He was staring at his hands. The spot where he’d been bitten was unmarred. Not even a drop of blood remained. He knelt, moving slowly like a person in shock, not quite sure if his body was still real. He thrust his hands into a puddle of light as if he expected they’d dissipate in smoke. Nothing happened.
A puzzled frown creased his brow, and he opened the other hand in the light, palm up. His cupped hands caught the light as if it were water. Worried, Remora wriggled back into the cave and stood. “Come on, Dorian, we have to find you a place to spend the day.”
He didn’t move, and she went to lift him up and urge him back into the darkness. If this was what a little light did to him, she didn’t want to see what would happen in full sun. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
He came to his feet, staring at his hands. Then his eyes rose to her face. “Remora! The sun...”
“You told me. It’s not good for you. It’s all right. I know you’re of the Light now.”
He took her by the shoulders. “It doesn’t hurt! Didn’t you see! It doesn’t hurt. The sun here must be different!”
She frowned. “The sun is the sun.”
He padded over to the entry and knelt, worming up to the lip as she had done. His bulk filled the little triangle, cutting off the light, but his voice came back to her with a joyous shout. “It doesn’t hurt! It doesn’t burn!”
Then his feet disappeared over the lip, as he went out headfirst as the animals had done.
Thinking he’d fallen, she scrambled to the lip to peer out again, and found him clinging to the boulders outside the cave. He had reversed handily and his head was now level with hers. “Remora, come! Let’s dance in the sunlight! I’m going to love your world!”
If it gave him the freedom of the day, she could understand that. “All right, give me some room.”
But he didn’t move. His eyes had gone to her scratched and bleeding hands, ravaged by the night’s heedless flight. His tongue danced over his lips, which seemed parched and cracked. He whispered, “One thing, though, hasn’t changed.”
Quivering, his lips clamped shut and his mouth narrowed into a thin line. His eyes moved up to meet hers, and she felt his hunger lance through her like a hot knife.
Behind that peculiar sensation came a call that stirred her to untold depths. Her lips parted and she could hardly breathe with the need that seized her. She knew only that she had to come into his arms or life would be intolerable forevermore. She started to move, to answer that call.
Suddenly, as fast as it had come, it was gone.
“No. I won’t.”
In moves so fast they blurred, he went straight down the cliff, heedless of the broken terrain. She knew she could never catch him, but she backed back into the cave as fast as she could, reversed, and dangled her feet over the lip of the entry until she found purchase. By the time she reached the bottom, he was out of sight. There was no sign of his passage, and in desperation, she raised her voice and called out, “Dorian! Dorian! Don’t go!”
She listened to her words echo and wondered why she didn’t want to be free of him. Still, he’d saved her life, and now she realized it had been done at no small risk to his own. He hadn’t known he could bully the runners into leaving, and he’d known dawn was close. He’d thought the sun would kill him, and even so, he’d defied that death to chase the pack from her. “Dorian! Don’t go! Please! Dorian!”
She made her way back to the circle, and found him sitting beside the pond bathing his hands. He glanced up, and she saw he had water cupped in his hands. The look of desperation on his face frightened her, but she was too far away to do or say anything when he abruptly thrust his face into his hands and drank, as if taking poison.
His throat convulsed with forced swallowing, and again his pale oval face raised to hers. She stood rooted to the spot until he caved in, and curled up clutching his stomach.
He started to vomit, and she ran toward him. Her foot turned on a rock and she stumbled sideways. After that, she went carefully, and by the time she reached him, he was bent over, sobbing quietly. The mess on the turf before him reeked in a way she’d never known vomit to. “You’re ill. Dorian, trust me. I’ll take care of you.”
He shook his head.
“Look, you’ve had a nasty shock just getting here, a bad chill, and then the runners. Come back to camp and I’ll make you some broth.”
He shook his head again, and gathered himself up.
She tried to help him to his feet, talking as one would to someone delirious with fever, but he cut her off. He grabbed her hands and pulled them up between them, as if to show them to her.
As a confession wrenched from one in the throes of great remorse, words came from him, one at a time. “Remora, it isn’t broth I crave. It’s blood. Your blood. My kind live on the blood of humans.”
He flung her hands down, turned, and strode off.
She stood in shock, adding up all the clues that had lain before her through the night. Blood. She shuddered. How could any creature of the Light live on blood?
And yet.
He had wanted her blood. He had wanted it from the moment they’d met. He had been hungry when he came through the Gate. And he had never, ever, made one move to take what he hungered for. She remembered the look on his face when he’d swallowed the water. He’d hoped that, too, was over.
“Dorian!” She ran after him. “Dorian, stop.” She caught him at the edge of the cup that held the circle. Pulling him to a halt, she made him turn to face her. “I owe you my life. Is it my life that you want?”
“No! No, I will never harm you. I gave that pledge when you saved me from the water. I have saved your life, and we’re even, no? You go your way, and I’ll go mine.”
“See me safely across the Waste,” she challenged, “as you said would be proper, and you can have some of my blood.”
Stunned, he just stared at her.
“The sun won’t harm you. You can travel the Waste to Arvon. There are still Old Ones there. Maybe they can find a way to help you learn to eat normal food again.”
“Old Ones? Alive?”
“Maybe. I’ve heard people say they know people who’ve seen them. They’re supposed to live very long lives, centuries even. I’m going there to learn from them.”
“Centuries?” He repeated avidly.
“Dorian, come with me.”
“Across the Waste?” His face turned in that direction.
“Why not? Where else in this world have you got to go.”
“Well...”
It all seemed so clear to her. They had to go together. She glanced back at the circle, knowing that the Great Powers ruled there. What they brought into a life couldn’t easily be refused. All at once, she raised her bleeding hands to his mouth, commanding, “Drink!”
His resistance cracked. His tongue came out to lick her wounds, and she trembled at the gentleness she sensed through that touch. His hands rose to hers, and his eyes came to focus on her own. Warm thrills coursed through her nerves, promises too sweet to ever be fulfilled. But this time, there was no raw compulsion behind it.
Sometime later, he lowered her hands, put one arm around her shoulders, and urged her back toward camp. “Not like this. Come, and I’ll show you how it’s done. You won’t be disappointed, Remora. I promise.”
Afterword for “Through the Moon Gate”
I chose to tell of the first vampire to be swept into the Witch World because at the time Andre asked for the contribution, I was ruminating over a vampire novel. I was reading and studying about the phenomenon, much taken with Yarbro’s St. Germaine and other “good” vampires in the current literature.
I had selected for my novels Those of My Blood and Dreamspy, a particular theory of vampirism which allowed for a war between the good and bad vampires on Earth all without magic involved, but that by no means exhausted my ideas.
When Andre finally confirmed her interest in the basic idea providing that the individual I chose to bring
to her Witch World universe were of the “good” persuasion, I gleefully created a magical vampire and wrote “Through the Moon Gate.”
I had a rousing good time figuring how the laws of the Witch World reality might affect the “curse” of my vampire. I think he’s going to like living (sic) in this new reality, and I now expect he’ll survive the Warding to return to Earth where strange loves await him.
All my “good” vampires tend to fall passionately in love with only one human at a time, and of course always at the most inconvenient time possible.
FALSE PROPHECY
“False Prophecy” is a prequel to the novel Those of My Blood by Jacqueline Lichtenberg. Here the vampires are not supernatural, though an ordinary human might not notice that. http://www.simegen.com/jl/ for info.
Oh, I hope I’m doing the right thing!
Bringing her Mazda to a stop at the red light, Gavriella Dean peered up at the rusty highway signs overhead barely lit by the street lamps. Route 59 East, ahead. Route 9W South, to the right.
Yes, this had to be the corner. With New York’s crazy right turn laws, she couldn’t figure out if she could turn against the red light or not, so she sat there visualizing the Hanged Man Tarot card, suppressing a touch of hysteria. She’d never read Tarot in public before, and to start at a Halloween costume party seemed, well, risky.
Thy Will be done, she prayed, placing her destiny in the hands of God, and made the turn. Maybe she wouldn’t find the house. Then she could just go home.
9W climbed and narrowed to a crumbling, two way track lined with tumble-down businesses. Then she passed the sign that said, THE NYACKS’HISTORICAL PRESERVATION AREA, and suddenly there were gorgeous Victorian homes on either side of the road, with carefully painted gingerbread, turrets, and roofed carriage porches on the sides.
Ordinarily, she supposed, this area would be beautiful, especially when lit by the perfect full moon now climbing the sky. But many of the houses were decorated for Halloween, some whimsically, some sinisterly. The animated holos of ghosts, witches, and vampires got to her, but she resisted closing her eyes as she passed them. She had been warned.
She counted streets and landmarks according to her directions. Before she knew it, the land to her left dropped away and the road became a narrow ledge cut into the hillside, treetops and roof turrets poking up next to her car. Over them, she could see the Hudson River, and beyond, the dense lights of the city.
Dirt driveways snaked up the steep hillside on her right, and twisted down to the houses buried under the trees on her left. Racks of mail boxes were stationed at intervals. Some were decorated with jack-o-lanterns or ghosts. She almost missed the one she was hunting for right under a holo of a red-eyed vampire bat. But, just beyond it a line of cars was parked against the cliff, left tires barely clear of the white line that edged the roadway. She tucked her Mazda in behind a Lincoln and doused the lights.
Shouldering her bag, she dragged the lace shawl of her makeshift witch’s costume around her and walked back to the stairs up to the house. The narrow stair was cut into the solid rock. Modern lights lit the treads and banister, but the stairs looked more than a century old.
She put her head down and climbed, praying If You’re sure this is what You want, okay. She was visualizing The Hermit card, staff and lantern lighting her climb to Wisdom, when feet scuffed to a stop beyond her nose.
A man gasped, “Oh! Sorry!” and backed up the narrow stair.
Simultaneously, she backed down, barely stifling a yelp, and had to grab the banister. The stair treads were an odd and irregular height and worn unevenly. Suddenly, she was falling backwards.
Hands closed over her arms and she was lifted back up the steps and set down on a landing edged with shrubbery on both sides. She’d never been lifted like that before; all hundred seventy-seven pounds of her five-foot-two body just moved. It made her feel like a ballerina, beautiful and graceful, until she heard the man grunt with the effort as if he’d strained himself.
Heart pounding, she looked up at her benefactor, a slender young man in a Dracula costume with a rental tag showing at the collar. In one electric glance, she took in the blood red satin lined cape, archaic tuxedo and pale white makeup on hands and face that was so well done, it didn’t look like makeup at all. The moon glancing off his eyes had struck ruby highlights somehow. It absolutely made the outfit. “Red contacts, right?” she gasped.
He laughed. It was a wonderfully rich sound. “Right. I’m sorry I startled you. My name is Titus Shiddehara.”
“Gabby. Short for Gavriella. Gavriella Dean.” Her voice was choked and husky, and she thought she might faint.
“Here,” said Titus drawing her through the bushes, “come over here and catch your breath. It’s still along climb up to the house and witches shouldn’t arrive out of breath.”
Against her better judgment, her feet followed him into the bushes which were so thick with vines that the wall of growth closed up behind her.
But then they were on a moonlit lawn under a gnarled oak that had to be a century old. Behind them, the windows of the house spilled out light, music and shrieks that turned to laughter. Behind the house, the hillside rose steeply, covered with trees and vines. The only exposed spot was a huge rock that stuck out of the hill, forming a kind of overlook. She could just discern the hint of a foot path that disappeared into the undergrowth, probably leading to the rock.
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would go up there. There was no retaining wall around the edge of the rock.
She surveyed the river and the city beyond. The velvet dark was sprinkled with jewels and presided over by the moon which made golden paths on the river. Like a Tarot card.
Titus said with restrained disapproval, “I have to warn you the entire climb from here up to the house is trapped with fun house tricks, some pretty realistic ones, too. Brace yourself, and don’t get startled like that again.”
She stepped away to get a better look at him. “You were leaving?” She’d arrived a quarter hour early.
“I didn’t care for the atmosphere. The whole house is filled with things that pop out of closets or swoop down from the shadows of the high ceilings. And there are a few people doing drugs already.” He flashed her a smile. “I don’t suppose I could offer to take you to a movie, or something?”
He hadn’t laid a finger on her since he’d dragged her into the bushes. “I’m tempted. Doesn’t sound like my kind of party, either. But I gave my word. I’m supposed to be reading Tarot to entertain the guests.” Tarot wouldn’t work if they were into drugs already, so she was really tempted to leave.
“Do you read at a lot of parties?”
“No. I’m just doing this as a favor to my boss. I’ve been reading for other people for about a year, but not at parties.” She pulled the lace shawl up, wishing she’d come in a business suit instead of letting her sister talk her into the costume. At least she’d have been warmer.
“Gabby, they’ve already got a lot of readers. I don’t think they’d miss you.”
“Maybe I can get away early. But I really have to do a couple of hours at least. I did promise.”
There was a squirming discomfort in her stomach, a warning she was about to do something she’d regret. She never picked up strange guys. That was how women became police statistics.
But when she’d consulted the cards over coming to this party, the theme that ran through every layout was Hanged Man, Hermit, and Lovers; putting trust in the Higher Powers, following the path to Maturity, and facing temptations or finding real inner harmony through relationships.
But there’d also been a number of Fives tangled through the whole issue, along with the Nine and Ten of Swords. Whatever was due to happen would hurt a lot. But she’d learned long since that challenges like that led to worthwhile triumphs.
“Well,” allowed Titus, “in that case, I’ll wait.” He guided her back onto the stairs, warning her of hidden obstacles he’d tripped over when he’d discovere
d the secluded spot. They went up the long, long stair together, Titus alerting her at each trap. She didn’t tell him how much she appreciated his help, and then immediately regretted it when he delivered her to the door and vanished into the crowd.
Oddly enough, despite the cobwebs and skeletons décor, Gabby’s queasy discomfort vanished also. That man’s the temptation I’m here to resist. She could already tell that resisting wasn’t going to be easy.
The host, the man who had financed her boss’s venture into newspaper publishing, was standing in the entry foyer beside a real, satin lined, teak coffin wearing a fabulous Dracula costume, complete with appropriate dentition. But she’d never seen a Dracula with gray hair, spectacles, and an ample waistline before. Well, why not?
As she introduced herself, Gabby realized that Titus had lacked the fangs, but their host had omitted the contacts.
She’d been told there was to be a Dracula contest later. There were already ten or fifteen Draculas in the living room behind the man she was facing.
“Ms. Dean?”
“Uh, yes sir?” The unmistakable odor of pot wafted through the spray-can-cobwebs. Well, if it’s just pot...
“Please follow Mr. Simon. He’ll show you to the room we’ve prepared for you.” He intoned the words with silken menace, and laughed diabolically, then turned to the couple entering behind Gabby, Dracula-and-night-gowned-victim.
He was really enjoying the act, she realized, as she followed the man in the caterer’s outfit. As she saw others wearing identical black jumpsuits with red cummerbunds carrying white towels over their left arms, passing large trays among the guests, she realized he was a real waiter, not a costumed guest. I’m way out of my class here!
Installed in what had been a small bedroom, decorated now as a gypsy tent complete with little round table and crystal ball, she ordered a virgin Mary, then cleared the crystal ball off the table. It was a real one, probably costing more than she made in a week as a features editor. She put it on the floor in the corner and tucked it behind a fold of the cloth which draped the walls. She discovered a small attic window and grunted it open a crack. The cramped room was already stuffy.
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