downstairs, and he seems like a leader. Got that natural born thang that makes millions vote and me want to do an extended search to see what kind of dirt I can dig up. There’s always some. Andre’s looking at me distastefully; I start to prickle, then remember the state I’m in and can’t really blame him, even if he is a—well, is what he is. “Calliope, you could have cleaned her up a bit first,” he chides. I look at her to see how she’s going to take this; look at that, he’s got her tamed. Interesting. Something tells me I had better show some healthy respect myself. Looking at me, he says “So you are the new Child in our clan. Welcome to Clan Brujah. I am Andre, your primogen. Do you know what that means?”
Finally, somebody is prepared to tell me something. “No, I— “ I start, but he cuts me off. “You will soon. Calliope is your sire and will see to it that you know these things. Now tell me of your Embrace.”
“My what?”
Andre looks askance at Calliope, who looks anywhere but at him. “How did you become one of us? Tell me from the beginning how it happened.” Calliope is definitely not looking at him.
“Well, I went down to the convenience store, and these four, Brujah I guess, burst in the front window-—“
“The convenience store? At what time?” Andre draws himself up. Shit, he’s angry, was it me? He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at Calliope, but she’s looking at me, and she’s mad. How the hell was I supposed to know what to say? “We’ll talk about this later, Calliope. Go on, child.” I tell the rest of the story, the parts I can remember of it. He’s shaking his head throughout, but I think he’s more amused than angry by the end. He’s in authority, no doubt, but I can’t help but wonder how much authority, and by whose grace he keeps it… He sends us away, telling Calliope to have me presentable by the next day. I ask if I can go to my apartment and get my own clothes. I assumed I had to live here; I think it’s just that I want that equipment. Like a fickle lover I’ve forgotten my own back in the Fen already; I can raid it for information when I’m ready. Calliope takes me back, I change, and we return to Allston.
I sort of thought that Calliope would start telling me some of that stuff that Andre said she should, but she doesn’t seem interested. Neither do the others. They want to drink, and a little party is starting. I think I’ve hit my limit for – I was going to say human contact, but maybe I’ll just say social contact—for the evening. I ask if I can go to the computer room; nobody says no, so I let myself in and immerse myself in new operating systems, hardware, and software until I conk out.
Chapter 3, in which I meet a Prince, go hunting, and pop my soul's cherry