In London, though, there is work. Father makes trips there, auditions repeatedly, desperate, despairing. The alcohol is beginning to take hold of him even now.
He is granted reprieve when the notice finally arrives. An actor is needed. He has been called. At three years of age, Theroen said goodbye to the land of his birth, a land he would never see again.
Never? Two asked, pulling back from the vision momentarily, never in so many years?
Never has there been time, nor any great desire. Theroen answered.
It was a happy childhood. London before the industrial revolution, a thriving metropolis, dirty to be certain but still possessed of a remarkable charm Two could find no words to describe. Theroen, nine, running through the streets ahead of his mother and father. Running to see the players in the square, the Italian players with their puppets and music and dancing. Laughing and running, never seeing the horse bearing down on him, its rider as distracted by the sights and sounds as Theroen himself.
The horse tried to clear him, but failed. Theroen remembered the sharp crack of its hoof against his forehead, the blooming brightness in front of his vision. He remembered the second hit, coming as the back of his head connected with the cobblestones. The force of the impact was tremendous. He imagined that everyone in the world must have heard the sound of it.
All of this was clear in his mind, but Theroen remembered no pain. Only the flat, hard cracking sound and then rolling, horrified faces rushing toward him, the world graying, fading. His mother, tears pouring from her eyes, pulling at her own hair as if somehow in injuring herself she might heal her son. It’s all right, mamma, he wanted to say. It doesn’t hurt.
Darkness, then. The clip-clop noise of horse hooves, but this time he moved along with them. There were rushed, babbling voices, more weeping, a rough hand holding his.
Even Theroen could not entirely piece together the events that followed. Vast blank spaces lay in his memory, propagated by photo-flashes of consciousness. A bed somewhere, his father sitting in a chair, looking out into cold London rain and weeping without realizing it. Rough shadow of a beard, unkempt hair. Staring and weeping. It was the most frightening vision Theroen could recall, worse even than when the bottle finally took hold of the man for good. Theroen had never seen the man looking so forlorn, would never see him so again.
Another period of blankness, and then his mother, leaning over him, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. She was singing to him, those old lullabies. He’d asked for them to stop some years ago, a young man in a child’s body, no longer needing the comfort they brought. But now? Oh, now they were comfort eternal. He was so frightened. These periods of blankness terrified him. There was nothing, except the knowledge of nothing, and he thought for the first time in his mortal life that he might be coming to understand what death was.
Ah, if he could have cried out, he would have wailed. Little heart racing at the thought that there was nothing more, that there was no heaven, no God waiting for him at the gates, ready to embrace him and comfort him and help him to understand what it all meant, this mortal life.
More grey. Then the vision.
A doctor, a nurse, and his mother. She was arguing, fighting, weeping again. The doctor looked sympathetic, but firm.
“There is nothing we can do. We have bled him, tried every potent tonic known to raise one from unconsciousness. There is nothing we can do. He will drink broth, if we pour it down his throat, but he does not awaken. There is nothing we can do.” Over and over. A litany, a chant, a curse.
Behind them, like the coming of the dawn, a light was growing, so bright it burned his eyes. How could they not notice this? How could the go on squabbling with each other when faced with such a thing?
Through their arguing, he heard the sound, building and building. A rushing, driving sound which seemed to swell until it was near unbearable, as if all of the voices in the world whispered at once. The light throbbed and pulse. Theroen wept. Fear, awe, confusion. Was this death, then? Perhaps his acceptance into heaven after his stay in grey purgatory?
Is that what you wish, then? It was all voices, no voices, a whisper on the wind, a chorus of screams. Theroen’s temples throbbed with it.
He tried to shake his head. No. No, this was not what he wanted. Death? He was nine years old. There was still so much to do, to explore, to see, to know.
You would live?
Thereon found he could answer the voice... could have spoken to it all along.
Yes. I would live. Until I am dragged, kicking and screaming, to my death, I would live.
So be it. Speak, Theroen. Call to them.
I cannot.
But he could, and did, opening his mouth, stretching his throat, peering desperate from his bed as the light and the noise receded.
“Mother...”
The word cut across the room, stopping his mother in mid-sentence. She turned, the doctor and nurse staring with frank disbelief. There were tears again, now, welling in his mother’s eyes, but not those of anger and frustration and sorrow shed just moments ago. Theroen sat up, blinked, tried his voice again. He looked his mother in her eyes, took in her joyful weeping with that same calm that would be with him for all his life. He spoke from his bed, spoke for the first time since the horse had hit him, spoke for the first time since he had descended into the depths of coma, five months before.
“Mother, I wish to go to church.”
* * *
“From that day forward, there was no question in my mind what I was meant to do. I was meant to live, yes, but more than that; I was meant to communicate what I had seen to others. I had been sent a vision from God. A reprieve from death. You ask how I could be a priest? I ask you... how could I not?”
Two looked at him, somewhat astounded. A vision from God? She knew how it would be considered in this modern era: a vision from the subconscious. Nothing more.
Thereon grinned, picking this thought from her mind as he so frequently did.
“Is there any real difference? I woke. I moved. I spoke. Are these things not miraculous?” He paused, looked out the window, seemed to ponder for a moment. He looked back at Two and shrugged.
“People do not survive comas of that duration unfazed. There is brain damage, if not death. Yet I was fine. More than fine; I awoke with the clearest sense of purpose I was ever to feel, until the moment I first laid eyes on you. Ten years old, I began my studies. Three years younger than any before accepted to the clergy. Such was my fervor, so overwhelming my knowledge of the Bible within only a few months from when I awakened, that there was simply no choice.”
“And oh, how my father despised it...” the words trailed off, a bitter smile at his lips.
Two was about to speak when the howling began. She jerked around instinctively, knocking a pretty crystal ballerina off the table by her chair. It thumped into the plush carpet, unhurt, unnoticed. Two stared out the window. In the reflection of the lamplight she saw Theroen shake his head. He reached down to pick up the figurine, studied it for a moment, set it back on the table. More howling, and Theroen looked toward the window again, his eyes full of remorse and pity.
“What is it, Theroen? I’ve heard it before.”
“I am Abraham’s son. Melissa his daughter. That? That is nothing more than a diabolical experiment. Daughter? How could she be? To say so denotes some sort of humanity, and all of that has been lost.”
Two looked at him, confused. “There’s another vampire?”
“There are many others. Of Abraham’s line, though, there is only one more to tell of. One more you have not met. An attempt which should never have occurred. His arrogance...” Theroen trailed off. Two had rarely seen him truly angry, but he appeared so now. He shook his head again.
“Her name was Tori. She seems still to respond to that, so that is what we call her. Aside from the shape of her body, this is the last piece of humanity she retains. I do not know why Abraham chose to make her. After Melissa... how he could po
ssibly have expected a normal fledgling, I do not know. I don’t think he really did. I think he simply wanted to know what would happen.
“I took the girl from her school. I brought her to him. I did not ask any questions of Abraham, and am not sure I would have even if I had known what he planned. Not then. Now? Who knows?
“His blood is too powerful. The curse of our line... we make few fledglings, and have a limited window in which to do it. Abraham was nearly too old when he made me. Yet even after Melissa, he gave his blood to this girl. He gave it to her very quickly, nearly drowned her in it, and it destroyed her mind. She is, in some respects, the perfect vampire. Alert, aware, incredibly fast, stronger even than Melissa, who is many years her senior.”
Theroen glanced again out the window, then back at Two, smiling without humor. “Tori can be counted on for three things. She loves to hunt, she loves to kill, and she loves to -- as mortals so callously put it -- fuck. It is appropriate terminology. There is no love involved for her.”
“Another vampire with an active sex life...” Two raised an eyebrow.
“It’s an uncommon strain, even among our type, but it seems to have lain dormant in Abraham. He himself is incapable of that mortal act of love. Yet his children, all three of us, are very much alive below the waist. These pleasures pale, of course, to that of feeding, but when mixed together appropriately...” And here he glanced at Two, “They can be quite pleasurable indeed.”
“Will I get to meet Tori?”
Theroen grimaced. “Yes. At some point, I suppose, it’s inevitable.”
Two was contemplating Theroen’s description of Tori, neither speaking, when she sensed a third presence in the room. She looked up at Theroen, who closed his eyes and sighed. His expression was grim.
At the door stood Melissa, and yet not Melissa. She looked different, somehow. It wasn’t the style of clothes, or the hairstyle, though both of these had changed. It was something more fundamental; the set of the body, perhaps? There was darkness behind her eyes.
“Hello Missy,” Theroen said without opening his eyes.
“Theroen. Come hunting with me?”
“I’ve already gone.”
“Would it have mattered?”
Theroen shook his head. “No.”
“You never hunt with me.” Missy’s tone was dry, emotionless. She was only stating a fact.
Theroen glanced up at her. “I never do.”
“But you’ll hunt with that perky, jabbering bitch, when she’s got control of my body.”
Theroen nodded.
“And you’ll hunt with this... half-mortal... thing. Someday.”
“Enough, Missy. Watch your tongue.”
“Or what? You’ll hurt me? I’ll let her back in while you’re doing it, Theroen. She won’t understand. She’ll cry.”
Two watched all of this, fascinated despite herself. Even the tone of Melissa’s voice had changed dramatically. The vampire turned to her suddenly.
“Quit staring at me, or I’ll rip your eyes out with my teeth,” The words were almost casual. Two looked down at the floor, her pale face coloring slightly. She was not afraid, exactly, but aware that vampire society seemed hierarchal, and not wanting to break any codes of conduct. She assumed it was the right thing to do.
The air in the room seemed to go cold. Theroen’s anger was a palpable force. He stood slowly, and Missy immediately moved backward a step, glaring, defiant.
“I would no sooner do physical violence to you, Missy, than I would to Melissa. Or Tori. Or Two. I do not enjoy causing harm to others of my own kind. To anyone. But you will not threaten her, at all, let alone in my presence.”
“Who are you to command me, brother?”
“I am not your brother, Missy. You are an aberration. A mistake. A product of powerful blood on an unsuspecting brain. That body belongs to Melissa. You are merely a parasite that refuses to die.”
Missy made a snarling cry of outrage and threw herself at Theroen. Two leapt backwards, out of her chair, pushing herself into the corner. She didn’t want to be watching this. Surely blood would be spilled.
Yet Theroen merely caught Missy’s arms, dragged them to her sides, pulled her face up to his, locked her with his eyes.
“Does that hurt, Missy? Do I even need to lay a finger on you, when the truth will do so well?” Theroen’s voice was still calm, still collected. He seemed almost disinterested.
Missy had no answer to his question. Theroen let her go, and she slunk back to the doorway.
“Go. Hunt.” Theroen’s tone implied that the dismissal was beyond argument.
Missy opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, whirled on her heel, and departed.
Theroen took a deep breath. “And now you’ve met Missy. What do you think?”
Two shrugged. She returned to her chair, sat down, smiled slightly. “I think she’s a bitch.”
Theroen laughed. “Yes, a bitch. That’s exactly what she is. Such a shame. Melissa could have been an incredible vampire. I’ve never met another whose essential goodness was so utterly untouched by the transformation. In my darker moments, I almost believe Abraham made her solely to attempt to destroy some of that goodness.”
“She doesn’t seem like his type. Neither of them do, really. I’m not sure anyone is.” It still seemed foreign to Two, speaking of “them” when referring to a single body, but she had seen more than enough proof of Melissa’s dual personalities.
“No, no one truly is, but Missy is certainly much closer than Melissa. I can’t claim to fathom Abraham, and I’ve served him for nearly half a century. No, Melissa is not what I would have expected from Abraham. Perhaps he saw in her the potential of Missy, and expected the change to bring it out completely. Perhaps it would have, if his blood was not so strong.”
Howling again. Two looked out the window into the night.
“I want to meet Tori,” she said.
Theroen smiled at this, shook his head. “No you don’t.”
Two raised her eyebrows, leaned forward, set her elbows on her knees -- giving Theroen as ample a view as her chest could provide in the process -- and smiled, batting her eyelashes.
“You’re not going to let me?”
“No, and if you insist on trying anyway, I will have to stop you.”
Two considered this. It was unlike Theroen to deny her a requested indulgence.
“Why?”
“Tori is not friendly.” No elaboration. No change in Theroen’s expression that might have helped to explain his unwillingness to expose Two to this woman. Two pressed on.
“I know what she’s like. I told you about the dream. I can handle it.”
“That was not a dream, Two. Tori throws off mental images like sparks from a fire. That was very much a real event that you witnessed that night, and I can assure you she’s even less pleasant in person.”
“I can handle it!”
Theroen sighed. “It’s not your ability to handle it that I’m concerned with. It’s my ability to handle Tori. She doesn’t like vampires, other than Melissa... or Missy, she doesn’t seem to know the difference. She tolerates me only because it is clear that Melissa likes me. She will not set foot near Abraham, although he is the only thing I am currently aware of that she fears.”
“So, she may not like me.” Two was unfazed. She had dealt with women who didn’t like her before, had knocked out teeth when necessary.
“You do not understand, Two. Tori is a machine; an engine of destruction. She is built to kill, and she is remarkably capable. If she decides not to tolerate you, she will attempt to kill you. Previous experience has taught me, quite harshly, that even I am not necessarily fast enough to prevent her from doing so. Abraham’s other visitors were... quite upset.”
Theroen pressed his palms against his eyes momentarily, sighed, shrugged. The gesture was oddly human, oddly endearing. Two smiled.
“Okay Theroen.”
“Someday, relatively soon, Two. I p
romise. But not out in the woods and not unless she’s fed. I want her to see you through a window first or, better, a set of bars, before you come face to face.”
“Would you cage her?”
Theroen laughed. “I don’t know if I would. I doubt that I could. Trying to force an ordinary vampire into a cage is hard enough. Tori...” He shrugged, letting the thought carry.
Two got up, walked to the couch he sat on, and reclined against him. He traced the pink silk of her gown from shoulder to neck with a finger, placed it under her chin, and brought her lips to his for a small kiss.
The Blood The Bonds Page 9
