There are more things to fear than death.  It was the one thing that Helena Peabody knew for a fact.  Human beings feared death more than they feared anything else—including each other.  Scary than dying was never dying at all—to outlive your parents, friends, lovers, and everyone in between.

Helena knew that feeling for sure.  Helena Peabody was born in 1902.  It was currently 2007.  Helena was one-hundred and five years old.  She was bitten at thirty-five, in 1937 by the ever manipulative Dylan Moreland.  Dylan kindled Helena’s desire for blood—and for women.

Friends.  Who needed them?  At least that was her mantra until she met Alice and Shane.  Shane kept the ladies around.  Ladies willing to be bitten and sucked for their life and more than ready to be Helena’s or Alice’s or Shane’s for the night.  Alice was a heap full of fun, not to mention if Shane’s never ending supply of women were to ever run out, Alice knew a guy who worked for a blood bank and he would give them the best blood for a price.

Helena’s tight jeans and tank top allowed for her shape to be in full glory.  It was interesting what she could do now that she was a vampire, an un-dead.  She could smell blood-types.  She could see things so sharply—like a bird of some sort.  And as she walked through the doors of Milk, the most popular lesbian bar in Los Angeles, she could use these senses to her advantage.

‘O negative,’ sniff, ‘A positive,’ sniff, ‘Oh, AB negative.  You don’t see those every day.’ She thought as she passed a variety of females.  She saw her friends by the bar and joined them.

“Shane.  Alice.  How are you?” She asked, taking a seat beside the women.

“Thirsty.” Shane said, her fangs beginning to gleam as she saw her first victim pass her—a latina with long, dark hair.  Without a word, she left to stalk the poor unsuspecting female.

“I’m good.  Yourself?”  Alice asked.

“Doing fine.”  Then the scent hit her.  It wasn’t familiar, and it wasn’t her blood type.  She didn’t know this scent, “Alice, do you smell that?”

“It wasn’t me.  Who ever smelt it, dealt it.” Alice threw her hands up in defiance.

“Don’t be silly.  Sniff the air.” Alice did as she was told, “Do you smell that?”

“No.  I think your undead senses have gone out of whack, maybe you need to spend some time in a coffin or something.” Alice said, laughing at her own un-funny joke.

Helena’s eyes darted across the room, back and forth, and scanning for the culprit.  This beautiful smell was driving her crazy.

When she found her, her breath was taken away.  She was stunning.

“Who is that?” She asked Alice, nodding her head in the direction of the young statuesque woman.

“That’s Bette Porter.” The answer came from the other side of Helena.  Another blonde that she had the unfortunate pleasure of biting in the 1960s.  Tina Kennard, “And she’s mine.”

“Let the games begin!” Alice exclaimed, using her finger as an imaginary trigger.