Midnight Bites (The Morganville Vampires)
Rachel Caine
WELCOME BACK TO MORGANVILLE
I never thought I’d get to say that, but after receiving many, many requests for some kind of collection of all the various short stories I’ve written in the world of Morganville, I began to consider the idea of putting them all together—all the one-offs, exclusives, and Web stories. All the stories that were published only in certain languages or countries.
But the one thing I did not want to do was just give you things you could (with great effort) put together for yourself. I needed to be sure you got good stuff. New stuff.
So there are included in this anthology, thanks to the incredible generosity of my six Kickstarter backers for the Web series of Morganville, six original tales for you to enjoy. These backers have hardcover editions of these stories in a special coffee-table collection, but they’ve been kind enough to let me share the Morganville love with all of you, too. So where those stories appear, you’ll see their names attached to them, with special thanks.
Each story has a little introduction and backstory with it, from me.
One final note: I resisted calling this The Complete Collection, because I don’t think I’m done with Morganville yet (or it isn’t done with me). Because, as you know, once you’re a Morganville resident . . . you’ll never want to leave.
—Rachel Caine
MYRNIN’S TALE
This story came about just because I wanted to know more about Myrnin for my own understanding of his character, and sometimes, the best way to achieve that is to write a character’s history from his or her point of view. The character tells me what is important, and what changed, for better or worse. Discovering that Myrnin’s father had some type of mental disorder was important to me, because of course when he was born, such things weren’t really understood. When I was working on the draft of the first book in which Myrnin appeared, my coworker who read it said, “Oh, you’ve written a bipolar character, and he’s actually really cool! Did you know that I take medication for that?” She went on to relate all the ways he was familiar to her. I was amazed, and honored. I won’t name the coworker, for privacy, but I say now, as then: Thank you for sharing your story with me, and you know who you are. I hope Myrnin continues to make you proud.
I grew up knowing that I would go insane. My mother spared no chance to tell me so; I was, on regular occasions, walked up the road to the small, windowless shack with its padlocked door and introduced to my dirty, filthy, rag-clad father, who scratched at the walls of his prison until his fingers bled and whimpered like a child in the harsh glare of daylight.
I still remember standing there, looking in on him, and the hard, hot weight of my mother’s hand on my shoulder to keep me from running, either toward him or away from him. I must have been five years old, perhaps, or six; I was old enough to know not to show any sign of distress or weakness. In my household, distress earned you slaps and blows until your tears stopped. Weakness invited far worse.
I don’t remember what she told me on the first visit, but I do remember the ritual went on for years—up the road, unlocking the chains, rattling them back, shouting through the door, then opening it to reveal the pathetic monster within.
When I was ten, the visits stopped, but only because on that last occasion the door swung open to reveal my father dead in the corner of the hut, curled into a ball. He looked like a wax dummy, I thought, or something dug up in the bogs, unearthed after a thousand years of silent neglect.
He hadn’t starved. He’d expired of some fit, which no one found surprising in the least. He was buried in haste, with decent rites but few mourners.
My mother attended the funeral, but only because it was expected, I thought. I can’t say I felt any different.
After the burial, she took me aside and looked at me fiercely. We shared many things, my mother and I, but her eyes were brown, and mine were very dark, black in most light. That I had from my father. “Myrnin,” she said, “I’ve had an offer to apprentice you. I’m going to take it. It’s one fewer mouth to feed. You’ll be on your way in the morning. Say good-bye to your sisters.”
My sisters and I shared little except a roof, but I did as I was bid, exchanged polite, cold kisses and lied about how I would miss them. In none of this did I have a choice—not my family nor my apprenticeship. My mother would be relieved to be rid of me; I knew that. I could see it in her face. It was not only that she wanted fewer children underfoot; it was that she feared me.
She feared I was like my father.
I didn’t fear that. I feared, in fact, that I would be much, much worse.
? ? ?
In the morning, a knock came at the door of our small cottage well before dawn. We were rural folk, used to rising early, but this was far too early even for us. My mother was drowsy and churlish as she pulled a blanket over her shoulders and went to see who it was. She came back awake and looking more than a little frightened, and sat on my small cot, which was separated a little from the bed in which my three sisters slept. “It’s time,” she said. “They’ve come for you. Get your things.”
My things were hardly enough to fill out a small bundle, but she’d sacrificed part of the cheese, and some ends of the bread, and some precious smoked meat. I wouldn’t starve, even if my new master forgot to feed me (as I’d heard they sometimes did). I rose without a word, put on my leather shoes for traveling, and my woolen wrap. We were too poor to afford metal pins, so, like my mother and sisters, I fastened it with a small wooden peg. It was the nicest thing I owned, the woolen wrap, dyed a deep green like the forest in which we lived. I think it had been a gift from my father when I was born.