Creative Modifications

The snow had been coming down heavily since noon, blanketing the clearing at the edge of the Rohit Shashee—a massive, near-impregnable forest stretching across western Canada, thick with legend and fiercely protected. It weaved through provinces and slipped across borders like dandelion seeds on the wind.
The spirit of Christmas still lingered in the air this New Year’s Eve, despite widespread fears that the world would end at midnight according to the Macedonia Tribe’s prophecy. The local bars and pubs were full of partygoers determined to celebrate regardless of snow or superstition, while business owners struggled to keep sidewalks and parking lots clear.
Predators of all kinds stalked the night—an old truth the shapely brunette knew well. For most of her life, this was the season’s tradition. For the last fifteen years, it had become her own.
She was already in her fuzzy Christmas pajamas that hugged her wide hips and the curve of her belly, stretched out across the worn L-shaped sectional. A dark slipcover tried and failed to hide the patches and worn arms. A Hallmark Christmas movie flickered on the big screen TV in the corner. The fireplace crackled warmly, casting shadows around the cabin. The mantel above was decorated with 18th-century trinkets, but there was no tree, just a few presents placed on the stone hearth near the TV. That there were gifts at all surprised her. The wood pile had been replenished earlier that day at the far end opposite the tv and next to the long worktable that her pc sat on.
Dead eyes lifted from the paperback novel in her lap, a finger slipping into the crease to hold her place as she gazed through the sheer curtains to the darkness outside. The narrow studio was mostly taken up by a large window that would have been perfect for family dinners or holiday gatherings—if her or her family could eat human food and gain any nutriment from.
Frowning, she reached for a glass of pre-bottled human blood and drank deeply, ignoring the strands of loose hair that had fallen from her messy bun. On the screen, a cheerful heroine baked cookies for her small-town bakery after a dramatic breakup. Berenice tugged a 1970s Christmas blanket up to her chest. For a fleeting moment, she almost believed she was cozy. That she wasn’t alone. That this wasn’t just another quiet, joyless holiday.
She rubbed the place where her heart would beat if it still had life in it. No amount of distraction or substitution could mask the melancholy that had worsened over the last two years—worse than in past centuries.
When the phone rang, she jumped. It hadn’t rung since the twenty-fifth. She wrinkled her nose and stayed put. The machine will get it, she thought, sinking deeper into the cushions, blanket tucked around her curves, the book reopened.
The answering machine clicked on.
“I thought I’d ring you up and see if you were home, but I guess you’re out gallivanting for a change. It’s just Morgen. You have my number. I’m in Ottawa now—lots of different happy meals here. I’ve taken up residence with a bunch of us UV-intolerants. They’re skeptical about my hearing loss. Your brother stopped in at The Rotten Apple and said you two were together at Christmas. How—”
Click. The machine cut him off.
Berenice smiled faintly. The thought of her older brother visiting had been one of the few bright moments this season. Even with his specific eating habits, she had made sure to prepare for him.
A low, predatory whine escaped her lips.
That was the only honest happiness I’ve felt in a while, she thought, taking another gulp as she glanced toward the front window. A truck was coming up along the long driveway. Her body tense.
She rose to her feet in a blur, moving faster than any human eye could track. Brushing the curtain aside, she saw headlights and the slow scrape of a plow clearing her drive. Relief softened her.
Maybe I’ll drop by his place tomorrow. Money or beer, she noted mentally. She laid the book open on the cushion and went to the whiteboard in the kitchen to jot it down.
Then, the phone rang again.
She crossed the kitchen at a supernatural speed. “Hello?” she answered, snatching it up. Please don’t be family, she thought, crossing her toes.
A familiar voice replied in French. “Evening, little sister. How was your day?”
She sighed, body language mimicking the motion. “Good morning, Richard. Have you been up long?” she asked in old French, smiling as she carried the phone back to the couch along with a half-finished green bottle.
“A few hours now. Stayed in bed reading. You won’t believe it—I found an old Bible from 1932. Picked it up cheap at that little shop in Pennsylvania, you remember at all?”
She laughs smirking wetting her lips at the fun she had as the memories flashed across her mind, “Apologies, brother. I don’t remember the shop—but I do remember the fun I had.”
“Selective memory again, sister.” He chuckled covering his own disgust and longing for the ability to do similar.
Twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger, she watched the plow continue outside. “Only because it’s you, I’ll admit… I found a dusty old Bible myself. Nineteen—”
Her voice cut off. Her eyes narrowed and she stopped refilling her tall glass with the human blood.
“Richard?” she asked sharply, allowing herself to hear all she could through the phone.
“Sorry,” he said. “I dropped the phone at the mention that you have a Bible.” He admitted shamelessly.
She shook her head in disbelief and then finished filling her glass. Her voice was sharp with annoyance. “Seriously? It’s not that big a deal. It was just in one of the many totes I have.” She sat back, the smell of the pre-packed blood filling the area as the nearly empty bottle sat to the side on storage coffee table, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she sat back in her spot.
“Possibly,” he said. “But considering your past, my troublemaking sister, most wouldn’t—”
A snarl erupted from her throat. Her language switched instantly to their family’s own. “By God’s blood!” she hissed. Her fingertips darkened, thick claws emerging. Her canines lengthened as she stood.
“It’s been over thirty years since I was that wild and crazy!” Her voice was dark and gritty and sensual.
Silence.
She stood frozen, fingers flexing, jaw tight as she stared blankly at the fireplace. And there she is—the bitch with the fangs. Still here, came the accusing thoughts. Her dead eyes welled with blood-tears, tension slipping from her limbs as she collapsed back onto the sofa. The headlights swept the back wall as her neighbor pulled away.
“I don’t need to remind you, little sister, that such noises and physical changes aren’t suitable for a high school art teacher,” Richard said gently in their harsh-sounding tongue.
Berenice wiped beneath her eyes. “Agreed. I apologize for my outburst.” She sank back down, quickly snatching at her glass drinking back the contents hoping to quench the urge to punch and rake at someone.
Richard’s voice rustled with movement. “Duly noted that your mood hasn’t changed since I visited. And again, I remind you—it’s the holidays. Neither of us is a newborn anymore nor are we out on the town.”
He’s right, as usual, she thought, sitting on the edge of the sofa, tempted to drain the last of the bottle. Mustn’t let it go to waste, came the thought.
“I remember… I also remember you taking me to the local church on Christmas Eve for midnight mass… and us arguing, trying to pass along what you were learning from our parents.”
Century-old memories filtered up from the deep dark of her memories and swirled together with the few she already recalled.
Richard’s surprise was clear when he spoke again. “You sure you’re remembering that right and not something from elsewhere? I recall our childhood being pagan by today’s standards – very least dabbling into Catholic doctrine.”
Berenice narrowed her eyes and switched the cordless to her other shoulder. “Now that you mention it, I’m not entirely sure. But I do remember you reading from an old, smelly scripture book—eyes wide with excitement. You’ve always loved your books, my bookworm brother.” She smiled warmly.
Laughter echoed warmly over the line. “Guilty.”
“In case we’re lucky enough and the world does end in about three and three-quarters hours,” she said, tugging the cork free and drinking straight from the bottle, “I’d like it noted that I have several pages of this Bible I found.”
Her brother’s voice softened with genuine surprise, polished and calm as he replied in French. “Certainly noted—and I’m proud. Never would’ve thought you’d read any scripture after the way you gorged yourself on children in the 16th and 17th centuries.”
Her expression sank at the reminder of her rebellious, reckless past. “You just had to bring that up, didn’t you?” she hissed, finishing the bottle and setting it down with a thud. “I could remind you of your hack job trying to bring Morgen over—or the countless times you nearly withered away refusing to feed on those disgusting wild animals, and I had to—”
“Enough!” came the commanding growl in the old tongue. “You remain in a foul mood, Secret.”
Berenice felt herself shrink inside, folding her long legs beneath her and brushing a hand through her hair, the phone now cradled in her palm. She stayed silent, ignoring the nickname—her nickname—that the community still used in mixed company.
Several seconds passed. She listened to Richard’s movements: the fridge opening, the soft clink of a bottle, the only kind of sustenance he could or would ever drink. She heard him drinking.
“I’m sorry I stirred your monster, Rickey,” Berenice said gently in French, her voice somehow still sensual as she stared into the fireplace thinking it would need another log or two soon.
“Did Claudia say something during her visit that worsened your mood?” came his softer voice. “Maybe it didn’t seem like much at the time, but it could be affecting you subconsciously.”
Berenice’s eyes narrowed, her arm draped casually over the chair’s edge as she mentally replayed Claudia’s visit.
“I know there’s a long, complicated history between you two. And I did notice you were somber after she left—despite the gift exchange,” Richard said, redirecting gently, giving himself time to compose himself.
Her face went paler—if that were possible—and her blood-heavy stomach twisted. A wave of tension crept up her spine. “Uhm… dreams. Awful, violent ones. Worse than anything she had in centuries. About… the other Firsts. Egypt, sleight of hand… and ancient blood magic, cold stone, sand and dust. Darkness.” She struggled to put into words what had been shared with her by her would-be mother, their own peculiar way of communicating.
She rose slowly and carried the empty bottle into the kitchen, her thoughts racing. “It’s not good.”
“Is this like last time—when Hitler started his crusade and no one was holding you back? We could only restrain you for so long before you… fed on him too much,” Richard said, remembering.
A crooked smirk curled her lips at the memory. He tasted like vintage dark roast. The memory stirred her thirst. She sighed, mimicking the human act—one her kind still mimicked despite no longer needing breath.
“Yeah… he was good.” She licked her lips, a slightly elongated tongue scraping lightly against her upper and lower fangs. “But this—Claudia… is beyond what was. He’s restless. And angry.”
“Who? Marcel?”
“Akhenaton.”
“Your grandfather—the original.”
Berenice nodded, even though her brother couldn’t see. She set the rinsed bottle and cork gently into the vintage milkman’s carrier by the door.
“Yes.” The tension along her spine deepened as she finally said it aloud. “It’s a long shot… but we don’t know how much is passed through blood. Not even now. And if this is true, I fear a visit from my asshole sire is coming.” She shuffled to the fireplace setting in one log, adjusting it with the poker and standing back to admire.