Strange Medicine
As the show drew to a close, the fans started to drift away. Those who had been to a Blood Metal show before left slightly quicker; knowing how likely it was that the police were already on their way. The parents of their teenage fans said the craze was a poison of the mind, and others said it was the new drug driving the youngsters insane. The mad virtuoso, Mercurio, was at least more responsible than most of those who imitated his genre, though that wasn’t saying much in his favour. He played beautiful music, coaxing beautiful music out of his guitar even as he tortured the strings with a razor blade. And at the same time, he granted his devoted fans a beautiful tattoo, tribal designs and detailed sketches on their flesh, but these images were inked in their own blood. For his music and his art, he used the same blade in a complex dance of decadent violence.
He was better than the others, in that he had never worked with a groupie who was drunk, or stoned; or any girl who wasn’t both an adult and sure she wanted to experience this most extreme thrill on stage. And there were stories that he protected his fans too, those thieves and dealers who would prey on the crowd of fans being thrown out of a van in front of the police station, trussed like a turkey. But to the mass media, the man was a monster.
Today, he had picked two girls to play with. Both were beautiful, and young. Maybe they could have passed for teenagers, maybe one or both of them was barely 21. It was hard to tell. The police couldn’t arrest them, of course. Attending a show like this and being cut wasn’t exactly a crime, and the war for public opinion wasn’t going entirely the way of those in power. But the first outsider to arrive in the parking lot was a news van from RCMNB24, and the girls who’d enjoyed Mercurio’s attention were exactly who the reporters wanted to see.
“Hey, girls!” Marianne Friedrich was bubbly and lively, dressed in a sharp suit that contrasted dramatically with the black and crimson garb of most of the audience. She strode towards the girls, their exposed arms proudly showing spirals of fresh crimson, as they left the warehouse that had so recently held a performance. Mari gave a silent prayer of thanks to any deity who was listening as she saw them, and then cursed her cameraman, Andre, under her breath for not being ready.
“Hey, you two!” she repeated, “Can I get a comment?”
The older looking girl, whose fresh cuts linked creatively with an older tattoo based on one of Mercurio’s most famous designs, looked at her with disdain. “You’re on the TV, right? Planning to make us famous, tell the world we’re devil worshippers or something?”
“No, I just think the public needs to know what you get out of this, why you do it. It’s easy to demonise—”
“I know what you want,” her fresh faced companion grinned, “If you really want to understand, come with us somewhere more private. We’ll show you how it feels to live. Oh, my name’s Julienne, and this is… I don’t think I got your name?”
“Tiffini,” the other offered, “With an ‘i’. Guess we must have had too many other things to talk about.”
“Well, I’m sure you know me, I’m Mari Friedrich.” There was something about the two that made her uncomfortable, but Mari wasn’t about to let vague impressions stand in between her and an award-potential story. She cleared her throat quickly, and continued: “If you’d rather do a proper interview, I’m sure we can—”
“No,” Julienne put her blood streaked hand over the camera lens as Andre finally managed to get it rolling. “Not an interview, not now. I want to talk to you, nobody else, no cameras, and get you to understand. If you still want to do the story, we’ll give you a soundbite from the road home, or a studio interview, or whatever you want. But you have to listen to me first, and understand it yourself, before you can share our story with others.”
She agreed, of course. The motivations of the blood girls were a big mystery to 90% of the world, and the first candid interview with one would be an amazing scoop. She couldn’t talk to them right at that moment, anyway, because they could all hear the scream of sirens rushing to investigate an unlicensed public performance at which the usual rumours of drug use and allegations over the abuse of underage fans would be rife. “Get the melee,” Mari yelled to the camera guys, “We’ll need the background.”
Before she could make arrangements with the two girls for the interview, they were interrupted by an athletic, middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and jeans striding straight towards them. The anger practically radiated off him, causing even the more anxious fans to keep out of his way.
“Julienne!” he barked, a southern accent distinctive even after some years of dilution by exposure to the local dialect, “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t clear if he was angry, or concerned. The difference probably wasn’t clear to him, either, but he couldn’t help raising his voice.
The girl raised her hand defensively, and placed it flat against his chest to stop the man coming any closer. “Sorry, Dad. I need to go with this woman, she wants to do a news article.”
“Your father?” Mari asked, causing Tiffini to roll her eyes.
“Go to the top of the class, Miss Friedrich,” she muttered scornfully, “Seems a bit of an overprotective type, if you ask me.”
“Maybe he’d like to come with us, to make sure we’re not doing anything untoward,” the reporter offered. If she’d been willing to admit it, she was more concerned for her own safety than that of the two girls with the spiderwebs of dried blood across their bodies. There was something disconcerting about them, quite apart from the wounds.
There was a brief exchange of glances that were too personal for her to read, but she felt safe as she quickly bundled the three into her luxury sedan. Whatever these girls were into, they wouldn’t consider… whatever she had to be worried about before. Not with their father around.
“Press,” Mari flashed her credentials at the police as she passed the cordon around the warehouse, then turned to the girls in the sedan’s back seat, “You owe me an interview now.”
There was some perfunctory conversation on the road, but she didn’t learn much. The family argument was obviously tense, but conducted in clipped half-sentences between Julienne and the man, David. It meant nothing to an outsider.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t need your approval,” and a sullen stare.
“It’s that thing with Mark all over again.”
“Maybe I should just leave. You’d be begging forgiveness in a week.” A grunt, and her head turned aside, more to signal that she wasn’t listening than to look at the rain-shrouded landscape outside. The only thing the 4 travellers managed to actually discuss was where to go for this pre-interview.
The motel seemed a fair choice. It was remote and unremarkable, with staff who seemed to make a point of not knowing anything about their customers that couldn’t be conveyed by the handing over of money. It wasn’t a fleapit, but it wasn’t worthy of a star, either. It might have won some massive trophy for being the country’s blandest place to stay, but there was nothing on display. It was called Bob’s Motel. Behind the guy dozing on a chair in reception was a certificate proudly announcing that Bob had won a fishing tournament twenty years earlier. The guy wasn’t Bob, but no further details were forthcoming.
The room was exactly what you’d expect. A double bed in the main room, and bunks in a kids’ room off to one side. A tiny bathroom A kettle next to the TV, but only one power outlet. Cream walls to make nicotine stains less prominent, paint not peeling but not fresh either. The air slightly stale, with a hundred residual odours that never quite fade away.
“So where do we start?” Mari asked as she closed the door behind them. She wasn’t sure how this kind of interview was supposed to go, but stopped dead in her tracks when she turned to see the two girls kissing passionately on the bed. Julienne moved sensuously, writing like a snake as she licked the dried blood from the other girl’s body. Dave just sat cross legged in the corner, watching with no apparent sign of interest.
“What’s wrong, Mari?” Tiffini, with every sign of enjoyment, “Don’t you want to join us?”
“I don’t even… what is this?”
“It isn’t anything, it’s just this. I don’t know how to explain it, it’s just…” she cut off the explanation to moan in delight at Julienne’s ministrations. The more the two licked and kissed each other’s bodies, the less they seemed to be aware of the other two people in the room. Mari found herself overwhelmed by curiosity, slowly padding closer and closer across the rough carpet.
Julienne grabbed her by the wrist, and pulled her onto the bed. “No!” she exclaimed.
“I won’t hurt you,” Julienne smiled reassuringly, but there was something false about the expression. “But you have to try it. You can’t understand until you’ve had a touch, just the slightest touch, the tiniest taste. And we’re not allowed to tell anyone who doesn’t understand.”
Mari looked back and forth between the two girls. There was still something she was missing, something important, and it looked like her big reveal story was drifting out of reach again.
“Just lick you? Like you’re doing? And you’ll tell me, not ask anything else?” Mari asked, still uncertain. She didn’t know if she was worried about disease, or being caught up in some kind of perverted web, or even being tainted with the bad publicity that affected the fans. But surely any disease couldn’t spread through just a taste of blood, couldn’t survive the acid conditions of your stomach, and besides that both girls looked to be in perfect health, radiant even.
Tiffini seemed a little worried by the question, by Julienne answered without any concern: “I promise, we won’t ask you to do anything else.”
Mari nodded. She couldn’t believe she was going to do this, but she couldn’t pass up a chance to get a straight answer from a cult that had so far managed to cover half the country without any outsider really knowing what they were about. She lowered her head towards Tiffini’s body, where the girl had pulled off her stained top to reveal two crimson smears across her breast. Mari knew she’d have to show some kind of willing, so she took the girl’s nipple between her lips and sucked gently. She could taste blood and sweat, but it wasn’t unpleasant, kind of sweet and with a faint trace of spices she couldn’t place.
Does Mercurio do this? she wondered, Does the masked maestro taste the blood of his fans, so they’d put seasoning on their bodies to please him? It’s crazy, but how could blood of all things taste so good?
“Oh,” Julienne grinned in delight, “I think she’s ours now!” There was no uncertainty or nervousness in her voice, like she didn’t need to hide her excitement any more. And also a sneer of malice, some undefinable hint that she was looking down on Mari. Could this be how they always treated new girls in this invisible clique? The closer Mari got, the less this looked like the groupies of a new, more extreme, breed of rock star. It was looking more and more like some kind of cult, with insider secrets and initiation rites.
“I did what you asked. So when shall I set the interview for?” Mari knew she shouldn’t needle the two girls like that, but she wasn’t feeling at all safe now. She didn’t like secrets, especially from her, and she didn’t like feeling like she was the butt of some giant joke she couldn’t see, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Julienne sprung to the floor, and paced in front of the older woman. “You don’t want to interview us anymore, now you know the truth.”
“I guess,” Mari shrugged, but wasn’t entirely convinced. “But all this, this is too weird if I’m not getting anything out of it.”
“Would it be worth your while staying if we agreed to do this interview?” Still, Julienne had that mocking tone, as if she was telling a joke nobody else got. Mari found she couldn’t put up with it any more.
“No!” she barked, jumping off the bed and marching back to the door, “Who cares about some interview, I’m not hanging around with freaks like—”
“Stop!” Julienne spat with such force that the reporter completely lost track of what she was saying. Then “Kneel!” and she felt her legs give way underneath her.
“Maybe there’s something else you want,” Julienne came to stand right in front of her now, “You want my blood, you want my life. You must have realised by now that I’m not quite human, and our kind have considerable power over the thoughts of lesser beings. From what you have tasted, I can control your body for a few moments. But I can promise you this: If you drink my blood from the source, you will become my loyal slave, unable to disobey and utterly devoted. But at the same time, your life will be extended well beyond that of a normal human. Wouldn’t you like to be young again, and know men will still be lusting after you when your co-presenters are in some dismal retirement home somewhere?”
Mari realised she was staring now at the crook of the girl’s elbow, where a single black red drop was slowly creeping down from a V-shaped incision in her flesh. She could feel the craving, she wanted that sweetness now, and it was hard to believe this was addiction from a single drop. But giving up her free will for a single taste was a cost too high. She grunted audibly as she fought against the influence on her, shook her head as if that would help to throw loose the unwelcome urges.
“No!” she said at last, “You can keep your fountain of youth. I’m going to expose you all, I’m going to tell the world what this Mercurio is doing to you, he’s the devil and you don’t even realise!”
“An impressive show of self denial. Just remember, you could have helped us to spread this bliss, and been my treasured slave.” And Mari managed to fight the control over her will, putting one foot on the ground and beginning to stand, before Julienne barked: “Drink, now!” putting all her authority into the words. Mari fought it, kept control of her own will and decided to walk away. But even the pinhead gleam of dried blood she had consumed was still in her system, and her body obeyed regardless of her decisions. She found herself scrambling forward, taking the possessed girl’s arm in her hands and suckling at the cut like an infant. As the warm blood washed down her throat, she felt alive like she hadn’t in years, but at the same time she could imagine all her will being drained away. She didn’t need to fight any more, because her life belonged to her Mistress. She knew now she would do whatever she could to keep this little cult growing, and to moderate the hatred against them from society.
And she regretted, more than anything, that she hadn’t entered this servitude of her own free will when she had the chance. How could she have presumed to turn down such a beautiful gift?
Mistress strode outside on some errand of her own. Marianne didn’t even wonder why, because it was not her concern.
“Does it really make you young again?” she asked. Her curiosity hadn’t left her, she just knew better than to ask anything that Mistress didn’t want her to know.
“I don’t know,” Tiffini whispered, her body shaking slightly, “I don’t even know… I’ve never done this before, I just couldn’t say no!”
“Blood on the razor blade,” Dave muttered from the corner. They both turned to look at him, having almost forgotten there was a man in the room. “The blade is anointed with the Queen’s blood, so anyone it cuts has to obey for just an hour or so. Then if she likes the taste of you, she takes you forever.” He sounded resigned, as if he’d explained this so many times but knew there was no way that knowing would help them escape.
“And yes,” he added as the two tried to digest the new information, “It makes you young, and opens up your mind like some kind of instant enlightenment, gives you talent you never thought you had, and cures all disease. I mean, to look at me, you’d never think I was over sixty. Aging, but slowly, and the closer you get to the Queen, the younger you remain.”
“You drank her blood?” Marianne was shocked. And then an inner voce was even more disgusted by her own thoughts, that out of all the night’s depravity, this was the first thing she was truly disgusted by. She couldn’t harbour any negative thought about her Mistress. “But, she’s your daughter!”
“No, sorry. But when she said it, I couldn’t contradict her. I’m as much a slave of any of you girls, though she never feeds on my life force, and I don’t get the sex. She’s somewhere between a succubus and a vampire, I think, though I don’t know if anything else like her even exists.” He shrugged, able to speak so calmly about this horrific situation, he must have recounted it and thought over his options so many times, for longer than Marianne had been alive. “She’s not into men like that, I guess. I’m just the artistic slave, the one she uses to ensnare young girls. I’m the one who travels with her, but she doesn’t tell me anything, just uses me like a toy. Who knows, maybe we are related, it would explain how I can mesmerise all those girls on stage. I’m her great grandson or something, and she sought me out as soon as I was old enough to be of use. Or maybe I’m a random kid she picked up off the streets, I don’t know. She doesn’t tell me anything.”
There were so many more questions Marianne wanted to ask, though she knew now there were no answers to be had. She wondered how much the three of them could discern, if they just put their knowledge together. But then they heard the sound of Mistress’s footsteps on the cinder path outside, heard the key in the lock, and both girls turned to stare with rapt attention at the door. She was coming, she would feed them or consume their souls or make love to them, and whatever Mistress chose, they couldn’t ever have looked forward to anything more.