The Blood The Bonds

by Christopher Buecheler

  “Processed chemically, but yes.”

  “She is unclean, Theroen.”

  “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 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 Theroen 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; couldn’t help it.

  “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.

  “It is always such, my son, when this comes. She will break your heart.”

  “So be it,” 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 that the warmth below her waist had become a roaring blaze.

  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, the 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.

  Pain again, like glass, exquisite, blinding, maddening, and a spike of sheer ecstasy running through her like before, like with Theroen, this caused only be Abraham’s touch, Abraham’s teeth. Such power. Two leaned her head back, wailing in terror, in pleasure, in agony. It was death, it was birth, it was the coalescence of the entire universe in a single moment.

  And then it was gone. The vampire pulled back, Two fell to the floor, gasping, weeping. Her eyes fluttered open and shut, trying to make sense of the myriad images before her. Theroen, looking away, unable to watch what was transpiring before him. Abraham, eyes closed, head tilted back, enjoying her blood like a man tasting fine wine. The candle on the table flickered light on the door, and now it seemed the flame itself was a door as well, light from inside spilling out, like a hole in the fabric of reality. Two wept for its beauty.

  “It makes me lightheaded,” Abraham said. “The blood is tainted indeed, and yet so strong. So delightful, ah, she will be a good daughter for you. Daughter, sister, lover... whatever you choose to make of her. It will be many years before she finds the strength to leave you.”

  “It... may be many years before she... finds the strength to stand up.” Two heard herself as if from down a long hall, and was aghast at her own blasphemy. To speak, and so impertinently, in front of this creature who had given her such pain, such pleasure. Surely now he would strike her down.

  But Abraham only roared his horrible, mocking laughter, clapping his hands together. Theroen snarled something, moved towards her, and Two understood in that instant the hatred burning between master and pupil, father and son. Was it like this for all of them? Would it be like this for her? No, Two realized. Not for her and Theroen. There was no hatred there.

  “Or perhaps I am wrong!” Abraham cackled. “Perhaps I am very wrong indeed!”

  And then Theroen had her in his arms, and she was resting her head against his chest, neck throbbing, wanting only to sleep. She tried to speak, tried to tell him that she did not feel defiled, that even as pleasure and pain had torn through her body, she had thought of Theroen, and it had been clean. She could not say so much, her eyelids so heavy, sleep forcing itself upon her with clumsy, brutal hands.

  She forced herself awake, took her hand, held it to her neck. Fingers bloody, Theroen striding rapidly down the hall, not running, only leaving, his fear lost in his anger. The oak doors shut behind them and Two wondered if Abraham had moved from his desk, or closed them with only a thought. She pressed her bloody fingers to Theroen’s lips, and he stopped, looked down at her in surprise.

  “Not like that.” Two’s voice was a whisper, and she was crying again. “Not like he says.”

  An expression of powerful emotion passed over Theroen’s normally unreadable face. He made a sound, smiled at her, kissed her fingers. Bloody white lips, bloody white teeth.

  Two slept.

  * * *

  The bed was softness unlike anything she had ever experienced. Or perhaps it was her skin, newly remade, that felt it so. Silk sheets, pillow covers, heavy down blankets smothering her, warming her, giving her a sense of comfort she had never before experienced.

  The waking was as it had been before, instantaneous, frightening almost in the intensity of consciousness. One moment, blackness; the next, total lucidity. Two woke with Theroen’s name on her lips, a soft whisper, and she smiled against the silk.

  Had there been dreams? Visions of her life as an immortal? Had she dreamt of who she might be, what she might do? Two’s heart raced as her mind pondered these things. There was time, now. Time enough to see all of the art that ever she could desire. Who cared if she was no longer a part of the web of humanity which produced it? Could not one stand outside of a house and still admire the decor within? Was it not possible to appreciate strains of music which the ear could not, in truth, even process into a coherent whole?

  I’m falling in love with him, she thought, and in love with what he is. And though she felt an almost inevitable tragedy in this, as if some instinctive part of her warned against so seemingly easy an answer, she could not deny the truth of her statements. Abraham be damned; Theroen was not like him, never would be. They did not have to hate. It was not a requirement, not set in stone. She’d seen Theroen’s face as she pressed her blood to his mouth. Not greed, nor hunger, nor hate, but only an overwhelming desire.

  Love? Or at least the beginnings of it, as she was now feeling herself? Two thought so, yes, and that was enough.

  The click of a latch. Two felt no fear. Not Abraham, then. Theroen, of course. She turned, sitting up before he could speak. S
he didn’t want him to speak. Not now. Catching him in her bright green eyes, now luminescent from the vampiric blood in her veins, as he had caught her so many times in his own.

  An interminable moment, but sweet, as they looked into each other’s eyes. Theroen’s face held that same gentle smile with which he seemed always to look upon her. You are all I have wanted, his eyes told her, since the first time I beheld you. Two felt this echo in her own soul, and she broke out into a grin.

  She let the sheets pool in her lap. Bare skin, bare breasts, no shame. She laughed as his eyes flicked down momentarily, and back again to her face. It did not anger her, this look. It brought her only the joy that comes with being desired.

  “Lovely,” he said through his smile, and she knew he meant not only her breasts, but everything else. Filled with warmth, she closed her eyes, lay back, enjoyed the feeling of silk on skin.

  Theroen sat next to her in a large wooden chair with a padded cloth back, as relaxed as ever she had seen him, a posture which still might have looked formal next to a normal man. He was composed, so composed. She wondered if it was the effect of immortality.

  He smiled, shook his head. “No.”

  “Just you?”

  “Just me.”

  She looked up at him from the bed, let her eyes tell him that if the chair was uncomfortable, other arrangements could be made. Theroen laughed out loud.

  “Oh, if only I could, Two. But I haven’t the time that I’d want to spend.”

  Vague disappointment, but she accepted it. They had forever, perhaps.

  “Perhaps?”

  “Are you reading my mind?” She questioned, a mischievous grin surfacing, pretending to be offended.

  “Your mind is a fascinating place. I find it hard to draw away.”

  “Where are you going? Why can’t you stay with me?” She had meant it as another playful question; the spurned, jealous lover. Another game, nothing more, but she saw a momentary flick of something on Theroen’s face. Frustration? Anger?

  He sighed, examined his fingernails. “Abraham requires my services. I would do this thing for him, particularly now.”

  “Why?”

  Theroen looked up at her, the expression of one in love stamped clearly on his face, eyes locked again with hers.

  “He didn’t kill you.”

  “Did you think he would?”

  “I did not know.”

  Theroen looked away from her, ran a hand through his hair. It seemed that this admission, more than any other, hurt him. Two tried to understand the reason for his pain. She reached out, touched his hand, drew it between her breasts, held it against her heart.

  “I did not know. Two. I have not feared anything, at all, in centuries. Not even Abraham. Nothing alive, nothing undead. Not until we approached his chamber. And to see you in his arms? Under his spell? Terror. Terror.”

  “He couldn’t hurt me, in the end, you know. That’s what he wanted, and I didn’t give it to him. I wasn’t thinking of him at all.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She sat up, leaned forward, kissed his lips. “I was thinking about someone else.”

  Theroen touched her cheek, touched her hair, held her head in his hands, kissed the skin of her forehead.

  “That comforts me,” he said at last, “and you make me regret heeding Abraham’s summons this night. There is much else I would rather be doing.”

  Two smiled at this, so like her own thoughts.

  “Go, then. Do what he wants, and come back soon.”

  “So quick to dismiss me?” It was Theroen’s turn, mock hurt in his voice, a grin on his lips.

  “I’m afraid if I don’t, I’m going to jump you whether you like it or not.”

  Theroen laughed, deep and rich, and stood up to go. But Two called him back. One last kiss, long and deep this time, and during, Two bit her own lip, felt the blood seep from the wound, shared it with him. The taste of it was like fire, like nectar, like life and death and dreams.

  And oh, how those mortal fears seemed like candles in a strong wind, blinking out of existence, one after the other.

  * * *

  Pain lanced through Two’s midsection, stomach knotting, muscles cramping. She sat up, doubled over, gasped. In the depths of her body, a need that had nothing to do with blood, nothing to do with her new nature, reawakened.

  Heroin, the pain cried out to her, and Two felt tears standing out against her eyes, thought these themselves felt dry and burned. No. This was over. This was her past. She had left this behind.

  Another spasm. Another cramp. Two cried out, arms wrapped around her stomach, Abraham’s words coming back to her.

  “She is unclean, Theroen.”

  Theroen’s protest, that the change, her rebirth into vampiric immortality, would cleanse this need from her. Abraham’s deceptive chuckle.

  Suppose it didn’t? Suppose now she would be trapped in this addiction for the duration of her immortal life?

  Two thought that if this were the case, such a life would end more quickly than expected.

  And so it went. Two could not remember when Theroen had left her, could not remember how long it had been, had no conception of time. She cursed herself for not remembering to ask for his blood. She cursed Darren for ever giving her the drug. She cursed God for putting her on this earth. Pain and thirst ravaged her. At times it seemed she burned, at others chills wracked her body like physical blows. She did not call for Theroen, though she wanted to. She was afraid only the thing she had met last night would answer.

  Just as it seemed she could take it no longer, that she would leap from her bed, dress, return to the city, return to Darren, return to it all in exchange for the syringe which would numb this pain, she felt a presence in the room with her. Her fear gave her a momentary respite from the pain, but this was not the abject terror that she had experienced in Abraham’s presence, nor the quiet awe that Theroen inspired. It was something in between.

  “Who?” She asked the darkness at the end of the room.

  “Melissa,” Said a voice from the shadows. Two could make out a pair of gleaming eyes observing her. She tried to think of an adequate greeting. Words failed her. Hi, I’m Two. I need some heroin. It was almost enough to make her laugh out loud.

  Melissa came forward into the light. She was a study in contrast. Her hair was jet black, long and straight. Her brown eyes had not been lightened by vampirism, only intensified into deep black pools. Her skin was white porcelain, her lips a deep, sensual red. She was beautiful, taller than Two and well built, wearing a pair of black jeans and a cream-colored blouse. She appeared concerned.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look terrible,” She said, sitting in the same chair that Theroen had previously occupied.

  “I’m not... doing too good,” Two admitted.

  “Sick?”

  “Withdrawal.” Two felt a slight flush of shame at this admission, but what did it matter now?

  “With...” Melissa’s eyes grew large as she realized what Two meant. She pushed her hair back behind her shoulders unconsciously, bending over Two, seeming equally curious and worried.

  “Theroen?” Two asked, trying not to let her voice sound as weak as she felt.

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I did. I’d get him.”

  Two sobbed once, got control of herself, looked again at Melissa.

  “Can I have my clothes?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure.” Melissa handed them to Two, who pulled them on underneath the covers.

  “Sorry,” Two said. She fought against the pain, sat up, forehead rested against her palms, elbows against her knees.

  “It’s okay. I guess it’s weird, having some chick you’ve never met staring at you while you’re all sick and naked and everything.”

  Two laughed a little, wiped tears from her eyes.

  “What kind of drug?” Melissa asked. There was a faint accent to her voice. Two couldn’t place it.

  Two did not
look up. “Can’t you read it? It’s sort of been on my mind.”

  “I’m not like Theroen. I mean, I might be someday, but not now. His powers are way beyond mine. I just pick up things once in a while.”

  “Heroin.”

  “Oh, ouch. That’s not good. I mean... you know. Pot, E, maybe even a little coke, sure. But Heroin’s bad shit.”

  Two shuddered, looked up at Melissa, eyes watery, tears very close.

  “No kidding.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “Hey, hey... sorry,” Melissa said, that expression of concern coming to her features again. “I’m not trying to be rude. Seriously. I’m a little scatterbrained right now myself. Always like this when I oversleep, and the girl last night had so much wine in her.”