The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice

Killer said he loved her. Why the hell else would he have ever made her, if he didn’t love her? She would have died in Detroit if it hadn’t been for Killer.
    She’d been bleeding to death, the doctor had done it to her all right, the baby was gone and all, but she was going to die too, he’d cut something in there, and she was so high on heroin she didn’t give a damn. And then that funny thing happened. Floating up to the ceiling and looking down at her body! And it wasn’t the drugs either. Seemed to her like a whole lot of other things were about to happen.
    But down there, Killer had come into the room and from up where she was floating she could see that he was a Dead guy. Course she didn’t know what he called himself then. She just knew he wasn’t alive. Otherwise he just looked kind of ordinary. Black jeans, black hair, real deep black eyes. He had “Fang Gang” written on the back of his leather jacket. He’d sat down on the bed by her body and bent over it.
    “Ain’t you cute, little girl!” he’d said. Same damn thing the pimp had said to her when he made her braid her hair and put plastic barrettes in it before she went out on the street.
    Then whoom! She was back in her body all right, and she was just full of something warmer and better than horse and she heard him say: “You’re not going to die, Baby Jenks, not ever!” She had her teeth in his goddamn neck, and boy, was that heaven!
    But the never dying part? She wasn’t so sure now.
    Before she’d lit out of Dallas, giving up on the Fang Gang for good, she’d seen the coven house on Swiss Avenue burnt to timbers. All the glass blown out of the windows. It had been the same in Oklahoma City. Whatthe hell had happened to all those Dead guys in those houses? And they were the big city bloodsuckers, too, the smart ones that called themselves vampires.
    How she’d laughed when Killer and Davis had told her that, that those Dead guys went around in three-piece suits and listened to classical music and called themselves vampires. Baby Jenks could have laughed herself to death. Davis thought it was pretty funny too, but Killer just kept warning her about them. Stay away from them.
    Killer and Davis, and Tim and Russ, had taken her by the Swiss Avenue coven house just before she left them to go to Gun Barrel City.
    “You got to always know where it is,” Davis had said. “Then stay away from it.”
    They’d showed her the coven houses in every big city they hit. But it was when they showed her the first one in St. Louis that they’d told her the whole story.
    She’d been real happy with the Fang Gang since they left Detroit, feeding off the men they lured out of the roadside beer joints. Tim and Russ were OK guys, but Killer and Davis were her special friends and they were the leaders of the Fang Gang.
    Now and then they’d gone into town and found some little shack of a place, all deserted, with maybe two bums in there or something, men who looked kinda like her dad, wearing bill caps and with real calloused hands from the work they did. And they’d have a feast in there on those guys. You could always live off that kind, Killer told her, because nobody gives a damn what happens to them. They’d strike fast, kachoom!—drinking the blood quick, draining them right down to the last heartbeat. It wasn’t fun to torture people like that, Killer said. You had to feel sorry for them. You did what you did, then you burnt down the shack, or you took them outside and dug a hole real deep and stuck them down there. And if you couldn’t do anything like that to cover it up, you did this little trick: cut your finger, let your Dead blood run over the bite where you’d sucked them dry, and look at that, the little puncture wounds just like to vanished. Flash! Nobody’d ever figure it out; it looked like stroke or heart attack.
    Baby Jenks had been having a ball. She could handle a full-sized Harley, carry a dead body with one arm, leap over