Ep2

She felt something cool against her arm. No, not against . . . IN her arm. She was hooked up to an IV that was dripping some red liquid. She felt vomit trying to build up inside her. 'That's not --'

"Blood?" asked a voice from the door. It was that Native American girl, but she hardly seemed homeless. She was slim but not emaciated, standing just a bit taller than Shamira's five-foot-seven-inch frame, she seemed mostly leg. And those legs were exposed. She wore a loin-cloth of leather that hung down to her knees, but wasn't more than four inches wide. It covered her privates on the way down, but her toned legs and hips were on display. She wore leather moccasins that reached up to just below the knee, and a strange semi-circular neck dress made of strips of wood and beads. She wore black lipstick and heavy black eye-liner.

'Okay, I get it. You're some kind of weird goth babe,' Shamira thought. 'A delicious looking --' She stopped that train of thought. She preferred guys, she had to remind herself. She'd had thoughts about what it would be like to be with a woman all her life, but she'd always managed to push that part of her down somewhere and tried to drown it. She was enough of a freak without worrying about that. Or the many other dreams and fantasies that had graced those secret parts of her mind that she never shared with anyone.

The girl strode forward, a sway in her hips that demanded attention.

"Where the fuck am I?" Shamira said, looking around instinctively for a weapon of some kind. She didn't want to start a knife fight with this woman, though she wasn't behaving particularly hostile. Actually, she was smirking a bit. She sat on the edge of the bed, and Shamira was pretty convinced the girl wasn't wearing a damn thing under that loincloth.

"You," the girl said, "have the most unfortunate timing of anyone I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot."

"Who . . . the fuck . . . are you?"

"Watch it, potty mouth. A little decorum wouldn't hurt, seeing as we just saved your life. Okay, technically you saved one of ours first and maybe saved Shane too, but that doesn't change the fact --"

"Who . . . the . . . heck . . are you?!"

"That's better I suppose," the woman said. "My name is Clara Yellowtail, and I've volunteered to be your guide into your new life.

Shamira blinked. She blinked again. "Oh-kay," she muttered. "I'm drugged. That's gotta be it. What the hell is this?" she asked, looking at the IV.

"Blood."

Shamira blinked. "Blood?"

"You're going to freak out on me aren't you?"

"Blood?!"

"You lost a lot when you died, and we weren't able to give you anything extra until after your funeral."

"Died?"

"You're good with the one-word responses thing." The girl smiled. "Can't say I blame you. You've gone through a lot this week. It was a lovely funeral, by the way."

"DIED?!" Shamira pulled the IV out, applying pressure so she didn't start bleeding all over the place. This was too wrong, and she wanted out. She wanted to go find her parents and her siblings and her nephews and tell them everything was okay and that there was a misunderstanding. She hadn't died. So why had she been in a coffin, and why hadn't she had a pulse?

Clara sighed. She wasn't doing this right. Shane had offered to guide the girl, but she HAD to volunteer. Something about the way she had been so kind when most people wouldn't have been, even though she didn't have any idea of what had really been going on. And she had done her job, even though it had cost her her life. Compassion, pride, loyalty, and she was smoking hot. Some people might get turned off by a build like hers, but not those that dwelt in this house. The strength in that body and the skill and dedication it took to sculpt it were both admirable.

"Do you remember what happened?" Clara asked. "Before waking up here? Let's start with that."

"Uhm . . . okay. Can I have some clothes first?"

"Why?" Clara cocked her head. "With a body like that, why would you ever WANT to wear clothes? You're certainly not obligated to, at least not around here."

"Hey, I don't know what you and whoever else is around here like, but I'd really feel more comfortable with something to wear."

The other woman shrugged. "We can find you something." She walked over to an intercom unit, pushing a button. "Monique?"

"Yes?" (click) came a new voice.

"Our new guest was looking for something to wear."

"Why?" (click)

"I asked her that. She seems to think she should be clothed."

"Wait . . . do I get to measure her now?" (click) The woman on the other end sounded eager.

"Measure? For what?" Shamira asked.

"I don't think she's ready for that quite yet," Clara said, sounding amused.

"Damn! I have some good ideas for that body!" (click)

"Don't we all."

"Hey, I'm sitting right here!" Shamira said. She felt like she was blushing a bit, and no less confused than she had been earlier.

"Okay. Sweats it is," (click) the other girl replied, sounding quite down.

"Measure for what?"

"Oh and Monique, when you arrive I expect that you will show me the respect I deserve."

The girl at the other end spoke again, and this time she sounded demure. Shamira hadn't known what that sounded like, but this was it. "Yes, Mistress Clara."

Clara turned and sat back down. "We have a slightly unusual dress code around here." She paused, looked Shamira in the eyes, and asked again what the woman remembered.

Shamira decided there was really no reason to lie or withhold information, so she recited what she could. Everything from seeing Clara on the street to seeing faces staring down at her from outside her coffin.

Clara went over to the dresser and grabbed a handheld mirror. "You were shot in the face, correct? And the neck? Your vest protected your chest, but not anything else." She handed Shamira the mirror. "Where are the wounds?"

Shamira was confused, but took a look regardless. There was a light indention in her neck that she hadn't seen before, but that was it. Her skin was flawless and smooth everywhere. "That's not right. It should take months to heal from stuff like that."

"You died four days ago. You were buried yesterday. That's fast healing, even for us," Clara explained.

"Us?"

Clara smiled. "You have risen from the dead and have healed all your wounds. You have no pulse. You do not breathe, and we've been giving you blood so that you can survive. And the last thing you can remember is a tingling in your neck before you died." She clasped her hands together. "I've read your personnel file, Shamira. I know you're not stupid, even if your former bosses thought you were. You can figure this --"

"Vampire? You're kidding, right? You have to --"

"Wanna go ahead and say 'But there's no such thing as vampires' so we can get that out of the way?"

"There's no such things as vampires!"

"Thanks. Vampires do exist. So do werewolves and other lycanthropes, and magic and all that stuff. Not everything you've heard is correct, but there are blood-sucking creatures of the night that inhabit this world. I'm one of them and now so are you. And don't start looking around for hidden cameras or anything like that. Here, maybe this will help." She opened her mouth, pointed to her perfect pearly whites, then her canine teeth extended into sharp pointed fangs.

"Jesus Christ!" Naked or not, she scrambled backwards off the bed, rolling over backwards and colliding with a nightstand, almost depositing a glass lamp onto her already damaged noggin.

"Not exactly." She rolled her eyes when Shamira formed her fingers into the shape of a cross. "Shamira, I'm not even a Christian. I'm Native American. Why do you think that would work?"

Shamira felt a little embarrassed. "Dunno. Works in the movies."

"Well, the movies are wrong on that one. Okay, Vampire 101. The strengths and weaknesses of a vampire depend greatly on how old he or she is. There are five categories of vamps. You and me are fledglings, and we will be until a century after we were created. Then we become shadows for the next century. For a century after that, you're a full vampire, followed by master vampire, and then vampire lord. If you survive that long, then you're doing pretty damn well, because there aren't a lot of them."