The II AM Trilogy Collection

by Christopher Buecheler

  “Hello Two.” He stared in through the bars at her.

  Two, with a strength belying the shakiness inside her, replied, “Nice place you’ve got here, Theroen. Love the decor.”

  Theroen grinned, reached out with a key, unlocked the door to her cell. Iron grating on iron. Squeal of rusty hinges. He stepped backward, gestured with his hand.

  “You’d probably like a shower. Some new clothes?”

  Two looked at him, eyebrows raised.

  “You turned me into some kind of monster, Theroen.”

  “Did I?”

  “I can see in the dark. I was crying earlier, and my tears were pink. I scraped my hands, and they healed in a couple of minutes. What the fuck did you do to me?” Two could feel anger replacing fear, and welcomed it.

  “Something for which you will one day thank me. Two, you have to trust me.”

  “I don’t have to do anything! You bought my time for a night, Theroen, not my life.”

  “I’ve given you a gift.”

  “Take it back!” Two shouted. “I didn’t ask for your gift.”

  “You wanted to be with me, yes?”

  Two was quiet. Theroen continued.

  “You did, and not because I made you, either. No drugs, no magic. I gave you a taste of freedom, that’s all. A look at what it might be like to be with me. And now you can be. Forever.”

  A shiver ran down Two’s spine. She continued her silence, holding on to her anger.

  “I’ve given you immortality, Two … or at least the path to it. I’ve given you a way to be free of your addictions, free of your life on the streets, free of that pimp selling you every night.”

  “If you were offering that, I wouldn’t feel like there are shards of glass in my spine. I need to go, Theroen. Now. I need that pimp. I need my fix. I never asked for any of this.”

  “You asked with your eyes. You asked with your body.”

  “I asked for your love. Not your … your …”

  “Blood?”

  “Blood! I don’t want this, Theroen. I don’t.”

  “You don’t know what this is.” Theroen gestured at her, then at himself. “At least let me show you.”

  Two considered, shivering. Was this a fair request? Was this man, so little the monster she’d seen portrayed in movies, read about in books, honestly giving her the chance to make her own decisions? She had perhaps another 12 hours before the withdrawal became unbearable.

  “If you trust me, Two, I will show you a way to break from the world in which you are trapped. I will give you escape.”

  Two shook her head. She couldn’t see it.

  Theroen sighed, lifted his finger to his lips and without hesitation bit down. Blood immediately welled, and Two felt a sudden surge of adrenaline and terrible hunger. She took an involuntary step forward, before catching herself.

  Theroen held his finger out. Two took another step, stopped herself.

  “I don’t want it!”

  “Yes you do, and not only because of your new nature. Two, I’m sorry for this …”

  Theroen moved suddenly, so fast that Two could not even react to it. Before she could even take in a breath to scream, he had grasped her, pressed his finger against her lips, and released her. Two licked them instinctively, and the blood was like fiery liquor on her tongue, hot and sweet. Ambrosia. It left her breathless. She sat down on the small bed, dazed.

  “Jesus,” she said.

  Theroen smiled. “No, Two. Jesus has nothing to do with this.”

  Two looked up at him. The aches in her joints, the chills, the craving for the drug; all had faded far into the background. Two or three drops of Theroen’s blood had pushed the symptoms of withdrawal away almost completely.

  “Let me show you what can be. Will you trust me?”

  Two stood, stretched, marveling at the sudden strength in her limbs. She looked again at Theroen, and saw in his eyes the same man for whom she had felt such strong feelings the previous night. Two made her decision.

  “No, Theroen, I don’t trust you. Not yet …”

  Theroen looked crestfallen. He opened his mouth to protest, and Two held up her hand, smiling slightly.

  “But I’ll let you show me.”

  * * *

  The dungeon was in the basement of what must have been a mansion. Two had never seen rooms of this size, rooms that seemed to stretch out forever and ever. The decor was stunning in its complexity, if not necessarily its artistry. Gorgeous, sixteenth-century paintings hung over gaudy, lacquer-glass statues of naked, sexless elves. It appeared as if anything that had – ever – grabbed the owner’s fancy had been purchased and pushed into a corner. The mansion was over-decorated, over-filled, over-furnished.

  Yet within minutes, Two was absolutely spellbound. Her eyes wanted to move everywhere at once, taking it all in. Luxury like she had never seen. The ability to buy and buy and buy until, finally, all sense of aesthetics was lost. Here a massive oak table, glowing as if with its own inner light from countless centuries of oiling and finishing. There, a black velvet painting of dogs playing poker, that look as if it might have been bought from a vendor standing outside of a gas station. It was overwhelming.

  Theroen guided her through each room, pointing out certain objects, but it was clear from his face, his voice, his expressions, that these possessions were not his. It was obvious that he thought little of them, and perhaps viewed most with some level of derision. Two knew very little about Theroen, but she sensed that if he had not been around this clutter for quite some time, he would have actively disdained it.

  Indeed, Theroen was hurrying her through the rooms; quickly pointing out things he thought would be of interest to her, ignoring the rest. He was not trying to tempt her with luxury, and said as much.

  “Everything in the world is yours for the taking, but that’s not important. You know it’s not important, I think, the same as I do. What’s important is the life that can be lived. Hundreds of years, Two, and there’s still so much to see! So much to do!”

  Thereon didn’t seem like the emotional type. Two wondered if this was a rare outburst that she should be appreciating. She tried her best, but all the while that same nagging thought pulled at the back of her mind like the ebb and flow of the tide. Not human. Not human. No longer connected to that beautiful web of grief and love and death and striving, striving to find some meaning in what must, by definition, be an empty universe.

  But there was temptation here, as well. Wasn’t there a spark of excitement in her, brought on by his words? The scope of what she had seen in that moment in the Ferrari when she had nearly lost herself in despair was minimal next to what Theroen was now proposing.

  Two had never felt so torn in her life. Humanity. Immortality. The spirit. The soul. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, pushed it away. She’d told Theroen she would let him show her. She meant to keep her words.

  They came at last to a set of oak doors that seemed too massive even for Theroen to open. Solid in a way that modern creations simply weren’t, they stood before her at the end of a long hallway. Theroen paused, looked momentarily pained, turned to Two.

  “Abraham.”

  It was a threat, a warning, an invitation, an explanation. The quality of Theroen’s voice as he spoke the word was indefinable. Two repeated it, forming the word as a question, looking for detail.

  “My father. My … he runs this household. He does not interfere with my daily life, usually, but I owe my allegiance to him. Or I did. Now …”

  His words trailed off, and for a moment his eyes, normally so clear and focused, were distant. Cloudy.

  “Theroen?”

  “It’s hard, now. I’m too strong. It’s too soon.”

  She didn’t understand a word of it. She began to say this, and he shook his head as if in answer.

  “It doesn’t matter. Tonight, we are sticking to basics, and it is not fundamental that you understand this right now.”

  “Do you all talk in r
iddles all of the goddamn time?” Two was somewhat exasperated despite her desire to understand. Or perhaps because of it. Theroen surprised her with a bright grin.

  “You will enjoy meeting Melissa,” he laughed.

  “Will she tell me what’s going on?”

  “In more detail than you could possibly want.”

  “What about Abraham?”

  “If you experience anything less than abject terror, I’ll be amazed.”

  Two raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”

  “And worse. Abraham is … eternal. He is not like others of my kind, not even like myself or Melissa. He never was. You’ll, well … no, you won’t understand, but you’ll feel it. If it gets too bad, I’ll know, and I’ll do my best to keep you from harm.”

  Two looked at the door with renewed concern. This didn’t sound like anything she had any interest in experiencing. Melissa sounded fun. Abraham sounded dark at best, deadly at worst. Theroen looked at her, smiled again, touched her cheek.

  “You’ll be fine. He may even like you. I don’t think you’re like anyone else he’s met.”

  “Couldn’t that work out just the opposite?” Two questioned. She felt like crying, and didn’t know why. It seemed as if she could find nothing but despair inside herself, as if the duality of her human persona, light and dark, had been half-erased.

  “It might.” Theroen’s voice was curiously gently. “I wonder the same.”

  Two took a deep, shuddery breath, looked down the hall, steeled herself.

  “Okay. Well, let’s go meet Abraham.”

  Her voice trembled only the slightest bit.

  * * *

  The room was pitch black. The doors, which Theroen had opened with remarkable ease, did not make a sound as they swung backward into a blackness that the light from the hallway could not begin to penetrate. They stood on the threshold like archeologists at some newly unearthed tomb, waiting to see what might spring forth from the darkness within.

  When the voice came, it was all Two could do not to turn and run, screaming, down the hallway. It was like rotting graves; gravel grinding at the bottom of some blackened abyss; the howl of wind through a cemetery in October. Age beyond age, depth beyond depth, darkness beyond darkness.

  “You visit me, my son. You bring something? A treat? A taste for Abraham? So long since you last brought me some lovely treat.”

  “Hello, father.” Theroen’s voice was low, subdued, respectful. Two could not detect fear, there, at least nothing akin to the terror currently sitting unsteady in her belly.

  The thing in the room chuckled, a low grating sound that sent squirms of revulsion up Two’s spine. She fought them off, gripped Theroen’s hand instinctively.

  “But so bravely she stands!” the creature said. “It should please you, my dear. Others have been unable to stand even long enough to hear my voice. Such bravery, yet such fear. Do the legs tremble, my dear? Does the heart beat and beat? Does the blood run thin?”

  This struck the creature as uproariously funny, and he howled out at them from the darkness. Two felt what little grip she retained on her composure slipping rapidly away. Theroen sensed this, spoke up, cut off the laughter.

  “This is the one of which I spoke, Abraham. This is Two.”

  A momentary pause. Two felt herself being considered by the thing, the sensation like worms crawling sluggishly across her skin.

  “She is still young,” Abraham said at last.

  “Yes.”

  “You are still young!” he roared suddenly at Theroen, and Two was unable to keep from cringing, making some small cry. Her face paled, then reddened with embarrassment. Theroen appeared not to notice. He stared into the darkness. Nodded.

  “You knew, when you made me, what I was to be,” he said after a moment.

  A sigh, like the shuffle of old papers.

  “Light a candle, my son,” Abraham said. “I would see you as a mortal does.”

  “No mortal sees like we do, father,” Theroen replied, but he produced a match from a pocket, struck it against the granite table directly to the right of the door, lit the wick of the massive candle that stood atop it. The room seemed to swallow this light and then, perhaps finding it unpleasant to the taste, grudgingly released it.

  A gleam at the far corner. Eyes.

  “Handsome, handsome boy,” said Abraham, and Two could barely perceive a slight shaking of the head. “Why do you insist on looking such? Why cut your beautiful hair? Why dress in these ridiculous clothes?”

  “Those who do not change wither. Those who do not change die,” Theroen recited.

  “Speak not such things to me!” Abraham leapt forward suddenly, slightly further into the light, leaning over his massive wooden desk, white-knuckled grip on the far edge, powerful shoulders supporting his torso as he stared in fury at Theroen. Two shrank back, managing to hold in her cry this time. The light helped. Theroen’s apparent fearlessness in the face of a being multitudes more powerful than himself helped more.

  “Speak not in such a manner, from the scrolls of Eresh, to him who has given you everything!”

  “Everything and nothing, father. Ashes and dust. Life in death.”

  “Impertinence in youth,” Abraham grumbled. He sat back down, and Two found that she could barely recall his image, as if her mind had blotted it out. She remembered a heavy head of hair, complemented by large eyebrows and a beard. Had he been young? Old? She couldn’t tell. Only that he was huge. Taller and broader than Theroen, thick through the shoulders, muscular. A dangerous man even as a human, let alone what he had become.

  “I speak only what you have taught, father,” Theroen said. He took a step forward into the room, gently pulling Two with him. Abraham chuckled. The sound was bitter, cynical. There was no humor in it.

  “Ahh. ‘My first thought was, he lied in every word.’ It does not suit you, Theroen.”

  “I am no liar, father. No cripple.”

  “Oh, yes? Well. No cripple, anyway, as well you prove out there, traipsing about in the mortal world, driving your fast cars, laying with your women in patches of grass.” He looked at Two with a raised eyebrow. Two made an effort to return the gaze, succeeded. The vampire laughed again.

  “So brave,” his voice was quiet, contemplative. “Why is she not finished?”

  Thereon paused a moment, and Two sensed that the next few moments were critical.

  “Her previous … employer. He forced things upon her against her will. Many things, one of which was a drug.”

  “She is impure?”

  “The change will cleanse her.”

  “And what drug is this?”

  “Heroin, father. Do you know it?”

  “Opium, yes?”

  “Processed chemically, but yes.”

  “She is unclean.”

  “She is pure in heart, father. She is pure in soul. The blood will strip her of mortal needs, mortal addictions, mortal weaknesses.”

  “So sure?” There was dark humor in the old vampire’s voice.

  Theroen said nothing.

  “No, you are not sure. Not sure at all, my impetuous fledgling. Yet you do not answer my question. Why is she not finished?”

  “I did not know we were susceptible to such things. The drug is still too recent in her veins. It … It made me quite ill.”

  The elder vampire screamed laughter at this, rocking back in his chair. Two wanted to cover her ears with her hands. The sound went on and on, madness and hate and anger disguised as humor, as anything so remotely human.

  And then, abruptly, stopped.

  “Oh, my. ‘Quite ill’ indeed, I’ve no doubt. That drug, Theroen, more than any other, is poison to our kind. It would likely have killed a lesser creation. You are Eresh-Chen, though. You seem to have recovered.”

  Theroen nodded.

  Abraham turned his attention to Two, caught her in his eyes. “Come to me, my dear.”

  Two felt her feet moving, almost against her own will. She heard The
roen draw in a breath, but he said nothing. Two understood now that Theroen felt no fear for himself, held no question of his own safety, but that he feared for hers very greatly. The final moment of the interview had come, judgment was to be handed down, and what Abraham might deem proper was as unfathomable as his deep, black eyes.

  Two stood next to him at the chair, terrified, gasping for breath but unable to move away. Unable to look away. Abraham reached out, touched his finger to her forehead. The contact brought with it a jolt like electricity. Two gasped, nipples instantly hard, warmth between her legs once more awake and throbbing.

  “You enjoy?” The vampire laughed at her. Two felt dizzy. She was hyperventilating.

  “A taste, Theroen, of this tainted blood?” he questioned, and his voice mocked Theroen, mocked them both. She was his for the taking, all three knew it, but he found the formality deliciously, darkly entertaining.

  “If you must, father.” Theroen’s voice was strained. Abraham seemed to smile at this, as if he approved of both the acceptance and the clear hatred in the voice of his creation.

  “You will understand in time, my son, when this day comes for you, when she takes another and breaks your heart.”

  “Get it over with,” Theroen said, and Abraham grinned broadly. He touched his finger lightly to Two’s shoulder, and her knees buckled. She fell to the floor, looking up, enraptured, terrified. His fingers now under her chin, like those of a lover, raising, exposing the pale neck below.

  Two gasped, panted, black spots appearing before her eyes. She was dimly aware that she was weeping, and the warmth below her waist had become a roaring blaze. Closing her eyes, she pictured Theroen and thought, Let it be him, and not this monster.

  The vampire leaned his head down, settled the points of his teeth against her neck, waited. Just as before, the moment stretched out into eternity. The world became surreal, painted in shades of grey and yet more vibrant than anything Two had ever witnessed. She felt a tear grow on a single eyelash, fatten, drop. It hit her face, warmth of her body fading quickly as it cooled, leaving a track down her cheek. Her heart throbbed. The vampire tore through the flesh of her neck in an instant, seeking the blood forced through her veins by that thudding organ.