Selections from By Blood We Live

by edited by John Joseph Adams

  He hadn't done that very often. He wondered whether Dacicus intended to do that with him—to him. He never had the chance to ask. Did Dacicus still wander the world, not alive any more but still quick? One of these centuries, if Dacicus did, they might meet again. You never could tell.

  When he didn't let go fast enough, the black-robed one breathed full in his face. That horrible, poisonous stink made him back away in a hurry.

  He hadn't got enough. It could never be enough, not if he drank the world dry. But it was ever so much better than nothing. Before he fed, he was empty. He couldn't end, barring stake, sunlight, or perhaps a surfeit of garlic, but he could wish he would. He could—and he had.

  No more. Fresh vitality flowed through him. He wasn't happy—he didn't think he could be happy—but he felt as lively as a dead thing could.

  "My God!" the new Pope said, not in Aramaic, not in Latin, not even in Italian. His hand went to the wound on his neck. The bleeding had already stopped. He shuddered. He didn't know what he'd expected when Deacon Giuseppe took him down below St. Peter's, but not this. Never this.

  "Are you all right, your Holiness?" Real concern rode the deacon's voice.

  "I—think so." And the Pope had to think about it before he answered, too.

  "Good." Deacon Giuseppe held out a hand. Automatically, the Pope clasped it, and, in so doing, felt how cold his own flesh had gone. The round little nondescript Italian went on, "Can't let him have too much. We did that not so long ago, and it didn't work out well."

  The new Pope understood him altogether too well. Then he touched the wound again, a fresh horror filling him. Yes, he remembered the films too well. "Am I going to turn into. . . one of those?" He pointed toward the central figure of his faith, who was licking blood off his lips with a tongue that seemed longer and more prehensile than a mere man's had any business being.

  "We don't think so," Giuseppe said matter-of-factly. "Just to be sure, though, the papal undertaker drives a thin ash spike through the heart after each passing. We don't talk about that to the press. One of the traditions of the Order of the Pipistrelle is that when the sixth ecumenical council anathematized Pope Honorius, back thirteen hundred years ago, it wasn't for his doctrine, but because. . .."

  "Is. . . Honorius out there, too? Or under here somewhere?"

  "No. He was dealt with a long time ago." Deacon Giuseppe made pounding motions.

  "I see." The Pope wondered if he could talk to. . . talk to the Son of God. Or the son of someone, anyhow. Did he have Aramaic enough for that? Or possibly Hebrew? How the Rabbi of Rome would laugh—or cry—if he knew! "Does every Pope do this? Endure this?"

  "Every single one," Giuseppe said proudly. "What better way to connect to the beginning of things? Here is the beginning of things. He was risen, you know, Holy Father. How much does why really matter?"

  For a lot of the world, why would matter enormously. The Muslims. . . The Protestants. . . The Orthodox. . . His head began to hurt, although the wound didn't. Maybe talking with. . . him wasn't such a good idea after all. How much do I really want to know?

  "When we go back up, I have a lot of praying to do," the Pope said. Would all the prayer in the world free him from the feel of teeth in his throat? And what could he tell his confessor? The truth? The priest would think he'd gone mad—or, worse, wouldn't think so and would start the scandal. A lie? But wasn't inadequate confession of sin a sin in and of itself? The headache got worse.

  Deacon Giuseppe might have read his thoughts. "You have a dispensation against speaking of this, your Holiness. It dates from the fourth century, and it may be the oldest document in the Vatican Library. It's not like the Donation of Constantine, either—there's no doubt it's genuine."

  "Deo gratias!" the Pope said again.

  "Shall we go, then?" the deacon asked.

  "One moment." The Pope flogged his memory and found enough Aramaic for the question he had to ask: "Are you the Son of God?"

  The sharp-toothed mouth twisted in a—reminiscent?—smile. "You say it," came the reply.

  Well, he told Pilate the same thing, even if the question was a bit different, the Pope thought as he left the little chamber and Deacon Giuseppe meticulously closed and locked doors behind them. And, when the Pope was on the stairs going back up to the warmth and blessed light of St. Peter's, one more question occurred to him. How many Popes had heard that same answer?

  How many of them had asked that same question? He'd heard it in Aramaic, in Greek, in Latin, and in the language Latin had turned into. He always said the same thing, and he always said it in Aramaic.

  "You say it," he murmured to himself, there alone in the comfortable darkness again. Was he really? How could he know? But if they thought he was, then he was—for them. Wasn't that the only thing that counted?

  That Roman had washed his hands of finding absolute truth. He was a brute, but not a stupid brute.

  And this new one was old, and likely wouldn't last long. Pretty soon, he would feed again. And if he had to try to answer that question one more time afterwards. . . then he did, that was all.

  Lifeblood

  by Michael A. Burstein

  Michael A. Burstein is a ten-time finalist for the Hugo Award and the winner of the 1996 John W. Campbell Award for best new writer. His fiction frequently appears in Analog Science Fiction & Fact magazine, and much of his short work was recently collected in I Remember the Future, from Apex Publications.

  "Lifeblood" takes the vampire mythos out of its usual Christian context and adds Judaism to the equation. "I've always been interested in the question of how someone who doesn't use the cross as a religious symbol would turn a vampire," Burstein said. "I was interested in the specific question of how a Jewish person might turn a vampire. Could he or she use a cross? Would a Jewish symbol have any sort of power?"

  Although Burstein originally wrote the story just to play with the concept of Jews vs. vampires, the story ended up being a cautionary tale about the dangers of assimilation. "A lot of debate takes place among the Jewish people, especially American Jews, about assimilating into the overall culture," he said. "Without my realizing it, 'Lifeblood' turned out to display my own biases in the debate."

  Lincoln Kliman burst into the synagogue, causing the cantor at the front of the room to halt his chanting momentarily. Lincoln panted, catching his breath, and the congregants turned to look at him. He knew his disheveled appearance would not endear him to them, and he noticed one or two of the congregants scowling.

  The cantor resumed his Hebrew chant, and Lincoln took a moment to study the synagogue. It wasn't a synagogue really, just a small room where these particular Jews gathered to pray. There were three rows of folding chairs set up, mostly empty of people, which gave the room an aura of despair, at least for Lincoln. He was used to much more elaborate synagogues, but then again, he hadn't been in one for over fifteen years.

  He counted the number of congregants. Ten men, exactly the minimum number of Jews required for a minyan. Technically, Lincoln's presence made the number eleven.

  He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.

  "Pardon me," he said, "but—"

  The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. "Shush," he said. "Put on a yarmulka."

  Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn't done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, "I must speak with the cantor. It's important."

  The man glared at him. "You must wait. We're about to do the Alenu; the service will be over soon." His tone was accusatory, as if he was questioning Lincoln's right to show up at the end of a service.

  Lincoln wondered that himself, but felt better when he realized that he still remembered to stand and bow at the appropriate times. He didn't pray, though. The man next to him offered his siddur, but Lincoln shook his head; he couldn't read Hebrew anymore even w
ell enough to pronounce the words, let alone understand them.

  True to the man's word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chairs and stacking them up next to the wall. Lincoln muttered, "Excuse me," to his row companion, and darted to the front of the room. The cantor was just removing his tallis, his prayer shawl, when Lincoln approached. He was an old man, slightly stooped, with a pair of round glasses on his face.

  Despite the fact that Lincoln had interrupted him before, the cantor smiled as he folded his tallis. "Good shabbes," he said. He spoke with a slight Hungarian accent.

  Lincoln repeated the phrase; it echoed oddly in his ears. "Good shabbes, Cantor—?"

  "Erno Gross. How may I help you?"

  Lincoln's eyes darted around the room. Two congregants were opening boxes of little pastries and setting them out on a table, and speaking in a language Lincoln didn't recognize. Another man hummed, and poured small cups of red wine out of a dark bottle. Lincoln almost shuddered at that, but controlled himself.

  "Cantor, where is your rabbi? I need to speak with him."

  The cantor sighed. "Unfortunately, we have no rabbi. Rabbi Weinberg, a dear friend of mine, was the last rabbi to serve this congregation. We are a small group, and so can't offer a new rabbi enough of an incentive to join us on a permanent basis. Not that one is needed for a service, you must know."

  Lincoln felt embarrassed. "Actually, I didn't know. But if you have no rabbi, then all hope is lost. The others—" He shook his head.

  "Perhaps all is not lost," said the cantor. He put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "Perhaps I can help you, Mister—?"

  "Kliman, with a long 'i.' Lincoln Kliman."

  "Lincoln. An odd name, for a Jew."

  Lincoln shrugged. "My father was a historian, studied American history." He was used to explaining it.

  "Very well, Mr. Kliman. How can I help you?"

  "Not here. Can we go talk alone some—"

  Lincoln was interrupted by shouts of "Erno!" The cantor said, "Excuse me a moment; I must make kiddush." He gave Lincoln an odd look. "Unless you would rather do the honors?"

  Lincoln felt his face flush. "Uh, no thank you, Cantor, I really would rather not."

  The cantor nodded. "At least take a cup of wine."

  Lincoln assented, and tried not to look uncomfortable as the cantor began chanting kiddush and the others joined in. The only words he remembered was the last part of the blessing over wine, borai p'ri hagafen, and after the cantor sang it, Lincoln chorused "Amen" with the rest of the congregation.

  The wine tasted sweet going down his throat.

  Lincoln walked over to a small bookcase afterwards, studying the titles as the cantor circulated among the congregation. One by one, the elderly men put on their coats and left the room, until finally, the cantor came over to Lincoln.

  "I believe you wanted to talk with me alone?" he said.

  "Yes. Thank you."

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Kliman?"

  Lincoln looked into the cantor's eyes. "There is a boy. My son. He's very sick."

  "Sick? Shouldn't you be fetching a doctor, and not a rabbi? Unless. . ." The cantor looked grim.

  "It's not that kind of illness, not physical."

  "Spiritual?"

  Lincoln thought for a moment. "Cantor, may I ask you a question?"

  "Certainly."

  "Have you studied Kaba—Kaba—Jewish mysticism?"

  "Kabala. Why do you ask?"

  "You believe in God, right?" Lincoln blurted.

  The cantor looked shocked. "An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in God. I devoted my life to helping the Jewish people practice our religion." There was a chastising tone in his voice; Lincoln noticed that he slightly stressed the word "our."

  "I didn't mean to question your faith, Cantor," Lincoln said. "I just don't want you to think I'm crazy. I needed to know that you can accept the possibility of something out there that you have no direct evidence for, something—something mystical."

  "As a Jew," the cantor said, "I have all the evidence I need for God in seeing the wonders of the Earth each and every day. I rise from bed with praise of Him on my lips and I go to sleep the same way. That does not necessarily mean that I will believe in anything at all, Mr. Kliman."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that—well, I needed to find a religious man, a religious leader, and I didn't feel comfortable going to a Catholic priest. I thought a rabbi could help as well."

  "Help with what, Mr. Kliman? You barge in here, claim to be worried about your son, and then question my faith. What do you need my help with?"

  Lincoln looked down at his shoes for a moment and wrung his hands. "I'll have to trust you. My son's been bitten, and I need you to lift the curse."

  "Bitten? By a dog? Better to see a doctor."

  "No, not a dog. Cantor, my son Joseph has been bitten three times by a vampire. And unless I can find a cure by sundown tonight, he's going to turn into one himself."

  An hour later, Lincoln and the cantor arrived at Lincoln's apartment building. It would have taken only ten minutes if they had driven, but the cantor would not ride on the Sabbath, and so Lincoln left his car parked at the synagogue. Although it was early spring, the weather was cold and overcast, and Lincoln had to bundle himself up in his thin jacket as best as he could while they walked.

  When they got to his building, the cantor also refused to take the elevator up to Lincoln's ninth floor apartment, so they slowly climbed the stairs.

  The cantor had been decidedly uncommunicative during the walk over, but as they ascended he began to ask Lincoln about the boy.

  "Tell me exactly what it is you think happened."

  "You don't believe me, do you?"

  The cantor shrugged. "That remains to be seen. But I will tell you this much: I find what you describe hard to believe."

  Lincoln sighed. "Well, you've trusted me this far, at least. I appreciate that. The others refused to even listen to me."

  "The others?"

  Lincoln felt his cheeks redden. "Yours wasn't the first synagogue I went to, Cantor. I tried a Reform temple and a Conservative synagogue first, but neither of the rabbis believed me. They wouldn't help."

  The cantor nodded, stopped at a landing to catch his breath. "The boy," he prodded.

  "Yes. The boy. Joseph is a pretty good kid, does well in school and all that, but recently has been acting very independent. He's just turned twelve; you know what that means."

  The cantor shook his head. "Go on."

  "Anyway, it started when Joseph came home very late from school three weeks ago. It's only a few blocks away, and I've let him run around the neighborhood before. I mean, I grew up in New York as well, and I never got in serious trouble. But this time he didn't call."

  "Don't you meet him after school to bring him home?"

  "I can't. I work."

  "What about the boy's mother?"

  Lincoln looked away from the cantor. "Gone, these past five years."

  "Oh. I am sorry, Mr. Kliman."

  "Thanks. It's been hard, raising Joseph on my own. Anyway, he finally did come home that night, well after sundown, and he looked terrible. His color was bad, and he looked sick to his stomach. I thought it was food poisoning, as he smelled like he'd been to a fast food place. You know, that cheeseburger smell."

  The cantor glared at him. "No, I do not know."

  Lincoln felt embarrassed again. "Right. Well, anyway, he practically passed out when he came in the door, and I rushed him to the doctor."

  "Nu? What did he find?"

  "Anemia. Loss of blood. That and two tiny pinpricks on Joseph's neck."

  "Hm. Did he say anything about that?"

  "No. He gave Joseph a shot of something, chastised him and me over drug use, and that was all. Only thing is, he didn't find drugs in Joseph's system.

  "Joseph refused to answer my questions about where he was that night, and the
next day he acted like he had forgotten the whole thing. His color had returned, though, and he ate a big breakfast, so I let him go to school. The next day he came home on time, and I thought that would be the end of it."

  "I presume it was not."

  "Well, it was for about a week. Then the same thing happened. He came home late, looking very sick, and he almost passed out before I could get him to bed."