By Blood We Live

by John Joseph Adams

  "Mythologies. Legends. The stories of cultures."

  The man checked a file report, obviously filled with information about her. "Ah, yes, you were studying cultural anthropology, is that correct?"

  "Yes."

  He closed the file folder, folded his arms on top of it and stared at her. She did not meet his gaze. "Were there legends, stories and myths in your village?"

  "Yes." Suddenly she felt ashamed. Forlorn. How could she not have known what would happen?

  "And one was about the vechi brbat, was it not?"

  "Yes," she said, struggling to release the dark memory and keep living in the present.

  "Tell me the story of the vechi brbat."

  She sighed heavily, surprised at this new, even heavier weight she felt in her chest, as if her lungs had turned to pumice and the clear, pure air had trouble getting inside her.

  Dr. Sauers tapped her fingernails on the table. She did not subscribe to "talk" therapy, as she called it. She believed in drugs. Sedate patients. Give them anti-psychotics. Gradually reduce their medication and see if they improved. If so, they were released. If not, up the meds. Since Nita would never be released, she had no hope in either direction.

  "My grandmother told me the story of the vechi brbat. He came to our village centuries ago. He had met a girl from the village, you see, by the river, and they fell in love. They married. Then the woman died of a fever that spread through the mountains killing humans and animals alike. It reduced the numbers in our small village to twenty only, plus the vechi brbat, and the people did not know how to survive. The vechi brbat was not the oldest in the village but he held the most power and was the one with a quick brain and he should have told the people what to do, but he was caught by grief and unable to lead. Another man who had survived became the leader and managed to save the remaining livestock, and the crops, so the people did not starve and could bear more children, and their numbers increased."

  "And the vechi brbat? You say he was grieving. For his lost wife?"

  "Yes. He loved her very much. So much that he would do anything to be with her again. And did."

  "What did he do?"

  "He roamed the forest at night, calling on the bad spirits of the old gods, the ones from his life before the village when he lived with the Gypsies, before the Christian god became the one god. He begged the darkest elementals, the angriest spirits of nature to aid him. He promised them that he would do anything if they would allow him to again be with his wife."

  Nita felt her heart race. She knew her eyes darted around the room, looking for what? Escape? Yes, she wanted to escape. This room, these people. The story that had gone so very wrong.

  "Then what happened?"

  "The storms came. The village is nestled in a valley, and the land flooded. Blinding lightning shot from the sky and struck the vechi brbat. His skin blackened, and the pale brown color of his eyes turned white, as did his hair and beard. When he returned to the village he had become. . .different."

  "Different how?"

  She tried to avoid his questions. "The villagers, they were so busy trying to save themselves, the crops, the animals, to recapture their way of life. The flood forced mud down the side of the mountain that buried much of what had been rescued. Red-streaked mud, as if the mountain were bleeding. Their numbers dwindled further. They saw it as a sign, that there were demons in the village. The vechi brbat had brought havoc to their lives when they were struggling to recover. Naturally they blamed him."

  There was silence for a moment. The man said softly, "What did they do to the vechi brbat?"

  Nita swallowed hard. "They could not kill him. He had been with them many years and was now one of their own. But they had to protect themselves."

  "From what?"

  "From the curse."

  "What curse is that?"

  Nita felt her legs begin to tremble uncontrollably, rattling the chains under the table. The room seemed too hot, the color of scorching yellow. "I'd like some water now, if you please," she said, trying yet again to redirect the grey man.

  He got up and went to a side table and poured a glass of clear water. He set it in front of her but she did not touch it.

  Once he was seated again he said, "Tell me about the curse."

  Maybe, she thought, maybe if I tell it now, here, maybe someone will understand. The others before, the police, the medical men, Dr. Sauers, they had all been impatient, believing what they wanted to believe, not the truth, and she knew the truth. This man with hair and eyes the color of a vole who said he was listening, maybe he was listening. Maybe he would believe her.

  She heard Dr. Sauers' nails again, tapping on the table, talons painted violent purple eager to rend flesh.

  "Dr. Sauers, would you mind terribly if I spoke with Nita alone for a few minutes?"

  "Why?" Sauers snarled. "This is irregular."

  "Yes, it is. But I wonder if I might try a technique I've found that has had great success. If you wouldn't mind. . ."

  Reluctantly Sauers got up from the table and obviously she did not appreciate this shift in the plan.

  Sauers checked the camera for film.

  "Thank you," the grey-headed man said cheerfully.

  The doctor went out the door, closing it loudly behind her, not acknowledging him.

  When she was gone, the man turned his head and smiled at Nita. "There. Now you can take your time telling me what happened."

  For some reason Nita found this both reassuring and intimidating. She picked up the water with shaking hands and took a small sip, then set the glass back down, spilling a little that she wiped up with her sleeve. She held onto the glass, as if letting go might leave her floating in a colorless universe.

  "What did the villagers do to the vechi brbat?"

  "They put him in a cage and kept him there. He lived in the cage day and night. They fed him only a little blood, from time to time, to keep him alive, but this is how he existed."

  "And when the original villagers died?"

  "For the first season all the villagers cared for him, but soon, as winter approached, one woman offered to take the vechi brbat into her home, and it was then that he lived in the cage all the time. She. . .looked after him, and then her daughter, and so on. It soon became the unspoken rule that only one took responsibility for him. One woman of each generation, the task handed down to the next in line, the eldest. Eventually my grandmother was responsible."

  "And with your mother gone, you were next in line?"

  Nita's hands trembled and felt white cold. "Yes."

  The man paused. "And this responsibility, to take care of, to live with the vechi brbat, is this something you wanted for yourself?"

  "I. . .I don't know," she said. No one had asked her this. Bunic had not. It was assumed that Nita would go to school, then return home to the village and bear children, raising only one girl child, and that she would look after the ancient one who would live with her, in the cage, as it had been with all the women before her.

  "Tell me, you said the vechi brbat walked in the village, and he tried to touch you in the forest. So he was no longer in a cage."

  "Somewhere back in time it was determined by a woman who cared for him that if he were not permitted to eat he would be weak and he could then be allowed to roam free at dusk, provided a chain was attached to his ankle with a long rope. This seemed to work out, and the villagers agreed. Anyway, he could not tolerate the sun and always returned to the cage during the day."

  "Like a vampire," the grey-haired man said.

  "Exactly like a vampire."

  "And he was fed blood."

  "Yes."

  "What kind of blood?"

  "The blood of the village."

  The man looked a little shocked by this revelation. "Not animals?"

  "No. His body could not tolerate their blood. Only human."

  "Did he drink your blood?"

  "Sometimes."

  "How. . .how was this done? Did he bi
te you?"

  "Of course not!" she said, feeling the tension building in her. "We would make cuts on our arms and legs, each person in the village taking a turn, and would provide a tin cup every day and he would drink that. It kept him alive."

  "Why, over the centuries, did the villagers want to keep him alive?"

  "Because it would be bad luck to kill him."

  "But he'd brought disaster to the village, or so everyone thought?"

  "But more disaster would come from killing him. He was a Gypsy. He had been in touch with the most evil spirits. They had come to him, heeded him, given him what he asked for. The villagers did not know what would happen if he were killed or released, but they knew they would be cursed and harm would come to them. They just did not know the nature of that harm."

  "But you didn't believe that, did you? That his curse would bring disaster. That he was ancient. That he had brought back his dead wife."

  A small sound slipped from Nita's lips. She felt a tear form in one eye and tried to brush it away but the sparkly multicolored drop slid down her cheek. Maybe. . .maybe he understood! "I. . .I. . . The university. They said it could not be so. That he was not old. That he was just a crazy man that everyone kept caged and starved, and that his dead wife had not returned but a woman in the village—my grandmother, and my mother—had slept with him to get pregnant."

  "How did your mother die?"

  That was too horrible. Nita could not bring herself to admit the suicide. Instead of answering his question, her mind raced on as if he hadn't interrupted. "The university professor said it was an example of a mythology that had gone terribly wrong, and the people wanted to blame someone for all their problems, and to torture him." She looked up at the grey man. "I went home to make it right."

  The man nodded imperceptibly.

  Now the words spilled from Nita, like the scorching lava that had formed the mountains. "I tried to tell the others. I told them that he could not be ancient. That he was not responsible for catastrophes. That the gods had not returned his wife to him. I explained that my grandmother who kept him, she was his wife. They would not believe me."

  "What did you do?"

  "After the sun set, I cut his chain and took him far from the village, up into the mountains, a night's journey by foot. I gave him food I had brought home with me, liquid food with nutrients, some blood because he was used to that, but other beverages, because he had not eaten solid food that I knew of. I tried to feed him grains but he could not digest them. And then I pointed to the much larger village just over the mountain peak and told him to go there, to begin a new life. That he was free. I told him that he would be caged no more."

  Nita shook her head. Tears streamed down her face and though her voice wavered, she needed no encouragement to finish her story. "I returned to my village the following day. My grandmother was furious with me. She struck me and called me a fool, ranting that I had brought down the curse and put them all in danger. The villagers were angry and afraid. Some wanted to run away, others found weapons to defend themselves. One suggested I take the place of the vechi brbat in the cage, as if that would make things right. I told them they had nothing to fear, that the old man, the vechi brbat, was gone for good, and they were all free now. Just as I was free from the life that had awaited me. No more wrong legends to rule their lives, or mine. I could return to the university. I would not have to marry the vechi brbat, or spend my life taking care of him.

  "But the people were not pleased by this; they were so enraged. And terrified. My grandmother struggled to keep them from hurting me."

  After a moment, the man said, "And then what happened?"

  "He returned. Two nights later. He murdered people in their beds, outside their homes, as they fled into the forest. Women, children, men—even the strongest who tried to fight him off. My. . .my grandmother. He had been strengthened by the nourishment I'd provided, and he took blood until he became bloated, and then took more. He killed everyone, and it was my fault!"

  Her body trembled uncontrollably. The room had become icy. The colors surrounding her, even the white, paled as if glaciers had formed over everything, and the opaqueness that reminded her of the vechi brbat's eyes as he stared into hers began to spin and swirl like a snowstorm.

  "But he didn't kill you," the man said.

  "No," she gasped. "He spared me."

  "Why?"

  She stared at him, watching his grey features shift and twist and the shape of his face change from human to animal then change again from animal to something dark and otherworldly until the images that formed petrified her.

  "Nita, they found you covered with blood. You, not the vechi brbat. You killed the villagers, because you felt trapped there, destined to a life you did not want."

  Her head jerked from side to side.

  "Nita, if there were a vechi brbat, why wasn't he found? Where is he now?"

  She screamed, "I—don't—know!"

  "Take it easy. You're safe here."

  But his words could not quell the horror that gripped her heart. "He disappeared. And I remained with the bodies, the blood-red bodies, stained by color that seeped into the hungry brown soil as if it were a mouth that had longed for this nourishment. The land of my foremothers, of the villagers, those who imprisoned the vechi brbat. Don't you see? The blood went back into the earth. Where it should have gone centuries ago! Because they imprisoned him!"

  Her raised voice brought Dr. Sauers storming into the room. "What's going on here? You're upsetting my patient!" She hit an intercom button on the wall and told a nurse to hurry with an injection.

  "No! No more drugs! Let me be free!" Nita jumped to her feet. "Remove these chains! I did nothing to you, why are you holding me prisoner! Help! Someone help me! Vechi brbat free me, as I freed you!"

  But Nita's cries faded soon after the needle pierced her flesh. The world around her receded, the colors dimming and fading to nothing, until she could neither see nor hear those outside her with their demands and judgments and limitations. But she clearly heard the vechi brbat, for now he could speak and he spoke to her, calling her his bride, assuring her that he would be with her always. That she would not be a prisoner forever. "One day," he promised, "you, too, must dance with me."

  The Beautiful, The Damned

  by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  Kristine Kathryn Rusch's most recent novel, Diving into the Wreck, will be published by Pyr Books in November. She is the author of more than fifty novels, including several in her popular Retrieval Artist series. Many of her novels belong to the mystery or romance genres and are published under the pen names Kristine Grayson, Kris Nelscott, and Kristine Dexter. Rusch is a prolific author of short fiction as well, much of which will be collected in the forthcoming book Recovering Apollo 8 and Other Stories. She has been nominated for the Hugo Award thirteen times, winning twice—once for writing and once for editing, making her the only person to ever win a Hugo Award in both categories. She has also won the World Fantasy Award, the Sidewise Award, and numerous Asimov's Readers Choice Awards.

  Rusch describes this story as a kind of sequel to The Great Gatsby—with vampires. "For some reason, I reread The Great Gatsby every two or three years whether I need to or not," she said. "Like Nick Carraway, I am a child of the Middle West, a person who has moved away to a land that's not quite familiar and people who are a bit strange. I have always seen ties between vampirism and alcoholism (and I am the child of two alcoholics). I dealt with that tie in my novel Sins of the Blood, a vampire book, and I deal with it here too."

  On one rereading of Gatsby, Rusch realized that the characters were metaphorical vampires, and that was all the inspiration she needed to come up with the tale that follows.

  Chapter I

  I come from the Middle West, an unforgiving land with little or no tolerance for imagination. The wind blows harsh across the prairies, and the snows fall thick. Even with the conveniences of the modern age, life is dangerous there. To lose
sight of reality, even for one short romantic moment, is to risk death.

  I didn't belong in that country, and my grandfather knew it. I was his namesake, and somehow, being the second Nick Carraway in a family where the name had a certain mystique had forced that mystique upon me. He had lived in the East during the twenties, and had had grand adventures, most of which he would not talk about. When he returned to St. Paul in 1928, he met a woman—my grandmother Nell—and with her solid, common sense had shed himself of the romance and imagination that had led to his adventures in the first place.

  Although not entirely. For when I announced, fifty years later, that I intended to pursue my education in the East, he paid four years of Ivy League tuition. And, when I told him, in the early '80s, that, despite my literary background and romantic nature, I planned a career in the securities business, he regaled me with stories of being a bond man in New York City in the years before the crash.