After a moment, he found his shield: anger at the words themselves. Theroen stood, eyes burning into the darkness.
“What creature might speak so to a man of the cloth? Show yourself!”
A chuckle. Unearthly. Theroen was gripped with an animal urge to turn and flee, to simply run as fast as he could in a straight line away from this spot. He resisted.
“Show myself? Would that you knew what you ask, mortal fool.”
“I ask not. I command. I command with the word of the Lord.”
“That word means nothing to me, even should He make such demands of me in person. Run, little priest. Why don’t you run? You lie in mortal peril, and you know it.”
“I shall fear no evil.”
More laughter. “No? We shall see. I answer your demand, priest.”
In the shadows there was movement, red eyes opening in the dark. Theroen took an involuntary step backward. His knees hit the bench, forcing him to a sitting position. Before he could regain his footing, the creature was upon him. Theroen saw only blurred flashes, so quickly did the thing move. Talons now stretching to him, and then an iron grip around his midsection. Red eyes. Gaping mouth. Sharp white fangs. He beat at the creature with his fists, and it seemed he beat upon the stone of the cathedral walls themselves.
Warm breath against his ear, sharp points against his neck.
“I shall fear no evil!” Theroen cried, terrified and desperate. “Save me, oh Lord!”
The creature paused, and that horrible laughter came again.
“Your Lord is busy, perhaps? I bring you death, Theroen Anders. You gave your life to your church, and what has it given you back? Betrayal. It is the way with all such institutes of faith. The Pope in his Vatican stronghold sells indulgences to his people; they buy salvation with gold and diamonds. The English navy is little more than a band of pirates, licensed by the Church. The man to whom you entrusted your soul preaches the evils of debauchery and lust, and yet has spent these last years lusting only for his disciple. For you.
“The church has failed you. It has taught you nothing that you did not already know for yourself. Man is corrupt. Man is evil. And if man, Theroen, is created in God’s image, then is not your God corrupt? Is not your God evil? Do you not, in the depths of your heart, know this?”
Theroen felt hot, angry tears on his cheeks. In this, his last moment, he felt he knew it very well. Father Leopold, the sinner, safe in his church under the eyes of God. Theroen, the faithful servant, trapped here by a creature from the very graves in which soon he was destined to lie.
The vampire caressed the contours of Theroen’s face, grinning above him, seeming to delight in his sorrow. “You are young and strong and beautiful, little priest, and I am in need of an heir. I offer you the only chance for true salvation you will ever receive. I offer you the opportunity to defy your God, to renounce Him and His image. Renounce your humanity and be reborn, remade, in my own image. Become immortal, and escape the black hand of death.”
Thereon was gasping for breath. He tried to force his mind to think rationally, tried to find the faith which had once powered him so completely. He would let this faith guide him into the afterlife, secure in his knowledge that God waited there for him.
He found instead only a memory: the light and sound of eternity from that hospital bed long ago, and his words, spoken not by his mouth but his mind.
Yes. I would live. Until I am dragged, kicking and screaming, to my death, I would live.
Here then was his death, and it would take him regardless. Faith or no faith, acceptance or denial, death held him now and offered only one way of escape.
The young are rash. Theroen, twenty-three, with little practical experience outside the world of the church, found his faith tested, and found it lacking. He leaned his head back, bearing his neck to the creature that held him. Let it happen. Let his body be remade in this image, and so chase away the specter of death forever. What evil could it bring more than had been allowed within the sanctified doors of his very church?
“So be it,” Abraham whispered. His neck arched, teeth bared, and there was pain... pain like Theroen had never before felt. He screamed into the night, but his voice drained away with his blood.
* * *
“For ten years I raged in my hatred against humanity with tooth and claw and mind. I took women in pairs, quartets, more. Half a dozen a night I would drain to the last, that I might drown my hate in blood. I was the very image of Satan himself, presiding over heights of debauchery that Father Leopold could never have conceived. They bathed in each other’s blood, and I lapped it from their bodies, to the tune of their cries of passion. They loved it. Oh, they loved it.”
They were walking again. Theroen looked straight, down the road, unable to meet Two’s eyes. His hands were clenched into fists, his lips pursed into a thin white line. “They loved it, and I hated them for it. And I hated myself even more.”
“Theroen.” Two touched his arm.
“Do these things surprise you, Two?” He took her hand, tightened his own around it for a moment, let it drop.
“No. Not that you hated yourself for it. That’s no surprise at all. That’s not you, Theroen.”
“Is it not? Abraham did not instruct me in these things. His first attempt was a dismal failure. The very next night I awakened, horrified to discover myself on a stone slab in a mausoleum, and Abraham was there, with a human. He forced the man’s neck to my teeth, laughing at my screams, my prayers, my promises of atonement and reasoning with a God I had forever left behind.
“Oh, and his sweat was rank. Bitter. Disgusting. His screams mingled with my own, but I drank... and drank. I felt him pass into death, and I wept. Abraham looked upon me in disgust and left me there weeping, returning only near dawn to drag me back to the crypt where the coming sun paralyzed my limbs, battered me into sleep.
“It was four days before I drank again. I starved. The thirst raged until I could bear it no longer. I took another human, this time away from Abraham, who had once again left me to my own devices, appalled at my inability to accept the gift he had given me. There was a young woman, kneeling at the grave of her father, whispering, grieving.”
Theroen shook his head, his eyes distant.
“I took her like a storm, unfamiliar with my strength, desperate in my hunger. I broke her spine shoving her head backward, tore away the heavy garments at her neck, ripped most of her throat out with my teeth... all of this before she could even have been aware of what was happening. And when it was done, I was glad. I was glad to take something from these creatures of God, and leave them nothing in return.”
Two watched him, saying nothing. Theroen’s face was grim. There was no reminiscence in this tale, only the memory of events he would sooner have forgotten.
“It’s all rather torrid, really.” Melissa came up behind Two, touched her shoulder, looked at Theroen. “Sort of surprising, given your nature, Theroen. My first time was so cut and dried. You brought me to that nice man’s house in Brooklyn. His wife had passed away earlier that year and he wanted to die. We sat and talked, kissed a little, and then I took him. He died smiling.”
“You know less of my nature than you might think, Melissa. I’ve had four hundred years to study it, and learn it for myself.”
“Well, what I know of it is that you’re way too conservative to be a vampire, and you’re really good at getting Two all nerved up on her first night as one!” Melissa touched Two’s shoulder again, smiling, impish, unwilling to allow Theroen any more time in his melancholy.
Two laughed. “Actually, I sort of figure that this can’t possibly be as bad as what Theroen just described.”
“I assure you it won’t be.” Theroen at last looked at her, then glanced down the street again. The first houses on the outskirts of the small town were approaching, windows dark and dead. Two supposed that in the day the town must look quaint and picturesque. She wondered when she would see daylight again, how long it wo
uld take before her body was equipped to cope with it, as Theroen had told her it would be. For now, she supposed it didn’t matter. Theroen and Melissa had adjusted to life under the moon. So would she.
Strains of music in the air. Two listened, but couldn’t pinpoint the source. “Where’s that music coming from?”
“You owe me fifty dollars.” Theroen was grinning at Melissa.
“Fuck. Fuck! I totally thought it’d be at least another half mile.”
“What are you talking about?” Two questioned, bemused.
“I heard it about a mile ago. Theroen, probably back by the cars. We made a bet on when you’d hear it, while you were thinking about Theroen’s story and not paying attention. I didn’t think your ears would get that good, that quick.” Melissa shrugged.
“There is a bar. It is the only place you’ll find anyone awake at this hour, without invading homes.” Theroen gestured down the road, toward the center of town. “I think there you will find a suitable...”
“Client,” Two muttered. Theroen raised an eyebrow, and she shook her head. “Never mind, Theroen. Old memories.”
“I know those well. This man... you’ll know him. You’ll sense him. Trust me.”
“And why is he suitable?”
“You wanted someone who deserves death, yes?”
Two nodded.
“He beat his wife to death, two years ago, for breaking a glass while cleaning the kitchen. She was six months pregnant with their first child. He beat her to death with a chair leg, and then drove across three states to dispose of her body. He lied his way through the investigation and came out clean. She is still considered a missing person.”
“How do you know this?
“I read the paper, and I read minds. I was curious. I parked my Ferrari, went to the hill that I took you to on the night you met me, and sat concentrating until I had all of the information I wanted.”
“Why didn’t you kill him yourself?”
Theroen shrugged. “They are mortals. What does it matter to me? Besides, as Melissa mentioned previously, I prefer to drink from women.”
“Is this the wrong way to start, Theroen?”
“There is no wrong way. There is only the thirst and the blood. Is this what you wanted, Two? If it is not, I can happily lead you elsewhere, but I thought here you might find some respite from guilt.”
Two nodded. “This will work, Theroen. Are you sure I’ll know him.”
“You will sense that darkness in him, I believe. For me it shines out like a beacon.”
Two took a deep breath, steeled herself. “Okay then.”
She headed for the bar alone.
* * *
The bar was everything Two would have expected from this small, old-fashioned town. Yellow wood glowed mellow in the dim lights, dented and scarred and shined by decades of service. A television in the corner, above customer’s heads, was attached with screws that were maybe two years -- maybe three -- from pulling out of the water-stained plasterboard. It was playing old reruns of Sanford and Son with the volume turned down. A few ailing tables were scattered near the far end of the building, most empty. Someone was asleep at one of the wall booths, and three or four men were clustered near one end of the bar.
The reaction to Two’s entrance was immediate, their stares like a physical force pressing against her. The sensation reminded her of her pool hustling days. She grinned, glanced around, moved toward the bar, away from the cluster of men.
“Help you?” The bartender looked late fifties. His voice was all Jim Beam and Camels. Dark, scraggly hair, three days of stubble. Not the one.
“What’s your best red wine?”
“Mmm. Nothing you’d probably consider good.” At least he was honest. Two smiled at him, looked to the beer taps.
“Just a Molson, then, please. Short.”
“Do I need to card you?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
The bartender turned away, grinning. She watched the glass fill with the amber liquid. The idea of actually drinking it seemed a foreign concept to her now. After the blood, everything else had lost its appeal. Two doubted she would be able to stomach it, even if she were to try.
But she wasn’t going to try.
By the time the glass arrived in front of her, she’d found the one. Dark, quiet, withdrawn. His thoughts were black things, and she could feel them on the air like tendrils of wet mist. Theroen was right. The violence he had spoken of seemed to exude from this man in waves, and with it something else, a sort of undefined righteousness that told her the rest of what she needed to know. There was no guilt here. No remorse. This man had murdered his own wife and child in cold blood over the breaking of a glass, and sat here now feeling justified.
He looked at her now, this lone girl... city, by the looks of her. Two stretched, her nipples outlined against the white cotton of her shirt, navel exposed, and glanced at him with smoky eyes.
She could hear the blood pounding faster in his veins.
* * *
The glance had been perfected during her time with Darren. She tossed it out, caught her prey, and began to reel him in. Phantom images seemed to dance across her mind; A woman’s horrified eyes, terror becoming distant and detached in death. A shovel. His breath in the cold moonlight. Two smiled at him as he moved toward her, hand on the bar, drunk and unsteady.
“Hello.” Her voice was sweet sugar, long and slow and husky, full of promise. He nodded to her, sat down on the stool next to her, glanced at her untouched beer.
“One for the road?” He asked. Two smiled.
“Something like that. I didn’t come here for beer.”
“Oh no?”
“I’ve been on a trip, and now I’m headed back into the city. Back to my husband. But I couldn’t go without one last stop. I couldn’t go without...” Two let her eyes flick down, just briefly, then return. She could see his eyes darken as his brain, or perhaps that other organ, completed the thought.
“Do you have a wife?” she asked him.
“No. Not... no.”
“A house?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see it.”
She left a fifty on the bar. The man behind the counter looked at it, raised his eyebrows, shrugged at one of the locals.
“Looks like he’s gotten over that missing wife, then,” commented an older man in a John Deere cap. He struck a match, brought it to a cigarette, inhaled.
“Can you blame him?” One of the younger men, a deputy with a wife of his own at home asleep, asked. His eyes watched the door close, an expression of longing on his face.
“Ah. Did you see that jacket? Those earrings? City. You know what I say about city folk.”
“We ought to, you say it every night,” grumbled the bartender.
“No good comes of ‘em Jack. You mark me.”
Jack shrugged and put the fifty in the register. It was plenty good enough for him.
* * *
Theroen and Melissa were not there, but Two knew that they had not gone far. She could not sense them, but she wasn’t trying too hard. They had no reason to leave, only to keep their presence unknown to this man. She was sure they wanted to watch. This was her first true moment as a vampire.
They walked along the road that, only minutes ago, Two had traveled in the opposite direction. They didn’t talk. Two was nervous, shuddery, trying hard not to show it. The thirst was growing in her by the moment. She could smell the blood now, so close to his skin.
“What was her name?” she asked.
“Who?”
“The wife that you told me you didn’t have. The one you lied about.”
The man was momentarily taken aback. He paused in his step, looked at her, eyes wide. Two glanced back, the playfulness gone from her eyes.
“What was her name?”
“Look, I don’t know who you think I am. I’m Sean...”
“I didn’t ask who you were. I asked what her name was.”
<
br /> Sean swallowed hard, shoved his tousled brown hair back from his forehead. Two stepped toward him, touched a stubbly cheek, smiled again.
“It’s a simple question, Sean.” She moved her lips over his, barely touching, pressed the tip of her tongue to the center of his upper lip. He opened his mouth instinctively, and the touch became a kiss, long and damp. She touched below his waist, and what she found there was rock hard, despite his concerns.
The Blood The Bonds Page 12
