I retraced my steps through the chapel to get to the library, where I could bury myself in books and stew over the matters at hand. The antechamber to the stacks was a large room whose beamed ceiling rose to a height of 40 feet, the vast space corresponding to five levels of stacks on the other side of one wall. Against tall wainscoting, study desks of darkened oak were arranged around a block of reference shelves in the center of the room.
I took a seat at one of the desks against an external wall where two arched windows framed the woods and distant mountaintops in the daylight, but in the darkness formed two blank eyes. Yellow lamplight fell upon the volume I'd left on the desk, a study of the historical Jesus, the result of some ambitious theology professor's drive for tenure, and for me, the opportunity to dream of Joshu.
The words blurred as I read, the page becoming like a theater curtain of transparent gauze that melts away when the lights behind it reveal a set and movement on the stage. I saw the mangled old woman crumpled on the linoleum. Nothing can be linked to me, I said to myself. The woman's body, the blood, the superhuman effort to move the tree—none of these points a finger to me. But I must find new grounds for feedings. Down in the city perhaps, among Knoxville's poor neighborhoods, in the prison outside the town's limits. Less convenient of course, especially now when my lust for the blood of young Luke makes it hard to resist sinking my fangs into his throat. But necessary all the same.
"Good evening, Brother Victor." The voice of the abbot broke through my thoughts. He looked a bit uncomfortable. "I hate to break the Grand Silence, but I do have something important to discuss with you, something I've been putting off, and with all this horrible stuff going on—well, there's not much silence right now anyway. May I?" He nodded to a chair near the desk.
"Please."
"What is it you're reading?"
"Nothing of interest. What's on your mind?"
He shifted and removed his glasses, studying them as he spoke. "Something's been brought to my attention, regarding you and Brother Luke."
"What's that?"
"At the risk of taking our friend Thomas à Kempis too seriously"—he looked up now as though to say I ought not take him too seriously either—"it's about particular friendship."
"Becoming too close to one person in the community."
"Yes. It's an old-fashioned idea of course. But there's something to be said for it." Perhaps detecting the disdain in my voice, he became emboldened enough to look me in the eye.
"I'm all for old-fashioned ideas, Brother Matthew."
"That's good, because I do believe this is a serious matter. Luke is… what can I say. He's naive in the extreme. He's not bright either—very impressionable. You, well, I take it you've seen some of the world."
"What makes you think so?"
"Oh, I'm not sure. The way you carry yourself. The way you speak. I guess it's just an impression."
"I see."
"But at any rate, you're older. He's hardly out of his teens. Luke needs to be handled delicately."
"Protected, you mean? From more experienced people?"
Frustrated, the abbot rubbed his cheek. "Of course experienced people have a lot to teach a boy like Luke. That wisdom, the right way to handle feelings, etcetera, that's something he should learn about."
"The boy's infatuated, Brother. He's young. It happens. I'll take care of it."
"Very good." He stood to go, but turned back to me as though a bit dissatisfied with the turn our conversation had taken. "I hope you'll take my advice in the right spirit. I don't want to seem inhospitable to a brother who's been through a tragedy. I can see why you would reach out for a friend."
"You're kind, Brother. Good night." I turned my attention to my book. He hesitated a second, then left the room.
So Michael had carried out his threat. Of course, since our talk in the chapel, I had continued summoning Luke to my cell and we'd gone on with our nocturnal romps through the woods. For the most part young Luke's company amused me, took the edge off the solitude of the night. Granted, he offered me no challenge and never had. But before it got tedious, his kind of wide-eyed fawning entertained me for an hour or so. Besides, our liaison won me Michael's attention. Perhaps now, however, my strategy should change.
Later that week I made my move, after sucking on his tender cock in the woods—so excited by its engorgement that I would have pierced the nearly transparent membrane keeping me from the blood if I'd possessed an ounce less restraint. The full moon had already reached a western point in its arc back to the earth. Patches of its faint light lay on the rocks, vines, and bare earth the color of coffee grounds. Luke and I had thrown off our habits and, guided by a flashlight, treaded naked to the familiar clearing where we conducted our rendezvous. In the hollow of a tree he'd stashed a bottle of wine he'd filched from the dusty collection in the cellar—the daring boy he'd now become. He'd chugged a good amount of it before our playing began. Now his face was the shade of the wine, but instead of breaking his energy the drink pumped it through him. His slim, naked form paced restlessly as he rambled on and on about the stalker roaming the mountainside.
"You think he escaped from a loony bin? I believe there's one in Knoxville, or maybe it's Nashville. Wherever the hell. You know, it's a damn scary thing. Someone sucking out blood like that. That's what the coroner guy said, ain't it?"
I shrugged, bored with the topic, and lay my head back against the stump. I imagined the dim moon, bright to my sight, was the sun and that once again I was basking in its heat.
"That ol' gal musta died from shock before he even started sucking. You think? Tell you what, I wouldn't want to be the detective that's gotta go poking around for the rest of the bodies."
"Maybe there are no other bodies."
"Hell, where there's one, I'll lay odds there's a dozen. Like rats in a barn. Yessir, betcha anything some crazy man read too many vampire stories. Got hisself some spikey teeth and ripped into her." He finally stopped pacing, peering through the trees as though on the watch for the killer, and sprawled out next to me after he tossed the drained bottle into the thicket.
"You've got a morbid imagination tonight."
"I expect so." He had calmed himself now and laid his head on my shoulder, his blonde locks soft against my cheek. "Anyway, with you here, I feel pretty damn safe."
"The abbot spoke to me the other night, Luke. About us."
"What about us?" He spoke drowsily now.
"He said our liaison had to end. The man could make trouble, weakling that he is."
It took a moment before Luke could register the news. Then he lifted his head, his spirit rallied by the threat. "To hell with him. To hell with St. Thomas. It's time for us to get out of this place, Victor. We could get out of this hick state and head to a big city. San Francisco maybe. Hell, half the city's gay, according to a magazine I read. We could get us a house. You might could teach. I could tend to lawns and such." The pupils of his blue eyes dilated with his excitement.
"Like a dream come true, eh?"
"Yessir. Exactly."
"I'm afraid you'll have to live your dream with someone else."
"What? What do you mean?" His forehead wrinkled as though he were trying to discern whether I was joking or not.
"This is the end, that's all. You'll get over me." I got up and put on my robe. As I started to walk away, Luke sprang up and grabbed my arm.
"Damn, Victor, you're serious, ain't you? Why? What use have you got for this place? You hate the fucking Church. Jesus, Victor, you can't just pitch me like garbage. I love you."
I stared coldly into his panic-stricken eyes, jerked my arm free, and resumed walking.
"Don't you love me, Victor?" He called after me. "Don't you love me?" His voice broke into a sob. "You bastard! Goddamn you. You hear me? Goddamn you!"
As usual, my appetite for blood overpowered me after coming so close to Luke's veins—one reason for my abruptness, which was perhaps more severe than usual. But I couldn't h
unt in the mountains, not now with county police scouting the area, so I headed west toward the city. Attuned to the scent of blood, my body lifted and soared through the humid June night to a farm-house several miles down the road, still far outside the city. The two-story abode rose on a hill, above fields of tobacco, a weather-beaten but sturdy structure. Inside a screened porch, I found the back door unlocked. A large calico cat, lounging on a dresser stripped of its drawers, watched me with curiosity as I entered.
The back door opened into a kitchen, where pots and pans lay piled on a drainboard and a table covered with a checkered cloth held a bowl of plastic fruit. Through a dining room, and a living room where a grandfather clock's pendulum ticked noisily, I followed the scent of blood. It became especially strong in the entrance hall. I mounted a staircase there, pausing at the top before a partially open door where I inhaled the rich odor of what I needed. But I advanced toward a second door where the smell was even stronger, more concentrated.
Bunk beds and another bed held three boys. The youngest, in the bottom bunk, couldn't have been more than three. The boy in the top bunk, his long lashes curling up against his cheeks, was probably 5 or 6. An older boy lay in the large bed, his sheet crumpled up at the foot, his tanned arms and legs dark against the linens. Through the open window, cicadas buzzed, but no breeze stirred the heavy summer air.
My chest was heaving now I needed blood so badly. My fangs were ready to tear flesh. But which child should I take? The youngest and most tender? The oldest and biggest portion? A pity it would have been to have two brothers awaken in the morning to find the third drained of life. I could take all three; they were small enough. But the parents in the next room would be left with nothing. I cursed the speck of human softness surfacing now. "Worry be damned," I muttered, clapping my hand over the oldest boy's mouth. His eyes flashed open. He tried to scream, and flapped against the mattress like a fish in the bottom of a boat. Within seconds I had pierced his throat and, draining most of his blood, I quickly twisted his neck to end any lingering misery.
The youngest boy stirred, and for several seconds I remained frozen, inhaling the sweaty odor of my victim, the wet-dog scent that children get when they play outdoors. The child in the bottom bunk suddenly started to cry. I rushed to him and snapped his neck. With no time to drink in case the parents had stirred, and with my thirst already slaked, I bolted out the window and rode the thick, warm air back to the monastery.
Chapter Seventeen
« ^ »
Restless and sullen, and now lonelier than ever, I cursed Joshu again and again during the next month when he continued to not appear in a vision. I was sick of the inescapable fate of my feedings, sick of preying on drug addicts and prostitutes, people living on the streets in Knoxville. I resented being deprived of Luke, even though a better trophy required this sacrifice. I hadn't the patience for calculating ingenious ways to win Michael, and since he had kept a distance from me, I feared that my desire for an equal would go forever unmet.
Over the weeks Luke's reactions to my dismissal of him fluctuated as much as the whims of a Roman aristocrat's spoiled child. Initially, he slumped at the long dining room table with lowered eyes, mechanically moving his spoon but eating little. In the chapel he held his breviary in front of his face so no one could see that his lips weren't moving to the psalms. When we filed into the corridor after compline, he dragged his feet despondently.
Then several times he rallied himself to plead his case. The first time I was lying on my cot, turning the brittle pages of an ancient tome on the Dark Kingdom—a book I'd discovered half a millennium before. Some ambitious vampire had written the Latin text, I was sure of that. I'd lit a few candles to rest my eyes from what for me was the painful light of the chapel. Before Luke could knock, I felt his weak presence outside the door.
"Come in, Luke," I called. I was lying on my side, my elbow against the bed, my head propped on my hand.
The door opened. His eyes were red. He wore his habit, but his feet were in slippers.
"Well, don't stand there. Come in and shut the door."
He followed my orders but continued to hover sheepishly near the door. "I couldn't sleep."
"How unfortunate." I turned the page to a drawing of a voluptuous woman swathed in an ermine mantle, high priestess of the Dark Kingdom.
"Victor, if you're tired of me, I could try some new things. To make you feel really good. I know I ain't that experienced. But hell, I'd be willing to take a shot at anything. You're a temperamental type. Just like a horse I had once. Wouldn't let you near him for days and then would eat out of your hand like a puppy." He forced a smile. "I know that's all there is to it. The abbot…hell, you have him under your thumb. He ain't gonna do nothing if you wanna stick around here. Maybe sometime, though, you'll wanna go. We could go anywhere, right? Sky's the limit."
"Come here, Luke." I patted the mattress.
He eagerly obeyed, sitting down on the bed. His body left my book in shadow. I could smell tobacco on his habit. He'd started smoking, apparently to ease his misery.
"You're right. I am temperamental. I am weary of you. It can't be helped. There's nothing you can do. The best thing for you is to stop dreaming. Open your eyes. You're young. If you want to find love, get out of this perverse monastery and get yourself a lover. But don't expect anything from me. Now go to bed."
He started to tremble. His eyes welled and the tears tumbled down his face. "Damn, Victor. I can't put you out of my mind like you was some impure thought." He sobbed and then took a deep breath to collect himself. "I ain't never loved someone. I'd rather die than be without you." He grabbed my wrist.
"Then you'd better die, Luke. I'm telling you once and for all, you're a fool to hope."
He nodded his head dejectedly, rose, and slowly walked to the door.
"It's the best thing," I called after him.
There were a few more scenes like this one, then long letters blotched with tear stains, then angry outbursts during evening recreation, when in my boredom I would gravitate toward the common room. During one of those times he deliberately spilled his drink on me as I sat on the sofa, joking with one of the younger, better-looking brothers.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Brother," he said, with exaggerated remorse. "Hell, I'm clumsier than a blind old cat." He mopped my habit with his handkerchief.
"Never mind, Luke." I grabbed the handkerchief from him.
"Never mind? Hell no. I'm a damned good brother. I'm here to serve."
Two brothers seated near the piano interrupted their conversation at Luke's loud declaration, made, as best I could tell, with the help of a few glasses of wine. Michael, playing a board game with Brother George, the administrator, also glanced up and comprehended the situation at once. When Luke tried to tug the handkerchief away from me, his eyes filling with angry tears, Michael came over and reasoned with him.
"Luke, why don't you come help me a minute in the greenhouse."
"To hell with the greenhouse." Luke's blue eyes stood out against his flushed cheeks. "To hell with you." He turned, stumbling against a chair, and charged out of the room.
"Maybe you should go help him," I said to Michael.
His dark eyes peered at me with uncertainty and reserve, but also with something more. "No, he's best left alone for now."
After another similar scene, and after the abbot counseled Luke that the end of our intimacy was for his good, Luke rebelled again, calling me a cocksucker in chapel. When he ventured to my cell later that night, drunkenly remorseful and eager to plead for my affection, I clutched him by his slender throat. His eyes widened in horror. The acne on his cheeks stood out like blue match heads against his white face.
"Listen to me, damn you. I'll kill you if you don't shut your mouth and stay out of my way." I flung him to the floor.
"Kill me then!" he sobbed, rubbing his neck.
When I lifted my foot to kick him, I felt a twinge of conscience, even pity. I stepped over him and left my
cell.
Chapter Eighteen
« ^ »
The sheriff and his men found the remains of two more bodies, and their investigation turned up another 15 missing people. Although it had been a couple of months since I'd preyed on the mountain dwellers, the new findings alarmed the monks. The sheriff asked us to assemble so he could warn us to stay in after dark, when a culprit could lurk about with less danger of detection, and not to wander in the woods alone, even though no recent victims had been discovered.
That night I was taking some air at the edge of the woods, deliberating whether I should feed in the city or wait until the next night when the monks might be less alert. It was August, still warm, though I smelled rain in the heavy air and a breeze stirred the branches. A circle of light suddenly glowed near the monastery and grew larger as it approached me.
"Who's out there?" Michael called when he heard me snap a limb. He scanned the trees with his flashlight.
The darkness that shielded me from him did not, of course, shield him from me. I watched his athletic form, dressed like me in jeans and a T-shirt, hike with determined strides toward the forest.
As he neared, he inadvertently shined the torturous light in my eyes.
"You're blinding me, for God's sake," I said.
"Brother Victor?" He lowered the light. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking a walk. My usual midnight stroll."
"I see. You're not afraid of the lunatic roaming the mountainside." His tone was lighter, more agreeable than it had ever been with me.
"I'll take my chances. Where are you going?"
"I'm worried about a couple of kids up there. Their father went to the city to find work. They're alone. He called from Knoxville just before compline. Said people were talking about the new bodies and he got worried. I told him I'd check in on his kids."
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