The Blood That Bonds

by Christopher Buecheler

  “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. She 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 ha
d 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.”

  Two raised her eyebrows, confused.

  Melissa rolled here eyes. “And now I’m rambling. I can’t control it. I’m sorry. Can I do anything to help you?”

  Theroen was right; Two did like Melissa. She was the polar opposite of the calm, collected vampire who’d brought Two to this world, but Two liked her just the same. She smiled, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  “Unless you’ve got a fix in that purse, I don’t know if there’s much you can do.”

  Melissa shook her head, her expression almost sad, as if it was indeed a travesty that she was not carrying the drug.

  “No. Just some makeup and Kleenex and,” She looked around as if confirming that no one was listening, “maybe some weed.”

  Two laughed, wincing at the pain this brought. A vampire carrying ganja. Wonders never ceased. Melissa grinned as well, maybe seeing the humor, maybe just happy to see Two smile.

  “You can smoke that?” Two asked.

  “Sure.”

  “And it’s, like, the same as for a human?”

  “Beats me. It does something, though. Everything does. What we find palatable, though, may differ a lot from humans. I think heroin would probably be too much for me.”

  “When Theroen, uh... started me, he said that it made him really sick, just getting it from my blood.”

  “Theroen’s a wuss!” Melissa laughed. “I mean, I’m sure it did... and if it was that bad for him I’m sure it’d be awful for me too. But he’s also pretty picky. He doesn’t even like it when there’s a little alcohol in the mix. Just all that serious ‘no, only blood, nothing else.’ Stuff.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Does it matter? Bad? Good?”

  “How old are you, Melissa? How old is Theroen?”

  “Ooh, hmmm,” she mused, “I don’t know. He might want to tell you that himself.”

  “What about you, then?”

  “One hundred and forty eight and three days. Or twenty-two, depending on how you look at it.”

  “You don’t look a day over one-twenty.”

  Melissa laughed, and then looked again in concern as Two doubled over. Hot and cold flashes were running through her, and she was bathed in a cold sweat.

  “Oh, fuck. I think I’m going to puke.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Theroen’s blood stops it. I don’t know. Would yours?” Two spoke slowly, through clenched teeth, trying to fight against the sudden onset of nausea.

  Melissa shrugged. “Beats me. Worth a shot. I don’t mind. I probably shouldn’t let you just go at my neck or whatever, though.”

  “Theroen bit his finger.”

  “Sure.” Melissa’s teeth made a tiny clicking sound, like the noise of a stapler, and she held her finger out to Two, blood welling up from two tears in the skin. “Hurry up, before it heals.”

  Two looked up at her. “Sorry. This is some fucked up, bizarre shit.”

  “Live a hundred and fifty years, and you’ll see things that make this seem pretty tame. Do it, if you think it’ll help you. I don’t mind.”

  Two put her lips on Melissa’s finger and let the blood roll on to her tongue. The effect of the blood was immediate, energizing her, and it was all she could do not to clamp down with her teeth. Melissa seemed to sense this, and grinned. “Yummy. Vampire blood is awesome. Hard to get, though.”

  Two swallowed twice, forced herself to pull away. Her nausea disappeared, along with the cold sweat and the chills. Some of the pain remained, still, but it was distant. She guessed that Theroen was much older and stronger than Melissa, and that this affected the potency of his blood.

  “Better?” Melissa asked, and Two nodded.

  “Yes. Not perfect, but much better. Thank you.”

  Melissa licked the last few drops of her blood off her fingers and smiled. “No problem. What’s your name?”

  “Two.”

  “Like the number?”

  “Yes, like the number.”

  Melissa laughed and clapped her hands. “That’s so cool! That’s much better than Jennifer or Betty or Melissa.”

  Two shrugged. “I guess?”

  “People with cool names never appreciate them. Now then. What you need is a bath. That’ll take your mind off of this withdrawal stuff until Theroen gets
back, and then I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

  Two crossed her arms, scratched her shoulders. A bath sounded wonderful.

  “You can use mine. The one in here sucks. Theroen doesn’t know anything.” Melissa helped her up. Two stood on shaky legs, looked around, took a breath.

  “How far is it?”

  “Not far. Can you walk a bit?”

  Two nodded. Melissa went to the door, opened it, held it for her. In the hallway, the vampire took the lead, and Two followed.

  * * *

  The bath was heaven on earth. Giant marble slabs, green and black and grey patterns tracing themselves out across what seemed, at first, to be miles of stone. The basin had to be twelve feet long, three feet deep. Sitting straight up, Two saw, the water could easily have covered her head. The faucet, gleaming in a dull manner that spoke of authentic gold, was enormous. The water steamed as Melissa turned it on.

  “I like flowers. Do you like flowers?”

  Two had no idea what Melissa meant. She shrugged. “Sure?”

  “In the bath, silly.”

  “Oh.” Two honestly didn’t know. She’d never tried it. “Why not?”

  Melissa laughed, took a basket from the shelf above, dropped hundreds upon hundreds of blossoms into the bath water. Their fragrance filled the room immediately, cherry blossoms, rose petals, the sweet smell of citrus. Melissa lit candles, turned off the lights, stood in front of Two, unbuttoned her blouse. Two shrugged it off. There was nothing embarrassing in this, though Two could not say why. Melissa, for her part, seemed entirely unfazed. She helped Two out of the rest of her garments, held her arm out for balance as Two climbed the steps to the bath and stepped in. Two descended into the petals, felt the warmth embrace her, and sighed. Melissa sat on the step, played with the water at her fingertips, smiled at Two.

  “Good?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Melissa handed her a gigantic sponge, natural from the look of it, and some sort of perfumed bath lotion. Two cleaned herself slowly. Melissa chattered, behind her and to the right, about all sorts of things. New pop music she was enamored with, the wonderful lights and throbbing beats of the raves she attended, the new interpretation of Shakespeare running on Broadway. Her tastes were more varied than anyone Two had met. She kept the conversation casual. One might not have known these were two vampires, or one and a half at least, if not for the pale skin, the luminous eyes, the sharp, tiny teeth flashing occasionally in the light of the candles.