Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

Cosa Nosfetatu
Originally Italian, now open to members of all nations and creeds. Primarily involved in protection rackets, trading business owners and residents small quantities of their own blood in exchange for defense against creatures of the night.

‘Ndraculata
Romanian roots, the oldest and most successful vampiric crime organization. Skims blood from city hospitals and blood banks, supporting its activities by trading illegal medicine and narcotics.

Hemoglobin Cartel
Latin American in origin, but not restricted in its recruitment. Chief importer of cheap foreign blood. Controls the dockyards and strictly limits the immigration of foreign vampirics.

The Five Fangs
American/Canadian; does not accept foreign-born or foreign-made recruits. Named after its three founding street vampires, one of whom had a chipped fang. Mostly involved in human trafficking for “blood farms,” in which people are sequestered and intravenously drained for a period as payment for debts.

Unione Corpuscle
French, with strong ties to Corsica and Marseille. Somewhat weaker in the New World after infamous “French Circulation” was busted. Very involved in new technology, including synthetic hemogloboids, “designer bloods,” and cloning rare Bombay blood types.

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“And this is the area where I believe the vampires are running their rackets,” Petrescu said, tapping a blood-red area on the city map.

“Oh c’mon, for cryin’ out loud,” Sergeant Kitredge whined. “You honestly expect us to believe that?”

“Look, I don’t know what they have on the honchos to keep them in denial, but if you follow the blood, it’s clear that this city is thoroughly infiltrated by the vampire mafia. The Cosa Nosfetatu. The ‘Ndraculata. The Hemoglobin Cartel. The Five Fangs. The Unione Corpuscle. The…”

“Cool it with that, will ya?” Kitredge said. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that this means anything other than you going to a place with padded walls and buckled jackets. Why do we care?”

“Extortion is extortion, be it in blood, sweat, or tears,” Petrescu said. “Violence, intimidation, and plenty of dirty money as well. But that’s not the worst of it.”

He indicated another area of the map, near the docks. “This group, here, has been engaged in an underground war with the Cosa Nosferatu for access to their racket. Crime syndicates eventually reach a balance, with each of them taking a territory. But these new folks here upset the balance, and that’s got them scared, I think.”

“What scares a goddamn bloodsucker?” Kitredge said.

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“It’s a nice business. Shame something like this had to happen to it.”

It was Johnny Pallid, still in his fancy suit, and leaning against a lamppost in the pool of weak radiance it gave off. Tony had no idea how he’d gotten there; the street had definitely been empty before, and a big guy like Johnny ought to have been audible a mile away in those wingtips he was sporting.

Tony, still, shaking, broke open his shotgun, ejecting two smoking shells. “You know something about this?” He said, gesturing to his shattered storefront.

“I know that bullets won’t work against those animals,” Johnny said. He held a hand up to his face as if to light a smoke, only to place a toothpick there instead. “They’re just gonna keep coming back, smashing and grabbing, until you give them what they want or there’s nothing left.”

“I’m a simple butcher,” said Tony. “What can I do?”

“Easy. Protection. The cops won’t believe a word of this. They’re not wise. But my boys? We can keep this place safe.”

“And I guess you want money in return, is that right?” Tony said. “You’ve been around for a while, Johnny, you know I’m just scraping by.”

“Not money. Blood.” Johnny tipped down his sunglasses, revealing a pair of red-rimmed junkie eyes.

“F-from my animals? The blood is taken out at the slaughterhouse.”

Johnny grinned, deliberately letting a pair of elongated canines rest outside his lips. “The human body can replenish a pint of blood in 48 hours, and we’re just asking for a few ounces.”

A blood bag plopped weakly at Tony’s feet. “First week’s free. After that, fill ‘er up and my boys will make dead sure nothing happens to this place every again. Might even get you some new business, too.”

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At this point, I quietly pulled the keys from Morgan’s ignition. Whatever had been in those brownies, it was hitting like a psilocybin hammer.

“Can you believe this?” Morgan was shouting, having staggered to the roadside and gesturing at a nearby park.

“What is it?” I said, trotting over. “Do you need to throw up?”

Morgan was gesturing wildly at a large tree nearby. “Did you see it? It ran out in front of my car and then up the tree!”

I looked up at the boughs, seeing absolutely nothing but ragged late-season foliage. “What?”

“That squirrel! I almost hit it with my car!” Morgan sounded on the verge of tears, voice catching in throat.

“Well, uh, if you almost hit it, I’m sure it’s fine,” I replied.

“You don’t understand!” wailed Morgan. “It was Chickersnit, resplendent lord of all squirrels! By almost hitting him, I have incurred his wrath, and that of all his kind!”

I cocked my head involuntarily. “What…the hell, Morgan?”

Morgan was desperately scooping up acorns from a shrimpy oak up the hill. “I need to give him an offering, or rodents will attack me in my sleep!”

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Now I know what you’re thinking: “But Vlad! Now that I’ve signed up for BloodLyfe and accepted the dark blood of Nesuferit, what other exciting opportunities are there to run my own business and be my own boss?”

Well, friend, I can tell you that BloodLyfe has got you covered. Now that you’re a member, you can recruit thralls of your own! They go out and collect sweet lifeblood for you, which you use to sustain your unholy hunger and vile life force. In exchange, you pass a mere 10% of your blood take up the chain to your former master (using our free LyfePak preservation bags and your own freezer).

Once your thralls are ready, you can feed them your own vile ichor and move up a level! Then you will receive 10% of their blood take, and be well on your way to a seat on the Dark Council, bathed in the living blood of your victims.

Now the more skeptical among you might point out that this system requires a continual investment of new members to keep the blood flowing. And this is true! This is why we have capped the number of upper-level members and require their assassination for further progress. This keeps the treadmill running, while the rampant human birth rate takes care of the rest.

Enjoy your newfound independence! But remember: tarry too long in your recruitment, and the Blood Hunger will be upon you, the steady exsanguination of your husk increasing your madness up to the point of True Death.

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It’s well-known that our savanna ancestors lived healthier and more fulfilling lives than we did, provided that they survived the rigors of disease, predators, and war. Paleo diets go some of the way toward recapturing that ancient energy, but you could be doing more.

That’s where Fossil Air™ comes in.

The air our ancestors breathed was far different that what we imbibe, and thanks to the discovery of hidden air pockets that have lain untouched for thousands of years, you can have the same experience!

Guaranteed to have lain undisturbed for 50,000 years or more, Fossil Air™ contains all the natural volatiles, odors, and raw oxygen that our savanna ancestors would have. Improve your health, and breathe easy, with Fossil Air™! Available in 1-breath, 5-breath, and 10-breath air packs.*

*This statement has not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration. This product is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any disease.

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Green glass blocks most light; that’s why it’s used for beer bottles, since light spoils beer. Or so I’m told, since all beer tastes equally repulsive to me, without even the ghostly fruit notes of wine. Most beer uses brown glass, while the finer stuff is green–ironic, because green blocks less light.

To some folks, though, beer bottles of any color are bobbers, to be tossed over the side of their boat and into the late without a second thought, other than the brief primal joy of seeing them sink. I’m sure, when we are dead and gone, they’ll be able to date us by the style and density of our bottle leavings.

It looked like an old Heineken bottle, short-necked, from before the brand had switched to using a more traditional shape that felt more natural in an American hand. Someone had tossed it into the lake years ago, and it had washed up, unbroken, during a flood. Left high but not dry, with a bed of sediment inside and a temperature a few degrees warmer, a minor miracle happened.

It formed a microclimate on the forest floor, providing a warm, wet environment with limited light but not total darkness. Feather moss took to it with gusto, filling the green interior with yet more green–tiny trees in a miniature forest.

If we had not stumbled across it and been captivated, bearing it with us from the trail, its beauty would have been lost. Unlikely though it was, born of litter and chance, I could not help but smile as I regarded it.

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“So, when you’re done with the cart, you sign off on the sheet here.” Harris tapped on a clipboard with a strung pen in a steel box welded onto the side. “Date, time, and shipment number, then initial.”

Bigby picked the clipboard up, only to pause. “Why does it say ‘Tonya Harding’s Bodyguard’ on the inside there?” he said, gesturing at a message crudely markered on the cart in the clipboard box.

“Shit, you’re young,” Harris sighed. “Do you even know who Tonya Harding is?”

“Miss America?”

“She was a figure skater. Won a bunch of gold medals, got every parent thinking their kid could be a skating star for a while. Kept my son off the rink when he wanted to play hockey is all it did.”

“Uh, okay?” Bigby said. “So why is her name on a cart at Home Supply that we use for unloading shipments of tools?”

“Jesus, you’re young. Look, when she was at the top of her game, Tonya Harding paid her bodyguard to try and cripple her rival. But when he got caught, the fat sack of shit, he ratted her out, got her banned for life.”

“And that’s on the clipboard box because…?”

“Because the clipboard is a fat son of a bitch who will tattle on you if you don’t fill it out right or if you break anything,” said Harris. “We done with Twenty Questions now, or what?”

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Name: Blue Jay
Peckédex Number: 027
Type: Water type, Crow type
Weakness: Fire type
Evolves From: Blue Aye

Description:
The most glam of corvids, blue jays have traded in their dark feathers for a bright blue coat and crest. While some may see them as mere songbird posers, few other birds match crow intellect with stylish flair.

Attacks:
Mimic Hawk – By mimicking the call of a nearby hawk, the blue jay can inflict fear status on enemies. There is a small chance the enemy will flee, and a small chance that an actual hawk will answer the call.

Liquid Peck – An aquatic jab that deals light water-type damage.

Feather Flash – By flashing its iridescent feathers, a blue jay attempts to blind opponents. Enemies immune to blindness take light damage instead.

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Name: Summer Tanager
Peckédex Number: 26
Type: Air type, Cardinal type
Weakness: Earth type
Evolves From: Spring Tanager

Description:
The summer tanager swings into action with ketchup-and-mustard flair, with a bold red male backed by an equally brilliant yellow female. Creatures of the canopy with bugs on the brain, seeing one is a rare treat despite their numbers!

Attacks:
Bug Blitz – The summer tanager chases a swarm of stinging insects into the target for light air type damage.

Meteor Drop (male only) – A male summer tanager can drop a small meteor on an opponent for air-type damage with a chance to stun.

Lightning Bolt (female only) – A female summer tanager can strike with a bolt from the blue for air-type damage with a chance of paralysis.

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