The Becoming asc-1

by Jeanne C. Stein

  He's grinning and looking around, which gives me a chance to give him the once over. The last time I saw him he was in doctor garb, covered from head to toe. Now, however, in this outfit, I'm treated to a display of muscular arms, powerful shoulders, and long, sturdy legs all tanned bronze. It takes me a minute to work my gaze from this tall, unexpectedly athletic form back up to his face. He's wearing black aviator Ray Bans which shield his eyes, but his mouth reflects unabashed humor as he watches me check him out.

  I keep my expression studiously neutral as I meet his gaze. “Did you come for the scrubs?” I ask. “I would have returned them to you, you know. You didn't have to make the trip."

  "Nope, not the scrubs.” He grins a little wider and dangles a set of car keys in front of my face.

  Car keys that look very familiar. “Are those mine?"

  "Yep. Thought you might need your car. I made arrangements to get it back for you.” A brief pause. “I also took the liberty of having it detailed. It was, well, a little messy inside."

  I take the keys from his outstretched hand and look at him with upturned eyebrows. “How did you manage to get my car? I can't imagine the police would just release it to you."

  He shrugs. “I have friends in high places.” He looks over my shoulder. “Speaking of which, where's your friend Michael? I thought he was bringing you home."

  I hesitate. What explanation can I give for being alone?

  But he doesn't give me the chance to come up with anything. He jumps right in, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “I suspected you hadn't called him."

  His smugness is annoying.

  "Oh? How do you know I didn't call him? He could be inside, right now, fixing me lunch."

  Those feather-like laugh lines I noticed in the hospital crinkle around the Ray Bans. “Is he?"

  Well, no. But I'm not telling Dr. Avery that. And how the hell does he know I didn't call Michael, anyway?

  "I didn't think so,” he responds. “Calling that cab to pick you up gave it away."

  My jaw sags a little. Had I spoken out loud?

  "No,” he answers.

  That's it. This is getting creepy. “Okay.” I put steel in my voice. “Are you psychic? Is this some kind of trick?"

  He puts a hand on my elbow and steers me toward my gate. “Invite me inside,” he says. “And I'll answer all your questions."

  I pull away. “I don't think so.” I don't invite strange men into my home, and this guy is even stranger than most. I have no intention of being alone with him, doctor or no.

  Dr. Avery removes his sunglasses. His eyes lock me in their gaze. “I won't hurt you, Anna,” he says softly. “In fact, I can help you.

  You have a lot of questions about what happened to you with Donaldson. I have the answers."

  His voice, velvet-edged and insistent, sends a ripple of tranquil acceptance through me. I know with absolute certainty that he won't hurt me. Unhesitatingly, I lead the way to the door and unlock it, holding it open for him to pass through. “Welcome to my home."

  As Dr. Avery takes a seat on the couch, he grins up at me and says again, “I really do love your home. I mean it, this is a great place."

  But I'm not going to be sidetracked. Now that we're inside, that unshakable confidence I felt just a moment before melts away. I perch myself on the edge of an overstuffed chair facing him. “Now what do you have to tell me about Donaldson?"

  As soon as I say it, a primitive warning resonates in my brain. What could he possibly know about Donaldson? Unless he's gotten more of those tests back and—

  "No, no, it's nothing medical."

  He's done it again. I launch myself up and at him, seething with mounting rage. “Okay, that's it. How are you doing that? It's not funny, it's not clever, and it's really pissing me off."

  My outburst doesn't faze him. He crosses one tanned leg over the other and looks right at me.

  Try it yourself.

  The voice comes out of nowhere. Or rather, it comes from inside my head.

  See? The voice continues. Now try saying something to me.

  "What the hell do you mean?"

  No. Dr. Avery's brow wrinkles slightly, as though he's concentrating harder. Don't answer with your voice. Use your mind.

  Are you nuts?

  He beams. Now that wasn't hard, was it?

  I sink back into the armchair, suddenly woozy with surprise and dread. Did I really do that? Project my thoughts to him?

  Of course you did, Dr. Avery responds, his face lit up like a child's at Christmas. There's pride and delight and wonder all mingled together. You are a quick study. I knew it the moment I saw you at the hospital.

  Saw what at the hospital?

  I catch him before he can respond in that eerie telepathic way. I hold up a hand and insist grimly, “No. Talk to me. The normal way. This is creeping me out."

  A shadow of disappointment replaces the glow on his face. “I thought you'd be at least a little pleased to know how well you're progressing. Most don't come this far this fast."

  "Most what?"

  He gives me a sideways glance. “Come on. You must know what you're becoming."

  The hair on the back of my neck is rising, along with goose bumps the size of marshmallows on my arms. “What I'm becoming?"

  He thinks, You're beginning to sound like a parrot.

  My God, how do I know that?

  Out loud, he's saying, “I knew you'd have questions about Donaldson, but I thought they'd be along the ‘what can I expect and how do I handle it’ line."

  "Handle what?"

  It seems to finally dawn on Avery that we're not on the same page. Maybe he's not as good at the mind reading thing as he thinks.

  Oh, but I am usually, comes the immediate reply. I don't understand.

  He doesn't understand?

  I'm on my feet again, pacing in front of him like a mad woman. “Stop doing that. Don't insinuate yourself into my head. Listen to me. What are you? What am I ‘becoming?’ What does this have to do with Donaldson? God, I feel like I'm going crazy here."

  He hesitates just a second, pursing his lips at me. Then he's on his feet, too. He takes my hand and leads me over to a mirror on the wall beside the door. “Look at me, Anna."

  Half afraid, I nevertheless raise my eyes to the glass. I'm aware of the touch of his hand, feel the nearness of his body next to mine.

  But he casts no reflection. None. And my own image is hazy and indistinct, fading more even as I watch.

  I jump back, heart pounding so hard in my chest, I'm afraid it will burst. “This can't be happening."

  Why do you doubt it?

  "Stop it.” Shock quickly gives way to rage. I fling open the front door. “Get out. I don't want you in my house any longer."

  But he doesn't move. He looks at me with sad, compassion filled eyes. “I can't do that, Anna. You need me. And truth be told, I need you, too. There's something you must do before you join the family."

  Family? I'm afraid to think what family that would be.

  "The only family you have,” Avery answers without prompting. “Now that you are Vampire."

  Chapter Eight

  Vampire?

  The word hangs in the air between us, black and ominous as a storm cloud. We stare at each other, not moving. I can scarcely breathe. Avery reaches past me and closes the front door. The simple action breaks the impasse and snaps me back. But the rage is gone.

  "What are you talking about?"

  He gestures to the living room. “Do you want to sit down?"

  At least he's talking and not performing that stupid mind trick. I nod and follow him to the couch. We take seats at opposite ends, putting as much distance as possible between us. I push myself to the edge, the urge to flee strong. “Tell me."

  "Where do you want me to start?"

  I press my hands to my head. “At the beginning, I guess. With Donaldson."

  "Do you remember any of it?” But he scans my face and answers on hi
s own. “You do. The images are coming back. The feelings.

  It's frightening you because you realize you were a participant, not a victim. That's all right. It's natural."

  "Natural?” The word explodes out of me. “There is nothing natural about this. I was fighting Donaldson and suddenly I wasn't.

  God, I actually responded to him—or rather my body did. I had no control. I tasted his blood and—"

  The mental picture of Donaldson on top of me, the memory of the taste of his blood in my mouth, of the way I lapped at it and craved it and couldn't get enough, puts a stop to my diatribe. “That's it, isn't it?” I seek affirmation in Dr. Avery's face and find it. “I drank his blood, and he drank mine. God, I thought that was an old wive's tale."

  The absurdity of what I just said stops me. I actually laugh, hysteria so close I taste it like something bitter in the back of my throat.

  “Did you hear that? I'm telling you that I believe I am becoming a vampire because I drank Donaldson's blood. And you, a medical doctor, are sitting here listening to this as if you believe it, too. We must both be crazy. There are no vampires. There are no ghosts, or witches, or fairies, or werewolves. I'm having a really strange dream, and I'm going to wake up now and be normal and none of this will have happened, and you are going to be gone."

  The mounting delirium in my voice makes Dr. Avery move a little closer to me on the couch. He doesn't touch me, or reach out, he just sits quietly and waits for me to run out of breath and energy before he says, “It's a lot to accept, I know. But you should consider yourself lucky. Donaldson didn't set out to turn you. He meant to kill you, just the way he did that unfortunate woman who took him in. But two things happened that prevented it. He was interrupted by the men in the bar before he could drain you, and you drank of his blood. There is nothing you could have done to prevent what happened, just as there is nothing you can do to change it. You must accept what you are becoming. I am here to help you."

  Whether it's another mind trick or just good bedside manner, the resonance and timbre of his voice calms me. “You are here to help me? And how will you do that? Are you a vampire, too? Is there a handbook I have to study? A class in bloodsucking I'm required to attend?"

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Let's see, to answer your questions in order. Yes, I'm here to help. I'll do whatever I can to ease your transition. Yes, I'm a vampire, too. And no, there is no handbook and no class. It's strictly on the job training, so to speak."

  "You can make jokes? What the hell are you?"

  "Technically, I'm a Night Watcher."

  "A what?"

  "A Night Watcher.” Avery pushes himself off the couch. “Would you like some water?"

  My head is spinning. “No, I don't want any water.” I nod as he gestures toward the kitchen. “Yeah, sure. Go for it. There's bottled water in the fridge. No, wait. I thought vampires only drank blood. You drink water?"

  "That's good,” he says, moving toward the kitchen. “You are starting to ask the right questions."

  The right questions? There's nothing right about this whole situation.

  I wait for Avery to chime in. The voice doesn't come. Maybe he's finally conceding to my wish to stay the hell out of my head.

  "I'll do whatever it takes to make you comfortable."

  Or not.

  He's back in the living room, water bottle in hand. “Now, what were we talking about?"

  I give up. But I won't play his game. “You were about to tell me what this ‘night watching’ thing is all about,” I say in a loud, clear voice.

  He draws on the bottle and sits back down on the couch facing me. “A long time ago, before there were policeman or armies to defend a town, guardians would walk the streets at night with swords and lanterns. They would call out the passing hours and the

  ‘all is well’ signal. They were called Night Watchers."

  "So this is what you do? Walk the street at night calling ‘all is well?’ And if that is your job, where the hell were you when Donaldson was attacking me? All was certainly not well then, was it?"

  He shakes his head, irritation twisting the corners of his mouth. “I don't mean to say that I literally walk the streets at night. I was trying to give you a point of reference."

  I'm glad he's getting pissed off, since he's certainly having that effect on me. “Okay, I get your point of reference. But since we happen to be living in the twenty-first century, it means nothing to me. You want to explain in normal terms exactly what you do?"

  The cloud passes from his face. “I am one of a contingent of vampires who watches for signs of activity in a community and intervenes when necessary to preserve the balance between the living and the undead."

  The undead? That one phrase makes the rest of his pedantic recitation fade from my mind quicker than a bunny gets fucked. “The undead?” I hear myself screeching. “That's what I am? Undead?"

  "Well, technically, yes."

  Oh my God. I'm on my feet again, unable to control the violent tremors that pass through my body. My heart is beating like a drum—wait a minute.

  My heart.

  I press a hand to my chest. Yes, it's beating. Faster than it should, but it's beating. I look up to find Avery watching with an amused grin on his face.

  "Yes,” he says. “You have a heartbeat. And you will continue to do so unless you give yourself a heart attack with these violent outbursts."

  I sink back down on the couch. “I don't understand any of this. How can I be ‘undead’ and have a heartbeat?"

  "There's a long, dry, technical explanation for that,” Avery says with a sigh. “Has to do with something called etheric revenant or the way a dead human body is stabilized. I can recommend a book for you by John Michael Greer if you want technical information, though he gave the book the unfortunate title, Monsters. "

  Unfortunate?

  He waves a hand. “The important thing for you to know is that you must care for your physical body as you always have. You work it out, you nourish it. It's just the type of nourishment that will change."

  Here it comes. “You mean I have to drink blood."

  "You need fresh etheric energy, yes."

  "I don't think I can accept that. I'm not about to turn into someone like Donaldson. You may as well pound a stake through my chest right now or burn me at a stake—” Is that it? I can't think of any other ways I've read to kill vampires except—sunlight. I peer hard at Avery, a very tanned Avery who stood outside my gate in the full sun and seems not to have suffered any ill effect.

  "Adaptation,” he says.

  "What?"

  "It took hundreds of years, but we've adapted to sunlight. We can walk about in daylight just like anybody else, now."

  My God. All the time I spent reading Anne Rice, I thought I was reading fiction.

  Avery holds up a hand. “You were reading fiction,” he says. “For the most part. And a stake through the heart or burning are ways we can be killed. There is also beheading, but that doesn't happen too much anymore. Mostly, if we're careful, we live long, productive lives and no one is the wiser."

  "By long, you mean?"

  He nods. “Immortality is part of the gift."

  "But the blood thing—"

  "I'm getting to that. The sources of energy used by living people—mostly connected to oxygen and food—are closed off to us once the first stage of death begins. To replace what is used or lost in the course of our day is a regular source of fresh, arterial blood."

  "I just said I can't do that."

  "You said you wouldn't turn into someone like Donaldson,” he reminds me gently. “And you won't have to. I will teach you how to feed without killing. In fact, I will teach you how to feed in a way that will literally leave your hosts begging you not to stop."

  "My host?"

  He nods. “The living organism you draw from."

  Great. I've turned into a parasite. “And I'm supposed to believe this host will enjoy the experience so much, he'
ll beg for more?"

  Avery smiles. “Oh yes,” he says. “Because while you're feeding, he'll be experiencing the very best sex he's ever had in his entire life."

  Chapter Nine

  It just gets better and better. Now I'm a parasite with nymphomaniacal tendencies. “And where do I find these willing sex partners?” I ask, though it's not really a question I want answered. I get a flash that I'll be working the homeless population or frequenting bars down in Tijuana.

  "Would you seek sex partners in those places under normal circumstances?” he asks.

  His voice contains a strong suggestion of reproach. I lace my own with heavy sarcasm. “No. But I doubt my boyfriend will take kindly to being drained of his lifeblood on a daily basis."

  "So you have sex daily?"

  He's got a mocking grin on his face that I feel an irresistible urge to smack right off.

  Some of that feeling must convey itself to him because he leans back out of reach. “Sorry,” he says. “I don't mean to be impertinent. But you don't need to feed every day any more than you need to have sex every day. It's a matter of personal choice.

  Actually, in a short while you will need very little blood to sustain your new life force. A pint or so once a month will do it."

  "You mean like the amount you donate at a blood bank?"

  He understands the implication of what I'm asking and shakes his head. “Unfortunately, that blood is drawn from the veins and refrigerated. What you need to sustain life is fresh, arterial blood. You must drink directly from an artery in the neck or thigh."

  I run my tongue over my teeth. With these? They feel the same. I remember Donaldson worrying at my neck until ... the intense, breathtaking, wondrous pleasure of the experience floods back. My body tingles with the memory even now.

  Stop it. I give myself a mental thump on the head. You can't do this.

  Of course you can, Avery counters . You just remembered how it was. And that was with a man who wasn't even trying to make it good for you. Think of what you do with your hands and body to give pleasure to your boyfriend. Then increase it by one thousand per cent and you have an idea what magic you can work.