Within a few minutes, Michael returned bearing a large waiter’s tray. Delicious aromas wafted from the silver-lidded plates on top. With a flourish, he unfolded a linen napkin and laid it in my lap. Then he placed before me a vase brimming with the restaurant’s signature variegated red roses.
Final y, he brought the two plates to the table. In a grand gesture, he lifted the lids simultaneously, revealing lobster with asparagus and risotto, dishes that he’d ordered earlier that day. My favorite.
Before he sat down, he knelt next to me and whispered in my ear, “Happy anniversary.” We tucked into dinner, talking and laughing—even giggling—as if we were any normal couple. But al the while, we knew that it was only playacting. Michael and I were anything but normal.
After we finished the last bites of a molten chocolate cake, I stood up and stretched out my hand to Michael. He rose, and I led him to the couch facing the fireplace. We hadn’t dared light a fire—the chimney smoke would be a giveaway—but we had no need. We could see each other wel enough in the dim candlelight; we were used to much less light.
I lay down on the couch and motioned for him to join me. Lowering himself down, he molded his body to mine. Our lips rested up against each other, and for a long moment, we just breathed each other’s breath. Through his breath, I experienced every aspect of his day as if I’d been with him the entire time. He did the same. We had no need for words.
Then I kissed him. At first, the sensation was simple, pure pleasure. My lips, his lips, our lips, our tongues. In time, the bloodlust began to build, the same urge we first experienced at the fateful Fal Dance. But we no longer fought it. We yielded to its power.
I ran my tongue along his teeth at the same moment he ran his tongue against mine. Tiny droplets emerged on the tips of our tongue, and our blood mingled. Intense waves of physical delight washed over us. Then, like a slow burn that becomes more intense over time, the images came. I saw Michael and myself with wide swaths of light at our backs and letters of light emblazoned on our chests. I saw us flying through places and times I could not identify or comprehend. I saw us battling and helping and fighting and saving. Much as I didn’t understand who or what we were, I didn’t comprehend many of the images; indeed most of them seemed vaguely futuristic. Yet I reveled in them.
The visions and the pleasure slowly receded. I lay in Michael’s arms, peaceful and content; we never discussed the images, and we rarely talked about our natures. But I knew that, from the instant I awoke until nightfal of the next day, I would wait for this moment. I lived in—and for—it. As did Michael. We had become addicted to each other’s blood.
Chapter Twenty-six
The next night, I stared at the clock. The hands seemed frozen at 11:50. I prayed and prayed for them to move. I desperately wanted that minute hand to hit the eleven and the twelve. Only then, only at midnight, could I rise from my bed and fly out to meet Michael. I didn’t think I could hold off the craving—for Michael and the blood—a minute past twelve.
My countdown had started as soon as I woke up that morning. Every day progressed that way now. As I got ready for school, as I sat in class, as I walked alone down the hal ways trying hard to ignore the hateful stares, as I sat at dinner with my parents, I thought about my upcoming night with Michael. Knowing that the sweet release was only hours away made the daytime misery of school bearable.
The clock’s hands final y joined at the twelve. Midnight. I wanted to leap from my bed, but instead I peeled back my quilt quietly, careful not to rustle the sheets. After I lowered my feet to the floor, I stuffed the bed with a blanket and then tiptoed across the notoriously creaky floorboards. I careful y modulated every step I took and every move I made to minimize noise; I didn’t want to risk awakening my sleeping parents.
I made it across the floor to my window with only a modicum of sound. Then I paused to listen for any stirrings from my parents. The house was silent.
Bit by bit, I opened the window. Even my gentle efforts caused the ancient window sash to groan. I winced and forced myself to wait a moment before pushing it up the rest of the way. Part of me wondered why I cared so much about my parents catching me. Most of the time I didn’t, which was probably one reason I’d never mentioned to Michael that conversation between our parents that I had overheard. My powers had grown such that my mom and dad couldn’t stop me from meeting Michael, no matter what tactic they tried. Yet, I guessed that enough of the old El ie remained to make me protective of my parents. More specifical y, I guessed that I wanted to protect them from me, from the vampire, or whatever it was, that I’d become.
Kneeling on the window seat, I created an opening wide enough to slip my body through. I planned on closing it once I made it into the nighttime air, as nothing would awaken my parents quicker than a cold blast. I worked my head, arms, and torso through the aperture and was just about to slide my legs through when I felt a hard tug on my ankle. For a second, I thought that my leg had gotten tangled in one of the blankets folded on my window seat. I shook my leg a little, trying to loosen it from the blanket. But the grasp only tightened.
I froze. The blanket felt distinctly like a hand.
Part of me wanted to just kick my leg loose and fly off, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to face him or her. Or worse, I suspected, them. Terrified, I slowly slid my body back through the window opening. I delayed sliding my head through until the very last second.
Final y, I mustered up the courage to turn around. There my parents sat, looking oddly vulnerable in their pajamas. My dad settled on the window seat—his hands must have been the ones to pul at me—while my mom perched on my bed. Right on top of the blanket I’d stuffed it with, as a matter of fact. We stared at one another in complete silence. I didn’t know what to say or do, and they didn’t seem to either.
“Just where do you think you are going, El speth?” my dad asked, breaking the silence. His tone sounded hurt, and he was using the formal
“El speth.”
“Nowhere,” I whispered.
“Does this ‘nowhere’ include meeting Michael?” my mom asked. Her voice bore none of the soft, injured qualities of my dad’s. She was furious.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I sounded unconvincing, even to my own ears.
“We may be trusting, El speth, but we’re not fools,” she said.
I didn’t know how to respond. Obviously I was trying to sneak out, although I hoped they hadn’t witnessed the flying piece. I had no idea what they knew or for how long they had been aware of my nocturnal activities. Given that I had no desire to educate them about the details if they were blissful y unaware, I kept quiet.
“El speth, al ow me to make clear to you what seems very apparent to your mother and me.” My dad’s tone started to match my mom’s—less hurt and more angry.
“Al right,” I said.
“We have grounded you for that Facebook incident, which mystifies your mother and me. But you stil want to see Michael. So you two thought you’d sneak out of your respective houses late at night and rendezvous somewhere. Am I right?”
I wondered whether I should just cop to my father’s tale. After al , his theory was pretty close to reality, and it was far less damning than the ful truth. Plus, I could feel the need for Michael’s blood pulsating through me. Maybe if I just came clean, they would leave me alone, and I could stil meet Michael. Even now, Michael was my focus.
As I considered my response, my mom interjected, “Is Michael waiting for you out in the yard?”
“No,” I practical y shrieked. Michael and I had planned on meeting in town. But I was late, and I couldn’t take the chance that he’d come to my house looking for me. And I absolutely couldn’t risk my mom peering out the window for him, only to witness him flying by in search of me.
“Do you admit that you made arrangements to meet him somewhere? Just not here?”
“Yes.”
My dad shook his head. “El speth, we are so disappointed in yo
u. This behavior is so uncharacteristic for the daughter we’ve raised and loved.”
He looked over at my mother, who nodded in encouragement. “We can’t help but think that Michael is somehow influencing your actions. For your own protection, we have decided to ban you from seeing Michael.”
“No!” I cried out.
“Yes, El speth.” My dad’s voice was unusual y firm. “We wil do whatever it takes to keep you from seeing him.”
I could not al ow my parents to separate me from Michael. I no longer cared about being a dutiful daughter—al I cared about was Michael and the blood. I felt myself getting furious, felt that expansion I first experienced when I lashed out at Missy. My words and my actions were no longer under my control.
I stood up from the window seat, defiant in the face of their attempt at restraints. “You cannot stop me from seeing him.”
My mom rose and got right in my face. She looked the way I felt. “Oh, yes, we can.”
“You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“El speth, I think your dad and I know exactly what you are capable of.”
Placing my hands on my hips, I matched her expression and then smiled smugly at her. “Oh, real y? I don’t think that’s possible.” I didn’t wait for her response; I headed straight for the window. I had every intention of flying right out of it, into Michael’s arms. I didn’t care if they saw. I needed to get to Michael, and I would not let them constrain me.
As I lifted the sash once again, I heard her cal out, “You think you’re a vampire, don’t you?”
Chapter Twenty-seven
I spun around and stared at my mom. Her eyes were so certain and knowing, yet contained no judgment of me and no incredulity. She knew who I was, what I was. I wanted more than anything to ask her how she knew, but the words stal ed on my lips. How could I ask an unthinkable question?
Overwhelmed and confused, I fel back on the window seat. I must have looked as disoriented and woozy as I felt, because my parents’ hands reached out to steady me. Through the miasma of the moment, I heard my dad say, “It’s al right, dearest. We’l help you.”
“Help?” I asked with a laugh. How could they help me? This wasn’t some high school problem to be solved with a pep talk and a pat on the back.
It wasn’t a dilemma that a few sessions with the local psychiatrist could cure. No, my parents couldn’t help me. No one could help me, not even Michael.
I felt my dad’s arm slide around my shoulder and pul me tight. “Would it help you to know that you’re not a vampire? Would it help you to know that vampires—as you think of them—don’t real y exist?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. The whole setting and conversation was becoming increasingly surreal. Was I actual y sitting here in my bedroom at midnight talking with my parents about why I was not a vampire? Or was I having one of those awful hyper-real nightmares in which you know you are dreaming but you can’t wake yourself up?
My dad fil ed in the deafening silence. “I’m going to tel you a story, El ie. It’s from the Bible—from Genesis, to be exact—so we have to take it with a grain of salt. But this particular story contains a nugget of truth, a very relevant nugget of truth. So I want you to listen careful y, very careful y.”
I’d grown used to my dad’s random quotations—even tolerated them—but I was in no mood. Anyway, a story from Genesis was an odd choice for my dad, who claimed he loved the messages and tales of the Bible, but couldn’t stomach how organized religions used them. “You said you wanted to ‘help’ me, Dad. How is that supposed to help?”
“Just listen, El ie.” It was an order. Since he was typical y more inclined toward polite requests, I nodded.
“In the beginning, for lack of a better term, God sent some of his spiritual intermediaries—we’l cal them angels—to mankind. He wanted these angels to protect his newly formed humans, to teach them about His divinity, and to shepherd them to heaven upon their deaths. Instead, these angels became enchanted by mankind. They became enamored of their purity and innocence and, of course, their physical beauty. They were made in God’s image, after al . But most of al , the angels became entranced with mankind’s thirst for knowledge, about their world and their origin.
Because, you see, the angels knew the answers.
“So, succumbing to their own pride in knowing the world’s secrets, the angels began to teach human beings al they knew about the earth—the constel ations, the signs of the earth, sun, and moon, knowledge of the clouds, the working of metals, the use of coin, and the art of war. In so doing, they fel in love with mankind. They even took human men and women as spouses and produced a unique race of half man and half angel. These beings were cal ed Nephilim.
“From afar, God watched the acts of these angels. And He was mad. These angels had taken His secrets and corrupted His favorite creation, humankind. They had even dared to fal in love with His creation and made a new creation of their own. And what could be more audaciously Godlike and defiant than that? Creation was reserved for His hands alone.
“God decided that there was only one way to undo the damage caused by these angels. He had to wipe out the now corrupt humans and the half-breed creations, leaving only a select few pure humans. So he whipped up the flood.”
My dad said this last word as if it deserved a capital ‘F’ and as if I knew what he meant. Which I didn’t.
So I asked, “The flood?”
“Noah’s flood,” he said irritably, as if CNN had just reported the deluge. Then he launched back into his story.
“Anyway, even though He al owed these wayward angels to live, God had no intention of letting them go unpunished. He cast them out of heaven permanently and ordered them to remain on earth. To torment them in their new earth-bound existence, He left them with their immortality and their ethereal skil s as a reminder of al they’d lost. Except He took away their ability to procreate with humans, of course.
“Many of these angels were furious with God’s command, and decided to retaliate. They embraced their new ‘fal en’ status, and made concerted efforts to turn the remainders of God’s pet creation—humankind—away from His light and toward their own refracted il umination. These fal en angels taught humans to worship earthly glamours that they could control and manipulate. In time, humans began to think that the ideals of these angels—even the angels themselves—were divine. Humankind no longer truly feared and worshipped God. Humans worshipped the idols fashioned by these angels—commerce and technology and consumerism and warfare and themselves, of course. And, in turn, the fal en ones captured—sucked away, if you wil —humankind’s souls.
“But a few of these fal en angels realized their horrible mistake. They decided to try and work their way back into God’s grace by living quietly among humans and redirecting man toward His light. This smal group assessed the damage that had been done to the earth and humankind by the other fal en ones, and fashioned a plan of redemption. Certain angels decided to address the corruption of the financial sector, others dealt with the rise of materialism, and so on—and you can see the fruits of their labors these days in the news. In addition, every angel in this group, the good group, tried to utilize their natural talents to guide humankind to God at the critical moment—the instant of their deaths. So using their gifts—their powerful sense of an individual’s psyche which they derived from touch or blood, their heightened powers of persuasion, and their ability to fly—they reached out to as many dying humans as they could.”
I froze. My dad continued talking about these angels, but his voice receded. I could hear only a constant replay of his description of the angels’
abilities. Their skil s were mine. Was that what I was? A kind of an angel? For some reason, the concept seemed even more foreign than being a vampire. More impudent.
“Gifts?” I interrupted. I needed to better understand who or what I was.
“In the beginning, al of these angels were given certain abilities to assist them in
their work of shepherding souls to God’s light. They were endowed with the gift of flight, so they could quickly reach the sides of dying humans to help them before it was too late. The angels were able to see into humans’ minds and hearts, so they could understand how they might assist the humans in shedding their worldly cares and choosing a higher plane. They gained this insight by touching the human or—more powerful y—by tasting their blood, their life force. And the angels bore strong powers of persuasion, to better influence the humans’ final decisions. The angels were supposed to use these gifts for their intended purposes only
—to guide souls to God.”
A thought occurred to me. What if you didn’t use your powers for their intended objectives, for good? What if you started using them only for your own selfish purposes, like I had with Michael lately? Could that explain why I’d felt so dark recently? Why I’d sort of lost that compulsion to help others? Al these questions assumed that I was an angel, of course. I asked my dad, “What if angels used their gifts for their own purposes?”
My dad paused before answering. I could tel my question kind of disturbed him. “That is precisely what these angels did at first, when they were sent to guard mankind. After al , even angels have free wil , the capacity to choose darkness over light. That is why they were cast out. Once these angels were cast out and became fal en, they ful y submitted their powers into the service of their own desires. Then the darkness—the urge to serve self rather than something higher—took hold. And that hold was—is—very, very hard to break, nearly like an addiction.”
Before continuing, he sort of shivered. Then he pul ed himself together and said, “Over the centuries, people in every culture, every society, began to take notice of these angels—especial y the fal en angels trying for redemption. Remember, these angels striving for salvation were trying to bring souls to God at the moment of death. People occasional y saw them in that instant, and attributed to them the deaths they witnessed. People started to fear these angels. Who could blame them? Sometimes, the people watched the beings draw close to the dying and whisper in their ears.
Eternity (v5) Page 11
