By Blood We Live

by John Joseph Adams

  "The Vatican."

  "The Holy City?"

  "Yes."

  "Big place, but doesn't have to be tricky." I'd killed men with a wide range of appliance—the angel knew that—and suddenly this wasn't sounding any trickier. Crossbow. Composite frame, wooden arrows—darts—whatever they're called. One to the heart. I'd seen enough movies and TV.

  "Well," he says, "maybe. But most of the Jesuits there are vampires too."

  "Oh."

  "That's the bad news. The good news is they're pissed at him—the oldest vampire, I mean. They think he wants to turn mortal. He's taken up with some twenty-eight-year-old bambina who knows almost as many languages as he does—a Vatican interpreter—and they've got this place in Siena—Tuscany, no less—and he hasn't bitten her, and it's been making the Brothers, his great-great-great-grandchildren, nervous for about a month now. Handle it right and she just might help you even if they don't."

  "You serious?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because she wants to be one, too—she's very Euro-goth—you know the type—and he just won't bite her."

  No, I don't know the type, but I say, "She's that vindictive?"

  "What woman isn't?"

  This sounds awfully sexist for an angel, but I don't argue. Maybe angels get dumped too.

  "Does he really?" I ask.

  "Does he really what?"

  "Want to be mortal again."

  "He never was mortal."

  "He was born that way?"

  The eyes—which suddenly have pupils now, majorly dark blue ones—are starting to roll again. "What do you think? Son of You Know Who—who's not exactly happy with the traditional wine and wafer thing, but likes the idea of blood and immortality."

  "Makes sense," I say, eyeing the narcs, who are eyeing two Fairfax High girls, "but why does God need someone to kill him if he wants to flip?

  He takes a breath. What an idiot, the pupils say. "Remember when China tried to give Taiwan a pair of pandas?"

  I'm impressed. This guy's up on earthly news. "No."

  "Taiwan couldn't take them."

  "Why not?"

  He takes another breath and I hear him counting to ten.

  "Okay, okay," I say. "I get it. If they took the pandas, they were in bed with China. They'd have to make nice with them. You accept cute cuddly creatures from someone and it looks like love, right?"

  "Basically."

  "If You Know Who's son flips—goes mortal—God has to accept him."

  "Right."

  "And that throws everything off. No balance. No order. Chaos and eventually, well, Hell?"

  The angel nods, grateful, I can tell, that I'm no stupider than I am.

  I think for a moment.

  "How many arrows do I get?"

  I think he'll laugh, but he doesn't.

  "Three"

  "Three?" I don't like the feeling suddenly. It's like some Bible story where the guy gets screwed so that God can make some point about fatherly love or other form of sacrifice. Nice for God's message. Bad for the guy.

  "It's a holy number," he adds.

  "I get that," I say, "but I don't think so. Not three."

  "That's all you get."

  "What makes you think three will do it—even if they're all heart shots?"

  "You only need one."

  The bad feeling jumps a notch.

  "Why?"

  He looks at me and blinks. Then nods. "Well, each has a point made from a piece of the Cross, Mr. Pagano. We were lucky to get even that much. It's hidden under three floors and four tons of tile in Jerusalem, you know."

  "What is?"

  "The Cross. You know which one."

  I blink. "Right. That's the last thing he needs in the heart."

  "Right."

  "So all I've got to do is hit the right spot."

  "Yes."

  "Which means I need practice. How much time do I have?"

  "A week."

  I take a breath. "I'm assuming you—and He—know a few good crossbow schools, ones with weekly rates."

  "We've got special tutors for that."

  I'm afraid to ask. "And what do these tutors usually do?"

  "Kill vampires."

  "And you need me when you've got a team of them?"

  "He'd spot them a mile away. They're his kids, you might say. He's been around 2000 years and he's had kids and his kids have had kids—in the way that they have them—you know, the biting and sucking thing—and they can sense each other a mile away. These kids—the ones working for us—are ones who've come over. Know what I mean?"

  "And they weren't enough to throw off the—the 'balance.'"

  Now he laughs. "No, they're little fish. Know what I mean?"

  I don't really, but I nod. He's beginning to sound like my other uncle—Gian Felice—the one from Teaneck, the one with adenoids. Know what I mean?

  I go home to my overpriced stucco shack in Sherman Oaks and to my girlfriend, who's got cheekbones like a runway model and lips that make men beg, but wears enough lipstick to stop a truck, and in any case is sick and tired of what I do for a living and probably has a right to be. I should know something besides killing people, even if they're people the police don't mind having dead and I'm as good at it as my father wanted me to be. It's too easy making excuses. Like a pool hustler who never leaves the back room. You start to think it's the whole world.

  She can tell from my face that I've had one of those meetings. She shakes her head and says, "How much?"

  "I'm doing it for free."

  'No, Anthony, you're not."

  "I am."

  "Are you trying to get me to go to bed with your brother? He'd like that. Or Aaron, that guy at the gym? Or do you just want me to go live with my sister?"

  She can be a real harpy.

  "No," I tell her, and mean it.

  "You must really hate me."

  "I don't hate you, Mandy. I wouldn't put up with your temper tantrums if I hated you." The words are starting to hurt—the ones she's using and the ones I'm using. I do love her, I'm telling myself. I wouldn't live with her if I didn't love her, would I?

  "And I live on what while you're away, Anthony?"

  "I'll sell the XKE?"

  "To who?"

  "My cousin. He wants it. He's wanted it for years."

  She looks at me for a moment and I see a flicker of—kindness. "You in trouble?"

  "No."

  "Then you're lying or you're crazy but anyway it comes down to the same thing: You don't love me. If you did, you'd take care of me. I'm moving out tomorrow, Anthony Pagano, and I'm taking the Jag."

  "Please. . .."

  "If you'll charge for the work."

  "I can't."

  "You are in trouble."

  "No."

  How do you tell her you've got to kill a man who isn't really a man but wants to be one, and that if you do God will forgive you all the other killings?

  She heads to the bedroom to start packing.

  I get the case out, open it, touch the marbleized surface of the thing, and hope to hell that God wants a horny assassin because I'm certainly not seeing any action this night or any other before I leave for Rome, and action does help steady my finger. Which Mandy knows. Which every woman I've ever been with knows.

  When I get up the next morning, she's gone. The note on the bathroom mirror, in slashes of that lipstick of hers, says, "I hope you miss my body so bad you can't walk or shoot straight, Anthony."

  We do the instruction at a dead-grass firing range in Topanga Canyon. My tutor is a no-nonsense kid—maybe twenty—with Chinese characters tattooed around his neck like a dog collar, naked eyebrows, pierced tongue, nose, lower lip. He's serious and strict, but seems happy enough for a vampire killer. He picks me up in his Tundra and on the way to the canyon, three manikins (that holy number) bouncing in the truck bed, he says, "Yeah, I like it—even if it's not what you'd think from a Buffy re-run or a John Carpenter flick—yo
u know, like that one shot in Mexico. More like CSI—not the Bruckheimer, but the Discovery Channel. Same way that being an investigative journalist isn't as much fun as you think it'll be—at least that's what I hear. All those hours Googling the public record. In my line of work, it's the tracking and casing and light-weapons prep. But you know more about that than I do, Mr. Pagano. Wasn't your dad—"

  "Sounds like you've been to college, Kurt," I say.

  "A year at a community college—that's it. But I'm a reader. Always have been."

  How do you answer that? I've read maybe a dozen books in my life, all of them short and necessary, and I'm sitting with this kid who reads probably three fat ones a week. Not only is he more literate than I am, he's going to teach me how to kill—something I really thought I knew how to do.

  "Don't worry," he says. "You'll pick it up. Your—shall we say 'previous training and experience'—should make up for your age, slower reflexes, you know."

  What can I say? I've got fifteen years on him and we both know it. My reflexes are slower than his.

  As we hit the Ventura Freeway, he tells me what I'm packing. "In the case beside you, Mr. Pagano, you've got a Horton Legend HD with a Talon Ultra-Light trigger, DP2 CamoTuff limbs, SpeedMax riser, alloy cams, Microflight arrow groove, and Dial-a-Range trajectory compensator—with LS MX aluminum arrows and Hunter Elite 3-arrow quivers. How does that make you feel?"

  "Just wonderful," I tell him.

  The firing range is upscale and very hip. There are dozens of trophy wives and starlets wearing $300 Scala baseball caps, newsboy caps and sun visors. There are almost as many very metro guys wearing $600 aviator shades and designer jungle cammies. And all of them are learning Personal Protection under the tutelage of guys who are about as savvy about what they're doing as the ordinary gym trainer. They're all trying their best to hit fancy bull's-eye, GAG, PMT, and other tactical targets made for pros, but I'm looking like an even bigger idiot trying to hit, with my handfuls of little crossbow darts, the manikins the kid has lined up for me at fifty yards. The other shooters keep rubbernecking to get a look at us. The kid stares them down and they look away. If they only knew.

  "Do the arrows made from the other material—" I begin. "Do they—uh—act. . .?" I ask.

  "Arrows with wood made from the Cross act the same," the kid says, very professional. "We balance them the way we'd balance any arrow."

  "When it hits—"

  "When it hits a vampire, I'm sure it doesn't feel like ordinary wood. I've never taken one myself."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "Actually, someone did try an arrow once. Deer bow. Two inches off the mark. I've got a scar. Want to see it?"

  "Not really. How would it feel to us?"

  "You mean mortals?"

  "Right."

  "It would probably hurt like hell, and if you happened to die I doubt it would get you a free pass to Heaven."

  "That's too bad."

  "Isn't it."

  When I've filled the manikins with ten quivers' worth of arrows and my heart-shot rate is a sad 10%, we quit for the day. It's getting close to sunset, one of those gorgeous smoggy ones. The other shooters have hit the road in their Escalades, H3s, and Land Sharks and the kid is acting distracted.

  "Date?"

  "What?"

  "You know. Two people. Dinner and a movie. Clubbing. Whatever."

  "You could say that. But it's a threesome. Can't stand the guy—he's a Red-State crewcut ex-Delta-Forcer—but the girl, she's so hot she'll melt your belt buckle."

  He can tell I'm not following.

  "A job. It'll take the three of us about three hours. You know, holy number."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Two Hollywood producers. Both vampires. They've got two very sexy, very coollow-budget vampire flicks—ones where the vampires win because, hey, if you're cool and sexy you should win, right?—-in post-production, two more in production and three in development. These flicks will seduce too many teens to the Dark Side, He says, so He wants us to take out their makers. They'll be having late poolside dinner at Blue-on-Blue tonight. We'll be interrupting it."

  "I see," I say. I'm staring at him and he beats me to it.

  "You want to know what we eat if we can't drink blood."

  "Yes, I do."

  "We eat what you eat. We don't need blood since we came over."

  "Which means you don't—how to put it?—you don't perpetuate the species."

  "Right."

  "Which can't make the elders very happy."

  "No, it can't."

  By the end of the sixth day my heart-shot rate is 80% and the kid's nodding, doing a dance move or two in his tight black jeans, and saying, "You're the man, Anthony. You're the man." I shouldn't admit it, but what he thinks does matter.

  When I get there, courtesy of Alitalia (the angel won't pay for Lufthansa), the city of Siena, in lovely Tuscany, country of my forefathers, is a mess. It's just after the horserace, the one where a dozen riders—each of them repping a neighborhood known for an animal (snail, dolphin, goose—you get the picture)—beat each other silly with little riding crops to impress their local Madonna. There's trash everywhere. I've got the crossbow in its case, and a kid on a Vespa tries to grab it as he sails by, but I'm ready. I know kids—I was one once—and I nail him with a kick to his knee. The Vespa skids and he flies into a fountain not far away. The fountain is a big sea shell—a scallop—which I know from reading my Fodor's must be this neighborhood's emblem for the race. He gets up crying, gives me the va-funcu with his arm and fist, and screams something in native Sienese—which isn't at all the Italian I grew up with but which I'm sure means, "I'm going to tell my dad and brothers, you asshole!"

  The apartment is not in the Neighborhood of the Scallop, but in the Neighborhood of the Salmon, and the girl who answers the door is stunning. Tall. The kind of blonde who tans better than a commercial. Eyes like shattered glass, long legs, cute little dimple in her chin. I don't see how he can keep his teeth off her.

  This is Euro-goth? I don't think so.

  "So you're the one," she says. Her English is perfect, just enough accent to make it sexy.

  "Yeah. Anthony Pagano." I stick out my hand. She doesn't take it.

  "Giovanna," she says. "Giovanna Musetti. And that's what you're going to do it with?" She gestures with her head at my case. She can't take her eyes off it.

  "Yeah."

  "Please don't do it," she says suddenly.

  I don't know what to say.

  "You're supposed to want him dead."

  She looks at me like I'm crazy.

  "Why would I want him dead?"

  "Because you want him to bite you—because you want to be one too—and he—he won't oblige."

  "Who told you that?"

  "The—the angel who hired me."

  "I know that angel. He was here. He interviewed me."

  "You don't want him dead?"

  "Of course not. I love him."

  I sit down on the sofa. They've got a nice place. Maybe they enjoy the horseraces. Even if they don't, the tourists aren't so bad off-season according to Fodor's. And maybe when you're the oldest vampire, you don't have to obey the no-daylight rule. Maybe you get to walk around in the day—in a nice, clean, modern medieval city—maybe one you knew when you were only a thousand years old and it was being built and a lot trashier—and feel pretty mortal and normal. Who knows?

  "Why did my employer get it wrong?"

  She's got the same look the angel did. "The angel didn't get it wrong, Mr. Pagano. He lied."

  "Why?" I'm thinking: Angels are allowed to do that? Lie? Sure, if God wants them to.

  "Why?" I ask again.

  "I don't know. That's one of the things I love about Frank—"

  "Your man's name is Frank?"

  "It is now. That's what he's gone by for the last hundred years, he says, and I believe him. That's one of the things I love."

  "What?"

  "That he d
oesn't lie. That he doesn't need to. He's seen it all. He's had all the power you could want and he doesn't want it anymore. He's bitten so many people he lost count after a century, and he doesn't want to do it anymore. He's tired of living the lie any vampire has to live. He's very human in his heart, Mr. Pagano—in his soul—so human you wouldn't believe it—and he's tired of doing his father's bidding, the darkness, the blasphemy, all of that. I don't think he was ever really into it, but he had to do it. He was his father's son, so he had to do it. Carry on the tradition—the business. Do you know what that's like?"