Saying Goodbye to the Sun

By David McAfee

Smashwords Edition

Cover Design by David McAfee and William Campbell

This is a work of fiction, and should be viewed as such.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your direct use only, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Visit David McAfee on the web at mcafeeland.wordpress.com or email him at Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com

Other Books by David McAfee:

33 A.D.

The Lake and 17 Other Stories

GRUBS (July 2010)

For Heather.

Again.

Chapter One:

Raine

July 12, 1986,

The Eye, an after-hours club

I knew she was too good to be true. Women like Raine don’t go for guys like me. Ever. You see them draped over the arms of actors or athletes, or walking the red carpet on Oscar night, or even playing trophy wife to the latest software billionaire, but you never see one sitting alone in a crowded nightclub. If by some odd chance you do, you can bet they aren’t going to make time with guys like me. But from the moment we met I felt an undeniable connection. An invisible thread that bound us together in ways I didn’t understand, and I didn’t try to. The first time I saw her, she was sitting alone in a breathtaking scarlet dress while the lights and colors of New York City nightlife ebbed and flowed around her, seemingly beneath her notice. Her bored expression couldn’t hide her exquisite features, and despite my better judgment, I couldn't keep from introducing myself.

Raine was beautiful, to put it mildly. Long, obsidian hair framed a face as pale and delicate as the petals of a white rose. Her crimson lips shone against her cheeks like blood on snow, and when she looked up from her drink and smiled at me, I felt closer to Heaven than I ever have before or since. It was the kind of smile you can take to the grave with you, and still feel your life was worth living just for having seen it.

Her beauty aside, when I think about that first night, it is her eyes I remember most. Deep sapphires sparkled beneath lashes so full and thick they scorned the use of anything so mundane as mascara. A man could drown in those dancing pools if he looked too long. Hundreds of years ago, when the romantics ruled the world, men might’ve died for them. Some undoubtedly did in the 1980’s too, come to think of it, though not for the same reasons.

Beautiful as she was, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of danger whenever I looked into her face. Something about her intimidated me, even scared me a little. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was a perfect example of the subconscious mind having more sense than the conscious. My subconscious told me something was amiss, but my conscious mind quite rudely told it to shut up, it had better things to do.

I walked over and asked if I could sit with her. She looked at me with those eyes, deep and enthralling as the sea, and I was gone. Hopelessly smitten. I knew in that instant those poets and romantics from hundreds of years ago were right about two things. The first being love at first sight was indeed possible. The second being men could, in fact, die for a woman’s eyes. Some would even consider themselves fortunate to have had the honor.

“Please do, Vincent,” she said, and smiled.

I was so lost I didn’t even realize she’d called me by name, even though I had not given it to her. It just never occurred to me.

“My name is Raine,” she said, and waved to a server nearby.

“That’s a beautiful name.” I knew it was lame, but it was all I could think to say.

The server stood next to the table and asked what I would like. I told him I would have water, since that’s what Raine was drinking. He retrieved a glass from the bar, filled it from the tap, and brought it over. When he set it down, I thought I saw a strange look pass between them. When I turned to face him it was gone. I chalked it up to being nervous.

“Here you go, sir,” he said, and left. Some small part of my mind told me I should leave, too, but I ignored it.

What followed was the ritual small talk, common in club meetings worldwide when two strangers are trying to get to know each other. She was a teacher, I was a freelance cartoonist. I didn’t have a girlfriend. She had no boyfriend, and there were no children in the equation at all. The usual topics that come up in such meetings. It’s as though they all share a common theme, a set track like a job interview. Which makes sense, if you consider the job you're applying for is one involving companionship perhaps not just for the immediate future, but for the rest of your days.

Or nights.

Before long we made our way to the dance floor, where Raine stole my ability to focus on anything but her. She moved with a fluidity and grace I would never have imagined possible. The soft way she eased her lithe, supple body across the floor took my breath and what little remained of my resistance away and tucked them somewhere into the folds of her red dress, leaving me open for anything.

“You’re an incredible dancer,” I told her, and meant it.

“Thank you,” she replied, smiling. “Lots of practice. I’ve been dancing for a very long time.”

“It shows. How long?”

She shook her head. “It’s not important. Just dance with me.”

I was happy to oblige.

“So you don’t have parents or friends in New York?” She asked.

“No, not really. My folks died in a crash about three years ago, and I don’t meet many people through my work.”

“I see,” she said, looking thoughtful. The barest hint of a smile twinkled in her eyes. Again, those warning bells sounded in the back of my head, and my instincts told me to get out of there. But again, I ignored them, and when Lady in Red began to play and couples all over the club were getting close, we did the same. As we danced to Chris Deburgh’s beautiful ballad, the entire world fell away, leaving only us. Two single stars in an otherwise empty universe. I sighed as she put her head on my chest, and for once the world had meaning.

Raine was soft, and smelled of rose petals. We danced, and I felt the movement of her body in time with mine, both of us swaying gently to the music. Neither of us spoke, and that’s when I knew for certain she had me. I would not have been able to let go even if I wanted to, which of course I didn’t. Sometimes drowning is better than swimming, ask any romantic old poet.

I can’t say how long we danced like that; it seemed to me I was lost for centuries, though it couldn’t have been longer than the single song. I could have stayed right there in that minute for the rest of my life and beyond, but even then I knew it would end. Sooner or later, it would have to.

The end came when she pulled away and looked in my eyes. I don’t know what she saw there, but the look on her face changed from contentment to guilt faster than it took me to draw a breath. This time the look did not pass quite so swiftly; in fact, it didn’t pass at all. Her lips, those beautiful lips that I had been longing to kiss all night, parted, and I thought she would say something, but she didn’t. Instead she took a step back, her head shaking slowly back and forth, her brow furrowed and eyes wide and wet. Then she turned and ran to the door without stopping to look behind her.

“Raine, what is it?” I asked, but she ignored me and bolted through the exit. By the time I recovered it was too late, she was gone. “What’s wrong?”

My shirt smelled like roses.

***

Stumbling home from the club, I had only a vague awareness of the sidewalk under my feet; otherwise I was oblivious to the world. My bleary gaze showed me the halos of two streetlights where only one had stood just a few hours before. Thought didn't come easy after all the booze, and soon my head felt like it had taken a hit from a splitting maul. I figured it was the lights giving me a headache, so I turned my back on them in defiance, a self-satisfied smile on my lips. That would show ‘em.

As I walked away, my focus cleared just enough to see a person standing in front of me. I almost bumped into her. If she hadn’t called my name, I might have done just that. As it was, I barely stopped short in time to avoid a collision. I tried to mutter some word of apology and go around, but my feet never got the directions from my brain, and I tripped and fell, landing squarely on my ass.

I sat there a bit, waiting for the earth to cease spinning when a thought made its slow way into my head. This woman knew my name, so she must be a friend or associate. That thought prompted another; there I was falling over myself in front of someone I knew. The thought of how I must look gave me the impetus to stand up and see who she was.

My breath caught in my throat when I saw Raine standing in front of me. I had not expected to see her again. We had passed in the night like those two fabled ships and that had been the end of it. I guess the sea had other ideas. In my sodden state I couldn’t make my mouth do anything other than gape. I couldn’t think of a thing to say and doubt I could have said anything anyway. I could only stand there, looking ridiculous as I tried desperately to think of some witty, face-saving comment.

She solved that problem for me by pulling me close and pressing her lips to mine. Surprised but very pleased, I kissed her back. There was something familiar about the taste of her breath. It had a distinctive flavor to it. I couldn’t place it then, but I know it well now. In retrospect it seems so obvious that I can’t believe I missed it back then, when it was important.

Blood.

Her kiss was fire. Ice. Hunger and desperation rolled into one. Pure passion. It filled my every pore, squeezing out everything I had been before like hands wringing out a dishtowel. I sobered up in an instant as a churning, raging river of life flowed through me. Parts of my body began to tingle with anticipation for what was sure to come, while my subconscious pined for what it knew I was about to lose. I didn’t care. I had what I wanted.

Then her body stiffened, and she pulled away from me again. The warmth that had been flooding into me was gone in a heartbeat, broken like an electric current after the power is cut. We both staggered, and I nearly fell. She recovered her balance quickly and stepped away from me, her face turned toward the sky.

“I can't do this,” she whispered, eyes trained on the sky.

Confusion and anguish marred her lovely face, turning it dark and sad. The face of someone who has just been told she has six months to live and those six months would be strapped to a machine. Although I had no idea what the fuck was going on, I knew I was about to lose her a second time. I couldn’t let her walk away from me again. Something in my head told me if I let her go it would be the last time I ever saw her. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

Reacting purely on instinct, I reached out and took her arm in my hand. I tried to pull her close to me, but it was like trying to move a telephone pole with your bare hands. I tried anyway. All I could think about was not letting go.

As if my touch on her arm woke her up, she snapped her gaze to my hand. With a grip stronger than any vise, she plucked my fingers from her arm and stared at me. Her ocean-blue eyes turned hard, and her jaw set. The red stain of her lips pressed into a thin line, like a fresh cut across the lower half of her face.

“Run,” she said, “Please, just run.”

“But-”

“No. No questions. You don't need to understand, Vincent. You just need to run.”

With that, she turned and ran, leaving me to watch her go. Again. I shook the cobwebs from my head and stared at her back as she ran away.

Not this time. I took up the chase. I didn't think I catch her, but I tried anyway. Even then I knew I was in way over my head, but something extraordinary was about to take place, something that involved Raine, and I didn't want to miss it.

She led me quite a chase, I'll give her that. We ran through the darkest alleys, the most confusing paths, and the worst parts of the neighborhood. Always, she seemed to linger just on the edge of my vision. The exertion of trying to keep up with her stole the remaining effects of alcohol from me, and with a cleared head, it was much easier to wonder just what the Hell was going on. As she rounded a corner and turned into an alley, I thought I had her. I knew the neighborhood well, and that particular alley was blocked at the far end. She had no way out. I hurried in to cut off any escape, thinking I would have my answers soon.

I stepped into the alley, looking left and right. There weren’t many hiding places. A few trashcans and a dumpster off to the left. I checked behind the dumpster, but she wasn’t there. After a moment’s thought, I knew her hiding place. I threw open the lid, but she wasn’t there, either. Worried now, I searched through the trash, even climbed in and dug my way down to the bottom. All I found was refuse and a few rats, very vocal and none too happy about having their supper interrupted.

She hadn’t run past me, and I didn’t see her leave, there was no way out. She had to be there. Had to be. But she was gone.

Again.

Chapter Two;

Kagan

Three nights later, and for the third night in a row, I sat in a small, dingy diner directly across the street from The Eye, a cup of strong coffee sending up tendrils of steam in front of me. The melamine tabletop was supposed to look like granite, but bore the faded stains of many meals, which detracted from the overall effect. This night, as in the previous two, I watched the entrance to the club for hours on end, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Raine.

The smoke from perhaps a dozen cigarettes drifted lazily through the dining room, mixing with the cooking smells that wafted through the kitchen window. It was their busy time. Between the hours of ten pm and two am the little diner - called Jo Ann’s - enjoyed a steady stream of clients coming in from The Eye. Mostly bawdy drunks who felt the need after a night of revelry to fill their bellies with something solid.

As I sat there dreaming of Raine and rehearsing in my head the things I would say when I saw her again, the waitress refilled my coffee and moved on to the next table. Her name was Rose, and she had a sharp wit and a pleasant smile that always made me feel welcome on those long nights staking out The Eye. Since I was only there for the busy hours, Rose and I were never alone in the place, but once or twice there was no one near my table, and we’d talked for a few minutes. She could keep a straight face while she told a joke that would curl a sailor’s hair. I remember laughing several times at something she’d say on her way to another table.

“Thank you, Rose,” I said, and she rewarded me with a sly wink as she juiced up a disheveled, heavyset man in the next booth who didn’t seem to appreciate the strength of her coffee. He took a long pull and winced, nearly choking on the stuff. I hid my smile in my cup and returned my mind to the matter at hand. Finding Raine.

While the man berated Rose for her ‘motor oil,’ I returned my attention to the door of The Eye. At only 10:00 PM, it would still be a few hours before the revelries of the night truly began; things didn’t really get wild in The Eye until well after midnight. So I waited. And I would continue to wait until I saw her face, no matter how many days and coffee refills it took. I settled myself into the seat and prepared for another long night.

I was just bringing the cup to my lips when a voice right next to my booth startled me from my thoughts. My arm jerked, a reflexive action, sending up a spray of very hot coffee, which splattered on the table, as well as my arm and face. Coughing and sputtering a curse, I turned to the speaker with a scalding remark on my lips.

I swallowed my comment when I saw the portly fellow who had been sitting at the next booth was now seated at mine. How’d he move so quietly? I wondered, cursing my own lack of attention. I had been so focused on the entrance to The Eye that a herd of elephants could have tromped in next to me and I wouldn’t have noticed. I grabbed my napkin and wiped the coffee from my stinging face and arm.

“Be more careful next time,” I said, controlling my irritation with great effort.

“You should thank me,” he replied, his voice like gravel. “You're better off wearing that shit than drinking it.”

Great, I thought, company. I sat back and waited to see what the husky man would say.

‘Husky’ wasn’t actually the right word for him, though. It’s a nice word, a politically correct word. He was fat. Very fat. And dirty, with a leering smile shrouded by what looked to be a week’s worth of growth on his face. He wore a ratty shirt that seemed made of wrinkles, untucked and with the top three buttons open, revealing a small forest of chest hair. His shoulder length, dirty blond hair resembled nothing so much as a ragged, filthy mop atop his head. It hung from his scalp in clumps like greasy dreadlocks.

And the smell! His stench drowned out both the cooking and the cigarettes, replacing them with something foul, yet indefinable. Sickly sweet, like overripe fruit rotting in the summer heat. I wondered when was the last time he’d had a bath, and decided I was better off not knowing.

His overcoat was a light tan color, but spotted here and there with various stains of grease, oil and food. He looked like one of the homeless guys who hung around the burning barrels in all those movies, Hollywood’s idea of the indigent. Something about him that just wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I didn’t like him, and I didn’t want him sitting with me.

It’s his eyes. They give me the shivers. Squeezed almost completely shut by large, flushed cheeks, his eyes were little more than dark slits in a face made of shadows, glittering with malice under the shadows of his furrowed brow. The irises were such a dark brown they could have been called black, while the whites showed a sickly, jaundiced yellow. A malevolent, cunning intelligence glinted there like a small red light, giving me the disturbing impression that their owner was watching, waiting only for the perfect moment. The eyes of a madman. I was so absorbed in the wrongness of him that I only realized he’d spoken because he seemed to be waiting for me to answer.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” I asked.

“I said, you seem pretty interested on that doorway, you waitin’ for someone?”

Not quite what I’d expected. I figured he’d ask me for spare change, or maybe if I knew where he could find a place to sleep. Without thinking, I shook my head, knowing as soon as I did I’d given him valuable information. I had just admitted that I was alone. A man walking alone in the middle of the night in undesirable parts of New York City can easily become a target.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Why not just hand him your wallet and slit your own throat to spare him the trouble?

I was sure he would just smile that unpleasant smile of his and wish me a good evening. Then get up and leave, walking only far enough away from the diner to sit and watch, keeping a vigil much like my own. He’d follow me a ways, to make sure I got good and far away so I couldn’t call for help. Then he would jump me when he deemed the timing right.

But that didn’t happen.

“If you ain’t waitin’ for someone,” he began, “then what’s so damn important about The Eye?” It felt like an accusation.

“Oh, Nothing, I suppose,” I replied, doing a pretty good job of keeping the nervous irritation out of my voice. “Just trying to decide if I want to go in.”

“Uh, huh. And I’m John Fuckin’ Travolta.”

“What business is it of yours, anyway?”

He studied my face, then gave me a dirty, condescending smirk. I’m tolerating you right now, Bucko, his smile seemed to say, but any time I want I can take you down, so be careful. That was the truth of the matter, and I knew it. The man had an unmistakable aura of danger and violence. Menace and mayhem on two legs. He made me nervous as hell, even scared me a little.

I couldn’t let him see how frazzled I was, it would only make things worse. Like an animal, if he smelled fear he would have pounced on it. So I forced myself to remain calm, and when I could be sure I wasn’t going to scream like a banshee, I smiled back at him, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt.

When I smiled, a ripple of surprise crossed his face. Not the good kind of surprise, but the kind that makes you think twice about what you’re doing. I didn’t know what it meant, but suddenly he didn't seem so sure of himself. He blinked twice, stared at me again, and extended a single, dirty hand.

“Name's Kagan,” he said. “Joel Kagan.”

When I didn’t take it, or offer my own name in response, he pulled his hand back and folded his arms in front of him, leaving a smudge on the smooth surface of the table. Kagan took a pack of cigarettes from his rumpled shirt, shoved one into his mouth, and spoke around it like a character in an old Bogart movie.

“Lemme tell you somethin’, friend,” he said as he brought a lighter up and lit the tip of his Marlboro. “You don't have to like me, but I’ve been watching you staring at that club for the last three days. Being the helpful, friendly sort of guy I am, I wanted to offer you this warning.” He blew out a cloud of smoke, right into my face. I forced myself not to cough or flinch. Kagan lowered his cigarette and pointed a single, grubby finger at me, nearly poking me with it.

“Bad things happen at The Eye,” he said. “If I were you, I’d stay away from the place.”

“Oh?” I asked. “Should I?”

Kagan nodded. “If you give a shit about your soul, anyway.”

With that, the unasked for and unwanted conversation ended. Kagan stood up, fixed me with another long, angry stare, and walked to the front door. On the way he absently dropped a ten spot on the table to cover his order, which had not yet arrived from the kitchen. Rose moved to remind him he had not received his food, then thought better of it and let him leave.

She picked up the ten, and as she walked past me whispered, “Better to just let that guy go, and take his smell with him. Kagan can be an awful ass.” Something else Rose and I agreed on. The room already seemed brighter and smelled better than I remembered. I guess next to Joel Kagan, the scent of cigarette smoke and fatty foods frying on the grill was a welcome change.

“But on the bright side,” Rose continued, “he did just buy me dinner.” We both laughed at that, then she walked to the kitchen to retrieve her meal. She surprised me by sitting at my table to eat it.

“Do you mind?” She asked, “I’ll only be a few minutes. It’s too busy to take a real break.”

“Not a bit,” I said, glad to have some real company. My encounter with Kagan had left me feeling soiled, dirty, and badly in need of a shower. I couldn’t imagine why Rose would want to sit in the same spot he had (she wiped off the smudge his hand left on the table before she started eating), but if she wanted to, she was more than welcome. It also gave me the chance to ask her a few questions about Kagan, but I let her enjoy her short-lived rest before I bothered her with them.

“Who is that guy?” I asked when she was almost finished, “What does he have against The Eye?”

“Who knows? With him, who cares?” she replied around a mouthful of food. “He started coming in about a week before you did, always watching the club with that sour look on his face, like he’d just tasted something that didn't agree with him.” She polished off the last bite of her burger and continued.

“Although, judging from the size of his belly, I’d say there ain’t much that doesn’t agree with him.” With that, Rose stood and made her way to the kitchen, stopping only long enough to inform a newly arrived couple she’d be right with them.

With a smile on my lips from Rose's joke, I turned to resume my vigil, thankful the horrible man was gone.

Threatening me, I mused. ‘If you give a shit about your soul.’ Who does that fat slob think…

My thoughts trailed away as I saw the object of my stakeout appear from the doorway and walk off into the night. I couldn’t see her face, but there was no mistaking that long, black hair. I wondered why I hadn’t seen her go into the club, and surmised that it must have happened while I was occupied with Kagan. Damn the man! Because of him I had missed Raine entering the club, and would have to run to catch her before she was out of sight.

I dropped my own ten on the table and rushed out the door and onto the sidewalk. I looked up the street and just caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared around a corner. Without bothering to wonder if I was crazy, I took off after her. Determined to catch her and make her talk to me. This time, she would not get away.

Movement on the edge of my vision caught my eye. Kagan. The fat bastard was running down the street in the same direction as me. Did he plan to try and cut me off? Maybe shove me into an alley up ahead? Perhaps he had a partner, another filthy, unpleasant transient to help him with his ugly business. Probably just as big and twice as mean, with my luck.

But Kagan didn't seem to notice me. His attention was focused on a point up ahead. He never even looked in my direction, just stared straight ahead as he ran faster than any man his size had a right to go.

Up ahead, I couldn't see anything except the familiar haze of a New York summer night. Then I caught another glimpse of Raine, who was also running. Her long black hair blew backward in the breeze crated by her stride, looking like the tail of a dark comet. Every now and then she would turn her head to look behind her.

Then it dawned on me. Kagan! Raine was running from Kagan.

The improbability of the notion did little to ease my concern. It would explain why he’d been watching me as I staked out the club. But why? That’s the question that concerned me. Jealousy? Maybe, but I didn’t think Raine would have anything to do with someone like Joel Kagan. A Stalker, perhaps? That seemed more likely.

I considered crossing the street and having it out with him then and there, but doing so would mean losing sight of Raine. Who knew when I would see her again? Especially if she had goons like Kagan after her. No, better to just beat him to her. Then at least I might be able to talk to her for a minute before the fireworks start.

Though large and round, Kagan ran very fast, and showed no signs of exhaustion. I thought it odd, given the man's physical condition. Yet there he was, keeping pace with me on the other side of the street and showing no ill effects for the effort. He was even a little ahead of me. Then he noticed me on my side of the street. He smiled, showing me a mouth full of crooked, yellow teeth.

Just wait, he seemed to say with that smile. Just wait until I am done with her. Then I will go to work on you.

The guy's got stamina, I'll give him that, I thought as I redoubled my efforts to catch Raine, determined to reach her first. I might not be able to protect her, but if nothing else I could give her a warning, or perhaps even some time to get away. Of course, what I didn’t know at the time was Raine was not the one who needed protecting. Of those involved in the chase that night, the person most in need of protection was me.

At last she came into view underneath a cone of light from a streetlamp, then faded out again as she exited the glow, only to reappear in the next one. She had crossed to my side of the street and wasn't running anymore, but walking fast down the sidewalk, casting furtive glances into every alley she passed. She seemed to be looking for something.

Something found her first.

As I watched, a hand shot out from an alley and clamped down on her arm. Faster than my eyes could follow, Raine was pulled into the shadows, into what horrors I could only guess. I thought about the kinds of things that usually happened to women who were dragged unwillingly into dark corners in the middle of the night. Robbery? Rape? Both?

Not this time!

With a wild yell, I raced to the entrance and jumped in, even though most of the alley was shrouded in darkness. A glint of light to my left, reflecting off something silver and shiny. A knife! I thought. He’s got a knife! Laughter echoed through the hallway. sinister, vile. I threw myself at the shadow of a tall, thin man who held Raine's arm. His laughter cut off as I barreled into him and knocked him to the ground. I raised my right fist and brought it down on his jaw. My fist connected, and I felt a sharp pain as his teeth cut the skin on my knuckles. The man groaned, and his shadowed head lolled to the side. He wouldn’t be getting up for a while, so I relaxed a bit.

I looked up from my half kneeling position and tried to see Raine, but it was too dark.

“Raine?” I asked, “Are you all right?”

Fire exploded on the side of my head. The impact knocked me on my back, and all of a sudden I remembered the fat man who had also been running to this spot.

Kagan! In my panic I’d forgotten about him.

He jumped on my chest, pinning me to the alley floor, then started pounding me with rock-hard fists the size of grapefruits. I tried to dislodge him, but he was too strong. Much stronger than he had any right to be. As he rained blow after blow upon my skull, I felt around for something, anything to use as a weapon. My thoughts became less and less coherent, and I knew I would lose consciousness soon if I couldn’t stop him. If that happened, Kagan would probably kill me. Or wait until his partner woke up and let him do it. Desperate, I searched for an edge of some kind. A trash can lid, a rock, anything. Dear God, I thought, give me something!

As my vision began to fade, my hand closed around something hard and metallic. Sending up a brief prayer of thanks, I swung it in a full arc with every ounce of strength I had left.

It was a good hit. A solid hit. Perhaps the hardest I’d ever hit anyone in my life. Desperation and fear gave me a rush of adrenaline I’d never felt before. With it came a strength I didn’t normally possess. The object struck him hard in the left temple. If Joel Kagan felt anything, it was only for a brief instant as the metal cracked his skull, breaking a hole in it and sinking into the gray matter beneath.

Without so much as a grunt of pain, he slumped down, and did not move again. With a sizeable effort, I pushed him off me and rose to my feet on shaky legs. I looked down at Kagan's massive prone form, and soon noticed a small pool of blood trickling from his mouth. Had I killed him? It seemed pretty likely, though it took a bit for the idea to penetrate my mind, and when it did…

Oh, SHIT!

Knees wobbling, I looked away from him, afraid that further study would reveal I had actually done it; I had killed someone. For what seemed like an eternity, I stood unmoving, looking at the wall, the ground, anywhere but at the prone form of Joel Kagan.

It was Raine who broke the spell.

“Kagan,” she said, “you killed him.” Her words had a hollow, echo-like quality, as though she were speaking through a drainpipe. Lost in my thoughts, I couldn’t be sure she had really even spoken at all.

What she said next caught me completely off guard.

“You were too easy on him. I would have made the bastard suffer.”

Shocked, I didn’t notice as my hand loosened its grip. I didn’t feel the object I’d used to slay Kagan slip from my fingers. The loud clang it made as it hit the pavement brought me to my senses, and I looked down to see what I had used to commit murder. It was the same object the other shadow had been holding when I barreled into him. I’d glimpsed it briefly in the dim light, and thought it was a knife.

It wasn’t.

There on the ground, inches from my foot, lay a silver crucifix. It shone an eerie red in the moonlight, stained as it was with the blood of Joel Kagan.

Chapter Three:

Murder and Cognac

I stared at the bloody crucifix for what seemed like hours, transfixed by the sight of it. Everything else seemed secondary. The most prominent memory I have from 1985 is of that simple silver implement lying half in and half out of a filthy puddle, while tiny trickles of scarlet ran from its smooth surface to mix with the oil and the dirt.

I looked from the crucifix to my hands, and sure enough they, too, were stained with blood. In the moonlight, the blood took on a different hue. Not red, but an empty black. Empty, like the lifeless eyes of Joel Kagan.

I brought my hands to my face to get a better look. A tiny drop of blood fell from my fingers. I watched it crawl towards the earth to land soundlessly among its fellows. Then a strange numbness took hold of me. My legs buckled, and I fell to my knees in the small red puddle, unable to pry my eyes away from my hands.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “What have I done?” I couldn't say anything else, I just sat there in the alley, mouthing the word murderer over and over again like scratched vinyl.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and Raine turned me to face her. She was so beautiful I could have cried. Her face lit the way back from the edge of sanity. Until then I hadn't realized how close I'd come to losing it. But she wouldn’t let me. She knelt in front of me, her face full of concern.

Her lips were moving, but I couldn’t make out her words. I forced myself to concentrate and focus on her, and not think about the dead body only a few feet away. As the world inside my head quieted, I heard what Raine was trying to tell me.

“…would surely have done something horrible if not for you. Are you listening? Can you hear me? You saved me, Vincent! Thank you. Vincent? VINCENT?”

“What… who is he?” I asked.

“Vincent, you’re OK,” she said, smiling. “I thought you were lost.”

She threw her arms around me and pushed my head onto her shoulder. I returned the embrace with every ounce of my strength, wanting and needing to hold on to her. Her fingers kneaded through my hair. Once again the sweet smell of roses enveloped me, pushing away the dirty scents of hot asphalt and blood.

And I wept.

I am not ashamed of my tears, and Raine did not make me feel so. She sat with me in that oily puddle and listened to me sob like a little boy; all the while softly whispering to me, telling me everything was all right.

After a few moments I got myself under control. Once my thoughts returned more or less to normal, I started to wonder what was going on. Only one way to find out.

“Raine, why was Kagan after you? And who is that other guy?”

“Vincent,” she began, “It’s not imp-”

“No!” I shouted. “Don’t tell me it’s not important! That guy’s dead. I’d say that’s pretty fucking important!”

Raine flinched, and I felt sorry for raising my voice, but I couldn’t help it. My nerves were shot.

“I did it for you,” I said. “They were after you, weren’t they? Why? And why did they have that?” I finished, pointing at the crucifix.

“Vincent, I-I don't know where to begin. It…”

The peal of sirens cut through the night, interrupting her. Someone had called the police over the ruckus in the alley.

“And this is not the time or place to explain,” she said. “Follow me.”

With that, she grabbed me by the wrist and led me down the alley to the other side. Once out of the alley, she turned right and ran, dragging me behind her.

I thought we were going back to the bar, but before we got there she turned into another ally. We ran down it until we got to a big yellow moving truck with the word Hertz painted on the back. It took up the whole alley. The only way past it was under it, and that would take too long.

A dead end. There was no time to waste, so I turned and tried to run back out of the place. She grabbed my arm.

“Not that way,” she said.

“Then where?” I asked, “Where do we go?”

“Through the door,” she replied, a hint of a smile betraying her impatient tone.

Just as I opened my mouth to ask what door, Raine reached her hand to the wall and curled it like she would around a doorknob. That’s when I saw there was a door. In her hand she held an ornate knob, which had not been there before.

She pulled, and the door swung open. There was no light on the other side, and I couldn't see anything beyond it. I peered into the inky blackness and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Cold dread seeped into my bones. An alarm hidden deep within my psyche warned me not to go in. To me it seemed like we would be walking into something dark. I felt that if I entered, I would never be able to leave the darkness.

I told myself not to be silly, rationalizing that I could see or imagine anything after the night I’d just had. It’s just a door, damn it! Go through it or go talk to the cops. It wasn’t much of a choice.

I should have listened to my fear. Fear makes a man’s instinct sharper. It is the body’s way of protecting itself when the mind refuses to cooperate. After I entered that doorway, I was never fully a creature of the light again.

***

What meager light existed disappeared as soon as Raine shut the door behind her, and I was plunged into darkness so thick I felt like I could reach out and touch it, to actually feel the lack of light with my fingertips. I even closed my eyes and opened them again just to see if there was any difference. There wasn’t.

Once, in my early twenties, I explored a deep cave with some friends. We brought flashlights, food, and sleeping bags, enough supplies to last the night and into the next day. When we bedded down for the night and turned off the flashlights I discovered it was, in fact, possible for it to be so dark that you literally couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. Until that moment, I'd always thought that was just an expression.

The hallway was much, much darker. Not only could I not see my hand; I couldn’t feel it, either. The darkness was not so much a lack of light as it was a trick of the mind. There is a psalm on that hallway (what you would call a spell) which prevents those who don’t belong there from being able to see. No human would have been able to see anything in that hallway.

Raine, however, could see fine.

I felt her hand grip mine, guiding me as she led the way through a maze of tunnels and doorways in which I was soon lost. Eventually we left the radius of the psalm and I could see again. With all the rights and lefts through the dark, however, I would never have found my way back. Not that I wanted to try; I’d had enough of that hallway to last me a lifetime.

We rounded a corner and came to an ornate set of double doors made of cherry wood. On the surface were all manner of carvings. Bass-relief images of people engaged in a frenzied dance adorned both doors, their faces imbued with a reddish hue by the coloring of the wood. They danced around a large beast vaguely human in shape, but with a head that resembled a snarling wolf. The wolf-thing’s bared its teeth to the moon. Something, most likely blood, dripped from its jaws. Below it more people writhed about in agony, their faces wearing looks of excruciating pain. The artist who’d carved this door had known his work well; these people pulled my pity from me with anguished screams that could almost be heard, but never would.

All in all, with the reddish hue and the people suffering while others danced and feasted nearby, I thought the door very much resembled my own personal view of what Hell must look like.

Raine grabbed one of the handles and pulled. "Come in, Vincent," she said, and I did not hesitate.

I entered a large, sparsely furnished room. Aside from a plush red velvet couch, the only other objects of furniture were two large, overstuffed chairs and a small wooden table that sat between them. The chairs matched the couch. The table was made from the same wood as the door.

“I love cherry wood,” she said. “It’s the color. It’s so beautiful.”

I thought the hue reminded me a little too much of the reddish stain on a certain silver crucifix, myself, but I didn’t say so. I nodded instead. “It’s pretty.”

“Please, sit down.” Raine pointed to one of the chairs as she went through another door directly across the room. I had never heard such a wonderful suggestion in all my life, and stepped over to the chair on the right. I sank deep into its soft cushions and tried not to think about Kagan. My eyes started to droop almost immediately, and I snapped them open, surprised at how exhausted I felt. Before long, Raine returned with a decanter and two glasses, one of which she filled and handed to me.

“Drink this,” she said, “It will help calm you down.”

“Thanks.”

I brought the glass to my face. The sharp, strong smell of liquor hit my nose. Cognac. Courvoisier, no less. I drank the whole thing with gusto, feeling the smooth liquor flow down my throat and into my belly, spreading welcome warmth the entire way. Yes, I thought, that should do the trick.

I set the empty glass on the table and looked at Raine, who looked back at me. For a while neither of us said anything at all, both of us were lost in our own thoughts. Mine involved the man I had killed. Raine’s were a mystery. I could not read anything on her face. She grabbed the decanter from the table and refilled my glass.

“You were looking for me,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“How did you know?”

“I saw you from the club. For the last three days I watched you sit in the diner, staring the doorway of The Eye. When Kagan distracted you, I thought I could make it out without you seeing me.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked, taking another long swig of Cognac and grimacing as the burn flowed down my throat and into my gut.

She nodded. “You saved me. Kagan and Sanders would have killed me.”

“Sanders?”

“Carl Sanders,” she sighed. “Kagan works for him. Those two have been hunting me for a long time. They finally tracked me down at The Eye. It was only a matter of time before they struck. They would have attacked sooner, but neither of them dared enter the club, and I've stayed inside for the last three days, sleeping in the back room, trying to avoid you.”

“Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” she said, her voice firm, and placed her hand on my shoulder. “You didn't do anything wrong. I was avoiding you because… because I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what?”

Raine’s eyes went to the floor, and she didn’t answer. Her shoulders slumped, and her dark hair fell in a thin curtain, obscuring her face. I reached out my hand and gently cupped the bottom of her jaw, lifting her face until her eyes once again looked into mine.

“Protect me from what, Raine?”

A single tear welled in one sapphire eye, then spilled over onto her soft cheek.

“From me,” she whispered.

Chapter Four:

Bachiyr

“From you?” I asked. “I don’t understand.”

Raine shook her head, but didn't reply. Her gaze slid to the glass in front of her, which she cradled between her hands like a baby chick.

Something wasn’t right. I had a nagging feeling I was about to learn something that I might be better off not knowing. I thought, and not for the first time, that I should just walk away right then and never look back. With everything that had happened to me that evening, it seemed like a good choice. Just go. Forget everything. Forget Raine and Kagan and puddles of dirty blood. Forget Crucifixes and dark corridors and doors with demons carved into them. Forget all that crazy shit and just get the Hell out while I still could. It was a good idea, and one that made perfect sense.

But of course I did no such thing.

“Talk to me, Raine,” I said. “Tell me what it is, already.”

She looked up into my eyes, tears tracking down either side of her nose. As they broke from their confinement to roll unheeded down her cheeks, I was struck by how sad she looked, and ashamed. Like she had lost something important. The longer I sat there, the more I felt it, and the more it hurt.

“You won’t understand,” She replied.

“Then make me.” I reached out and put my hand on top of hers.

She sighed, then looked back at her glass. Her face turned to steel, replacing the melancholy as she waged her own inner war. Was she seeing someone already? Married? Please God don’t let that be it. I did my best to appear steady and calm while I readied myself for the worst.

She pulled her hand from mine and poured me another glass of cognac, and then she raised her own glass to her lips. “Cheers.”

I expected her to take a little sip and then grimace, like I did. On the contrary, however, she took the whole glass down in one pull. She smiled at me as she filled her glass a second time.

Not wanting to be shown up, I quaffed my entire glass, and again felt the comforting warmth spread through my body. Nothing collects a man’s thoughts as quickly as a hard pull on a stiff drink. I felt better already, and I guess she did too, because after she poured me a fourth glass, she began her revelation. And what a revelation it turned out to be.

“Vincent,” she began, “have you ever heard the word Bachyir?”

“Back-yir?” I replied.

“Bachyir,” she said. “It’s from ancient Hebrew. It means Chosen, or The Chosen.”

“No,” I replied. I was well into my fourth glass of cognac, and feeling very little pain. A warm, slightly fuzzy sensation had taken root inside my head, and I was content to let it stay there. The fuzziness sloshed around inside my skull like clothes in one of those Laundromat washing machines with the round window on the front, and I had to set my glass down to keep from spilling it. “Can’t say that I have. Why? What is it?”

“The Bachyir are a race of people, similar to humans, but very different. They...we... can be any size, gender, or color, there are no boundaries as to who can become one.”

“Become one? You aren’t born that way?”

“No,” she replied, “No one is born this way. We are normal people until we Turn. That’s actually where our race gets its name. ‘Chosen’ because we are, quite literally, chosen by whoever Turns us. The founders of our race, the Council of Thirteen, were chosen by The Father over six thousand years ago. He directed the original thirteen Bachyir to likewise choose suitable humans to be their offspring, and spread our race across the known world.

“But he warned them not to be too prolific, because if our race was discovered we would be hunted down and destroyed. We must always remain small in number so as to remain undetected.”

“Why?” I asked. The liquor made me lightheaded, and I found it difficult to concentrate on Raine’s words. I was doing an admirable job of paying attention up to that point, if I do say so myself. After four and a half glasses of cognac, however, even the most valiant effort of will only goes so far. I needed her to get to the point before I passed out right there at the table. “What, exactly, is a Bachyir?”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, eyeing me with her crystal blue eyes. Then she set her glass on the table and leaned closer, bringing the smell of roses back to me.

“Imagine,” she began, “that you were immune to Time and all its debilitations. No disease dared touch you, and Shakespeare’s Mortal Coil no longer held you in bondage. Not only that, but imagine in this state of immortality that you are stronger and faster than ever before. Imagine you had abilities far beyond those of normal men. What you would do? Who would you become if the limitations of this life were not pressed upon you? Can you imagine such a thing, Vincent? A world without Time? It exists. The Bachyir see it every night.”

“Yeah? Who do you have to kill for that?” I said, joking.

Raine didn’t find it funny. She leaned back in her chair and her shoulders slumped. Her eyes found her hands, which lay folded in her lap. I felt like a piece of shit. Way to go, dickhead.

“There are several downsides,” she admitted. “Foremost among the things we sacrifice is the Day. We can’t venture out into the light of the Sun. Instead, we lie in a dormant state through the day. Also, we cannot come into contact with any object that has been consecrated or blessed without tremendous pain. The level of pain varies from individual to individual, and some feel it so lightly that it almost doesn’t exist for them. Almost. It is always there to some degree, however.

“We can’t eat food without getting ill. There is no variance with this price. Any Bachyir who ingests, say, a double cheeseburger will soon find themselves in great pain as their body rejects the foreign matter. It’s never killed anyone, but it has made more than a few wish they were dead for a few hours. For most of us, the same is true of drinks, as well. I am able to enjoy a nice glass of cognac with you, though I am not immune to its effects, but most other Bachyir can’t do so without getting just as violently ill as if they had eaten regular food.”

Her words had come easily to her until this point. She was, after all, only reciting the facts of Bachyir life. Rather like explaining to a child the process of going to work to make money. Something ordinary and everyday; easy enough to describe. Raine had slipped into the comfortable oratory of a learned educator giving a simple lecture. But now her face clouded over, as though there was more to say, but she didn’t want to say it.

“We can kill, though,” she said finally, so low I could barely hear, “In fact, we live for it. We have no choice, we must feed.”

“Feed?” I interrupted, “Huh?”

She fixed me with a look that sent a shiver though my body. Sad, yet hungry. A prisoner before their last meal. “Vincent, there’s just no easy way to say it.”

“Then just spit it out, already. Geez, Raine, how bad could—”

“Your kind know us as Vampires,” she blurted, then covered her mouth with her hand as though she could force the words back in.

And there it was. The truth. No more dancing around the topic, not more shuffling words. Just the bald, naked truth. Let out into the open like a wild animal that just escaped from the zoo.

And it was total bullshit.

For a time, I just stared at her, waiting for the punch line. I thought she was joking. Not a very funny joke, though. I spent perhaps a full minute in silence, waiting for her to laugh or smirk or at least say something else. Something like “Ha! Gotcha!” or “Boo!” after which we would both laugh, even though mine would be forced.

She didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she sat there looking at me with those sad eyes, a strange mix of shame and defiance on her face. Then it dawned on me she was waiting for me to speak. Funny, huh? I was waiting for her to say something and she was waiting for me to do the same. The resulting silence seemed to stretch on for an hour, though in reality it may have been as little as a minute and a half or so.

Disgusted, I stood up, my hands balling into fists at my sides. Obviously, she wanted to get rid of me. I couldn’t imagine why, or why she didn’t just tell me the real truth. After what I’d done for her I deserved that much at least. She wanted the silence broken? She wanted me to be the one to break it? Ok, I’ll break it, I thought. I’ll break that fucking silence all to Hell!

“Oh, really?” I asked. “A vampire? I suppose Kagan was the Wolfman, right? Who was the other guy? The Mummy? Frankenstein’s Monster? I know he wasn’t the Invisible Man, because I could see him!” I jabbed my finger into the small tabletop on the last syllable to emphasize my point, and my empty glass wobbled for a moment before it fell to the floor with a crash. Raine winced at the sound, but I barely heard it.

“Well?” I pressed.

That was all I could get out. I tried to say more, but I couldn’t. There were too many words, too many thoughts driving mad circles around my head for me to pick any one and give it coherence. Nothing would come, the whole process of speech seemed to have broken down, and I was left standing there in disbelieving fury. I might have started sputtering, since nothing else would come out. I can imagine how I must have looked. Mouth opening and closing with no words coming from it. Like a fish. Soon I gave up trying to speak. I’d had enough. My mind, besotted though it was, told me one thing; it was time to go.

Without another word, I turned and made for the doorway. The ornate set of double doors with their carvings of the people and the wolves on the outside looked like ordinary doors from the inside. Good. It made it that much easier to touch them.

Just as I reached for the handle, a hand grabbed my shoulder. Annoyed, I tried to shake it off, but I couldn’t. Her grip was like iron; I wouldn’t have been able to pry her hand off me with a crowbar. She pulled me back to the chair with the same ease I would have had lifting an infant and setting him back in his cradle. I couldn’t speak. Holy shit, she’s strong, I thought. She was, too. Unbelievably so. Come to think of it, I guess you’d call it unnaturally strong.

She forced me to sit, and then she glared down at me, her eyes aflame with righteous indignation. No longer the beautiful woman I’d fallen so hard for, her eyes scalded me like boiling water. This wasn’t the Raine I’d met. This was something else. Beautiful and terrible. I sobered up in an instant. Raine was nothing short of breathtaking, even in her white-hot fury, and what I realized with my cleared head was that even though she was a raving lunatic, I still loved her. I thought she would hit me. Or worse. But she didn’t.

“You don't believe me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Would you?” I shot back. “Christ, Raine,” I continued, “how could you expect me to believe that? A Vampire? How dumb do I look? You don’t have to lie to me. If you want me to leave, just say so.”

I again tried to stand and walk to the door. This time, if she tried to stop me, I would have to hit her or something. I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t going stay there for another instant.

Before I left my seat, the world began to quiver. The whole room lurched. It seemed like the walls and floor were falling away from me. In another second I realized the room wasn’t moving at all. I was. Rather, my chair was moving. It rose straight up from the floor and carried me with it, clutching the armrest with white knuckles. I looked over the side and watched the floor grow farther and farther away.

When the chair finally halted its ascent, I looked around the room. At all four walls, at the ceiling, and at the floor. I looked for anything that might have caused the chair to shoot straight up from the floor in such a manner, but found nothing. No wires, no cables, no hidden forklift behind a curtain. Hell, no curtain, for that matter. And where was Raine? I didn’t see her anywhere. Had the floating chair scared her off? I doubted it, but I conceded to myself that I just couldn’t tell. With her, anything was possible.

Then it hit me. A lift! There was a lift under the chair. Had to be. Nothing else could explain it. Raine, furious that I didn’t believe her wild story, had tripped some switch and set the chair to rising. I hadn’t seen it because I was turning to leave. Well, I hoped she enjoyed her little game because as soon as I figured out how high I was, I meant to jump down and sprint for the door. This time I would not let her stop me.

I leaned over to see how high the chair was, half expecting to see some long curtains or something under the chair to hide the lift. I didn’t see any curtain, nor did I see a lift. What I did see stopped my heart like a deadbolt.

There was Raine, eyes glowing a fierce red. She held myself and the chair - easily 300 pounds - over her head with one hand like a waiter carrying a tray. She wasn’t even straining. That terrible/beautiful feeling was back, but added to it now was a new feeling. Awe.

“Is this a lie, too?” she asked. Two sharp points glinted in her upper jaw. Stark white, they reflected the room’s ambient light back at me with a stunning clarity.

Fangs.

“Is it?” She pressed.

Startled, I jumped back in the chair. Raine was no waiter, and the chair was no tray of food. She might be able to hold the chair and me up one-handed, but balancing it while I squirmed was another matter. The whole world tilted crazily to the right, and the next thing I knew I was falling headfirst towards the stone floor. I heard Raine call out my name, but the sudden overwhelming crack of pain at the back of my skull drowned out her voice.

Then the room went dim.

***

When I opened my eyes, I saw Raine kneeling on the floor next to me, cradling my head in her lap. Concern etched her features, and her eyes shone a vibrant, electric blue as she pushed aside a few strands of hair from my face. “Are you all right?” She asked.

“I think so.” I tried to sit up, but she put her hand on my shoulder and pushed me back down.

“You could have a concussion,” she said. “Better to take it slow.” She touched the back of my head, the part that hit the floor, and sent a jolt of pain through my skull. I winced. “Sorry,” she said.

“That’s OK. I’m better. Really. I—”

She cut off my protest with a kiss, pressing her lips to mine as though my breath were the only thing keeping her alive. She kept one hand on the back of my head, which suddenly didn’t hurt anymore, and placed her other hand on my chest, kneading my shirt between her fingers. Her lips parted and I tasted her tongue in my mouth, feeling, exploring…looking for someplace to go.

After a moment’s surprise I reached my arms around her and kissed her back. Something awakened in my body that had only simmered before, an urgent, mounting need that cried out to be met, and soon. The crotch of my jeans grew tighter and tighter with the strain of holding in a thrumming erection, and I couldn’t do anything by that point but go along for the ride.

We stood together without breaking our kiss, both of us feeling, roaming the other’s body with our hands. Her nipples poked through her blouse, hard as nails under my fingers and begging to be kissed. Her hand found its way to my crotch, and she squeezed what she found there, sending an jolt of anticipatory pleasure up my spine.

She reached her hands up to my chest, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me to a doorway in the back of the room. I followed her in silence to a lushly appointed room with an antique grandfather clock on one wall, a massive Cherry wood dresser on another, and a huge four-poster bed that dominated the center of the chamber, its scarlet sheets held the smooth sheen of satin. She led me to the bed and gently pushed me onto it.

I lay on my back, looking up at her as she removed her blouse. Raine’s nipples stood erect and almost poked through her soft red bra. Then she reached behind her and undid the clasp, exposing her bare breasts to the open air of the chamber. I reached up and rubbed one of her swollen nipples between my fingers, and a sigh escaped her lips.

She pushed me back down on the bed, grabbed the edges of my shirt, and tore it from my body, then leaned down and kissed me again, her passion nearly stealing my breath. I felt a sharp jolt, like the release of static electricity but more intense, as our bare skin touched, and the tightness in my jeans grew to uncomfortable proportions, throbbing in anticipation.

I don’t quite remember how, but the next thing I knew the barrier of clothes between us had vanished. Torn away in breathless passion, and Raine lay on top of me, the dampness of her crotch evident as she maneuvered herself into position. I thought I was ready, Hell, my cock sure thought I was ready, but nothing could have prepared me for the spasm of pleasure that ripped through me when Raine guided my painfully rigid manhood into her.

I almost screamed as she thrust herself down on me, enveloping my swollen gland with a warm, silky wetness and igniting every single nerve on the way down, until I felt like my whole body was on fire. My legs twitched as the smell of sex filled the room. I couldn’t think straight, the heat in my lower body blocked out everything except Raine’s gyrating, pulsing hips that continued to thrust up and down, up and down, until all too soon I felt that familiar pressure building.

“We…need to stop, Raine.” I said, not at all convinced, myself. “I don’t..I don’t…”

“No,” she said, and buried her face into the small of my neck.

“But...I don’t…have a…” That’s all I got out. Raine ran her tongue along the hollow of my throat and at that point I was beyond protesting. Condom or no condom, I passed the point of caring and fell into the rhythm our lovemaking with all the vigor I could muster, pushing upward with my hips to give her as much of me as I could manage. She moaned louder. Then she kissed my neck and bit down on it softly, while continuing to grind her naked hips into mine and force myself deeper and deeper inside her, sliding up and down the length of my shaft with a primal, animalistic need. Raine’s increasing moans in my ear excited me more than I would have thought possible. The skin of my arms pebbled with gooseflesh, and she pushed me right to the brink.

Then she bit down hard on my throat. The sudden misture of pain and pleasure sent my mind reeling as that wonderful, intense blankness that is the male orgasm took over. Raine moaned again into my neck as she gripped my shoulders tight, drawing blood with her nails. I pumped my load into her even as she twitched in the throes of her own moment, and the entire time her mouth stayed on my neck, a delicious touch of pain that swirled through the orgasm and made me come even harder.

When the pleasure receded, and my mind resumed normal function, I loosened my grip on her, letting my arms fall limply to the bed. I hadn’t realized how much the whole experience had taken out of me, but as I lay there, Raine still nuzzling my neck, my eyes grew heavy, and I could not keep them open.

Maybe it was the blow to the head, or the cognac, or the intense session with Raine, but sleep called out to me, a Siren song I was unable to resist. My eyes drooped, and the pain in my neck diminished into a low, throbbing pulse that I barely noticed, as soft now as the feeling of Raine’s obsidian hair splayed across my bare chest.

I closed my eyes and gave in to my exhaustion as Raine lifted her head from my neck.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

I cracked my eyes open, just barely, and looked at her. She leaned over me, her blue eyes sparkling with moisture. Twin runnels of reddish fluid ran from her mouth down either side of her chin. Damn, I thought. How hard did she bite me? The effort of holding my eyes open proved to be too much, so I closed them. Then sleep won.

Chapter Five:

Something Is Different

July 16, 1986

I woke with the sun shining on my face like a razor. Blinding would perhaps be putting it too mildly. The dazzling light poured through my bedroom window, sending white-hot needles through my optic nerves to stab the inside of my head with searing pain. I’d never seen the sun so bright. It hurt even with my eyelids closed, and it did nothing for my pounding headache. With my eyes clenched shut, I felt around for the edge of the curtain. When my trembling fingers closed around it, I yanked it shut. That did darken the room a bit, and at least made it bearable, if only just.

I lay in bed for a handful of minutes and thought about going back to sleep and letting the sun have its day. Try as I might, however, I couldn’t doze off again. After a time, I opened my eyes to see my own bedroom. The place felt strange to me. I didn’t know why, but something seemed different. Off.

The room itself wasn’t strange, it was just my same old room. The same tired old dresser sat on the left wall next to the same faded closet door, in which hung the same old wardrobe. The same painting of Janis Joplin hung on the faded yellow wall opposite the bed, which certainly felt like it held the same old worn out mattress. The same unfinished copy of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment sat on the nightstand with the same B. Dalton’s bookmark stuck right where I’d left it. I’d just reached the scene where Raskalnikov first meets his sister’s pompous fiancé. Ha! He didn’t like that fellow much now, did he?

My memory of the night before drifted in and out of my head like a thick haze. The only thing I knew for sure was that I must have gone on one hell of a bender. My head, which felt like two construction workers were taking turns with a jackhammer on the inside of my skull, only pounded this after a serious bout with the sauce. That explained the unusual brightness of the sun, as well. My eyes were always more sensitive to light when I had a hangover.

Groggy, I rolled over onto my back. For a while I stared at the blank white ceiling and tried to piece together the events of the night before. I’d gone to the Diner across from The Eye, where I met a rude, filthy man by the name of Kagan, and had a few words with him before he stomped off. I remembered talking to the waitress, Rose, afterward, while she sat with me and ate the food he’d ordered and paid for but not eaten. I remembered Rose wiping a smudge of grease from the tabletop, a present from Kagan. Then she stood and headed back to the kitchen while taking an order from another guest, and then…

Nothing. The next thing I could remember was waking up with a face full of sunlight and a head full of stomping elephants.

Now, this wasn’t the first time I’d blacked out. On two previous occasions I had awakened with no memory of the previous night after mixing it up pretty good with booze. Both times had been similar to this, head booming and eyes squinched shut against the tiniest trickle of light. The worst part about it, though, was hearing from my buddies about the things I’d done. I will spare you the details for the sake of what remains of my dignity. Suffice it to say that on those occasions I’d been no end of irritation and sometimes amusement to the people around me.

This was different. For one thing, I couldn’t remember drinking anything. Both times prior I could at least remember the beginning of the alcohol flow. I could even remember getting drunk. There was just a cutoff point somewhere where I could remember nothing in between it and waking up the next day. The cutoff point this time seemed to have occurred before the drinking started, which was weird.

The other part that didn’t fit was my hunger. My stomach felt as though I hadn’t put anything into it in days. I thought it might start digesting itself any minute. Normally when I wake up after a good bender, I can’t even think about food without getting nauseous. This time, I could barely think about anything else. You can wait, I told my growling belly. I need to figure out what happened last night. I lay there in bed, stomach gurgling, wondering why I couldn’t even remember one lousy drink from the night before.

In the end, it was neither my hunger nor the steamy moss growing in my mouth that got me out of bed. The winning soldier in my battle against lethargy turned out to be my bladder. I hadn’t noticed it right away, but the entire time I’d spent staring at the ceiling thinking about the strangeness of the morning, the pressure in my lower abdomen had slowly built up. Little by little, it crept up on me until it reached the point where I just couldn’t ignore it any longer. Suddenly my need to pee demanded my full attention and would settle for nothing less than immediate compliance.

I leapt from my bed, tossing my sheets aside with such force that one of them ripped. I heard the tearing sound, but couldn’t spare the time to investigate; my bladder would brook no nonsense on my part. It wanted to be emptied, and it wanted it now. I could almost hear it telling me not to stop and look at the sheet, or it would just let go here and now. So get moving mister, unless you want to piss all over yourself.

I did make it to the bathroom, barely. Good old Mr. Bladder was just about done waiting. I stood there making water for an eternity. Christ! I didn’t know the human body could hold so much piss. Could a person’s bladder could be bigger than his head?

Eventually I finished, and walked over to the sink while zipping my pants back up. (I’d slept fully dressed, also not surprising after a severe drunk.) I pulled my toothbrush and toothpaste from the cabinet and commenced with the morning ceremonies. I brushed my teeth, same as every morning for as long as I have been able to hold a toothbrush. My mouth tasted better, at least, but before I finished I started gagging on the paste. That had certainly never happened before. I’d always liked the taste of toothpaste in the morning, sort of a sharp, mint-flavored pick-me-up to help get my eyes open. Not that morning. It was all I could do to keep from emptying whatever might still be in my stomach. I managed to rinse and spit without vomiting. I attributed it to my strange hangover and convinced myself it was nothing.

I washed my face in the sink, and felt a lot better after. When I saw my reflection staring back at me, I thought the hangover was to blame for the redness of my eyes and the pallor of my face. I shrugged it off and went into the bedroom to change clothes.

Once shed of the dirty clothes from the night before, which reeked of liquor and cigarette smoke, I walked into the little room that served as my kitchen looking for something to eat. It was more of a walk-in closet than a kitchen, with a small, apartment-sized oven crammed in next to a refrigerator that could only hold enough food for a bachelor like me. Next to the stove and fridge sat a sink roughly the size of the box my last pair of shoes came in. Those three things and a tiny cabinet, which filled up after putting in a couple of boxes of cereal, were the only things in my kitchen. Still, it sufficed for my needs, since I didn’t know how to cook anything that didn’t involve tossing noodles into a pot of boiling water, and it smelled better than my bedroom, which still smelled like a party.

At the thought of noodles my innards growled and contracted, sending me a painful reminder of my hunger, so I went to the cabinet and grabbed a box of cereal. Coco Puffs, and old favorite, and a holdover from childhood. I took a dirty bowl from the sink and rinsed it out, then filled it heaping full of those little brown pebbles. Thankfully, the milk in the fridge was still good (always a gamble at my place), and I poured some into the bowl, then poured a little more into a glass for good measure.

I took my breakfast into the living room, sat on the couch and turned on the TV. My hangover was almost gone and my mood lightened considerably as Tom & Jerry appeared on my screen just in time for me to watch Tom clothesline himself on an ironing board. You know the kind I mean; they fold up into the wall when you don’t need them, and only come out when you were ready to iron your laundry or a hapless gray cat chases a mischievous mouse the size of a large rat.

Grinning, T&J being an old favorite of mine (it went well with the Coco Puffs, don’t you think?), I started to eat my cereal.

I didn’t get to enjoy it for long, though. As soon as the cereal hit my stomach, a gut-wrenching pain ignited in my belly. It felt like some sick doctor had taken my innards and tied them in a knot. The doc was pulling both ends of it, too, tightening the knot as much as possible. If you’ve ever had a Charlie Horse, try to imagine that same feeling in your abdomen but much, much worse.

I dropped the bowl, spoon, Puffs, and milk onto the floor as I fell off the couch and landed, squirming, on the carpet. Milk and cereal splattered everywhere, and the bowl shattered. So did the glass of milk. Through eyes squeezed almost shut against the pain, I saw a laughing Jerry on the television partially obscured by a large stain of brownish milk. My head landed in a patch of wet carpet and crushed a handful of still crunchy puffs.

I knew what was coming, and I wanted to get to the bathroom before it did, but I couldn’t move. I tried to heave myself up off the floor and run to the toilet, but I was too late. All at once, my breakfast rejoined the atmosphere in a shower of milk, masticated cereal, and bile.

The vomiting fit seemed to go on forever, but in truth it was only a few seconds. When it was over and everything that had been inside was now outside, the pain receded. It dropped off so fast that I might have thought I’d imagined it if it weren’t for the mess in my living room. Gingerly, more than a little afraid that my doing so would invite the pain to come back and party some more, I sat up. Tiny trickles of milk ran from my head down the side of my face to disappear under my shirt as I surveyed the scene.

I didn’t think I’d eaten much (Hell, I’d just started my breakfast when the choco-bile geyser went off), but you couldn’t tell that from where I sat on the floor, looking at the ruin of my living room. Milk and cereal were everywhere! On the TV, on the couch, on the coffee table, some had even managed to get on the ceiling. Little drops of brownish fluid dripped on the carpet from above like a leaky faucet. In a daze, I looked up to see a big wet spot above my head.

How did that happen? Was my first thought. Why did that happen? Was a close second. I stood, slowly, and shuffled to the bathroom, where I assumed the position at the altar of the Porcelain God. Better safe than sorry, right? I had a big enough mess to clean up in the living room; I didn’t want to add to it if it happened again.

But it didn’t. I sat there with my face resting on the edge of the bowl for ten minutes or so waiting for the gut-wrenching pain to return, but it never did. Eventually, I convinced myself to stand up and walk back into the living room. There was a real mess in there, and I knew if I didn’t clean it up soon I’d spend the next month smelling Coco Puffs, milk, and vomit. Not an appealing thought. I needed a shower, too, but first things first. I started cleaning the room, my hunger forgotten for the moment.

***

Two hours later, freshly showered and dressed, I began to feel hungry again. Every window in my apartment stood open, and the smell had mostly aired out, but I still didn’t want to close them just yet. I couldn’t even think of eating Coco Puffs (the remainder of the box now sat in the trash), and so I put on my sunglasses and went outside thinking two things. First, some fresh air and sunlight might do me some good. Second, a little burger stand waited not two blocks away, and what I wanted right then was meat.

The stand was right where it always was, of course. I gave Sajid, the proprietor, my order and he tossed the patty onto the flat, stainless steel grill. All at once I couldn’t stand the idea of a greasy, well-done hamburger. The thought of it made my stomach tighten up again. I didn’t want the meat cooked, I wanted it as rare as possible, even raw. I salivated thinking about the watery blood dripping from it like an overfilled sponge.

“Sajid,” I said, “could…could you just give it to me like that? You know, uh…without cooking it?”

Sajid looked at me, the question burning in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it. I could have hugged him for that. He pulled the patty off the grill and dropped it onto a bun. “Do you want anything on it, Mr. Walker? Lettuce? Tomato? Some onions maybe?”

“No, thanks,” I stammered. Just the thought of either made my stomach clench again.

Sajid didn’t ask any questions, but his eyes stayed on me. I think he wanted to see if I would actually eat the raw burger. Well, buddy, I was gonna eat it, let me tell you. My stomach clawed and howled for that hunk of flesh like a pissed-off Doberman. It screamed at me so loud I could barely hear any other thoughts beyond that single, maddening need to eat. Hell, yeah, I was going to eat it, but I didn’t want to do it with him watching me.

Stomach growling, I went back to my apartment. I was glad I’d brought my shades; the sun was stronger than normal that day. The sharpness of the sunlight forced me to squint even behind the sunglasses. The weird thing was no one else seemed to notice. It was a relief to reach the door to my building and come into the lobby. It felt cool and – more important – dark after being outside. I walked to the stairway (there was an elevator in the building, but it hardly ever worked) and climbed the seven flights of stairs to my floor.

Once back in my apartment, I sat on the couch and unwrapped my meal. As soon as I saw the bun I knew it had to go, so I removed it and took it to the trash. Upon returning to the couch I also noticed that the outside of the patty was singed, if only a little, by its time on the grill. Just the thought of cooked meat made my stomach lurch again, and I scraped off the outer layer – which was quite thin – and scooped it aside in a small pile. What remained was about a third of a pound of raw ground beef, still bloody, and pliable as a mud pie. By then the hunger had become a deafening roar. I heard my blood pulsing in my ears as my body reacted to an immediate, overpowering need.

I reached out with shaking fingers and grabbed a small handful of meat. Tentatively, I put that first bite in my mouth and started to chew. Strictly speaking, chewing wasn’t necessary. This was raw hamburger, after all. It had been pre-chewed, so to speak, by the meat grinder. Old habits die hard, though, and I sat there for a bit grinding it a little more with my teeth and swallowing my first bite of raw flesh.

Dear God, it was delicious! I couldn’t remember ever eating anything to match it. Nothing could match it. It tasted like ecstasy. After that first bite, I took bigger handfuls and shoved them into my mouth as fast as possible, unable to cram it in there fast enough. In less than a minute the whole thing was gone and I wanted more. I had a couple of pounds of hamburger in the refrigerator that I’d planned to cook on the grill that weekend, and so to the fridge I went, anxious to continue the feast.

I flung the door open, nearly toppling the whole fridge in the process. Several eggs fell from the rack and crashed to the floor, but I ignored them. I pulled the hamburger out, ripped the plastic open and tossed it aside without sparing it a thought. I didn’t wait until I got back into the living room. I couldn’t. Instead, I stood in the kitchen with the refrigerator door hanging open and shoved my face right into the hamburger. I ate it like a starving dog; taking huge bites and swallowing them nearly whole, pausing only long enough to catch a breath here and there. I must have looked like a lunatic, standing there with my face buried in raw ground chuck, but I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was feeding my insatiable hunger with as much bloody meat as I could get. That alone held my full and utmost attention.

And, God, it was so good!

Soon, I’d finished the entire thing, and it was just enough to ease my hunger. Once it receded, I was able to think clearly again, and I remembered the morning’s breakfast. Here it comes, I thought, the stomach pain and then the vomiting, and there’s gonna be a fucking lot if it this time. I’d consumed far more meat than I had cereal. This was going to be a very big mess, and I started to wish I’d eaten outside after all.

But nothing happened. No pain, no feeling of having my insides twisted and stretched taut. Just the peaceful, calm quiet of one who had eaten his fill, and perhaps a little extra. Not taking any chances, I went into the bathroom anyway. If I was going to be sick again, this time it was going where it belonged. Time to pay a visit to the Porcelain God, and maybe make a donation while I was there.

I didn’t make it to the toilet, though. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped cold. A madman covered in blood stared back at me. His messy hair stuck out everywhere, the strands glued together by a sticky red liquid that was rapidly drying like some macabre hair gel. Wild eyes stared out at me from beneath lids stained with blood. The whites of his eyes showed eerily the whole way around the irises. The eyes of the insane.

But none of that is what stopped me in my tracks. Two sharp white teeth protruded from the top of my mouth a little way past the incisors. I stared at them, wondering what they were when I noticed they were moving. Moving! While I watched, they receded back into my upper jaw and vanished. It all happened very fast, and I had to wonder if I’d really seen them at all. For the sake of my dwindling sanity, I decided that I hadn’t.

And so, in the space of three hours, I’d managed to need two showers and to have to brush my teeth twice, though this time I did not gag on the toothpaste. While brushing the second time, I looked for any sign of the teeth that the mirror had shown me, but I couldn’t find any trace of them. After that, it was easier to believe I’d imagined them, and I went about the rest of my day thinking just that. At least, when I bothered to think of them at all. The human mind can be quite dismissive of things it doesn’t understand.

After my second run under the hot water I decided to go out. The sun seemed less intense and I felt a great deal better. I still felt a little weird about eating raw hamburger, and so much of it, but I had shoved that concern to the back of my mind to deal with later.

Having tackled my apprehensions via a marvelous technique I call ‘ignoring them,’ I got dressed, put on my sunglasses, and went for a walk, hoping to clear my head with some fresh air. A little good old New York City O2 Plus. The Plus is for all the extra stuff you get with your air. No plain old Oxygen here. No sir, not in the Big Apple. We have to give you more than you bargained for. Such is life in the big city.

It worked, anyway. I felt better by the minute while outside. I did notice however, that the reason the sun seemed milder was due to the lateness of the day. I hadn’t realized I’d slept so late. Had I even looked at a clock? I couldn’t remember. The first part of my morning seemed pretty fuzzy. I tried to think back to when I’d bought the hamburger (I was calling it a hamburger by then) from Sajid and remember what time it was, but I couldn’t place it. The sun had been so bright that I hadn’t been able to look up to see its position in the sky. I’d just assumed it was around noon by the sheer ferocity of the sunlight. But looking at the sky now, it must have been closer to six pm when I went to the burger stand.

Weird, I thought. I’d lost almost a whole day, yet I felt strangely revitalized. I felt like I was more…there…than I was the day before. I felt stronger and more capable than ever. With this feeling came a newfound confidence, even arrogance. Even though I was alone, I felt sorry for anyone who tried to mess with me. I realized a moment later that I didn’t feel sorry for them. Not at all. If anyone came at me, they would deserve whatever I gave them. In fact, I had a strong desire to walk down a dark alley and see if I could find a few rough-and-tumble guys so I could teach them a lesson. Maybe I’d run into that guy, Kagan, who fucked with me so bad the night before. With luck, I could track him down and show him how to talk to me properly. That would be great.

And so I wandered around the city for a few hours, looking for some undesirables on which to vent my mounting energy, one undesirable in particular. I didn’t realize I was headed for the area around JoAnn’s or The Eye, but that’s where I ended up. I soon found myself a few blocks from the diner and decided to go in and see if Mr. Joel Kagan was present so I could teach him a lesson.

But Kagan wasn’t there. I also noted that Rose was working, and I didn’t want to see her at the moment. Rose would try and bring me something to eat, and the thought of food, anything cooked and dripping grease onto a stark white plate, made my stomach clench tighter than a wad of rubber bands. Besides, my body pulsed and vibrated with a new and exciting kind of energy. It screamed at me to find an unlucky soul upon whom to unleash my frustration. So, buzzing with adrenaline, I passed JoAnn’s and The Eye and continued walking up the street. Afterward, I wandered around the neighborhood for another hour or so as dusk came and went, taking with it the last few motes of daylight.

Soon after, I got my chance to prove my mettle to the city’s criminal element. My walk had taken me around and around the area of the club in a wide circle several times, with no conscious thought on my part as to the direction. You might say something pulled me to that area, because I kept going back to it.

As I walked past an alley entrance near The Eye for the fourth time, I sensed another presence nearby. Several of them. I don’t know how to explain it. I couldn’t see them, smell them, or hear them, but somehow I knew they were there. I continued to walk by the alley entrance, pretending to be unaware of their proximity. When a hand jumped out and grabbed me by the arm, I allowed myself to be yanked into the darkness. I could have prevented it, but they had lost their most valuable weapon: the element of surprise. I hadn’t lost mine, and I had no intention of letting them know what deep shit they’d gotten into until I was ready.

I stumbled into the alley and four men surrounded me, all of them wore dark sweaters and blue jeans. They weren’t quite within arm’s reach, but they were only about a foot outside of it. The men lingered there for a few seconds, perhaps waiting for their numbers and the situation to intimidate me and make me more pliable. I saw them quite clearly in the darkness – they had chosen an alley in which the few lights had either blown out or were broken. One of them, the one who’d grabbed me, smiled to himself, showing dingy yellow teeth that looked like they’d never seen the inside of a dentist’s office. Either he planned to kill me or he thought I couldn’t see his face, because he made no attempt to hide it.

He kept one of his hands behind his back. I don’t know why he felt that was necessary; any idiot would know he had a weapon back there. I could smell it. A knife. It carried the hard scent of steel mixed with the tang of old blood. The knife had been put to use before, and the man I was beginning to think of as Grabby meant to use it again.

A slight whiff of fear wafted through the alley, as well. A neon green smell that excited my senses and caused my muscles to tighten up. It radiated from the other three like aftershave and made me think they’d probably never done this sort of thing before. Not like Grabby. I got the feeling they would have been happy to demand my wallet and let me go on about my merry way. They didn’t really want trouble. Grabby, on the other hand, was enjoying himself. Unlike the others, he wasn’t in the alley to rob people; he was there to hurt them, to establish his dominance to the other three and anyone else unfortunate enough to happen by. In this way, his purpose that night resembled my own, and I think both of us were looking forward to the next few minutes.

After a few tense moments, Grabby spoke up.

“Well look here, boys. A trespasser. Think maybe he’s just lost?” His deep, scratchy voice spoke of years of alcohol and cigarettes. His street accent sounded forced, and the end result was the word “here” came out sounding more like “hee.” It was, I suspect, an attempt to hide his voice and his accent in case I ever got to the Police. He needn’t have bothered; the Police Station would be the last place I’d want to go after leaving this alley.

“I don’t want trouble,” I lied.

“Trouble?” Grabby laughed, “You been walkin’ around this place all night, we been watchin’. And you ain’t paid your taxes yet. Ain’t that the rudest thing y’all ever heard of, boys?”

A few mumbles of agreement from his audience, and he continued.

“Now you gonna be nice ‘bout dis an’ pay up like you s’posed to, brothah? Or me’n my boys gonna hafta light you up?” With that, he pulled the knife – a fancy Asian folding type which I believe is known as a ‘butterfly’ – from behind his back and flipped it a few times to expose a shiny blade about 5 inches long. All that fancy handwork just to show me the blade. I almost smiled, but managed to keep my face straight. It wasn’t quite time yet. I wanted him to think he still had the upper hand for a few more seconds.

“W-What do you want?” I stuttered, hoping my voice sounded suitably terrified.

Grabby smiled. “Hand over the wallet, bitch, and maybe we leave you ‘lone.”

Nodding, I plastered a relieved smile on my face and reached into my back pocket to withdraw my wallet, which I held out to Grabby at arm’s length, as though too scared to bring it to him. His smile grew even wider as he approached, and he reached for the wallet with a gleeful smirk that made his next statement unnecessary.

“’Course, maybe we just hafta teach you a lesson this time”, He said as his left hand touched my wallet and his right hand, the one holding the knife, drew back. “Just so you don’ forget nex’ time.”

I was faster. I pulled my wallet away from his outstretched hand and shoved it back into my pocket, the whole movement a blur even to my eyes. While he tried to register this new development, I shot my left hand out and clamped down on his right wrist, immobilizing it. Then I grabbed his other wrist with my right hand, ensuring he couldn’t strike at me with either of them. Then I bent the wrists backwards and lifted up, forcing him on his toes. His eyes grew twice their normal size as his mind caught up to his predicament.

His friends, likewise dumbfounded, simply stared at the pair of us in slack-jawed amazement. Grabby and I had gotten the directions to the robbery wrong. This was supposed to be going the other way. Soon enough one of them would return to himself enough to either try and help his friend or, more likely, run like bat shit. For the time being, however, they were not a threat.

As for Grabby, once he recovered his initial surprise, he struggled to break my grip, but as I’m sure you have already guessed, his efforts were wasted. I was beyond human at that point. It didn’t take long for him to realize he wasn’t going to break free, and he started to shout to his buddies for help. His rapid heart rate and breathing, both of which sounded out clearly to my hypersensitive ears, indicated Grabby was close to panic, and his frantic shouting would wake his friends from their lethargy soon enough. Either that, or it would attract attention I didn’t want. I needed to shut him up, so I slammed my forehead into his face. His lower jaw gave with an audible crack, but that didn’t shut him up. It did, however, muffle his screams and make them less intelligible.

That will do. Now he could be any drunken boozehound shouting at a building in the sad, slurry language of the terminally inebriated. Like as not anyone who heard him would just tell him to shut his hole rather than call the police. Yep. That would do just fine.

When Grabby’s jaw cracked, the snap rang through the alley and woke one of his friends from his stupefied state. The guy took one look at me, then turned and ran like the devil was biting his ass. Grabby whimpered and watched him go. His eyes filled with moisture, then rolled back to me. Something he saw made his eyes widen even more. I didn’t know what it was, not right then, but I’d find out soon enough. He looked at me as though he thought he was about to die in that dingy, dirty alley. Neither of us took much notice as his two remaining companions turned and ran as well, following the first guy out into the street.

Grabby started to cry, then beg. All his cocky toughness vanished in the 50 seconds or so it took me to break him. I couldn’t understand much of what he said due to the broken jaw, but I got the gist of it pretty well. Something like “Please leave me alone; I’ll do anything you want. Please don’t hurt me no more.” As he sloshed through the words, his knife fell from his fingers and landed on the alley floor with a sharp, metallic clink. It still carried the smell of old blood, and I wondered how many people had said those same words, or similar ones, to him. How many of those whimpering requests had Grabby granted? How many people had he let go about their merry way after they’d given him their wallets? None, I’d wager. When he thought he was going to get to hurt me, his smile had been so big and cruel. He’d been looking forward to it. Well it was time for someone else to enjoy the game for a little while.

“Taxes?” I asked. “You’re the one who’s going to pay taxes tonight, my friend.” A look of relief washed over his ruined face. He thought I meant money. Some people have so little imagination. He croaked out something that may have been “Sure, anything you want,” but came out sounding more like a fist slamming into mashed potatoes.

I shook my head, and the relieved look faded from his face. Genuine fear took its place as I explained things to him, just in case he didn’t quite get it yet.

“I don’t want money,” I said. “Your taxes are going to trickle down the storm drain.”

Then I began to squeeze. His face became an exquisite mask of pain and horror as my fingers closed ever tighter around his wrists. He was trying to scream, but with his jaw smashed it lost a great deal of its effectiveness. Someone even yelled for him to shut up and go back to his hole, as I thought they might. Excellent. His eyes were no longer wide with fear; instead they were clamped shut against the pain. I bet he’d have liked to clamp his mouth shut, too, but of course, he couldn’t.

The bones in his right wrist gave way with a sharp crack and crumbled in my hand like stale bread. I smelled a sharp, all too familiar tang in the air and looked down at his crotch. Sure enough, there it was; the spreading stain in his pants as his bladder let go. His eyes opened wide for a brief instant, then rolled back into his head. All of a sudden he went completely slack in my hands. I knew he wasn’t faking because my hold on him would have been excruciating without his legs to support his weight. He didn’t make another sound, however, and I released his wrists, one of them whole and the other pulp. I noted with no small degree of satisfaction that the wrist I crushed was his right, which was the one he used to hold the knife.

I felt no pity as I looked at him. This fellow human being, whose great pain I had caused knowingly and willingly. Would you? The man was about to stab me, after all. I only did to him what he would have done to me. No, no sympathy, no pity. I began to walk away, I was going to leave him be. Not because I felt moved to mercy, but with him unconscious on the ground, there really wasn’t much else I could do to him.

Or was there?

I turned around to face him again. He was still lying on his back in a small, oily puddle. The rainbows thrown off by the oil mingled with the red of his blood as it ran from his ruined jaw into the dirty water. As I stood looking at him, watching the scarlet trail from his face to the alley floor, it struck me that the lower half of his face seemed to resemble the hamburger I’d eaten earlier. I realized that while I might not feel pity, sympathy or empathy, I did feel something.

I felt hungry.

It came on me like a striking snake, a hunger so intense, so powerful, that I’d never known anything like it before. Waves of it rolled into me, hollowing me out like a pumpkin at Halloween, leaving only a husked-out shell. I fell to my knees next to Grabby’s prone form, not trusting my legs to hold my weight. The pain was so intense I thought I would die lying on that alley floor next to this hoodlum, and when he woke he’d be able to take my wallet and anything else with little trouble. Grabby was going to win; he was going to get what he wanted after all.

I rolled onto my side in a feeble attempt to curl up into a tight ball, and as I did so I caught my reflection in the filthy water. At that exact moment, the worst spasm of hunger yet slammed into me like a tsunami, and I grimaced with the pain. That was when I caught a glimpse of the thing that had caused Grabby’s eyes to bulge earlier. In spite of the pain, they caused my eyes to widen, too. The thing I’d seen earlier in the mirror was not my imagination, after all. Two long, sharp fangs protruded from the spaces where my canines should have been. But far from scaring me, the teeth felt good. They felt right, somehow. Like they belonged there. Like they’d been there my whole life.

My belly screamed again, and I forgot about my fangs. Every fiber, every pore, every atom of my being was focused on two things. One was the red liquid drizzling sluggishly from Grabby’s jaw. The other was the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart, which I heard with perfect clarity. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Pumping blood through his body. The same blood that smelled so strong, so vital. It smelled so fucking good. Like the blood in the hamburger.

Like the flash of a light bulb, I knew what I had to do, how to fix my screaming innards. I didn’t have to die squirming next to a criminal. I could live, if I chose to. Life. The law of the jungle; him or me.

I chose me.

I crawled the few feet between us on my belly. When I reached a point where he and I were pretty well parallel, I pulled myself on top of him. We lay there for a minute like lovers. I saw the place in his neck where his carotid artery throbbed, and watched the hypnotic pulsing of a highway of blood just beneath the skin’s surface. I was so close, but something held me back. Some small voice buried deep beneath the bloodlust cried out for me to stop, just hold on a second, and really think about what I was doing. I was about to kill. Not just hurt, but kill.

The hesitation lasted only as long as it took for the next wave to roll over me and flatten me down on top of my victim. I could not argue with the hunger. It was a mindless, empty thing. Deep and without remorse, it burned with need. I might as well have tried to reason with the ocean. Any sailor worth his salt will tell you what a hopeless cause that is.

With shaking hands, I reached out and grabbed his bloody shirt around the shoulders. Now that I knew what to do, I didn’t want anything to get in my way. His shirt was a light cotton button-up, and the collar covered the spot on his throat where I would need to make my mark. I pulled the shirt apart with my bare hands, ripping it in two like a piece of tissue paper, and revealed the base of his throat and his chest.

That was when I saw it. The chain around his neck. More important, I saw the crucifix that hung from it. So, our boy here is a Catholic, eh? Not a very good one, since he’s out robbing people at knifepoint in the middle of the night. Would he have gone to Confession the next day? I doubted it. What would he say? Forgive me Father for I have sinned, I have robbed a man blind and spilled his blood for no purpose? What priest would bless him after that? Still, I suppose, anything is possible.

Another spasm hit me and I shook my head. It was irrelevant. Grabby wouldn’t be going to Confession ever again. Unless they held Confession in Hell, that was. Somehow, I didn’t think so. I opened my mouth, ready to sink my fangs into his neck.

But, just as I was about to sink my teeth into his throat, the necklace shifted, and the crucifix caught the light and sent it back to me. I could see it quite well in the moonlight, a silver crucifix that shone red with fresh blood upon it. Blood from Grabby’s broken face. It immediately caught my attention, and the Hunger was pushed back a little. Something about it seemed so familiar. I fixated on it as my mind ran loops trying to figure out where I had seen it before.

Then it came to me.

Oh my God!

Kagan!

The memory of the previous evening snapped back into my head like a rubber band. How could I have forgotten Kagan? The hunger vanished. It didn’t lessen or fade, it just disappeared, as though it had never been. The only evidence it had ever existed was me laying on top of an unconscious man with a busted face, teeth bared and ready for the kill. Then the teeth subsided, and Grabby began to groan.

It was a weak, pathetic sound, but it meant he was coming around. Soon he would be fully conscious. I didn’t think I could stand to be there after that. I didn’t want to see his pain, the pain I had caused and been so content with – even proud of – seconds earlier. What kind of monster could do that to another human being? What kind of monster, I wondered, was I?

What the hell is happening to me?

I sprang to my feet and ran out of the alley, Grabby’s weak cries followed me out and trailed behind me as I ran up the street that would take me back to my apartment. I should have kept running until I got home, then I could have crawled into bed, said the Hell with everything, and slept until I felt normal again. That’s what I wanted to do, anyway. Had I done so, this story would have had a very different ending.

But I didn’t.

Chapter Six:

A Single Word

I could still hear Grabby whimpering as I sped down the street. I couldn’t understand his words very well because of his broken jaw, but I had a pretty good idea of what he was trying to say. He was calling for help, but help wouldn’t come. Not until his buddies found their stones and returned to see what happened. What a surprise they would get. Their leader lay beaten and broken. Still, it could have been worse. I could actually have gone through with it and killed him. Not a pleasant thought, but one that wouldn’t go away.

In any case, I hadn’t broken his legs. Sooner or later he would realize he could still walk. If he had any sense at all, he’d walk to a hospital before infection set into his crushed wrist and broken jaw. I doubted he’d think of that, though. He struck me as the type who would be more concerned about getting his hands on some painkillers. Ah, well, who could blame him? I’m sure it hurt a lot to have your wrist crushed into splinters.

I realized with sudden shock that I was grinning again, and I skidded to a stop on the middle of the sidewalk, wondering what the Hell was wrong with me. How could I have enjoyed what I did? Worse, what I almost did? The only thing that stopped me was the memory of Joel Kagan’s death, which weighed on my mind and pulled my eyes to the sidewalk. I tried to remember if I’d smiled that night, but the whole incident was a blur. I didn’t think so, though. At least, I hoped not.

The only things I could remember with any clarity were the weight of the crucifix as it buried itself into his skull, the blood everywhere, and the way Kagan just stopped moving. I could remember shoving him off me. I also remembered seeing that bloody silver crucifix glinting red in the moonlight as it lay half in and half out of an oily puddle. New York is full of oily puddles. I don’t think the city has any other kind. And all my worst moments seem to involve them.

In fact, I stood in one even then. I looked down at my swirling reflection and my breath caught in my throat. Grabby’s blood covered me. It stained my forehead, clumped my hair, and colored my shirt. I even had blood on my hands from when I pulled myself on top of him. The parts that weren’t covered in blood were soaked through with water from the alley floor. I was a mess. If anyone saw me, they’d be sure to call the police in a heartbeat.

I looked around to see if there was anyone nearby, but saw no one. The street was deserted but for myself and the sound of Grabby pleading for someone to help him. This was punctuated by the occasional “Shut Up!” from one of the windows overlooking the alley. I turned back in the direction I had come, and was surprised to learn I’d run six or seven blocks. Not only did it seem impossible I could have run that far so fast, but without being even the slightest bit out of breath? That certainly wasn’t normal. Not for me, anyway.

Then another thought struck me. I shouldn’t have been able to hear Grabby’s whimpering. I was too far away and he wasn’t exactly yelling at the top of his lungs. In truth, his voice was little more than a hoarse version of its normal volume. Even that probably hurt him, though.

I started to walk away again, hoping to find some private place to wash up. With all this blood on me I was sure to be noticed if I strayed to any active areas of the city. Fortunately, this neighborhood was silent and deserted. Ordinarily New York is a city of crowds and noise, bustling with activity even into the wee hours, but there are still some places you could go where people actually slept at night. This, apparently, was one of those neighborhoods. Funny, but I’d never noticed that before. Not that it mattered. I kept walking.

I didn’t get far before my conscience got the better of me. Like it or not, I’d left a human being half dead and bleeding back there, and his cries of pain were something I just couldn’t ignore. I did that to him. Me. Not some mugger or careless driver, but me. True, at the time he was about to stick five inches of stainless steel in my gut, but I couldn’t just leave him there to die. You know that scene at the end of so many action movies where the hero lies on his belly holding the hand of the movie’s villain who is about to drop 500 feet or so to his death? The hero holds on to the man or woman who, only seconds before, had been about to blow his brains sky-high and tells him to Hang On! For God’s sake, Hang On!

I always thought those scenes were unrealistic. If a crazed sociopath had raped and murdered my family, for example, no amount of some “good cop” telling me to “hand over the gun, this guy ain’t worth it” would have stilled my trigger finger. That asshole would be splattered all over the pavement. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Hollywood be damned.

In real life, it’s not so easy to walk away.

I turned around, catching another look at myself in the window of a store. The sign said “Need cash? We loan on anything of value!” On the counter behind the glass were several watches, a few rings, some necklaces, the usual. Nothing of any real value. That stuff would be hidden in the safe at the close of the day’s business, lest some opportunistic individual with a brick come along and make off with some of the most valuable items in the store’s inventory. The only thing that stood out was a pocketknife with a scrimshaw carving of a wolf’s head on the handle. The wolf snarled, and it reminded me of something I’d seen recently, but I couldn’t remember what. Something to do with a wolf, but the color was wrong. The handle of the knife was ivory colored, but the thing I was trying to remember felt different. It felt red, somehow. I wondered briefly if it might have been something I saw during my drunken blackout the night before, which would explain why I couldn’t put my finger on it.

It wasn’t important. I had more pressing matters to attend to. Getting Grabby to a hospital, for example. Once I thought about it, carrying him to the street far enough to hail a cab seemed like a good way to solve the problem of needing to clean up before I went anywhere. Grabby was covered in his own blood, and of course, as his “rescuer” it stood to reason I would get it all over me while taking him to safety. This might just work out. I wouldn’t even have to tell him to keep his mouth shut; no one would understand a thing he said until his jaw was wired back together, and by then I’d be long gone. I doubted he’d try and press charges anyway, since he’d been the one about to mug me. Try telling that one to the cops. The only real problem I might have would be getting him to come along quietly. It would be difficult to make him believe that I wasn’t going to hurt him, considering I’d already done just that.

If I had to, I could knock him out again. It wasn’t a pleasant thought but hey, I was taking him to the hospital anyway, right? What was a concussion when added to a broken jaw and wrist? Besides the guy wanted to cut me. As far as I was concerned I did my good deed for the day by not killing him outright, taking him to the hospital was above and beyond. If it took a little aggressive convincing on my part to get him to go along then so be it.

I walked back to the alley entrance. It didn’t take long for me to see that my initial estimate of how far I’d gone had been off, though not by much. All told I’d run nine blocks in the space of a few heartbeats. I was tempted to run back to the alley, just to see how long it would take to get there, but I held back. I wasn’t in much of a hurry to deal with Grabby again. He was going to be a problem. As soon as he saw me he would either start screaming or start running, and I would probably have to knock him a good one to calm him down. The thought did not appeal to me anymore. Whatever malevolence I’d felt earlier had fled with the memory of Kagan’s lifeless body, leaving only a sad kind of pity.

What bothered me the most was I couldn’t even remember why I’d killed Kagan. I tried and tried to come up with a reason and kept coming up blank. I couldn’t even remember when it happened. Surely it had happened during my inebriation of the night before. Why else wouldn’t it come to me? Damn it all, I hated blackouts! It was like having a part of my brain stolen. As though some thief had crept into my head while I slept, invaded my personal thoughts, and packed up a bag (I imagined one of those little sacks with the dollar sign on it) full of my memories and then poof! Off into the night he went. Frustrating.

The closer I got to the alley, the clearer Grabby’s cries became. With his jaw broken nothing that came out of his mouth made much sense. His calls had gotten weaker, and I was glad I’d made the decision to come back for him. I didn’t think he’d be able to get to his feet on his own; he’d been through too much. He lost some blood, as well, though it wasn’t enough to kill him. Was it? I didn’t think so, but I’m no doctor. The folks from the Red Cross could take a pint from some people, maybe more, without risk. I was sure he hadn’t bled that much. Besides, he was a pretty big guy. He stood just over six feet and probably weighed about two-fifty. Surely he could have survived even if he lost a pint, which, again, I doubted very much.

I was about three blocks away when suddenly his voice changed. No longer a soft, pathetic whine for help, but a full-blown scream. He couldn’t form the words he needed, of course, but the sheer volume was there. Without thinking, I ran toward the alley, hoping to get there in time.

I was only half a block away when, with a final wet gurgle, the screaming stopped as quickly as it began. I stopped, too, no longer in such a hurry to get there, or to see what had silenced Grabby. Someone else was in the alley, someone who had no trouble finishing what I’d started. What would they do if they saw me? I wasn’t worried about myself; I could handle almost anything the night could throw at me. Grabby was a perfect example of that. I was worried about the killer. Does that sound strange? I worried about what I might do to him if he came at me. I’d killed once, and nearly killed a second time. Could I control myself if it came to that again? I didn’t know. I hadn’t been in total control with Grabby; I nearly finished him. The only thing that stopped me was his crucifix, and only because it reminded me of the one person I did kill. Kagan.

I decided whoever was in there could not have Grabby’s crucifix. If I saved one thing tonight, that would be it. I don’t know why, but it seemed important.

I was almost to the alley when I heard footsteps. I didn’t want the killer to leave, I wanted to keep this in the darkness. I had no intention of killing whoever it was, but once the bloodlust was on me, I didn’t want to take any chances of anyone seeing me do something terrible. As it was, a dozen or so lights flickered on during Grabby’s death cry. Someone must have called the police by now. It would only be a matter of minutes before the sirens warbled in the background as New York’s Finest raced to the scene. I had to make this quick.

I sprinted into the alley, not wanting to let the person get out into the street where someone might see what I did to him. My hurried estimation of his position proved just a tad off, however, and instead of jumping menacingly from the shadows right in front of him, I plowed into him and sent us both scrambling to remain upright. Not a good way to begin what was supposed to be a terrifying display of fighting prowess. In addition, when we fell to the pavement I found out the guy had mass. He was thick, and had good balance. I could tell by the way he shifted his weight when I blundered into him. It kept him from falling down, unlike me.

I hit the pavement pretty hard, but I was up and on my feet again in a flash, whirling around to face him. Somehow, he was faster than me, and had already closed the distance between us. I didn’t even get a glimpse of him before a bright light exploded in my right eye and everything on that side went dark. For one frantic moment I thought he popped it, but I didn’t have time to wonder about it. I staggered backward and tried to get my hands up to block the next blow, sure it was coming. Then I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen (roughly the size of a foot), and took an unexpected flight into the side of a building. I hit the brick wall hard enough to crack three ribs and knock the wind out of me, then fell to the ground with a sick thud, and stayed there on my hands and knees trying to stop my spinning head.

Man, that hurt. I couldn’t stop to think about it, though. Already I heard his footsteps coming closer. I opened my eyes and saw him running at me faster than I would have thought possible for a man as large as he was. All I could make out in the dim light was a silhouette, but to me it seemed the guy carried at least three hundred pounds with him. How could such a fat guy move so fast?

I got my feet under me and jumped straight up and over the charging Fat Man, somehow landing on my feet behind him. Unable to diffuse his momentum, he slammed face first into the bricks and mortar. I heard a crack and couldn’t help but smile as he fell backward, shaking his head. My smile fell away when I looked at the wall, however, and realized it was the brick that cracked, and not the Fat Man’s face. With an angry grunt he regained his feet. I tensed, not sure what I would do this time. I doubted he would fall for the same trick twice.

I backed away, waiting for him to come. I’d already figured on going low if he charged at me again, maybe even getting in a shot of my own this time, if all went well. My face and ribs hurt, and I wanted to get a little of my own back. I had no intention of retreating, but wanted to let him see me backing off a bit and think I meant to break for the street, it would make him come after me that much sooner. I also hoped he would become reckless if he saw me getting away. Then my feet bumped against something firm, yet yielding. I risked a quick glance and saw that I had backed into what was left of Grabby.

His throat had been torn open. The whites of his vertebrae could be seen in the mass of ripped veins and muscle tissue that looked like it had been chewed away.

“Holy shit,” I said to the Fat Man, “Did you fucking eat him?” I got no answer, of course.

With an angry snarl the Fat Man came at me again, but I no longer felt like fighting. The sight of Grabby’s mutilated throat had drained away much of my mounting aggression, and I wanted no part of something that could do such a thing. The thought occurred to me that I’d almost done something similar, myself.

I stepped over the body with every intention of making a break for the street. I felt pretty sure I could outrun the maniac, but I wanted to get out in the open as soon as I could. With any luck, he wouldn’t even chase me in public, where anyone would be able to see him.

As I stepped over Grabby’s corpse, I stepped into the light from the street, and dim though it was, it was enough for the Fat Man to get a good look at me. I couldn’t see him, but I no longer had any desire to. All I wanted at that point was to get away and go home. To sit on my own couch, perhaps with a bag of ice for my throbbing right temple. God, just get me to the street. From there I can handle it myself.

The Fat Man stopped cold, and for a split second I had this wild idea God had answered my prayer and stepped in, putting his hand in front of the guy and stopping him in his tracks. That theory flew out the window when I heard him say a single word. A word that sent fear rippling along my back. One so powerful in its implications that I froze , too afraid to do anything else but stare at the silhouette of the Fat Man, who’d already broken my spirit, if not my body.

“You!” He said, his voice dripping venom. He took a step toward me, then another. He was taking his time, no more mad rush, and I still couldn’t move, not even when he stepped from the darkness and into the weak light. I didn’t need the light, though. I knew that voice; there was no forgetting the scratchy, irritating tone that spoke of years of cigarettes and anger. I knew who it was even before the pale slant of moonlight revealed his features. The face had been haunting my thoughts like a ghost. The blood dripping from his chin was new, but that was the only thing different. I stood, motionless, as I stared into the dirty, round, stubble-covered face of Joel Kagan.

Chapter Seven:

Reunion

Kagan! I thought with a mixture of fear and relief. How is that possible? As far as I could remember, I killed him. Hadn’t I? I sure remembered killing him. But then, my memory was pretty fucked up. I wasn’t sure I could really trust it. I recalled the lifeless body lying in an alley, the red-stained crucifix dripping blood into a puddle. I heard again the sharp clang as the crucifix hit the ground. Was it real? Was any of it real? I just couldn’t tell anymore. If I had killed him, how the fuck could he be standing in front of me?

Could it be a dream? It had to be.

I believed it. I had to. But Kagan didn’t look like a dream as he advanced on me. The anger and hatred on his face looked real enough. The sheer malevolence of his ire felt real enough to hurt, although I supposed that would be the case in any dream. While I was trying to convince myself that’s what it was, I still didn’t like the idea of letting him get his hands on me. I’d read somewhere when a person is deep enough into a dream, it can seem so real to the mind that if he dies in the dream, he will die in real life, too. I wasn’t sure if I believed that, but with Kagan only ten feet away and getting closer with every breath, I wasn’t going to take any chances.

I bolted for the street.

Kagan howled with rage and gave chase. His scream pebbled the flesh of my arms and prickled my spine. It sounded angry, hollow, and completely insane. It was enough to send me racing full speed up the street, no longer caring who saw me. So I was covered in blood. I didn’t give a shit. It beat letting Kagan grab me.

Other than that first scream, he hadn’t made a sound since charging out of the alley after me. Had he given up the chase? I doubted it, but a man that size ought to be making some kind of noise back there. Matters of stamina aside, he weighed an easy three hundred pounds. Surely his feet pounding into the sidewalk would give him away if nothing else did. I listened for the span of a few heartbeats as the world sped by in a blur. Still I heard nothing, not a single sound of pursuit. I decided to risk a glance back.

Kagan hadn’t given up, far from it. He was almost right on top of me. If I hadn’t turned to look I wouldn’t have known. He’d managed to close the distance between us, and was almost close enough to reach out with one of those huge, grubby hands and grab me. In another thirty seconds or so he’d wrap those meathooks around my shoulder and bear me to the ground like a linebacker.

How could he be so damn quiet in a dead run? I didn’t waste any time speculating on it. I had perhaps half a minute before he got me, maybe less, I had to think of something to save my ass, and I had to think of it quick.

The answer came, as they so often do, in a flash of inspiration. I wondered about Kagan’s reflexes. Were they as fast as the rest of him? The man was strong as a hippo and ran like a cheetah, but how agile was he? My best chance of escape might lie in finding out. It would hurt, but then, since this was only a dream, I didn’t expect it would hurt much. Hell, if I was lucky, it might even wake me up.

I ran for another fifteen seconds, wanting to make sure he was too close to react in time. Come on, I found myself thinking, Come on already! Where are you? Then I felt his hand touch my shoulder, and I knew it was now or never.

I stopped running and dropped to the pavement like a stone, landing hard on my right arm and banging that side of my face against the sidewalk. Twin flashes of intense, searing pain shot through my cheek and arm, and I heard the snap as one of the bones in my forearm gave way. The pain was immense. Could I hurt this much in a dream? I didn’t know, but I didn’t think so. The whole scenario, crazy as it was, began to take solid form in my mind and present itself as real.

Oh, Shit, I thought. Then I said it aloud. “Oh, shit oh shit oh shit!”

As I’d hoped, Kagan was unable to stop or change his direction in time to avoid me; he was running too fast. I felt a sharp pain lance across my cracked ribs like a lightning bolt as his boot connected. The bump of his foot also jolted my arm, and I called Kagan every name I could think of.

In utter silence he bowled over my back to land hard about two meters away. He hit the sidewalk hard, and sound returned to the city light the flick of a switch. Distant cars, a dog barking, even the low hum of neon that most people never even notice until it’s gone. I heard him curse, then grunt with pain as his coat settled around him with a low rustle. But best of all, I heard a satisfying crack. I figured he must have broken something, and that could only be good news for me.

Kagan bounced one time, and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop. Then I saw the spider’s web of cracks in the pavement, and I realized what had made the cracking sound I’d heard.

“Holy shit,” I muttered through clenched teeth. At least he stayed down.

Knowing he wouldn’t stay down for long, I got to my feet as fast as my poor, battered body would allow, which was actually faster than I’d expected. In fact, the pain didn’t feel as bad anymore. It still hurt, but not with the same incapacitating fury of a few minutes earlier. It took less than a second for me to come up with the answer. Adrenaline, of course. I might not feel the pain as bad now, but I will certainly feel it in the morning. If I live that long. I was pretty sure Kagan, who groaned and started to get to his feet, would do his level best to see otherwise.

Fortunately for me, neither of my legs were broken, so I knew I could still run. And that’s exactly what I did. I ran the opposite direction, which was back toward Grabby’s alley. I held my right arm close to my body in order to minimize jostling it as much as possible. Even so, it moved up and down with every step and brought fresh pain to my poor tortured arm and torso. Thankfully, the adrenaline did a good job keeping the pain low enough to be tolerable, though I dreaded the time when it would wear off and I would get the full force of it.

I hoped Kagan wouldn’t be at full capacity after his fall; he’d hit his head pretty hard. Too bad that the crack I heard wasn’t his skull, that would have solved a number of problems. In fact, had Kagan died (again?) there on that sidewalk, I most likely would have run straight home, and this entire story would have taken a different turn.

Kagan was not dead, of course. Though how the man could have lived through having a solid piece of metal rammed sideways through his brain was beyond my ability to grasp. Having tried to fight him, though, I didn’t find it all that hard to believe. The man was like a concrete wall with hands. And he was fast. Way too fast for a guy that big and solid. It was creepy. Not just creepy but scary. Unnatural.

Even as I ran I heard him grunt his way to his feet. I hoped to be able to turn onto a branching street up ahead and sprint with all speed to my own section of town. I’d been lucky so far, but I couldn’t depend on luck. I hoped I wouldn’t have to. He might have been fast and strong, but I was going to see how good his sense of direction was. I was pretty confident that, broken arm and ribs or no, once I made it to my own neighborhood I would be able to lose him without much difficulty.

But he didn’t come after me. I heard the crunch of rocks under his boots, but it was a long way off. I shook my head at the thought of the man’s head cracking the sidewalk. If he could do that to concrete, what could he do to me? An image of Grabby’s mutilated throat formed in my mind, and I suddenly realized that whatever he did to Grabby was nothing compared to the fate that awaited me if he caught me. The cops would be lucky to find any pieces of me left. I couldn’t close with the man; it would be like trying to wrestle with a boulder.

I was almost to the side street I planned to take, and I still didn’t hear any sounds of pursuit from behind. I doubted he’d had enough. That wild-eyed, enraged wall of a man would not have enough until either he was dead or I was. Furthermore, I didn’t think his fall had injured him all that much. I risked a look back.

Kagan stood about a hundred yards away, hunched into his coat and standing right where I left him, next to the cracks his head made in the sidewalk. He looked like a fat version of one of those old secret agent stereotypes. Long coat, hunched shoulders, standing in the weak glow of a streetlight. All he was missing were dark glasses and a thin trail of smoke rising from the business end of a half-finished Marlboro. He wasn’t chasing me, but he kept his eyes on me. I had just enough time to wonder why before bright pain flared to life in the back of my head and I came to a sudden, painful stop.

***

I found myself lying flat on my back looking up at a face that scared me even more than Kagan’s, and I hadn’t thought that possible. Unlike Kagan, this new face was lean and well groomed, though pale. Everything about it spoke of control. The jet-black hair was slicked-back, elegant, as though the owner was on his way to a cocktail party for A-listers. The sharp, ebony eyebrows slashed downward above eyes so black they seemed all pupil. A dark depth gleamed in those empty eyes. Looking into them felt like seeing into your own tomb. Like the eyebrows, his nose was sharp and precise; neither large nor small, it just seemed to fit right in with the rest of his angular features. His thin, tight lips curved up into a smile that might have been pleasant had it not been for the two keen white points that protruded from it.

His long overcoat (so out of place in NYC during high summer) was flawlessly cut, and spoke of a tailored fit. It was so black it seemed not so much to blend in with the night, but to soak up the darkness around it. His long, slender hands extended from perfect cuffs and were folded across his abdomen. Overall the impression was eerie. Terrifying, even. I saw no sign of a weapon, and I concluded he must have hit me with his fist.

This man not only walked with Death, he had befriended it. He’d invited it over for dinner and embraced it as a brother.

For a long moment all I could do was stare, too scared to move or even blink for fear that in the time it took to do so I would have drawn my last breath. There was a paralyzing feel to the man that stole the air from my lungs and left me feeling smothered and powerless, like an animal in a trap. The air suddenly felt twenty degrees colder, and I shivered.

Then the air turned foul, and a more familiar scent surfaced. Kagan was coming. He did not bother to be silent anymore, why should he? I was a pinned butterfly under glass. I wasn’t going anywhere. I might as well have been mired in cement. His prey was caught. All that was left was for me to find out if these two were working together or not. I prayed that they weren’t, it was my only chance.

My worst fears were confirmed when I heard Kagan’s voice from somewhere behind me.

“It’s him, Carl,” he said, and the face nodded.

Carl? This monster’s name was Carl?

“So I see,” Carl replied. “How fortunate.” Then he tossed me an amused wink. “Not for you, Vincent.” He said this with a light laugh, not much more than a giggle, but it stole my last bit of hope and flushed the blood from my face. I could actually feel the warmth draining from it as I wondered how he knew me. I tried to ask, but couldn’t get the question past my lips, which were so dry they felt like paper. He must have read the confusion on my face, mixed with a healthy dose of Oh, Fuck Me!

“Don’t you remember me, Vincent?”

I tried to shake my head, but I couldn’t.

“Ah, probably not. I suppose I didn’t make a decent impression on you the last time we met.” His expression was almost sad, as though it hurt his feelings that I didn’t remember him, but then his face brightened and that terrifying, disturbing smile resurfaced.

“No matter,” he said, snapping his fingers, “I will change that.” Kagan laughed somewhere behind me, sharing an ominous private joke with his cohort. “You will not forget me again, Vincent. I shall take great pleasure in making my second impression a more lasting one.” As he spoke, his eyes shifted to my crotch, and his smile flattened, but didn’t vanish. His black eyes glittered, and a chuckled escaped his throat. I didn’t know what he was looking at until I noticed the spreading warmth in my pants and realized I had lost control of my bladder.

Then Kagan moved to stand next to Carl, laughing all the more when he realized I’d pissed all over myself like a scared mutt. The wide grins on their faces and Carl’s sharp, pointed fangs reinforced what I already knew; I would not enjoy getting reacquainted with Carl in the least. I wondered how long it would take for me to die. Believe it or not, I found myself hoping it would be sooner rather than later.

Kagan continued to smile, but Carl’s expression grew hard and cold. “I promise you, Vincent,” he said, “before this night is over you will beg me to kill you.” I didn’t doubt a word of it. “But long before that time comes, you will gladly tell me where to find Raine.”

The name Raine jumped out of his statement and shone in my mind like a lighthouse at midnight. I knew that name. I remembered it. All at once Kagan and Carl disappeared and all I could see was her face. I remembered dancing with her, and a long kiss under a streetlight. My arms ached to hold her again. The power of that longing squeezed tears from my eyes as more and more, I remembered the events of the previous night. How could I have forgotten? What was wrong with my mind?

Then I realized who Carl was. He was the other person in the alley, the one I ran into. Only then he hadn’t been made of the steel I felt hit the back of my head. Then he’d been soft flesh and bone, vulnerable, and without the crushing sense of fear that twisted my guts when I looked at him. Why was he so much more potent now?

Then it hit me. In the alley last night, I hadn’t thought; I’d simply acted. There wasn’t time to think about anything. That’s the difference, isn’t it?

The Raine in my vision smiled, the sun coming from behind a silver cloud. It was all the answer I needed.

Without a conscious thought, I put my feet under me and stood. As soon as I was vertical the vision of Raine began to dissipate like the morning mist at sunrise. The ominous figures of Carl and Kagan loomed in front of me, and I realized that I’d only seen that image in my mind; it had never really been there at all.

Real or not, it got me to my feet. And by the look on the two faces near me, that was not in their plans. They stared at me in disbelief. Gone were Carl’s black eyes and the cold fear that flowed from them. Gone was the chill of the grave that had pinned me to the sidewalk like an entomologist’s specimen. What was left were two very surprised looking men who, by the looks on their faces, might be feeling some of the same fear I’d felt a minute before.

For a split second, I thought about trying to take them down then and there, but common sense stayed my hand. There had been no sense of fear when I’d encountered Kagan in the alley a while ago, and he’d still nearly spread me across the walls like jelly. What chance would I have against the pair of them? Particularly if Carl could make himself as tough and hard as Kagan. None at all, of course. I had about as much chance of taking the pair of them out as a snowman has of retiring in the Caribbean. I surprised them, that’s it. Soon they would regain their sense of control, then they would most likely start pounding away. And what would be left of me when they were done? Probably not much more than a red smear on this sidewalk that, come morning, might not even resemble blood anymore. I wondered for another half a second if I would feel the people walking on my earthly remains from the afterlife. I didn’t want to find out.

While all that abstract thought has certainly taken a little while to write, I assure you it took only a few seconds to think, and so in less than the time it took my heart to beat twice, I broke the stillness of the scene and dashed into the street. My sudden movement caused the pair of them to blink back their surprise. The looks on their faces changed from disbelief to anger.

“Get him!” Carl shouted, and with an angry growl from Kagan they took up the chase.

I ran for all I was worth back in the direction of The Eye, thinking perhaps a very public place such as a nightclub would be a better alternative than trying to lose them in the back streets and alleys of my own neighborhood. I could have gone to JoAnn’s, of course, but Kagan had already been there and I didn’t think he’d have any qualms about going in again. Not only that, I didn’t want to take the chance that Rose might be there. She didn’t deserve to get involved in this, too. The Eye was the only other place in the vicinity I could count on to be sufficiently occupied. I made a beeline for it, running faster than I ever thought possible. It seemed like my feet only touched the ground once or twice the whole way. When I saw the doors I almost sighed with relief. I doubted they would follow me inside, and even if they did, there would be too many people in there for them to try anything.

I ran so fast, in fact, that the pair lost interest in the chase. They must have figured out where I was going and realized they would not be able to catch me before I arrived. By the time I reached the club, neither Sanders nor Kagan were anywhere to be seen, which suited me just fine. I smiled, thinking I’d bought myself some time. After wiping my face as clean as possible with my shirt, I stepped up to the bouncer, grateful for the dim light, as it did wonders to hide the blood on my clothes.

I was right about one thing: neither Sanders nor Kagan dared set foot in The Eye, no matter how much they wanted me. If I’d known why, I might have steered clear of it, too.

That’s hindsight for you. Twenty fucking twenty.

Chapter Eight

The Eye

I paid the bouncer – a huge, muscular guy everybody just called Rock – the cover and walked into the club holding my left arm close to my body. Rock asked if I was OK, but I ignored him and went straight to the bathroom to assess the damage to my clothes and person.

I sighed in heartfelt thanks when I found that, for the moment, I was the only person in the Men’s room. No telling how long my luck would hold, so I set about washing Grabby’s blood off my face, arms and hands. As I did, I discovered an astonishing fact; my arm barely hurt at all. Neither did my ribs. In fact, I felt fine, as if nothing had been broken. As an experiment, I lifted my arm out to the side and moved it back and forth, looking like a mimed impression of a puppet with a broken string.

No pain. Nothing. I took a deep, hesitant breath, filling my lungs and stretching my ribcage. No pain there, either. Had I only imagined that I’d broken them? As far as I knew, broken bones didn’t just heal themselves in a matter of minutes; they took weeks, and required casts and bracing. Could I have only imagined the broken bones? Probably. I had been pretty wired at the time. Thinking you are about to die can do that to a man, or so I am told. After the kind of night I had, I could have imagined just about anything.

The issue conveniently dismissed, I appraised my appearance in the mirror. My face, hands and arms were now clean, but my polo shirt was a train wreck. Blood from Grabby’s jaw covered the front of it like splatter paint. There was no salvaging it, so I took it off, hoping the blood would not have soaked through to the black Harley Davidson T-shirt underneath. Some blood had indeed soaked through, but not much. The little bit that was there had mostly dried and would be difficult to see against the black cotton T-shirt, especially in the ever-changing lighting of the club.

I couldn’t do anything about the crotch of my pants, still damp with piss. The result of my paralyzing fear of Sanders. Hopefully I’d be able to find a seat at a table before someone noticed the wet spot. I dried them as best I could with some paper towels by the sink, threw the bloody shirt into the trash, and walked back into the club, wanting nothing more than a good stiff drink and a few hours’ time to sit and think.

The Eye was divided into two levels, connected by two identical stairwells on both the right and left wall. On the lower level, the far wall was completely taken up by the bar, a huge black marble monstrosity that stretched the entire way across the room. At first glance you would think it must have been several pieces as it was so large there was no way it would fit through the door. Upon closer inspection, however, you realized that it was, in fact, a single, huge piece of marble. The owner of the club, a genial monster of a man who went by the name of Bandy, had been asked time and time again how he’d gotten it inside, and each time he’d sworn to take the secret to his grave.

Behind the bar sat a dazzling array of bottles. This is nothing spectacular in itself; most bars display the brands they carry in such a manner. What dazzled about it was the sheer volume of bottles on display. They had everything there. All manners of bourbon, whiskey, rum, scotch, vodka, gin, beer, wine, and cognac (including, of course, Courvoisier), plus a few other liquors many people have never even heard of; Sai, Saki, some Middle Eastern brew I have never been able to pronounce, and many, many more. You name it, The Eye had it. All told there were not fifty, or even a hundred, but over one thousand different types of alcohol available behind the bar, as well as a few that were only available under it, if you take my meaning.

During the wee hours, when things at The Eye really got festive, the lights from the club would bounce off all those bottles and cover the entire room with a stunning display of reflected and refracted points of light that exploded across the floor, painting everyone in the room with a brilliant, sparkling coat of shifting color. It really was quite a sight, and was one of the reasons the club had become so popular.

Also on the lower level was a glass dance floor surrounded on all sides by tables. The dance floor of The Eye was nearly as striking a feature as the black marble bar. Lit from underneath by thousands of multicolored lights capable of flashing on and off in an amazing number of patterns, it rivaled the light from the bottles and often pulsed and swirled to the rhythm of the music. Sitting at one of the floor-side tables and watching the crowds of undulating, shifting people dance as the lights from bar and floor caressed their bodies could only be described as hypnotic. It’s why I started going there in the first place; for the visuals.

Even though the floor held such a huge number of lights, I never saw one that had burned out. The bartender once told me Bandy obsessed about his dance floor, and maintained it with meticulous pride. He made sure it was always fully functional and never a disappointment to his guests. Having seen Bandy moving around the floor on a busy night, staring at the lights under the glass, I believed him.

I guess that’s what clued me in to the fact that something was wrong. As I walked to an empty table near the edge of the dance floor, I noted several burned-out bulbs. Perhaps Bandy was on vacation, and thus unable to give his dance floor its twice-nightly inspection. I felt sorry for whoever was running the club in his absence. When he returned to see that a dozen of his lights had gone black, someone would likely lose their job.

On the upper level resided another bar, though not as spectacular in appearance or selection, and more tables. The center of the upper level was open to allow those above to view the people on the dance floor below. These were the most popular tables in the club, and on any given night the tables around the railing would be full of college guys staring down the tops of the women on the dance floor. At one such table sat a group of Bandy’s buddies, who were talking among themselves when I walked into the club. One of them, a weasel-faced little guy named Drake, seemed pretty upset. When he turned to point at one of the dead bulbs I figured he was the one Bandy left in charge and was probably pissed about the lights.

His hand froze in mid track as his eyes settled on me, and a shiver went up my spine. He stared at me, watching as I made my way across the floor to the table. His beady, rodent eyes fixed on me like a reptile watching its prey. What the hell was his problem? Hadn’t I been through enough already? I gave the table right next to the dance floor a pass and chose an empty one in a far corner instead, both to get away from angry stares and because, upon further reflection, it occurred to me that with a pissy crotch, I’d be better off away from all the action, anyway.

The waitress, a very attractive redhead whom I had never seen before, came by and informed me that the specials that night were Top Shelf Long Island Iced Tea and Screwdrivers. I had no use for either, and asked her to bring me a Jim Beam on the rocks. She smiled and told me she’d be right back with it, and on her way by she casually bumped my shoulder with her hip. When I looked up, she shot me a wink and then went to fetch my bourbon.

She returned a few minutes later with a glass and two cocktail napkins, one of which she placed under the glass, the other she put in my hand. On it was the name “Theresa,” as well as a phone number. She flashed me another smile, told me she got off at four o’clock, and then proceeded to get the orders from a table of rowdy college-aged guys a few tables over. One of them gave her shapely ass a little squeeze, which earned him a shot on the arm from one of his buddies and a scalding look from Theresa. I stuck the napkin in my pocket and forgot about it, having bigger things to worry about than a quick score with a hot redhead.

Other than the usual crowd of dancers and drinkers going on about their business, there really wasn’t much going on in The Eye that night. I took a few deep breaths and started to relax, and the suffocating tension and fear began to roll off me in waves. Until then I hadn’t realized how much of it there’d been. As my muscles and my mind eased, my thoughts turned to Raine, and wondered how in the Hell I could have forgotten her.

I thought back to the night before when she’d poured me glass after glass of cognac. It seemed obvious now that she was trying to get me drunk. I guess I could understand why; she wouldn’t want me at my full senses when she told me her secret. It made sense, and yet it didn’t. Why would she need me to be drunk when she told me she was a…what was it again? Oh, yes, Bachyir. Which was actually just another word for a Vampire. For that matter, why would she tell me something like that, anyway? Did she actually think I’d believe it? Was that the reason for the booze? To make my mind more pliable? If so, it didn’t work. I didn’t believe a word of it, not even when she did that trick with the chair, which I could only barely remember.

Then I thought about the crucifix, and how Kagan had died. Really died. I saw the fucking body! The fact that the supposedly dead Kagan was somewhere outside the club even now, probably waiting for me to come out again, scared the shit out of me. Obviously, he was something other than human. But if he wasn’t human, what the Hell was he? He couldn’t be a vampire, could he? Grabby’s throat had been ripped open, and Kagan’s lips were red with blood that ran down his chin. True, I didn’t see any fangs on him, and weren’t vampires supposed to have fangs? Further proof he couldn’t be a vampire. But how was he still alive?

And what about this man, Carl? I had seen fangs on him. I didn’t doubt that for a minute. They had reduced me to a whimpering mess. Granted they could have been fake; you can buy stuff like that on any street corner in New York twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. OK, so they didn’t look fake, but what did I know about fangs and vampires, anyway? Nothing.

I couldn’t explain the debilitating fear that pinned me to the sidewalk when I looked up and saw Carl standing over me, though. In fact, I’m really not certain I can explain it now. I’d never felt anything like it before. When Carl looked down on me with those empty, bottomless eyes, every positive emotion drained from my body. Hope, love, happiness, everything. All that remained was the bad stuff. Fear, hopelessness, despair. I sensed the terrible fear of wandering through the darkness and the uncertainty of knowing it would never end; the darkness would go on forever. My life as I knew it over, nothing left but ash and dust for all time.

No matter that I could explain away Kagan’s savagery, or Carl’s fangs, or even Raine’s theatrics. There was no getting around the raw fear that emanated from him and enveloped me like a freezing mist. I had only to look down at the wet spot in my pants to realize just how bad he scared me. It served as a poignant reminder that I hadn’t dreamed it all up. It really happened.

But what would cause it? I had no idea. None of it made sense. The terrible fear, the fangs, Grabby’s throat, Raine’s stunts, Kagan being dead but then not dead. For that matter, the things I’d done myself didn’t really add up, either. Throwing up my breakfast for no reason, the hamburger meat. And just where, pray tell, had I found the strength to crush a man’s wrist to splinters with my bare hands? Hand, I reminded myself, I did it with one hand. Where had that come from? How did it fit in with the rest of it?

It didn’t. None of it fit. None of it added up. It just didn’t make sense.

Unless…

…unless Raine was telling the truth.

The thought hit me like a slap, and I dropped my glass. It shattered on the floor, sending bourbon, ice, and shards of glass in all directions, but I didn’t notice. My thoughts had gone back to that night Raine met me by the streetlight. She kissed me, long and hard, right there on the sidewalk. I got lost in the passion of it, yet as wonderful as it was, there was something odd about it, too. A taste that hid behind her kiss, slipping in almost unnoticed.

Blood, I realized with a start. That’s what I tasted. Fucking blood!

I let out a slow, steadying breath. Could it be? Could Raine really be a vampire? Or a Bachyir? Or whatever it was they called themselves? For the first time, I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, the idea wasn’t so absurd, after all. Maybe Raine really was a…

“Had a little accident, here?” A sharp, high voice cut into my thoughts and scattered them like the shards of my glass. I looked up to see Drake standing in front of me, accompanied by four of Bandy’s buddies. He looked down at the broken glass and shook his head. Then he raised his face to look at me. The smile on his face didn’t look friendly at all.

“Had a little too much, sir?” He asked. “It happens.”

I was just about to tell him I hadn’t had anything at all. Not even a sip. One look at his face told me to save my breath, though. He was no more concerned about the glass than I was. This was about me, not how much I’d had to drink. I had a feeling I was about to be invited to a little back room in the club where Drake and his cronies would ask me some questions. Maybe he’d seen the blood on my shirt and had taken it upon himself to figure out who’s it was and how it got there.

“I’m afraid, sir,” Drake continued, his polite words mocked by the sarcastic tone of his voice, “I will have to ask you to come with me to the back, where we’ll call a taxi to see you safely home.” The knowing smile hiding just behind his eyes told me that the last thing on Drake’s mind was calling me a cab.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m fine. Really. Thanks for your concern.”

Drake’s smile widened, as did those of his four friends.

“I’m afraid I really must insist, sir.” Then he leaned over, putting his face within inches of my own. His smile widened further, and I saw Drake’s teeth. Very much more to the point, I saw his two fangs. Just like Carl Sanders, Drake’s two upper canines dipped unnaturally low in his mouth and ended in two gleaming, lethal little points. I almost felt my bladder go again, but it was empty, thank goodness. “Club policy.”

Fuck!

I looked over the group of guys with him. Two of them had fancy dental work, too.

Double fuck!

“Please don’t make me ask you again, sir,” he said. “Make no mistake, you will come to the back room with us. Whether you walk there or we carry your broken, bleeding body is entirely up to you..”

Triple fuck! Hadn’t I put up with enough of these assholes for one night? Why couldn’t these freaks just leave me alone? The taxi story was just for the other patrons who might be listening. If I went with them they were going to work me over until I sang whatever tune they wanted to hear. And since I didn’t know what they wanted, that could take a while. The thought of spending several hours in a dark room while a bunch of thugs with teeth worked me over didn’t warm my heart at all.

I looked at them again. Five of them. Three of them vampires, and wondered what I could possibly do to get out of this. The club was way too crowded for me to run very far. They’d have me before I got to the dance floor. No chance of overpowering them, either. One, I might be able to handle, maybe two, but not five. Also, I was pretty sure more of them were hanging around the place, watching and waiting to see if they could join the fun. There might be as many as a dozen of Drake’s cronies in the room, all of them prepared to use force, if necessary.

Drake watched me with a knowing smile as I ran through the options in my mind, almost daring me to try something and make it that much more interesting. He already knew what I was figuring out for myself: there was no place to go. I had no choice but to go along and hope for the best. I stood up and sighed.

“I don’t suppose that you’d just take my word for it that I’m sober, would you?” I asked, knowing the answer before I asked the question.

Still smiling, Drake shook his head. I longed to wipe that smirk off his face. I wanted nothing more than to pluck his beady little eyes out of his head with my fingers. Maybe I would feed them to the rats I’d seen in the alley where Grabby was killed. I had a vision of myself flipping the eyes out to the rats like a kid playing marbles. The thought made me smile, even though I knew I would never get to do such a thing.

“All right, then,” I said. “Which way?”

Drake pointed to a door in the far wall. Not much I could do except go along and hope an opportunity presented itself. I wasn’t holding my breath. I started walking, but I kept my ears open for anything that could help me. One of the guys behind me was talking to Drake. They were whispering, but I heard them very well. I guess they didn’t know about the upgrade to my senses, including my hearing.

“You really think this guy knows where she is?” The guy asked.

“Yeah, Nathan, I think he does,” Drake whispered back.

So it was about Raine, after all. Why did everyone assume I knew where the woman went when she wasn’t at The Eye? Hell, if she’d wanted them to know, she’d have…

That’s when it hit me; a revelation so big it should have slapped me in the face. Raine was missing. That’s the problem. Raine is missing and no one knows where she is. They all think I know, and they’re willing to do whatever they have to do to get it out of me. The realization caused me to stop in mid-stride, which earned me a sharp push in the small of my back, followed by a chuckle from Drake, who probably thought my sudden stop was due to fear of what lay ahead. I started walking again, paying close attention now.

“Why?” Nathan replied. “Because she was with him the night Bandy was killed? That doesn’t mean much, Drake, I think you’re reaching.”

So that’s why I hadn’t seen Bandy.

“Maybe,” Drake said. “But she was supposed to take this guy that night, remember? She spared him for a reason. I think she has feelings for him. If that’s true, then who would know better where she is other than Ramah himself? I ain’t gonna question Ramah, so this guy’s all we got.”

Nathan mumbled a response that might have been agreement, but I didn’t hear it. For me Drake’s speech had stopped a few sentences back. Can you guess where? If you said it had stopped at the line ‘She was supposed to take this guy that night, remember?’ then you’d win the cigar, the shopping spree, and the new car.

So…our meeting under the streetlight wasn’t an accident. Raine didn’t just bump into me after leaving the club; she’d been looking for me. She’d been hunting me. She didn’t feel the connection like I thought she did, I’d just been another late night snack to her. It took a moment for the hurt and betrayal to sink in, but when it did…

Damn her! It was all I could think for the next minute or so. Damn her! And Damn her again! I couldn’t believe it. The bond I thought we had was nothing but a sham. I was supposed to be dinner for some blood-sucking vampire, or Bachyir, or whatever they fuck they called themselves. The fact that I didn’t entirely believe in them did nothing to ease my anger, and the more I held it in check, the stronger it got.

My captors must have sensed my change in mood, because they tightened ranks around me as they hustled me through the poolroom. I didn’t see any of it, though. I couldn’t see much of anything past the wall of red that crept up to obscure my vision. At one point I stopped walking and had to be pushed back into motion yet again, a fact I barely registered.

In just one night I had been put through the wringer, wolfed down raw hamburger, and nearly been turned into hamburger myself by a block of granite with eyes named Joel Kagan. Now I was being dragged into some dirty back room for some weasel-faced little toady’s idea of fun. And for what? Raine didn’t love me, I was supposed to be dinner.

I let the rage seep in, and I fed on it. It felt good to be angry, even if it would only last long enough for Drake and his goons to beat it out of me. They were going to have a rough time of it, though, since I couldn’t clue them in to Raine’s hiding place. I didn’t know it. I wished I did, though. I’d have given her up for sure. I might even have asked to go with them to take care of her. I didn’t know if she killed Bandy or not, but I didn’t care.

Not that it mattered. They’d never believe me. And the more I told them I didn’t know, the less they’d believe it, and the worse they’d make things for me. It was going to be a long night. I’d managed to escape Sanders and Kagan only to wind up facing Drake and his cronies. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

It always seemed to me that in books and movies, the real hero is usually blind luck. Some chunk of metal will fall from a damaged building to crush the villain, or the ground will give way beneath him and the hero will try to save him. It always happens just in the nick of time, too. Seconds before the villain – who, of course, has the hero at gunpoint and feels the need to waste time explaining his plan – pulls the trigger or pushes the button that would signal the end of the civilized world as we know it. Hollywood is funny that way.

Reality is usually quite different. People who are being mugged wait for someone to help them. Kidnap victims hold out hope that the cavalry is coming. They won’t die, someone will save them. It’s always the same. The end is near, but they all think a hero is somewhere nearby waiting to claim his glory, and they will be fine. After all, they think, this can’t happen to me. Other people, maybe, but surely not me.

Of course the heroes in real life hardly ever show up, and many victims never see the white hats coming over the horizon. Hollywood, it seems, has let them down.

But there are no absolutes in the real world, and sometimes the improbable does occur. Sometimes our nail-biting silver screen rescues really do happen, and our saviors arrive at the very last instant to save our skins. Some of them can come from the most unlikely places. And sometimes, you can be saved by someone who doesn’t even know they are doing it.

Just before we got to the door that would have led to the back room and a night of horrors I don’t even want to think about, Teresa happened by and noticed my little escort to the back.

“What’s going on, Drake?” She asked as she put a hand on his shoulder.

Drake, however, was in no mood to be questioned by a waitress, and without even answering he backhanded her. The loud smack of his hand on her face got the attention of everyone in the room. I don’t think he meant to hit her as hard as he did, but nevertheless Theresa went flying into a wall and hit it with enough force to knock her unconscious. Her tray of drinks fell to the floor with a loud crash that sent slivers of broken glass and droplets of booze in every direction.

As Theresa slumped to the floor, three-quarters of the men in the room converged on our little group, demanding to know what the hell Drake thought he was doing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” one asked.

“Who do you think you are?” asked another.

Drake’s buddies closed ranks around us, placing a barrier between him and what was fast becoming a buzzing, angry mob. Drake, arrogant as hell, informed the crowd that this was none of their business, and ordered them to step aside. When the people refused to disperse, one the guys guarding me shoved a member of the crowd into a wall. This lit a fire under the rest of them, and the mob of people rushed in to get to us.

The resultant surge of bodies pressed me against the door. Drake’s ‘bodyguards’ did their best to hold back the twenty or so angry men who wanted to get their hands on him, but there were too many. Nathan yelled that he was going to call the police.

“Are you out of your mind?” Drake replied. He probably didn’t want police in there, either. Not when he and his buddies were about to give me a makeover, mobster-style. Not to mention what else he might want to keep hidden. That was my cue. If I was going to have any chance at all of getting out of there with my skin intact, the time had come.

I started yelling obscenities at the crowd, calling them every name I could think of and making lewd suggestions about their skill in the bedroom. On more than one occasion, I told some hulking, angry behemoth how great his girlfriend was at sucking cock and how it was a shame he’d never had her like I had. I told more than a few that if their own performance hadn’t been so pitiful, their girlfriends might not have been looking to score with a real man. I told them how good their sisters were, their mothers, and even told one or two that their fathers were experts at falatio. Anything I could think of to incite further chaos, I said without hesitation. In short, I did everything I could to make the situation deteriorate as much as possible, as fast as possible. And it worked like a charm.

In less than a minute the crowd had grown from an angry group of men into a full-blown mob. Drake’s buddies couldn’t hold them back any longer, the press of bodies overwhelmed them. Several were swept under the tide of drunken, wild-eyed patrons trying to get at Drake and me. In no time at all a good old-fashioned bar brawl raged through the pool room. Guys were breaking pool cues over people’s heads or chairs over their backs. I saw one man, a huge, hairy guy with broad shoulders and no neck, hit one of Drake’s guys with a bottle from the bar. The guy went down. Hard. Not all of Drake’s men were Bachyir.

Drake, however, was. And he had the strength to prove it. He tossed attackers left and right and showed no signs of wear from the effort. That only lasted as long as it took for five guys to jump on him at once, and then Drake, too, went down under a mass of flying fists and kicking boots.

And me? I was safely gone before the row really got started. As soon as the mob began its press, I shoved against the door for all I was worth, pushing Drake out into the throng. While he battled with angry drunks, I opened the door and went inside, locking it behind me. I found myself in a hallway that ran to the left, and followed it. It took me to a room behind the bar, where I was able to watch Drake and his buddies go down through the one-way mirror on the wall behind it.

A door stood on the far wall of the room, and a sign above it said EXIT. I went through the door and saw another hallway. This one ended in another door, and above that door was a sign that said EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND. It sure seemed like an emergency to me. I shoved the door open and ran down the street, the alarm blaring behind me like an air raid siren.

Soon other sirens joined it, shrieking through the night like a chorus of trouble. The police, obviously, coming to investigate the ruckus. I also heard the thinner, warbling siren of an ambulance and wondered who’d gotten hurt. A smile spread across my lips. I hoped it was Drake.

As much as I enjoyed the thought of the police coming to shake up The Eye, I realized that it would probably be prudent to get off the street myself before they got there. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions if I could help it. So I looked for a place to dig in for a little while. JoAnn’s was the other direction, and I would have to pass by The Eye again to get there, so that was out. I tried to think of another place nearby where I could go, but I came up blank. There simply weren’t that many places in the neighborhood open past two am. I was going to have to improvise.

With a resigned sigh, I ducked into an alley. It seemed familiar, somehow, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe I’d just been in so many damn alleys over the last few days that they were all starting to look alike. I vowed to myself that if I managed to get home without getting arrested or killed, I’d never set foot in a dark New York City alley again. Damn things were nothing but trouble.

This one was no different.

Chapter Nine:

Blind Luck Strikes Again

I walked into the alley and went to the far side of the dumpster, trying to be as quiet as possible. I made it behind the dumpster just as the blue and red lights streaked past. Four police cruisers had been dispatched to deal with the erupting chaos at The Eye. I had my doubts that four would be enough. When I made my getaway the whole place was in on the row, with people on the top floor throwing things down onto the heads of those fighting below. It might take a SWAT team to restore order to that place. I smiled at the thought of Bandy being called to his club to inspect the damage that was caused by his own poor choice of second mate.

Then I remembered. Bandy was dead.

To be honest, I didn’t really care. I’d never been that fond of the guy, and I’d just found out I was nothing more to Raine than a snack. Let them both kill each other, if they wanted. For that matter, let all these weirdos kill each other off. The city would be a better place without them.

I sat behind the dumpster for a while thinking my dark thoughts until I judged enough time had passed for me to leave and head home. And when I got there, I wouldn’t leave again for a week. Hell, I might even move. I’d had my fill of this city and its inhabitants. The residents just got stranger and more dangerous with every passing day. That very evening, hadn’t my life been in jeopardy not once, or even twice, but three times? Three! Everywhere I went in this city someone wanted to either hurt or kill me, and only one of them had wanted something from me I could provide. That was Grabby, of course. He’d wanted my wallet and my blood. The others, Kagan, Carl, and Drake had all wanted answers I couldn’t give.

Where is Raine? Where is she hiding?

Personally, the most important question I had for Raine had nothing to do with ‘where.’ My biggest question for her was ‘why.’ Why did she try to take me? Why didn’t she go through with it? Why did she leave? Why couldn’t I remember any of it until a few minutes ago? Why? Why? Why?

Hidden among the many whys circling in my mind like a tornado, I found another question. This question took longer to surface, but once it did, it occurred to me it was probably the most important question of all. The million-dollar baby, the Big One. This wasn’t a ‘why’ question, but a ‘what?’

As in, ‘what the hell did she do to me?’

My rage had quelled somewhat as the excitement of the evening faded and the boredom of standing in an empty alley set in. I began to wonder more and more why Raine chose not to kill me that first night. From what I overheard in The Eye, such a thing was very unusual. Drake made it sound like a weakness, like something no Bachyir in their right mind would do; yet Raine had let me go when she had me right where she wanted me. Maybe I hadn’t been imagining it. Maybe there really was a connection between the two of us. And that would make Drake’s sentiment all the more realistic. After all, what greater weakness is there than Compassion? Mercy can get you killed. That is one thing you learn the hard way as a vampire. If you are lucky, the lesson serves you well. If you are unlucky, then at least you don’t need to remember it.

Well, I thought, no sense sitting here waiting for someone to find me. It wouldn’t be good if the cops started canvassing the area to find me sitting behind a dumpster a few blocks away. I might as well paint the word ‘trouble’ on my forehead and go right up to them. Add to that the very real possibility that Sanders and Kagan could be somewhere nearby waiting for me to emerge with the rest of the drunks from the police raid, and it meant I needed to get the fuck home. While it would suck to get arrested, I’d rather spend the night in lock up than run into those two again. Once had been quite enough.

I began walking out of the alley, thinking to myself that when I got home, I might just take a third hot shower. And why not? I still had blood on me, and I’d spent large portions of the night either laying or sitting in dirty alleys and oily water. A nice hot shower seemed like the ultimate luxury. I’d turn the water so hot it would almost scald me. Then I’d stay there for an hour, or at least until the hot water ran out. After that I’d go back to bed, where I’d stay for three or four days.

First I had to get there, and that meant leaving the alley. I didn’t want to just go running out of it. Someone was sure to notice that. If they were cops I’d be in trouble. If they weren’t, then I’d be in even more trouble. I eased my face around the corner of the building and looked back in the direction of the club.

Right away I noticed more than four police cars had responded to the call. No less than ten cruisers and a paddy wagon crowded the street in front of the eye, along with two ambulances. The flashing red and blue lights sent strange shadows up and down the street in either direction. Another thing I noticed right away was that even the ten cruisers might not be enough. The scene at The Eye had escalated from a bar brawl into an all-out riot. There were people everywhere. They streamed out of the club like ants from an anthill, shouting and cursing so loud I could barely hear the officers trying to restore order. As the crowd emerged from the club they met the police, and many of them were just drunk enough to start throwing punches. The officers defended themselves with whatever was handy. Three people already lay on the ground screaming and clutching their faces after being sprayed with mace. Still two more were unconscious on the ground, having been on the receiving end of a billyclub. I watched as one guy got the billyclub treatment. He kicked and punched his way to the ground in spite of the repeated blows. Good thing I got out when I did; it wasn’t a pretty sight.

On the other hand, it meant I could most likely walk the opposite direction without anyone noticing me. If anyone did notice, they would be too busy to do anything about it.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, I took a step out of the alley. Then I froze.

There, in a shadowy doorway about two blocks away from me, Sanders and Kagan stood staring at the club, watching the commotion as it unfolded. They must have been waiting for me to come out. Which meant that they hadn’t seen me when I left from the side door. I doubted they’d go near the entrance, not with so many people there, but they could watch and wait. Most likely they planned to run up and snatch me, hoping to get lost in the chaos that reigned in front of The Eye and make off with their prize. The way things looked over there, it wasn’t that far-fetched of a plan, either. Everybody was either running or fighting.

I ducked back into the alley as quickly as I could without attracting their notice. Damn! I couldn’t leave while they were there, they’d be sure to spot me once I started walking up the street. It was only sheer luck that one of them hadn’t turned and seen me. I walked back down the alley, hoping to leave through the other entrance, but it was blocked. Some asshole had squeezed a Hertz truck in backwards; the fit was so tight I had to wonder how the fucker had managed to get out of the truck after he parked it. I thought about crawling under it, but I didn’t want to be stuck under there if Kagan came up behind me. The thought of him grabbing my ankles and hauling me backward nearly set my bladder free again. Resolving to crawl under the truck only as a last resort, I went back over to my spot behind the dumpster and sat down to think.

I paused a moment and looked back at the truck. It, too, seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then I shook the thought out of my head, having more important things to worry about, like Kagan and Sanders. I needed to make sure they didn’t find me.

Would I ever get back to my apartment and take that nice hot shower? Hell, right then I’d have settled for no shower and just going to bed. The events of the night had been draining, and the longer I sat there the more and more exhausted I became. It was going on 5am, and soon the sun would be peeking over the horizon. If I could make it that long, I thought I would be safe. The city would be waking up soon, and somehow I doubted those two would chase me through crowded New York City streets in broad daylight. Just the same, I didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.

I stood up and walked around the alley, cursing my luck for having run into a blocked one. I needed a better hiding place than behind the dumpster. Maybe the truck was unlocked. I dismissed that idea almost as soon as it came. I didn’t want to box myself into the truck if those two came in after me.

As I searched, I was struck again by that same sense of familiarity. I’d seen the place before, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Part of it was visual; the walls, the trash cans, the arrangement of the fire escapes, but part of it was surreal. Part of the deja vu was just a familiar feeling. A queasiness in the stomach or a clenching of the bowels. A dark aura hovered in the place like mist; it drew me in even as it scared me. Something called to me that I didn’t want to answer. Something I’d felt before.

Then it hit me. It was the very place Raine had brought me on the night I killed Kagan, or thought I’d killed Kagan. I was surprised and a little creeped out that I’d somehow managed to get back to the place where the really weird stuff had started. Not that driving a crucifix through a man’s skull and into his brain wasn’t out of the norm, but this alley was where the real darkness began. It was where I first realized things were not always what you thought they were. When I stepped through that doorway.

The doorway!

Having seen no other way out during my search, I looked around the back of the alley for the door. I saw nothing to indicate it existed or had ever existed in the first place. But then, I hadn’t seen it the first time either. All I saw on that occasion was the same blank wall. I kept looking, feeling for cracks in the concrete. The door was there, it had to be. Raine had opened it somehow and taken me through. I just had to find it.

But it remained hidden, no matter how hard I looked. I swore under my breath and looked for something else. A pair of trash cans stood about halfway down the alley. I ducked behind them, semi-hidden from the entrance by the cans and the shadows that penetrated deep into the alley. It would take a good, hard look to see me sitting there, and I dared to believe that no one would be looking for me that hard. The police would have their hands full with all the drunks pouring out of The Eye, and Kagan and Sanders probably wouldn’t come looking this direction. More likely, I thought, they would go the other way, back towards The Eye to check the immediate area. I hoped so, anyway, because I was starting to get very sleepy.

I didn’t know if I could stay awake long enough o get out of there. My head felt so heavy on my shoulders that I could barely keep it up. The idea of sleeping away the morning behind a pair of trashcans in a dirty alley didn’t appeal to me at all, yet my eyes drifted closed over and over again. More than once I jerked up to realize I’d drifted off with my head propped against the wall. I could almost see my nice, cozy bed; with the pillows I bought at Kmart after graduation and the blanket my mother made for me just before she died. Warm and soft and safe. I could almost smell the hint of Bounce in the sheets. Heaven. I recalled the feel of them against my bare skin. My bed seemed to be calling to me. A sweet voice drifted in the back of my mind.

Vincent… Viiiiiincent.

Then the voice changed to a man’s voice. A voice made of gravel and cigarettes. No longer friendly and inviting, but angry and dangerous. It was coming for me, and I was too scared to move.

Vincent… Closer…closer…almost there…

I woke with a start to find myself leaning with my back against the alley wall. I had fallen asleep propped up against it like some wino three fingers deep into the hoorah sauce. All I needed was a bottle in a brown paper bag and the image would be complete. I shuddered as I remembered the voice in my dream. It sounded a lot like—

“Vincent? Come on out, Vincent.”

…Kagan’s voice.

I shot to attention, looking toward the street. The blue and red lights were gone, which meant the police had taken who they were going to take and split the scene. I wondered if Drake had been one of the guys the police arrested, but then shadow crossed the alley entrance. I hid behind the trash can as best I could and sat unmoving as a stone, holding my breath and hoping they would just take a quick glance into the alley and keep walking. I figured it was still a good twenty minutes before sunrise, but there among the tall buildings direct sunlight would not touch anything for another hour or so. That left them plenty of time to find me. Too much time for my liking.

“Vincent, come out, we just want to know about Raine. Tell us where she’s hiding and we’ll leave you alone.”

Yeah, right. I believed that about as much as I believed I could fly out of that alley to get away. I looked around for a weapon, but found nothing but more trash cans and plenty of useless stuff all over the alley floor that should have been inside them. The only thing I could think to do was to pick up one of the trash cans and hope to knock one or both of them over with it. I doubted it would do much good, but I grabbed one of the handles and got ready to fling the whole fucking thing at them if they saw me.

I sat like a compressed spring, the muscles in my arms and legs coiled and tense, frozen in a moment of potential energy. The shadow in front of the alley grew closer, elongating as its owner stepped farther and farther away from the streetlight that gave it life. After what seemed like hours, a single, grubby foot came into view around the corner, followed by a leg. Then in a single ungainly step, the rest of Joel Kagan appeared in the alley entrance. Carl Sanders was right behind him.

Kagan peered into the alley, looking directly at me but not seeing me. He stepped over to the dumpster and looked behind it. Good thing I decided not to go back there; I’d have been caught for sure. After searching through the contents of the dumpster, he turned his back to me and walked toward Sanders, shrugging his shoulders. It took me a few seconds to figure it out. I was hidden. Sitting in the shadows, my body mostly concealed behind the trash can, and still wearing my black Harley shirt and dark jeans, I must have been all but invisible. There was no light at all this far back in the alley, and as a result, Kagan simply couldn’t see me. I started to relax.

Carl, meanwhile, had watched Kagan working, like a supervisor or a foreman. The points of his teeth almost glowed, even in the low light. That’s when I realized Sanders was the boss and Kagan was the flunky. I had suspected as much, but now I knew for sure. However maniacal and tough Joel Kagan was, this guy Carl must be much, much worse. The realization strengthened my resolve to move out of the city once and for all. If I made it out of this alley alive, I would go to stay with a friend of mine in Tennessee for a while. I wouldn’t make as much, but at least I’d be away from all these walking teeth.

As the two left, I let out a relieved breath. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it. The sound was so soft the night swallowed it whole, and I barely heard it myself, but Sanders froze. He whirled around to face the alley once again and started to look around, a strange bluish glow coming from his eyes like those of an animal when hit by a flashlight.

“What is it, Carl?” Kagan asked, “Did you hear something?”

He might as well have saved his breath, Carl wasn’t paying him any attention. The muscles in my arms and legs tensed once again, the spring ready for release. Carl’s indigo eyes roved from side to side, farther and farther down the alley. I’d have given anything in the world right then to be able to melt right into the wall, but of course I couldn’t. So I did the only thing I could do; I sat and watched, waiting for the inevitable.

It didn’t take long; ten seconds, perhaps. Maybe fifteen, but it felt like a lifetime. Those indigo eyes scanning, searching for any sign of the source of the noise. The closer his gaze came, the more rigid and tense my muscles got, until they felt like they might start to rip themselves apart from the tension of holding still, waiting to come to life.

Then the wait was over. Carl’s eyes found me. I could feel them lock on me and for one horrible second they held me in place, unable to move, much like when his eyes had pinned me to the sidewalk earlier. Carl smiled as his eyes confirmed what his ears had already told him, and that smile told me all I needed to know. I would not make it past them this time. I surprised them once by breaking his hold on me, but this time I was trapped. There was only one way out of this alley, and that was through them. Carl knew it, and what’s more, he knew I knew it, as well. The predator had finally caught up to his prey.

“You are a fool, Kagan.” Was all he said, as he started toward me.

Fuck me, I thought.

Chapter Ten

A Little Nap

Kagan scowled but said nothing. Then he, too, walked into the alley. There was no mistaking the fact that Sanders had spotted me; his strange blue gaze never left me as he took one slow, deliberate step after another. He was taking his time, and why shouldn’t he? He knew I wasn’t going anywhere; there was nowhere to go. The malicious glee in his eyes told me well enough what he had planned for the evening.

I was about to die. I knew it with as much certainty as I knew my own name. But somehow, the knowledge of my impending death didn’t scare me as much as it should have. On the contrary, I found it empowering, invigorating, even thrilling. It drove the fear right out of me. It no longer mattered what I did, because I couldn’t change the outcome. My heartbeats were numbered. The only thing that mattered was not going out like a scared sheep. I would not die hiding in a corner. If I had to die, I planned to make them work for it.

With a wild yell, I shot to my feet, throwing the can with every bit of my considerable strength. It was a good throw, too, the kind that you know is right on the money the second it leaves your hand. In a blur, the half-full trashcan flew through the air at the pair of them. Carl’s smile evaporated in an instant, but he kept the presence of mind to fling himself to the side. It probably helped that he knew I was there. To Kagan, however, it must have seemed like I’d appeared out of nowhere and hurled my missile at him. For a split second he didn’t move, and that was all the time it took for the can to connect squarely with his face and torso. The impromptu weapon knocked him flat on his ass and bounced over him, landing with a clang at the edge of the alley and rolling out into the street, leaving a trail of refuse behind it.

“Yes!” I shouted, pleased with myself. I even pumped my fist once in triumph.

My enthusiasm was short-lived. Half a second after being hit with the trashcan, Kagan was back on his feet, and the bewildered look was gone. Instead, he looked pissed. Sanders kept his black eyes trained on me, thin and sharp as daggers, their strange glow gone. I felt a tingle in my skin, as though his eyes alone could stab me and draw blood. The two of them started toward me again, albeit this time with a little more respect.

I looked around for another can, but there were none close enough to make use of. I didn’t see anything else in the alley I could use to fight them off. Nothing but my own two hands, anyway. Well, they’d already done some damage, hadn’t they? After all, I had turned a man’s wrist into splinters only a few hours ago. I might not be as strong as Kagan, but I was still pretty damn strong. If they wanted a fight, they could have one. I couldn’t win, but fuck it. I was ready.

Maybe not as ready as I thought. I squared my body and braced for the inevitable, but my foot slipped on something. To this day I don’t know what it was, it was dark and the alley was full of trash. It could have been anything from a banana peel to a dead rat. All I know is my right foot flew out from under me with a mind of its own, and I toppled backwards. Kagan and Carl paused in their approach long enough to laugh as I fell over. As I may have mentioned before, Sanders seemed to be enjoying himself, and the sight of me falling feet over ass probably looked funny as hell from his point of view.

But I got the last laugh.

Remember me telling you that the hero in many a story is usually blind luck? Well, luck could not have been any more blind than it was right there in that dark, dirty alley during the early morning hours of July 17th, 1986. As I fell sprawling to the alley floor, all my dignity and grace gone in the instant it took for my foot to fly, I instinctively reached out with my hands to try and stop my fall. My left hand closed around something small, round and solid. I gripped that blessed object and used it to steady myself just enough to keep from landing in the filth, and I ended up sitting by the wall, a bit confused. I looked up, wondering what I had managed to grab.

There was the door! It shone in the night like a beacon. The fact that it hadn’t been there a moment ago was lost on me as I considered the implications. The Door! I’m not trapped! I might still be able to get out of this alive. Kagan and Sanders were still laughing, which meant they didn’t see it. Yet. But they would notice it soon enough when I opened it. Of course, they were still twenty yards away from me; they’d never be able to catch me in time. Or could they? I’d seen Kagan move pretty damn fast, and I had no reason to doubt that Sanders could do the same. I might only have a few seconds, but that should be enough, especially if there was a bolt on the other side of the door.

“Oh please God,” I whispered. “ Please let there be a big, stout latch on the other side of this door.”

Gathering up what remained of my courage, I flung the door wide open. Kagan and Sanders’ laughter ceased in an instant, as though cut off with a blade.

“NO!” Sanders yelled, “Oh, no, you don’t!”

Kagan growled his assent.

Oh, yes I do!

They ran at me full speed, and I didn’t have time to think about it anymore. I closed my eyes and whispered one final, quick prayer. Then I leapt through the door, not looking or even caring where it went, just as long as it got me out of that alley.

“Like Hell I don’t!” I shouted back. I managed to give them the finger before I jumped through the doorway.

Kagan and Sanders screamed. I couldn’t make out the words, but the sound of their fury turned my blood to water, and I nearly fell down again. By some miracle I kept my feet and threw all of my weight against the inside of the door. Then, with the click of the door’s latch, the screams vanished, leaving a silence so sudden and full it took me by surprise. I stood with my whole body braced against the wood, prepared to hold it with all my strength. The side of my face pressed against the cool surface of the door. The smell of old wood wafted through my nostrils, as well as moss and old stone. And something else. Something earthy and old, like rich soil. I waited a few minutes for the pounding to start on the other side of the door, but it never did.

When I calmed down, I realized I had my eyes squeezed shut, and I opened them, expecting to find myself drenched in impenetrable darkness like the night before. Instead I saw a stone hallway lit on both sides by torches spaced roughly ten feet apart. The torches were only lit for about thirty feet down, and beyond that, the hallway disappeared into shadow. It looked the way I had always pictured a dungeon to look. Stone walls on either side, torchlight, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of dripping water. That slightly earthy smell, reminiscent of mold on wet leaves, hung in the air, along with the sharp, acrid smell of burning lamp oil. It reminded me of the moist summers spent digging for worms as a kid, dad’s tiki torches lighting the backyard. I tried to figure it out, but I couldn’t make sense of it, so I didn’t try hard.

With nothing else to do, I started walking down the hallway. I was just thinking perhaps I should grab a torch when the two farthest behind me went out. In the same instant, two more flared to life ahead. Neat. Easy to see how this worked. I would have light the whole way. Excellent. I tried to figure out how the designer had done it – pressure plates in the floor, maybe – but decided I didn’t really care. I just wanted to get out of there.

Since I couldn’t go back, I went forward. The torches continued to light as I approached, and to extinguish themselves as I passed. I spent a few seconds speculating about the change in the hallway. More specifically, why I could see my way this time when I hadn’t been able to see anything the night before. What had changed about the hallway in that short amount of time? When it came, the answer stopped me in my tracks.

The hallway hasn’t changed, I thought with a shudder. I have.

I can’t say how much time I spent wandering those empty halls, but it couldn’t have been as long as it felt. The initial corridor went on for quite a long way. Too long, in fact, to have fit inside the building I saw from the alley. I couldn’t explain it, but then, there were a lot of things going on that I couldn’t explain. I was starting to get used to not knowing the answers.

At least it isn’t dark. The torches continued to flare to life when I got within twenty feet of them, showing the rough hewn stone of the tunnel walls in an ever shifting, dull orange glow. Granted, that left a pretty limited field of vision, no more than thirty or forty feet in front of me or behind me. But it was light enough to see, and that was good enough.

The excitement of being trapped in an alley faced with certain death had worn off, and the exhaustion I’d felt earlier returned with a vengeance. Just putting one foot in front of the other grew harder with every step, and sooner or later exhaustion would pull me to the floor. Then what? I would probably pass out right where I lay, just waiting for someone to come and find me. No good. I wanted to avoid being found if possible. Lately everyone I met wanted to grant me a slow and painful death. Stealth was the order of the day.

Of course, my exhausted body and mind made stealth a difficult trick. I walked with that same barely-there shuffle made famous by George Romero. I probably looked like one of the Living Dead, too. Filthy, shaky, and smelly, having taken refuge behind a dumpster and slipping in trash. I could smell myself, and figured if anyone got within twenty feet of me they would smell me, too. Hopefully I wouldn’t run into anyone, a housecat could have beaten me up in my weakened condition.

When the first of the turns came, I stood in the middle of the hallway and looked at my options with a bleary gaze. I decided – for no particular reason – to take the passage on the right. Before long I came to another intersection, and this time I went straight. More and more often I came to forks in the path, always picking a direction at random. I had no idea how to get where I was going, but since I had no idea where that was, then it didn’t matter which way I went. Just call me the fucking Cheshire Cat.

After a myriad of twists and turns so complex it would have befuddled the Minotaur, exhaustion finally won out over stubbornness. I tripped over a thin cord about 6 inches off the ground that stretched across the width of the hallway. I saw it beforehand, but the circuits between my brain and the rest of my body had all but shut down, and I just couldn’t make myself stop. Instead I watched helplessly as my foot caught on the wire and I tripped, falling face first onto the stone floor. I did manage to get my hands out in front of me to help break my fall, but just barely.

No sooner had my foot touched the cord but a huge steel cage dropped from the ceiling with a crash, sending loud echoes of metal against stone up and down the halls and trapping me inside. Even from my prone position I knew the cage was solid, and I wouldn’t have had much chance of moving it even if I had the energy to try. The floor had shaken when the bars hit the ground, raising a cloud of dust that choked me up and made my eyes water.

“Good,” I said to no one in particular, “Now I can sleep.”

And I did.

Chapter Eleven:

The Council Of Thirteen

I awoke to discover myself lying flat on my back on something hard and cold. Actually, it wasn’t so much of an awakening as it was a slow, steady drift back to consciousness, and I lay there for a while with my eyes closed wondering where I was. After perhaps a minute of trying to piece things together, I remembered the alley, and Kagan, and the door. I remembered walking down a stone passageway, and the cage crashing down. Was I still in it? I didn’t know, but for a while I didn’t want to open my eyes and find out. I considered lying there until sleep took me again, and the thought was so soothing and comforting that for a time I did just that.

Sleep would not return to me, however, and before long I realized the harder I tried to get back to sleep, the more awake I became. Part of it was because I had slept all I needed to sleep, and my body simply refused to do it any longer. Another part was the growing fear that came with the realization that I’d been trapped like a lobster in a cage, with no way out and nothing to do but wait to have my claws banded and be thrown into the pot. But that’s not all. There was one other thing that kept me from going back to sleep.

Hunger.

It started as a small thing, barely noticeable. But as I lay there with my eyes closed trying not to think about anything, it grew more prominent. You know how it is when you’re hungry; the more you try to ignore it, the more insistent it becomes, until sooner or later it forces you out of bed to get a snack. But this was much worse than any hunger I’d ever felt before. Primal and all consuming. Instinctive and raw. Painful, even. Like my insides were being tied into knots and set on fire.

Finally I couldn’t stand the hunger or not knowing where I was any longer, and I opened my eyes to the dancing light of another flickering torch. The light would have been considered dim by the standards of most, but to me it was a welder’s arc. I held up a hand between the torch and my eyes to give them a chance to get to know each other better, and watched as the undulating shadows played their endless game of chase on the stone floor.

When I could see without squinting, I put my hand down and took in my surroundings. Instead of the steel cage, I was in a cell. Underneath me was a small slab of stone, which I’d been sleeping on, and that was the only thing in the room. The single torch – a luxury in a cell if ever there was one – was set into a bracket on the far wall. The other three walls were bare stone. There was no toilet or bucket, not even a hole in the floor. What would I do if nature called? Hopefully I wouldn’t be there long enough to find out.

The thick wooden door had a small barred window near the top, through which I noted more shifting light, probably from torches just like mine. It looked solid, very much like the doors in all those Hollywood dungeons. Someone had come upon me as I slept in my cage and carried me here. I wondered that they hadn’t woken me up to question me first. Then again, maybe they tried. I was so exhausted when the cage fell they couldn’t have awakened me with anything short of torture. I took it as a good sign that my captors, whoever they were, had not resorted to that.

Yet.

Then I noticed the smell. Blood. Blood and flesh. It sprang at me from the dim light and almost sent me to the floor as my hunger, forgotten with the realization of my imprisonment, slammed back into me like a tractor trailer at eighty miles an hour. Eyes watering from the pain, I looked around the room to see a plate of raw meat on the floor. In that instant I was no longer Vincent Walker, freelance cartoonist and all around nice guy. I was something different; a beast with no remorse. Powerful and hungry. Dangerous. Less human than animal, and less animal than monster.

I leapt off the bed and scrambled across the floor to the rough clay plate. Once there, I shoved the raw flesh into my mouth as fast as I could. Watery blood dribbled down my chin and dripped onto my chest in the frenzied ecstasy of my meal. It didn’t feel like a cell anymore. In my mind I saw myself in savage colors, running with deadly purpose through a forest bathed in moonlight, the green of the leafy canopy dulled to a dark gray by the absence of the sun. I could see my prey, sense it, taste it in the air. I saw myself leaping, biting, killing…

All too soon the plate was empty I picked it up to lick away the last remaining drops of blood. I didn’t need a mirror to tell me my fangs were back; I could feel them. I ran my tongue over them, licking the last of the blood from the sharp points, shivering with remembered desire and power. I was the ultimate predator. The apex of all living things, the creature all other creatures feared. The undisputed master of the moonlight hunters. I ached to be free of my cell so I could run headlong into the night, heedless of the dangers that might wait. What could be more dangerous than me?

It wasn’t just the desire to feed that made me yearn for the outdoors, but the need to hunt. To find and chase down my prey. To kill it myself. To trade another creature’s death for my life and participate in the timeless struggle of predator versus prey. I wanted to be the victor in that struggle. To run with the wolves as they chased down a deer in the forests of the Pacific Northwest, or the lions as they pursued a zebra across the scraggly plains of the Serengeti. More than anything, I wanted out of this cell so I could feast.

“Aye. Ye feel it, don’t ye?” came a rusty voice from outside the cell door. I looked to the tiny barred window, no bigger than a paperback novel, and saw a pair of beady, black eyes surrounded by a mass of crow’s feet and leathery skin. I couldn’t see the rest of his face; even his nose was invisible in the tiny window.

“Yer wantin’ t’run, ain’t ye?” he continued, cackling laughter. “It’s writ all over yer face, so it is.”

I just stared at him, having no idea what to say.

“Been bitten, ye have,” he continued “But not finished, I’d wager, or no amount o’ plain flesh would sate ye, n’matter how raw an’ bloody it be.”

I grumbled something back that might have been “Shut your hole,” but I can’t say for certain.

“Want ter make me, do ye?” He chuckled, and I heard the jingling of keys. “A change o’ heart would do ye well, I say. Think on it.”

I heard him insert the key into the lock as he talked, and I tried to discern if he had others with him or if he was alone. I hadn’t heard any other voices accompanying him in the hallway, but that didn’t mean anything in itself. He could simply have quiet companions. After all, hadn’t a three hundred-or-so pound Joel Kagan been running after me at breakneck speed in complete silence? I had no reason to doubt this newcomer could do the same. With luck, he was alone. I might be able to take down one simple guard who sounded like a refugee from the thirteenth century. I was feeling much better after having slept and eaten. I felt strong again.

“N’matter,” he said. “Yer t’see the Council, y’know, and they’ll fix ye.” Again the soft cackling laughter, “One way’r ‘nother, they’ll fix ye.”

I failed to see the humor in his words, but I kept it to myself. I stood in the center of the cell as he opened the door, praying he would be alone, and for a short time it seemed I was going to get my wish. As the door opened I only saw one man, dressed in rough brown robes with a rope for a belt. He looked like a monk, all he lacked was a hood to cover his bald pate. Add a book of the Gospel-According-To-Whoever and the outfit would have been complete. Attached to the rope was a set of keys, presumably one of which he’d used to unlock my cell.

My first impression of him was that he looked soft. He was plump around the middle, with a round, pockmarked face. The top of his head was bare, but black, stringy hair fell from above and behind his ears to well below his shoulders. His dark eyes reflected the shifting torchlight from beneath bushy black eyebrows, which themselves jutted like furry shelves from a forehead that was partially hidden by a wide leather headband. In the center of the headband was the tooled image of a wolf’s head. He smelled like old blood.

His cheeks were round and full, his mouth a straight line between them. I could see no evidence that he possessed a pair of fangs like mine, but I thought he might, just the same. I got the feeling that, although he may look weak, he would be more than willing to teach someone otherwise should they try to test him. I still thought I could take him, and was planning on doing just that. The way I saw it, things just couldn’t be any worse than they already were. This ‘Council’ he spoke of wanted to see me, so I didn’t think he would kill me. They wanted something from me, otherwise I’d be dead already. Even if I failed in my attempt to escape, the worst he might do would be to knock me unconscious and drag me before this Council of his so they could ask me whatever questions they wanted to ask me.

Most likely, they want to ask me where Raine is. It sure seemed like the million dollar question. Where is Raine? Where is she hiding? They were going to be disappointed when they realized I didn’t know the answer.

After opening the door, my guard turned his back on the cell, and on me.

“Let’s go, then. They be waitin’ on ye,” he said, as he shuffled out of the doorway and turned to the left down the hall. I prepared myself to jump him, hoping to take him out fast before he could raise an alarm. I stepped out into the hallway behind him, making no more noise than a shadow. It must have been my lucky day. He was indeed alone, and seemed to be oblivious to the fact that I was creeping up right behind him. I smiled. This would be easy, after all. Even my hunger was back. I felt my teeth growing in my mouth. How would the monk taste?

Just another few seconds was all I needed to get ready, for my fangs – my best weapons – to come fully to the fore, and then it would be all over for the Renaissance Fair monk with the jangling keys and the limping stride. Five seconds, ten at the most.

I never got them.

Just as I was about to spring, I felt a touch on my shoulder. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I’d forgotten to look behind me. How dumb could I get? Of course the guy wasn’t alone. Who in their right mind would send one man to fetch a prisoner? In my blind need for both escape and blood I’d ignored the obvious. Now it was at least two against one.

I tried to turn around but found my muscles wouldn’t obey my commands anymore. My arms felt sluggish and chilled, and my legs wobbled like jelly. From the hand on my shoulder came a great, sweeping cold that pierced the skin like a needle and slid underneath. From there it oozed through my entire body like frozen blood. I could feel my temperature drop as the cold wound its sluggish way through the veins in my arm and down the right side of my chest. As it spread I began to hear voices in the back of my head. They sounded hollow, as though coming to me from a great distance. I listened closely and realized I could make out words in the general din. Some of the voices screamed for justice, others begged for mercy. Some did both. I recognized them without knowing how. They were the tortured cries of the Damned.

When I looked around, I had left the stone hallway and now stood in the middle of a blazing lake of molten rock. My body shivered, and I wondered how I could feel cold with so much fire around me. Burning hot gasses bubbled noisily to the surface only to burst into flame when they reached the air, filling the area around me with the pungent smells of sulphur and burning flesh. All around me thousands of wretched, haggard faces screamed in pain and terror, their mouths opened impossibly wide as they sank lower and lower into the burning lake. Their howls only ended when their faces finally sank beneath the glowing surface. One man about twenty feet away from me screamed just before he went under. As I watched with a kind of fascinated horror, his hair caught fire and his skin crackled and turned black. His eyes simply melted, running like tears from empty sockets to bubble and sizzle atop the molten stone until they evaporated. A tiny wisp of smoke rose as the last bit of his hair burned. The only evidence anyone had been there at all. Then it, too, was gone.

What is this place? I wrapped my arms around my chest in an effort to defeat the illogical cold. My teeth began to chatter, and my whole body trembled; yet all around me the fires continued to burn and the people continued to sink. I looked down to see my own feet disappearing into the magma, and realized with growing terror that I was one of those people. I was sinking slowly into the molten lake. In another minute I’d be a puff of smoke, just like the millions of others floating toward the unseen ceiling somewhere above, lost in clouds of gas and steam. This is how it ends for me? Drowning in a lake of fire? I watched as my shins sank under the surface, then my hips. Despite the fire, I still felt no heat, only the soul-numbing cold that crawled ever deeper into my body.

The cold began to tingle, and the screams of those souls around me increased in both volume and number until I couldn’t distinguish individual voices anymore. Instead the cries of the dying became a single deafening roar. It was as if all those who had ever suffered a gruesome and painful demise had awakened as one to pour out their anger and frustration into my head, and all I could do was listen as I waited to join them.

Then a gruff, deep voice broke through the screams. “’Ere, now,” it said, “The Council’s wantin’ ‘im alive an’ ye know it. So best ye quit.”

I’d heard the archaic accent before, but I couldn’t place the voice. The cold hesitated, as if in response.

“Unless ye want t’ be the one t’ tell the Council why this one’s not able t’ talk.”

The cold receded, like switching on a light, and a sense of awareness started to filter back into my head. I opened my eyes to find myself in the stone hallway again, my jailer staring at me with an annoyed look. I nodded at him, knowing he was the one who pulled me from the fiery lake, his voice that stopped the cold from taking my whole body. Then my legs buckled, and I tumbled backwards to the floor. The last thing I remember is a flash of pain at the back of my head, then there was nothing at all.

***

My unconsciousness didn’t last long. This time, when I came to, the Monk-Guard was carrying me over his shoulder like a sack of laundry. He grunted a little with the effort, but not much. His strength belied his soft, round physique. Much like Kagan, actually. I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about him. I had bigger problems. When I looked up from the floor to see whom or what followed behind us, I saw a nightmare the likes of which I’d never imagined possible, and I almost passed out again.

The creature stood about as tall as a man, and humanoid in shape. It wore a wispy, tattered black robe, covered in dust and worn through in places, enabling me to see the horror of what lay underneath. It looked a lot like the popular portrayal of Death; long flowing black robe, hood pulled up to obscure the face, skeletal hands poking from voluminous sleeves clutching a large scythe. But the only thing it really had in common was the robe. It didn’t have a scythe, and its face was not covered by a big, billowy hood. The hands that poked from the sleeves were far from skeletal, though it would have been easier for me if they were.

It had been human once, I could tell that much from the structure, as well as what remained of its features, but there was not enough left to indicate if it had been male or female. All that remained of its once human face were bits of discolored, rotting flesh, which played home to a myriad of insects in varying larval stages. The maggoty things were so numerous that the flesh in which they lived seemed to wriggle and crawl, as though the rotted remains of muscle and skin were themselves alive. As I watched, a large green grub poked its head through the discolored remnants of the creature’s right cheek with a soft, sticky smack and loped northward into the gaping empty hole that had once housed an eye. It left a trail of filmy, whitish goo behind it, like a disgusting parody of the breadcrumbs Hansel and Gretel had used to mark their way through the woods. Like the breadcrumbs, this trail was devoured almost instantly. Not by birds, of course, but by the myriad of tiny creatures crawling about in their macabre city.

The hands were much the same, large deposits of decaying tissue being mined by an untold number of larva, all of them wriggling and squirming through their little lives, feeding on the thing that trailed behind the Monk-Guard and me through the dull, shifting light of the passageways. An involuntary shudder coursed through me at the thought of one of those grotesque things clutching at my shoulder. I felt like I was going to retch, and just barely held it in check. I did, however, gag on the sight and the smell of the rotten thing, which clued my captor to the fact that I was conscious.

“Good,” he said. “Yer awake. Now ye can walk.”

He dropped me to the floor like garbage, and I barely missed hitting my head again. He looked down at me with a mixture of satisfaction and contempt. He seemed irritated, probably not accustomed to his charges trying to jump him in his own jail. He scowled and poked his finger into my chest hard enough to hurt, and offered me a warning, not that I needed one after what I’d just experienced.

“No more o’ that, d’ye hear?” He said, his finger wagging just inches from my face. “Just ye keep yer eyes fixed on the cussed thing walkin’ after ye, an’ know’ it be a Lost One. Be knowin’, as well, tha’ ye be lookin’ upon the price the Council takes from them what angers ‘em. Mind ye, this twice-damned thing’s got no mercy in it, an’ nothin’ short o’ the will o’ the Council be keepin’ it from sendin’ ye on a trip ye won’t like one bit. Ye just be rememberin’ that the next time yer thinkin’ to try an’ knock me from behind.”

I couldn’t think of a response, so I nodded.

“It be behind ye for a reason, don’t ye doubt,” the guard added, “an’ ye’ll find yerself in front o’ the Council either way. Whether ye be on yer back or on yer feet when ye meet ‘em be up to yerself.”

With that, he pulled his finger away from my face and turned his back to me, continuing down the hall towards wherever the Council of Thirteen waited. I got to my feet as fast as my legs would allow, not wanting that thing to touch me again. Once had been enough to last the rest of my life. I have never experienced anything that fills my veins with ice or stills my heart faster or more thoroughly than the touch of a Lost One. Even now, thinking about it makes my shoulder turn cold, and a shiver flows through my body.

I sprinted to catch up to my jailer and fell into step behind him. Whatever the Council of Thirteen wanted to do with me, it was sure to be better than what waited behind me. I wondered briefly what all those larvae must find when they tasted the thing’s flesh, and was sorry that the thought had even popped into my head. I banished it from my mind and instead concentrated on where we were going, hoping I could remember the way if I had to.

I might as well have tried to count raindrops in a thunderstorm. The Monk-Guard led me down a Labyrinthine maze of tunnels and side passages. I lost track after the first few minutes. A person could wander those halls for weeks, perhaps longer, and never find anything but stone, stone, and more stone until eventually they succumbed to starvation or dehydration and dropped. At that point they would just be food for whatever vermin patrolled the passageways. The mental image was so vivid I actually thought I saw a skeletal figure slumped against a wall in a branching corridor. When I blinked, it was gone, and I figured it must have just been a shadow or a trick of the flickering torchlight. With the Lost One behind me I dared not stop or even slow down to investigate.

I don’t know how long or far we walked, I only know that it felt like a long time, with the Monk-Guard leading the way in front and the Lost One plodding along behind like Disease after Famine. After a time, we left the maze of rough-walled corridors behind and the passage became regular, more evenly worked. Doors began to appear at odd intervals, some grand, and some plain. Behind a few of them I heard voices whispering out into the hallway. Behind others I heard the terrified cries of those who would spend their last breaths begging for mercy that would not come. The entire place reeked of blood and sweat, but mostly blood. Its constant, coppery smell set my stomach to gurgling, and it became increasingly hard to keep pace.

At last we came to a set of plain oaken double doors, with dull bronze handles that resembled a wolf’s head. In addition to the door handles, heavy iron rings were set into the doors and also in the walls on either side of it. A big steel bar glinted dully in the flickering torchlight off to the side. I could picture it sliding into the rings, barring the door. What struck me as odd, however, was the placement of the bolt on the outside. One would think they would want to bar it from the inside, to keep people – or things – from getting in. This door was designed to keep whatever was inside from getting out. All at once I didn’t want to go in there. Not one bit. But with the Lost One behind me, I knew I would be given no choice in the matter.

As my ‘guide’ approached the doors, he surprised me by stepping to the side rather than opening them and ushering me through. Apparently he had no desire to go in, either. Instead he jerked a thumb at the doorway.

“They be waitin’ fer ye,” he said, “Move along, now. I got work t’ do, ye know.”

“Gee, sorry to trouble you,” I replied. He scowled but said nothing. He pointed again at the doors and glanced meaningfully behind me at the Lost One. I didn’t need another warning, and without another word I reached out and pulled open the door that led to the Council of Thirteen, whoever they were.

How I had gotten to this point simply by dancing with a beautiful woman was beyond me. I shook my head and stepped into the gloom.

At first I could see nothing at all, it looked as though light had never visited the place. A musty smell wafted out, reminiscent of moss and something else. Lamp oil, maybe? I hesitated just inside the entrance, unable to bring myself to walk the rest of the way in. Of course, my wishes had nothing to do with anything, and all too soon a frozen hand touched my back and pushed me further into the room. The click of the doors behind me and the sound of the steel bar sliding into place did not come as a surprise.

As soon as the doors closed, thirteen torches sputtered to life about twenty or so feet in front of me. After the shadowy darkness of the halls and the complete blackness of the room only a moment before, the light from so many torches stung my eyes. I had to shield them with my hands until they became accustomed to the glow. I heard murmuring from every direction. Power, ancient and draconian, thrummed through the room with a slight, vibrating hum, making me feel small and weak, as insignificant as an ant standing against a dinosaur. Even though I couldn’t see them, I knew I was in the room with the Council of Thirteen.

“Vincent Walker,” a deep, resonant voice said, “remove your hand from your face and look upon us. I will not ask a second time.” I heard no mercy in that voice, no room for negotiation. I hesitated only long enough to remember my glass bottom boat view of Hell, then I obeyed.

When my eyes adjusted to the light, I got a good look at my surroundings. I stood in a large chamber of gray stone, empty but for a big obsidian table in the shape of a U. In between the legs of the U stood a small dais, just big enough to hold a single person. I could tell I was meant to stand on it, so I did. Once there I looked around the room, taking in the figures seated at the table.

They sat in high backed obsidian chairs. Thirteen robed and hooded figures that would have looked identical to the horror I’d left out in the hallway but for the fact their robes were neither tattered nor decayed, and their hands were fully fleshed and devoid of insect larvae. Their faces were buried deep within the shadows of their hoods; not even the tips of the noses were visible. It was eerie, looking at them that way. It made me think again of the specter of Death, and I shivered. This time there was not just one Death, but thirteen. All in the same room with me, and all of them wanting something from me that I didn’t yet know. I prayed their questions would have nothing to do with Raine. More than anything I hoped I could give them whatever they wanted so they would let me go.

Just please don’t let them ask me about Raine.

“We are the Council of Thirteen,” the figure at the head of the table said, “governing body of the Bachyir and the enforcers of the Father’s will in the physical world. I am Headcouncil Herris.” He then pointed to his right “This is Councilor Ramah. Next to him is Councilor Mattawe…” He went down the line, introducing all of the Council members one by one. All of them gave a slight nod of their hooded heads as their names were mentioned. When he finished the introductions, he went right into the heart of the matter, and my hopes of living through the night were dashed.

“We know you have been in recent company with Raine Winters, child of Ramah,” again Herris motioned toward the figure to his right. “We also know that you aided in her escape from Carl Sanders and his wretched sidekick Joel Kagan, and for that we are grateful.”

I had to think about that one for a second. They were grateful? Grateful? And why not? Apparently Raine’s father was among the Council members. Maybe I would live through this after all. I nodded my head, feeling a little better.

“We also know that Raine has endeavored to Turn you without the express consent of this Council. This is a most grievous offense, and is punishable by being turned into a Lost One, such as the unfortunate creature which brought you here. In such cases, the one Turned is immediately destroyed.” That means you, of course.

He hadn’t said that last part aloud, but I heard it clear as Day. The words hung on the end of his sentence with ghostly fingers, silent as death itself.

The good feeling vanished. So much for leaving the city. It looked like I was never going to leave this very room. Suddenly my vision started turning red and my heart sped up. I had done nothing to deserve this. So be it, I thought, but I wasn’t going down without a fight, useless though it may be. I made ready to spring at the table, hoping to at least get one good hit before they killed me. It was nice to have a goal, at least.

“Be still, Vincent,” Herris said, as if reading my mind. “Do not seek your death so recklessly. We have not decided your fate yet. But dare to fantasize about drawing our blood again and you will beg me to give you to the Lost Ones long before I allow you to die.”

Murmurs arose from the rest of the council members, some highly indignant, while others muttered quietly among themselves. The one called Ramah never moved or spoke. He simply continued facing me while the others around him spoke up for the first time since I’d set foot into the chamber.

“Kill him now, Headcouncil, and be done with it,” came a harsh, angry voice, a woman’s voice, to my left. I searched through my memory of Herris’ introductions and thought that her name was Lannis, but I couldn’t be certain.

“Already the Father’s will calls for his blood, yet here we sit ignoring our own Gospel, and for what? The whiny arguments of that one there, who only desires to see to his own needs while ignoring the will of our Creator.”

As she said this, she pointed towards Ramah, and several hooded heads turned to face him. He did not return the accusations or the looks, his gaze stayed on me.

“He will be our undoing, Headcouncil Herris, as I have said many times before.” With that, she took her seat, but the damage had been done. Her recommendation had stirred a reaction from the rest of the council. Some agreed with her, while others flatly refused her advice. It seemed there were more of the former than the latter, and my hopes sank to a new low. If the Council was a democracy it was already over. Stick a fork in me, I’m done.

“Enough!” Herris commanded after perhaps a minute of debate from both sides, his tone hard and angry. I sensed this was an old argument between the two.

“You forget your place, Councilor Lannis,” Herris growled. “His fate is not yours to decide. Do not dare to question my judgment again.” His voice held a note of menace so palpable I could almost see it, an angry red cloud in the air surrounding his words like a cartoon bubble.

Lannis lapsed into a sulky, brooding silence. She looked at Ramah, then glared at me from under her hood. Her anger and hatred for the other councilor seared through the empty room like a fireball, but Ramah did not seem to notice. His gaze remained on me the entire time. I knew then what had stopped the Council from killing me outright. For some reason, Ramah wanted me alive. Most likely because his daughter was missing and he hoped I would know something. You can’t exactly get answers from a dead man, can you? I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Finally I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any more. Common sense has never really been a virtue of mine.

“You aren’t going to kill me?” I asked, just to show them I wasn’t afraid, even though I felt like pissing myself. “Why not, Herris? What the Hell do you want from me?”

The effect was immediate.

They had been muttering among themselves and whispering harshly to one another – all but Ramah, anyway – but that changed in an instant. The room fell deathly silent and twelve hooded heads snapped towards me. The thirteenth head (Ramah, of course) displayed the first movement I had seen from him the entire meeting, twitching just a little in what may have been a silent snicker. The moment of stunned silence passed quickly enough, and the room burst into angry voices. Some, echoing Lannis’ earlier sentiment, demanded that I be punished for my insolence. Others cautioned them not to be too hasty, to wait and see what came next, and not to question the judgment of Headcouncil Herris. I expected Lannis to chime in and again voice her opinion that I should be killed with all due haste, but she remained silent. Herris raised his hand to silence the gathering before returning his attention my way. I felt the heat of his ire settle on me, and I withered under it. I’d made a bad mistake. Whatever he’d had in mind before, my fate would almost certainly be worse after I’d practically dared him.

“You are young,” he said. “The line between bravery and foolishness is a thin one, Vincent. On your life, do not cross it again. You try to hide it, but I feel your heart shiver at the sight and sense of this Council. Your head ignores it, but you would be wise to keep your ears open and your mouth closed until such time as you are instructed to speak. As before, I will not ask it a second time. Should you speak out of turn again you will be given to the Lost One who waits on the other side of the door behind you. Do you understand?”

I felt the blood drain from my face through Herris’ speech. Of all the fates I could imagine, none terrified me more than being given to a Lost One. I nodded, too afraid to speak even though I was fairly certain he’d given me permission.

Apparently satisfied that he’d made his point, he continued.

“Very well, and now back to the matter at hand. Your fate has yet to be determined, Vincent Walker. This council will decide what to do with you in short order. Ordinarily, you would have already been disposed of. However, Ramah has petitioned me to let you speak. After much consideration I have done so, if only out of respect for the aid you gave one of our own.”

More muttering from the group, I thought I heard something about a ‘renegade’ but I couldn’t be sure. Then Herris continued.

“You owe Ramah a debt of gratitude. Should we spare you tonight, you may wish to remember that. Ramah’s request is not enough, however, you have been spared thus far so that you may speak before this council. Do you have any idea why?”

“Yes, Headcouncil Herris, I think I do,” I replied. “You wish for me to tell you where Raine has gone.”

The silence that followed felt like a tomb. For a short while nothing stirred, no sound escaped. I had ceased to breathe. It seemed the entire world hung upon what Herris might say next. To me, I guess it did. But Herris’ next question surprised me.

“Is that so?” he asked. “And do you know where Raine is hiding, boy?”

Here it comes. Here is where the fun really begins.

“No, Headcouncil Herris, I don’t.” Somehow I managed to keep the fear out of my voice as I braced for the inevitable.

“Of course you don’t. We didn’t think you would.”

It took a second for that to sink in. When it did, my surprise must have been evident on my face. Herris spoke again, answering the question I didn’t dare ask.

“Raine would not have told you where she was going, or even that she meant to leave. It was her way of trying to protect you from this very meeting. In any case, you were unconscious when she left, sleeping safe in your bed. It’s all right here.” He held up a small brown book, which looked to be bound in leather, with the name “Raine” written across it in golden, flowing script.

Comprehension dawned on me. A Journal! Not just any journal, but her Journal. Raine’s journal! Whatever Raine had done to me, it might be written down in there. Might I be able to undo it? I hoped so, but looking around, trapped as I was by the Council and their servants, I doubted it. Even if I could, I didn’t think the Council would give me the chance. I’d been kept alive this long so they could talk to me about Raine, and that was all. When they were finished talking, I was sure, they would have no more use for me.

“So, you realize what this is. Good,” Herris continued, “This was found in Raine’s private chambers on the evening of her disappearance. In an effort to learn her whereabouts, we have read it. That is how we learned of you. And of her attempt to Turn you.”

Several more murmurs at this, some of them angry. I saw Ramah shift a little in his seat, perhaps more than a little uncomfortable at the crime his own daughter had committed. How much had her indiscretion cost him personally? That line of thinking led me down another one. Why had he campaigned to spare my life? Wouldn’t it have been easier for him if I just disappeared, as Raine had? Wouldn’t he have been better off with this problem out of the way? Logically, he should have wanted nothing more than to sweep me under the rug and leave me there. I’m sure he has his reasons. He did, of course, and I would learn them soon enough. Ramah, it turned out, was full of surprises.

“To change a human into Bachyir without the permission of this Council is expressly forbidden,” Herris continued. “There are nearly one hundred thousand of us in the world right now. We live on all the inhabited continents and in every single country. All of them, each and every one, was first brought before this very council for our approval.” At this point Herris poked the tabletop with his finger for emphasis, “Every… Single… One. Those that are created without our blessing do not last long.”

One hundred thousand? That would take years. Centuries, even. Yet I didn’t doubt him.

“The reason you still exist, Vincent, is because Raine left a message for you here,” he tapped the journal with his finger, “and rightly or wrongly, I am compelled to allow you to read it.” With this, he nodded again toward Ramah, and I thought I saw the slightest nod of Ramah’s hooded head. As if he were telling me to go ahead.

Herris set the journal on the table, and motioned with his right hand. The book then floated to me, hovering lazily about three feet above the floor. Two days earlier I would not have believed levitation was possible. Then again, two days earlier seemed like another lifetime. I no longer doubted much of anything.

“Turn to the very last entry, Vincent,” Herris said as I grabbed Raine’s journal from the air. I did so, and sure enough, there was a message for me in the end of it.

My Dearest Vincent,

If you are reading this, then you are standing before Herris and the other Councilors, and my plans to leave you alone have failed. I beg you, do not anger the Council. There are a great many things they can do to you that would make death seem a trivial thing. If they have allowed you to live long enough to read this, then there is hope. Perhaps you might yet make it through this alive.

Please forgive me, Vincent. In a moment of weakness I did something to you I should not have done. Something that violates one of the most sacred laws of my kind, and has forced me into exile. I am sure you now know what that is. You have felt it. Your senses have been bubbling inside you like a cauldron. I know, I have been there, too. All Bachyir have.

Oh, Vincent! Why didn’t you stay away? The effects would have worn off in a week and the darkness would have lost its toehold on you. That is why I left; it was for your own protection. I knew you would look for me, but I hoped you would not be able to find the Halls. You would have been fine, if only you’d stayed away.

There is nothing more I can do for you. The Council will decide your fate. Whatever happens, please know that what I did, I did because I wanted to be with you always. Ironic that it has instead forced me to leave you. I wish I could be there to help you through this, but my own life is now forfeit among my people. Be brave, Vincent, and be strong. I will think of you always.

Please forgive me,

Raine

The last few lines were blurred by the moisture forming in my eyes. My anger seeped away, slipping between the cracks of the words Raine left for me to read.

I could see why Herris had felt compelled to let me read it. I was responsible in part for her decision to leave, after all. I guess he thought I deserved to know why she vanished.

Raine had done this to me because she loved me. True, she did not exactly say those words in her missive, but the meaning was there, just the same. She had wanted to be with me forever, and went against the laws of her people to try and make it happen. I could understand rash decisions like that. After all, hadn’t I pretty much been stalking her for three days prior to helping her in the alley? Hadn’t I run to her aid without question or pause when I thought she was in danger? Hadn’t I killed for her? That Kagan wasn’t dead didn’t change the fact that I’d thought I’d killed him.

This time I did laugh. Not loudly or for very long, it was nothing more than a snicker, really, but I couldn’t hold it back. I had tried to protect Raine. She, in turn, had tried to protect me. And in the end we had both failed miserably. Raine was on the run, hunted by her own people, and I stood only a breath or so away from an unpleasant death. Sometimes the fun just doesn’t stop.

I closed the book, running my finger along the spine, hoping to feel some of Raine in the binding. As far as I knew, it was the last trace of Raine I would ever see. I felt the tears slide down my cheek, but I made no effort to hide them. It wouldn’t matter for long, anyway. Herris and his peers could not let me leave, I knew that already. Truth be told, I had known it from the instant I was ushered into the chamber. I was a danger. I knew too much.

I held the book out for Herris to take, though I didn’t really want to give it back.

But Herris didn’t take it.

“Keep it, Vincent. It may aid you in the nights to come.”

Momentarily lost, I had to stifle the urge to ask what he was talking about. ‘Nights to come?’ What did that mean? I looked up from the book, and the question must have been plain on my face.

“You may recall my saying that we demand to meet all prospective new Bachyir so we might take their measure,” Herris said, “We must know who and what they are, as all Bachyir must serve the Father’s will. If we receive someone in these chambers whom we do not feel is up to the task, they are terminated. However, if their minds are where they need to be, we allow them to join us. We must screen new blood in order to preserve our own safety. We cannot have some uncontrollable ham-fisted lout out in the streets killing indiscriminately. Above all, we must maintain our secrecy if we wish to continue to occupy the same world as Man. That is why we terminate those who are Turned without our blessing, it is a warning to all Bachyir that the responsibility is not one to be taken lightly.”

I nodded my understanding. That much made sense.

“Most Bachyir caught Turning a human without consent run, as Raine has done. Invariably, we track them down and do what we must. Once we capture them, they are turned into Lost Ones.”

I felt a shudder as I remembered the Lost One in the hall, and how its touch had given me my glimpse of Hell. So that was where those things come from. I would not want to be the one who made this council angry. I would much rather be destroyed than to become one of those maggot- infested things. But that was exactly the fate he had planned for Raine. That’s what they did to Bachyir who Turned humans without permission. This served to strengthen my resolve. I would find her, and then the two of us would disappear forever.

I realized Herris was still speaking, and so I returned my attention to the conversation at hand, lest I risk offending him and making him think twice about his apparent decision to let me go.

“…you, however,” Herris was saying, “have brought yourself to us. Perhaps not intentionally, but the effect is the same in any case. Yet you are not finished. Which proved to be a dilemma during this council’s earlier discussions on the matter for those opposed to letting you live.”

Not finished? What the Hell did that mean?

“Your blood has been tasted by a Bachyir; Raine. Yet you have not tasted Bachyir blood in return. This is necessary for your conversion. Thus you are not technically an unauthorized member of our race. How could you be when you are not yet, in fact, a member of our race at all? You see the problem inherent in the logic.”

I nodded again. Of course I saw their trouble. They did not want to kill me (not all of them, anyway, Lannis seemed Hell-bent on it) because I’d helped one of their own, but since I’d come waltzing right into their lair they couldn’t just let me go, even though Herris had a use for me. Since I was not fully a vampire they could not sentence me as an unauthorized Bachyir, it would in fact just be an execution simply for the sake of doing so. While I didn’t think they would have a problem with that under normal circumstances (they killed humans all the time, didn’t they?), there was still the fact that Ramah had managed to convince enough members of the council that they owed me something for my aid.

So what could they do about it? They didn’t want to kill me but they could not let me go. What was left? A prisoner in this place for the rest of my life? Could that, in fact, be what Herris had meant about the journal helping me in the nights ahead? Maybe that I would be able to read it and remember Raine while I sat in my cell waiting for my jailer to bring me my next plate of raw meat? The hair on my arms pricked up at the thought of staying in these dark halls indefinitely, especially with the Lost Ones roaming about.

Was that what they had planned for me? It seemed unlikely, but the only other option was…

…it was…

“NO!” I screamed, forgetting Herris’ warning not to speak out of turn. That was a minor consideration in light of what he was getting at. “You are out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to let you do that to me, Herris!”

As I screamed, the rest of the council stood, some whipped their hoods back to reveal their shocked and outraged expressions. Still others made to come over the table, as though they meant to get their hands on me and rip me to shreds. Chaos had erupted in the council chamber, a kind of wild, evil pandemonium. I welcomed it. I shouted obscenities at Herris and the rest of them hoping that it would anger him enough to fulfill his earlier promise. I had finally figured out what I feared more than the touch of a Lost One, and my only hope was that I could make them angry enough to kill me outright. In that instant, I did not fear death. I would have welcomed it with open arms and thanked my killer with my last breath.

“ENOUGH!” Herris shouted above my voice and those of the Councilors who were calling for my blood. His voice rumbled through the chamber like thunder, and when he shouted that single word in that tone I knew lightning must be close at hand. Right away the others ceased their rumbling and froze. Some wore expressions of fear. Others, Lannis included, bore faces that shone of anger and resentment.

“A valiant sentiment, Vincent,” Herris said. “But I did not ask your permission.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Herris spoke again. This time I could not understand the words, as they were in another language. (It turned out to be Aramaic, I would later learn.) As he spoke, he raised his hands to the ceiling, and a reddish glow emanated from them. The glow expanded, and small, whip-like tendrils of crimson light formed inside it, crackling about like lightning. It reminded me of a plasma ball; one of those glass spheres with the energy that radiates from the center. If you place a finger on the outside of the glass the energy seems drawn to it. That’s when I realized he was reciting a spell. The realization broke my paralysis and before I could think twice I lunged at him, determined to go down fighting.

I never even got close. As soon as I bent my knees to lunge, the tendrils of crimson shot toward me in brilliant streaks and wrapped themselves around my arms, legs, and chest. Off balance, I fell to the floor hard, but for once I managed to keep from hitting my head. As I rolled to a stop I felt the red whips wrap me up as neat and snug as any spider ever wrapped a fly. I lay there struggling to escape, hoping to find some weak spot I could exploit. It was no use, and in seconds I lay pinned to the floor with my arms to my sides and my back on the hard stone. They had me. I would not escape.

Then Herris spoke. I tried not to hear it, but of course I could do no such thing. The ears hear whether you want them to or not. In any case, I could have been completely deaf for all the good it would have done me. I knew what was coming, and the tears flowed freely from my eyes as Herris confirmed my fears.

“Vincent Walker”, he said, “since we do not wish to kill you and we cannot allow you to leave these halls with the knowledge that your visit has brought you, it is my recommendation as Headcouncil that your transformation be completed post haste, so that you may join the ranks of the Bachyir this very night.”

The room fell into a sudden silence as the rest of the council took in Herris’ plan. It didn’t take long for the hush to be broken by murmurs of approval. When the question was asked, it was supported by a nearly unanimous ‘Aye.’ Only one voice said ‘Nay.’ I heard it and mentally blessed the speaker. At least one of them couldn’t be all that bad.

Then Herris announced my doom.

“Vincent Walker,” he said, “it is the judgment of this Council that you join with us, effective immediately. Welcome to our race, young man. May the Father watch you and bless you.”

Still I struggled, though I knew it to be useless. All around me, the council members engaged in an angry, whispered discussion, but I could only make out a little of what was said. I heard Lannis’ clear, sinuous voice demanding something, but I had no idea what it was. Whatever it was, the other council members did not argue against it, at least not to any great degree.

The sound of approaching footsteps spurred me on, and I renewed my efforts to free myself. I pushed with all my strength at the sides of my bonds, trying to tear myself free of my crimson cocoon. With one last, desperate effort, I forced a hole. As I did so, I felt renewed strength coursing through me. It wasn’t much, but it was more than I’d had earlier. Perhaps it was merely extra adrenaline brought about by desperation, or perhaps it had been there all along, hidden by some aspect of the room. I didn’t know, nor did I care. There was no time. I pushed, and the spell broke. It broke! There was an audible tearing sound as the strands first gave way, then tore completely. Once torn they began to dissipate, fading away as though they’d never been there at all. All their strength gone.

Judging by their surprised gasps, my captors hadn’t expected that. By their reckoning, I should have remained on the floor, helpless. Easy pickings.

Yet break free I did, and unlike the Councilors around me, I was not frozen by surprise. I sprang to my feet and bolted for the door. I shoved the single Councilor who stood between myself and the exit aside, yet another thing I should not have been able to do. All the Councilors were strong. Far stronger than me. In the normal course of things, for me to push one aside would have been more akin to me pushing against the side of a building and hoping to move it. I should not have been strong enough.

Yet I was, and I did, and I almost made it to the door. The same door where the Lost One waited. It would have stopped me from getting out, I’m sure, but in my mad panic I’d forgotten about it. I wanted only to reach the door and get to the other side. Nothing else mattered.

I didn’t make it, of course. The surprise I gave the Councilors was temporary, and less than a heartbeat after pushing the one aside, the rest of them regained their senses. Suddenly I felt tendrils again wrapping me up in a tight cocoon. This time there was not one set, but at least eight, all twining and twisting and binding me into a nice, tidy bundle. Very soon I lay again on the cold, hard stone. My short-lived escape attempt nothing but a memory only seconds after it had begun.

That did it. I lost all my will in that one instant. Fighting seemed a waste of energy. A kind of hopelessness settled over me as I heard the footsteps of the approaching Councilors. A sharp stab of pain flared in my side as one of them kicked me in the ribs, breaking three of them. I believe he would have kicked me again if Lannis’ cold, unmoving voice hadn’t stopped him.

“He will be dealt with soon enough,” she said. She sounded like she was enjoying herself.

They were taking no chances this time; all eight webs remained on me as Lannis’ face came into view. I tried not to look, but trying not to breathe would have been easier. I had to look, I had to see.

Lannis was dark and beautiful, yet hideous. Evil clung to her features like rouge. Between dark red lips, two sharp points emerged, and when I saw them I knew my own death was close. I thought of Raine, and the tears coursed down my cheeks. Lannis saw this, and laughed.

She brought her wrist to her face and took a sharp, practiced bite, savoring the taste of her own flesh. Her expression betrayed her exquisite pleasure, her almost erotic state. Blood flowed around the edges of her lips and ran down her chin. She closed her eyes and gave a soft moan that spoke of an ecstasy beyond my comprehension. She was clearly lost in her own taste and touch. Lost in the blood.

Then, in one unforgettable moment, her eyes opened. Two endless pools that glowed with a lusty, pinkish light. My doom stared back at me from their depths. She removed her wrist from her mouth.

“And now, Vincent,” she said, “you will join us.” With that, she placed her torn wrist against my lips.

“Drink,” she commanded.

I tried to resist, but the hunger swooped in like a raptor, devouring my strength. My insides burned with it. If the webs hadn't held me in place, I would have doubled over with the pain. The urge to feast was maddening, the Hunger demanded to be fed. Here was blood, right in front of me. It poured from the wound in Lannis’ wrist and made a macabre goatee around my tightly closed lips. I could smell it. God, but it smelled wonderful! The heady aroma filled my nostrils and whispered the truth of Life as Bachyir live it. Predators feeding on their prey. All creatures must eat, from the smallest worm to the magnificent lions of the Serengeti.

I was no exception.

My hunger pounded nails into me. The scent and feel of her blood on my face intensified the already incessant need to taste…to feed…to live.

“Drink,” Lannis said again.

…and, God help me, I did.

Chapter Twelve:

The Dream

I don’t remember much of what happened after I drank from Lannis’ opened veins. Most of what I do remember has to do with the senses: the cold, hard feel of the stone under my back, the eerie sound of Lannis whispering in a lost language, and the intoxicating scent of blood as it poured from freshly torn skin. And the taste, of course. That first life-altering taste of Bachyir blood sent my mind reeling. The sweet, slightly metallic flavor washed through me, lifting me up above the darkened chamber of stone and into the night sky, making me one with the darkness all around. I realized then it was not blood I was drinking.

It was Life.

Then she pulled her wrist away and the feeling ceased. I was just Vincent Walker again, but too tired and exhausted to wonder about it. The world around me seemed to fade, or was it my sight that was failing? I couldn’t tell and didn’t really care. There were only two things I did care about, one of them was blood. I wanted more. I needed more.

The other thing I craved was sleep, and the need for sleep overcame my desire for more blood. My eyes seemed to close of their own free will. Very soon after I drank, the world grew dark and I slipped away from it.

***

I am walking naked and barefoot through the woods of a strange, misty valley. The sun, if it’s out at all, is nowhere to be seen. All around me the mist has reduced the world to indistinct shades of gray. As I walk I am humming a song that makes me sad. I don’t know the name of it, but I assume it will come to me in time. The truth is, I don’t know much of anything. I know only that I am here, and so is she. I can hear her sobbing in the mist.

But where, exactly, is here?

The sobs sound distorted and muffled. I can’t place their direction. They seem to be coming from everywhere. From my left, my right, even above me, as though the source of the sobs might well be the fog itself. I know this is not the case, however. The sobs are coming from her, not the fog.

As I walk, I search for her. This is the reason I am here; to find her. I have a strange feeling I am supposed to do something with her, but I don’t remember what it is or who sent me to do it; I only know that I have a job to do. I think it’s important, perhaps important enough that lives may depend on it. However, I have no way of knowing for sure. Perhaps it’s all in my mind, and I’m not really here at all.

I reach out my hand to touch the slick, wet trunk of a nearby tree, and for the first time I notice it is dead. Scarred and blackened from roots to skeletal canopy, which is just barely visible in the soft gray. In the small area of visibility afforded me, I see all the other trees are similarly burned and charred, as though a great fire swept through these woods like Famine, killing whatever life may have once existed here. It’s sad, yet beautiful in its own way.

The sobbing is louder now, and I have no time to ponder the dead trees. I say a brief prayer for their souls before pausing a moment to wonder if trees have souls. I shake the thought from my head and continue my search. I can still hear her voice, and I know that time is stealing my chance to get to her. My heart quickens. I must find the crying woman before the time is up. Every bone in my body screams at me to hurry. Time is short.

The ground, which up to now has been firm and unforgiving, becomes soft and soggy. It feels like I am walking through a grassy field after a hard rain. I must be getting close to a body of water. A pond, maybe, or a lake.

After a few minutes I discover I am partially right, for I can now hear the sound of the river. I have no idea which river, but it thrums and pounds in a constant roar. Strong, powerful, and steady. I know in which direction the river lies; the sound is too loud to be muffled by the mist. I must be near some rapids. That would explain the roar of the water and the dampness of the air.

I turn toward the sound, and before I go twenty steps, I can see it. The mist rises from the churning, bubbling water as it thunders over rocks too large and numerous to count. The spray is all but impenetrable to the eye, and I think I should stay back, lest I accidentally fall in and the powerful current steal my breath.

If the river captures me, it will break me like a toy. It will snap my bones and tear my flesh against the rocks, and will continue to do so long after I am too dead to feel it. In a few days a fisherman somewhere downriver will find pieces of me floating by as he casts his line, and that will be that. The rest of my body will feed the river’s fish.

The roar is louder than anything I can remember, and the mineral smell of fresh river water floats through the air in the droplets of mist. Miraculously, the sound of the crying woman is not drowned out by all the noise. If anything, the sobs are louder than before. I must be getting close.

I turn to my right, and begin to walk along the riverbank, looking all around for the woman. I hear her sobs still, and I am right, they are getting louder. This means I am getting closer. I break into a run. Knowing I need to reach her before it’s too late. I run and run, but I see nothing of the sobbing woman. It feels like I have been running for an hour, though in truth I know that can’t be possible. The sobbing continues to rise in volume, and I know I must nearly be standing on top of the source.

A few steps later I realize the sound of sobbing is growing fainter, and I stop. I must have passed her. So I turn around and make my way back, shuffling my way along the muddy shore. The sobs again grow louder, and then begin to fade. This time I am able to pinpoint the location where the sound is loudest, and so I stop. I look to my left, into the trees, but see nothing. Then I realize the sound is at my back. It must be coming from the other bank! How will I get across to reach her in time?

I turn around to get a better look, hoping there are rocks I can hop across. I see mist and spray, and yes, there is indeed a rock. I can’t get to it, but it doesn’t matter. Sitting on top of the algae-covered stone, surrounded by a violent storm of spray, I finally see the crying woman. Like me, she is naked, and she is also soaked from the spray. Her shapely back is to me, and I can see the firm, round curve of her buttocks as she sits atop the rock amid the rapids. Her arms encircle her knees and her face is buried between them. Naked and wet, she is beautiful. I would probably be aroused if it were not for the urgency of my purpose, which continues to escape my memory. Maybe I will remember it when I see her face.

Not knowing her name, I call out to her, but I can’t hear my own voice over the raging water. I don’t think she will be able to hear me either, but her sobbing lessens and she lifts her head. Her raven hair is soaked and streams in an ebony wave down her back, clinging to it like wet skin. She calls out, and even though I could not hear my own voice, I can hear hers plainly enough.

“Where are you?” she asks. “Where are you where are you where are you?”

I try to tell her I am right behind her, and again my voice is lost in the roar. But she hears it, and turns to me. I see her face for the first time and I realize I do know her. I know the crying woman. I can’t remember her name, but that is no surprise since I can’t even remember my own. I do remember that I love her. It feels like I have loved her for a very long time. Centuries, even. I also hate her, but I can’t remember why. I am standing in the gravel on the riverbank looking at her, and I am torn between wanting to help her and wanting to kill her.

The merciless rushing and pounding of the river against the rocks makes a constant, deafening din. It is impossible to think clearly. How can I love her and hate her at the same time? I know I should know, but I don’t. The only thing I do know is my urgent task has something to do with either saving her or destroying her, but as I stand here trying to get it to make sense I can’t for the life of me recall which.

She is speaking again, and I calm myself as much as possible so that I might hear what she’s saying. Perhaps it will give me a clue as to what I am supposed to be doing here.

“Vincent!” she screams. I remember now that Vincent is me. That is my name. She is calling to me. With that knowledge comes more. Her name is Raine, and by God, I do know her! I remember her now. There is an opaque memory of something silver tinged with red. A crucifix? Yes, that’s it! Now if only I can remember what it means.

She is still screaming, and I listen.

“Vincent! Stay out of the water, Vincent! Whatever you do, don’t go into the water!”

I can only wonder how she got out there herself, or why she is warning me away from the water. I could speculate about that for some time, but I know I have to get to her fast. For some reason, speed seems vitally important. Maybe I will understand what is going on a little better when I can touch her. I ignore her warning. I am walking into the river. I will find a way to cross somehow. The current does not seem so strong here. Perhaps I can swim.

“No Vincent! Please! You don’t know what’s in the river. I do. I have seen it. Don’t come. Don’t come! PLEASE DON’T COME!”

I can’t understand what she’s talking about. What could be in the river? It’s just water, isn’t it? In any case, I can’t just leave her out there. I have a mission, after all, and it involves her. Again, I ignore her and step toward the water.

Frantic now, she screams at me to stop, please, for the love of God stop. As she speaks the name of God, small wisps of smoke pour from her mouth. I can see, even through the mist, that her tongue is burned. I am still wondering how that happened when she speaks again.

“I can’t let you do this, Vincent,” she says sadly. “I can’t let you die for me.”

Die for her? What?

Now Raine is standing naked in the spray. She is young and lithe and strong, even noble; a woman at the very pinnacle of her beauty. Her whole body is wet from the condensation, and tiny trickles of water follow little trails down sensuous curves as they run their course to her feet. It drips from her breasts and the tips of her erect nipples to fall to the stone, making tiny splashes when they connect with the Earth. Now my arousal does waken, and I can’t help but stare at her naked, slick body as the part of me that loves and wants her begins to stir. I tell myself this is not the time for such things, but I can’t help my rising erection any more than I can keep from breathing.

With a last, wistful look at me, she wades into the current, and I am sure the river will sweep her away. But it doesn’t, and she wades deeper, coming to me. As she approaches, a strange thing begins to happen. Her hair loses its luster. In some places it begins to fall out completely, leaving a patchwork of dull black tresses on her scalp, which begins to turn gray. Her perfect skin is decaying right in front of my eyes, and I stop in my tracks, about two feet from the edge of the river. Her beautiful blue eyes cloud over with a white rheumy film, then disappear into nothing, leaving only a pair of red hollows in their place. Now the red is fading to gray, also, and a host of insect larvae springs to life in her skin, coming to life even as she is dying.

All over her once lovely body are squirming, writhing grubs. Her very flesh seems to wither and die even as it erupts with the life of the tiny creatures who feast upon it. It is repulsive, but familiar. I have seen this before, but I can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter in any case, because I have lost all desire to go near the water. I can only watch in helpless frustration as she turns into something from a nightmare. The part of me that loves her recoils, but the part of me that hates her leans in closer for a better look. I don’t know if I should cry or should feel exuberant.

She is dying, she is dying. Raine is dying and I don’t know how to feel. As she is dying she is speaking, but her words are muffled by the tiny organisms that are eating her burned tongue.

“Vincent,” she says, “please forgive me.”

I know those words, I have read them before. They mean something to me, something important. But I can’t… remember…I think I can see a magazine…or a book, maybe.

No, not a book, a journal!

Then, in a flash, it comes to me. I remember! The journal! Raine loves me. She does. What’s more, I love her, too. I know this, now. All the hate that was in me is gone, and there is only the love for the woman dying in front of me. I will save her. I have to. I am jumping into the water to try and pull her out.

But something grabs my leg and pulls me backward. I turn around and there is another woman there with us, only she is not naked. She is clad in black robes that do not seem to feel the effects of the spray. She is completely dry, and too strong for me to break free from her grip. She is dark and beautiful, but not lovely. Not like Raine. This woman is only beautiful on the surface; I know that inside she is as black and diseased as a rotten corpse. I am afraid of her, terrified, to be honest, and it is all I can do to keep from trembling like a frightened child.

I try again to pull my leg free, but her touch saps my strength, and I fail. I have no hope. All my willpower is gone, and I turn to look at Raine. The water has turned red. It has turned into blood, and the smell of it speeds my heart further, sending a rumble of pain through my insides and cramping my belly. I look up just in time to see Raine’s head vanish under the surface, and I know she is gone forever.

“Raine!” I shout into the mist, “Raine don’t go!”But of course she is already gone.

I sit on the edge of the river, my vision growing dim, and I remember the tune I was humming earlier. Now, finally, I recognize the song, and it fills me with a longing so powerful that I feel I might die from the ache. ‘Lady in Red’ by Chris Deburgh.

I am no longer able to raise my voice to a shout, and I can only manage a choked whisper. “I love you,” I say to my lost love, stolen from me by the angry red river.

Behind me, the other woman laughs.

Chapter Thirteen:

Ramah

This time, when I came to, I awoke in a strange bed nestled in soft sheets rather than on a slab of stone with a plate of raw meat. The room smelled of stone and clean linen, without the damp odor of moss that seemed so prevalent elsewhere in the Halls. It was so dark I couldn’t see the edge of the bed. I sat up, hoping my eyes would adjust. They didn’t.

In the darkness, with nothing else to do and no energy with which to do it, I relived my strange dream. Raine had been sitting naked on a large, mossy stone in the middle of the river. I had watched, motionless, on the gravel bank trying to decide if I loved her enough to save her or if I hated her enough to kill her. In the dream, it was one or the other; there was no in-between.

Then Raine had warned me – no, she had begged me – to stay out of the water. When I wouldn’t listen, she waded into it herself, and changed into a Lost One before my eyes. I tried to save her, and a woman – Lannis – held me back. Why? Just before I’d woken up, Raine said those same words that she had written to me in her journal.

“Vincent, please forgive me,” she’d said. Could I ever forgive her? How could I not?

Stay out of the water! For the love of God stay out of the water!

I tried to ignore the symbolism and what it might mean in light of what Herris had told me. He’d said I was to be finished. Immediately. Had they done it? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t feel any different, but I didn’t know if that meant anything or not. I tried to banish the thought from my mind but it kept coming back. Like an annoying fly that keeps buzzing around your face no matter how many times you shoo it away.

While I sat on the bed and contemplated the latest development, I heard slow, tired footsteps coming from the darkness. The scraping shuffle of an old man’s walk. At first I thought it was another Lost One, but what they would want with me now was anyone’s guess. Maybe whatever they tried to do hadn’t worked after all, and they were coming to finish me the normal way. If so, I hoped they would do it quick and not subject me to the tortures of the Lost One’s touch again. They knew what they wanted to know; I had given them everything I could think of, so maybe they would end it quick rather than stretch it out for hours on. I thought Ramah would, perhaps even Herris, but I doubted Lannis would show such mercy.

Mercy is a weakness.

A knock in the darkness startled me and interrupted my thoughts. Would a Lost One knock? Probably not. Then it occurred to me that the Lost One in the dungeon hadn’t made a whisper of sound, not even when it laid its wretched fingers on my shoulder and sent me to the depths of the netherworld. This had to be someone else. Someone had come to call and even granted me the courtesy of a knock. Did this place have a cleaning staff? I resisted an insane urge to giggle as I pictured some bedraggled old ladies with linen carts and pointy fangs going from room to room, knocking on the doors and calling ‘housekeeping’ as they went.

Again came the knock, louder this time. Perhaps whoever it was thought I was still asleep. I thought about pretending to be, hoping they would go away. Then I remembered the dream, and the terrible, debilitating loneliness I’d felt as I watched Raine die in the water. Did I really want to be alone? No, I decided. I didn’t.

“Come in,” I whispered. Seconds later, a door opened to my right.

When I looked at the door, a bright shaft of light started as a narrow strip and widened into a wall of blazing fury. After sitting in the dark for so long I had to shield my eyes from the glare. Only torchlight, but to me it felt like staring at the sun. A cloaked figure shuffled into the room through the open doorway, then closed the door behind it. The light that had invaded the room vanished, plunging the two of us back into darkness. After the light receded I heard those same shuffling footsteps coming closer in the dark. Oddly enough, I felt no fear. Because of that, I did not need to ask who had entered. I already knew.

Ramah, Second of the Council of Thirteen and father of Raine had come to call. It didn’t take much imagination to know why. He had come to talk about Raine, of course. I had no idea what he thought he would get from me that I had not already offered to the Council, but whatever it was, I knew I didn’t have it.

I was wrong.

“Vincent,” his voice came from the dark, “Would it bother you if I lit this candle? The dark is suited to some purposes, but I find of late that I prefer candlelight to darkness.”

“Please do,” I said, relieved that I would not have to have this conversation in the dark.

A soft light began to glow to my left. I did not have to squint or look away this time as the light slowly advanced through a few lesser stages of luminescence into a soft glow. It resembled nothing so much as a child’s night light. The smell of melting wax filled the room. It was, in fact, a single candle Ramah had brought with him. It shed just enough light for me to see all four walls and the door, which this time had no bars. I was in a small room of smooth stone, surrounded by tapestries that covered three of the four walls. All of the tapestries showed scenes of night. On one, a pack of wolves was on the prowl. On another, owls scoured the undergrowth from lofty perches. The last showed only a single moon, but such a marvelous likeness it seemed to shine with its own glow, reflected from the candle.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.

“Yes,” Ramah said softly, “the moon is a lovely thing. Yet even as the moon shows us great beauty, she also hides great darkness in her shadowy realm. You and I are of the latter, Vincent. The darkness holds us in its bosom. It protects us even as it kills us. It is our salvation and our damnation. There is no beauty in what we have become.”

He looked at his feet as he spoke, as though the words shamed him. The tone of his voice painted pictures in my mind of a sad, lonely old man. Raine’s disappearance must have been hard on him. Certainly that could account for his melancholy; Raine was his daughter after all. But I got the impression there was more to it than that. Oh, he was worried about her, of course, but the weight he bore on his shoulders seemed far greater and older.

“This isn’t about Raine, is it?” I asked.

“It is, and it isn’t,” he said. “It is not only about Raine, would be a better way to say it.”

Ramah stepped over to the bed and sat down, his face turned toward the candle. The flame’s reflection danced in the inky blackness of his eyes, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

Ramah nodded. “I know. There is no way you could. I will try to explain it as best I can. I was one of the first, you see. From nearly the beginning I have watched and enjoyed the climb of our race. We have been there almost from the dawn of Mankind itself. Watching, hiding, feeding. As Man has grown, so have we. And I was there for nearly all of it.

“The Father visited me for the first time over six thousand years ago. For all these long millennia, I have never seen the green of grass under the spring dawn, and neither shall you. The dawn, and the light that it brings, are now your greatest enemy.”

I shivered. The room seemed to have gotten colder since Ramah came in. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You must know what will become of you, Vincent. I will not send you naked into the night to learn your new self; though others of the Council who would see you cast blind into the shadows to learn your own way. I have persuaded them to allow me this visit, and I shall use it to illustrate the depths of what has happened to you. You must listen carefully to what I am about to relate, and above all, you must never forget it.”

Ramah needn’t have worried; I listened intently to every word he told me. His tale is one I will never be able to shake, but sometimes I wish I could. I relate it now to you, as near as I can recall to his own words. Let us see if it is a tale you would soon forget, as well.

***

As a boy of ten seasons, I ran through the herd pretending to be one of the hounds my father had trained to keep the animals from wandering. To wander too far into the wastes was to die a slow and painful death, so my father told me. None would go there, and none who had gone there in the past had ever returned. This, my father swore to be true, and so I obeyed his command. In the tiny village on the edge of the Eastern Wastes where we lived, my father was Houlo, or chief, and all listened to his word, for it was Law.

Years later, as a man of twenty-nine seasons, I was Houlo, and my word was Law. Like my father before me, I forbade anyone from crossing the eastern borders of our village and venturing out past where the grasses died and into the place where the merciless sun bleached the sand white as bone. No good could live out there, and no good could come from there. Such was the wisdom that had been passed down through the ages, and such was the word of the Houlo for as long as anyone could remember.

But every man must have a weakness, even one responsible for the lives of one hundred and twenty-six men, women and children. Mine was a woman named Neelie.

Neelie was twenty-four and as yet unbound. Her father had tried to barter her into some other families with no success. No hut in the village would have her, despite the fact that she was as beautiful as sunlight passing through the morning dew. Her hair was a raven’s coat; her eyes the arresting blue of the Big Water, which is now called the Mediterranean. She was so beautiful it hurt my soul just to look at her, and more than once I had thought to barter her father for her hand and have her come to live in my hut, where such beauty that is not of the eyes and hair might be enjoyed.

My mother would not have it, and even though I was Houlo, it was still her hut in which I lived. It was not the way of my people to abandon their parents and form huts of their own, and until she joined my father in the After, I would live with her and abide her rules.

And so Neelie remained unbound into her twenty-fifth season, a time when most young women in our village were long bound and heavy with their second or third child. To my knowledge none but myself coveted her company at all. Most of the other villagers gave her a wide berth, not wanting to have anything to do with her.

You see, Neelie was a Chalika, a witch woman, or so the villagers believed. They would have liked nothing better than to banish her to the southern lands, or even into the Eastern Wastes themselves, so much did they fear her. Whenever an animal died, or a villager took sick, or a crop failed, everyone pointed to Neelie and demanded that she be sent out from among us to find her fate wherever witch women will.

I would not allow it, for I no more believed her to be a witch than I believed my own mother was. Yet nothing I could say would convince anyone else of this, and so Neelie remained in the village, unbound, unloved, and unwanted. Except by me.

One night, while my mother slept, Neelie came to me in my hut. She bade me come outside with her and I went. We walked to the edge of the village, near the trees, and under the full moon. With tears in her eyes, she told me she knew the other villagers feared her and wanted me to banish her, and she asked why I had not. I told her the truth. Every bit of it. I told her I was in love with her, how I had tried to convince my mother to let me barter her father. I told her I did not believe the things the villagers said, and, as Houlo, I could not send one of my people to face their fate in the wilds. Not when I was convinced of their innocence.

After I told her this, she put her arms around me and thanked me for believing her. We kissed, and the kissing led to more. Under the stars of that long ago night sky, we were both beautiful, young, and alive, and we took full advantage of it. It felt good, almost like touching the gods themselves. I would have stayed there forever had it been up to me. With the sun, however, our ways had to part. It would not do to be caught together as we were, with the approval of neither parent.

Unbeknownst to us both, my mother had watched the whole thing. She had awakened in the night, and when she could not find me inside the hut she went outside and searched for me. She found us in the middle of our rendezvous, and watched as the night waned and the dawn approached. I can imagine her there, her wrinkled face a mask of anger and disapproval. Such a woman was my mother that she would wear such a face for any woman I coveted. None would be good enough for me. It was worse, though, that I should so desire a wretched Chalika.

She would not have it, of course. She confronted me when I returned home, demanding that I banish Neelie that same morning, for the sake of my family’s honor. I refused and told her I wished to bind Neelie to me, and that I would barter her father with or without her permission. And when my mother scorned my beloved and called her those names only mothers seem to know, I slapped her. Yes, by all that is holy, I slapped my own mother and sent her to the floor.

I regretted it immediately, and wanted to apologize. How could I strike my own mother? But the blood that burns so hot in youth is also slow to cool. And instead, with the names my mother called Neelie and the sound of my hand across her cheek ringing in my ears, I reached for my spear and went out to hunt. I had always loved to hunt, and I thought perhaps I would be able to settle my head while out on the prowl, letting thought recede and instinct take over.

I was right, and it was a far calmer young man who returned from the hunt with an elk carcass slung over the shoulders than the one who’d left. As I walked into the village, I decided I would speak to my mother further and try to convince her of Neelie’s purity. I was sure I could make my mother see in her what I saw. All would be well, I would see to it.

I was so absorbed in these thoughts I failed to notice how empty the village was. It was not until I reached my own hut and went inside – leaving the deer outside to hang while I fetched the skinner – that I realized I could not hear the usual sounds of men, women, and children going about their lives. True, my village was small, with just over a hundred people, but even that many people make noise. In my village there was only silence. I stopped in my entryway to listen, and realized the reason I could not see anyone was because the whole village had gathered on the edge of the Eastern Wastes. I heard them faintly from my hut, but I could not make out their words from so great a distance. But I didn’t need to hear their words clearly in order to know what was happening. The only reason the entire village would gather at the Eastern Wastes would be to banish one of our own.

A cold feeling snaked up my spine from somewhere below, and I ran to the place where Life ends and Death begins, for so we called the spot where we sent our banished out into the wastes. I felt a terrible certainty that something unspeakable had happened, and so I ran all the faster.

When I arrived I was beset by several men from the village, who beat me with fists and sticks before grabbing me by the arms and forcing me to the ground. Then they bound my hands behind my back and dragged me to the edge of our world. Once there, they pulled me to my feet. As I raised my bloodied head I saw without surprise my mother standing at the edge of our borders, the bright red mark of my hand still visible on her face. I winced a little when I saw it, but I could not change it, and I would not beg. Looking at the grim faces of the men on either side of me, I knew begging would do no good, anyway.

As my mother spoke, I learned what had happened in my village while I was away. While I was hunting, she had gone into the streets wailing at the top of her lungs. She’d told all who would listen that the Chalika had bewitched her own son, and then she would point to her own face as proof. Though she was accusing the village Houlo, she had been wife and mother to Houlos in her time, and so was looked upon as wise and knowledgeable. The villagers, a highly superstitious group to begin with, believed her without question. For what man would willingly strike his own mother? That the villagers already believed my Neelie a witch woman only aided my mother’s cause.

Just before I arrived, they had sent Neelie out into the blighted land. I could see her tracks in the dirt, but they grew faint as they entered the living sands of the Wastes. I stood in silence, listening to my mother’s accusations, knowing their inevitable conclusion. I was to be banished along with Neelie, the two of us sent to die in the dead land.

I did not look at any of them as my bonds were cut and Harik, the new Houlo, pushed me from the circle of stones that marked our village’s border out into the burning sand. There he and three others stood with spears ready in case I tried to return. They needn’t have worried. Not then, at least. I had determined almost from the moment my mother began to speak that I would never return. I turned to face them, and spat at their feet. With my life as I knew it over, I turned and walked out into the land where, according to my father, all things died.

I tried to follow Neelie’s trail, but it was no use. Only a short way from the village her tracks disappeared in the ever-changing sand. Hills would rise and fall; valleys would emerge and be filled in, all in a matter of hours. So constant was the change that as I looked behind me I noted my own tracks had begun to disappear. Still I trudged along, praying to any and all of my gods who might be listening to help me find Neelie before it was too late for either of us. None of them answered.

For seven days I wandered the Wastes bereft of food or water. During the day the sun coursed right through me, leaving the burned and flaking skin of my body to blister and crack. At night it was all I could do to keep from freezing to death in the other extreme temperature of the desert: cold. I took to burying myself in the sand, for it held the heat of day and made the nights tolerable, while also shielding me from the sun during the day. The temperature of the desert was only bearable at dawn and dusk. The rest of the time I spent asleep under the shifting sands.

By the time the sun sank below the horizon on the seventh day, I was no longer hungry or thirsty, only tired. The anger had faded, not because of any feelings of remorse on my part, but because being angry simply took too much energy. I closed my eyes and thought happily of shallow pools with many fruit trees nearby. I thought of my hut and of my father, and how shamed he would be to learn what had become of his son. Mostly, I thought of my beloved Neelie, now lost to me. I didn’t think she could have lasted as long as I had, and so I believed her dead. I also believed I would be joining her very soon. On that night, I dug myself from the sand, but could not raise the energy to rise and walk another step.

I lay there, drifting into a sleep from which I knew I would never wake, and dreamed of the one night we’d had together. That night there had been no Houlo, no village, no huts, and no disapproving mother. That night there had only been Neelie, myself, and the moon. I closed my eyes, wanting that to be my last memory, and drifted out of consciousness.

I was still asleep when I heard his voice, and it roused me from my pleasant dreams. I tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away, but it didn’t. When I felt a nudge in my side, I reluctantly opened my eyes. A tall figure dressed in a loose, flowing black robe stood over me, the dark fabric whipping in the night wind. I could not see the face under the dark hood, but I could feel his eyes on me. They burned into my skin like coals from the fire. He neither moved nor spoke as he stood silhouetted in the moonlight, regarding me as though measuring me for something.

I sat up, and the movement hurt terribly. A great deal of my skin was burned and burned again from the wicked sun. I managed to get into a sitting position, and asked the stranger who he was. He told me his name was not important, and that later he would reveal more to me. He told me he could help me, if I wanted, and all he wanted from me was an answer to a simple question. I asked him what would happen if I chose not to answer, and he replied without hesitation that I would die there in the wastes that very night, and the vultures would gorge themselves on my bloated flesh for many days to come.

I agreed to answer his question. I had expected him to ask my name, or where I was from, but he did not. The one question the Father asked of me as I sat half-dead at his feet was this:

“Do you want revenge, Ramah, son of Aryk?”

I had been sent to die alone and burned by my own mother because I’d dared to love a woman she did not approve of. The village I had hunted for, fought for and bled for, had put me out like a common criminal. I’d done my best to lead them well, and they left me to die in the wastes like a dog. Not a single person even asked me if what my mother said was true.

That was what hurt most; no one had even bothered to ask. No one cared.

“Yes,” I told him, “Yes, I do.” My last words as a living man.

“Then you shall have it,” he said, and he pulled me to my feet and brought my face to his. I was far too weak to have stopped him. His face moved to my shoulder, and I felt a tearing pain in my throat. I did not know what it was, only that it hurt. I tried to pull away, but I was weak from exposure and lack of food, and getting weaker. Soon I no longer even wished to break free; my goal had become sleep. I was tired, so very tired. I only wished to close my eyes and never wake up again.

Then he let go and I fell to the ground, not having enough strength in my legs to hold myself up, and no longer caring anyway. Something wet and warm dripped down the side of my neck, and it reminded my bleary mind of how thirsty I was. It would be nice to have one last sip of cool water before I died. I began to drift off, my mouth as dry as the sand around me.

Then he said something to me that I understood, even in my delirium.

“Now, Drink,” he said, and held his wrist out to me.

I saw that he’d cut it open, and it ran red with blood. Knowing I was dying anyway, and all thoughts of my promised vengeance forgotten, I did as he bade; barely conscious of the fact it was blood in my mouth. To my mind, it was a drink. A precious, wet drink. Anything else was irrelevant.

It was wonderful. I wanted to drink and drink and drink until I filled every part of my body and burst from it. He would not let me, though. He stopped me all too soon, and I laid my head back on the earth. I once again drifted off to sleep. The last thing I remember is the Father covering me with sand.

When I awoke it was still night, and he stood in the sand next to me. I sat up, wincing in anticipation of the pain, but it never came. The burns on my skin were gone. My body no longer hurt, and nowhere on my person was there a blister to be seen. I was as fit as the day I’d gone hunting after striking my mother. Moreso, even, for I felt strong. Much stronger than I’d ever been. I felt like I could run from one side of the Wastes to the other. I thought if I tried I might be able to jump high enough to grab the moon and see what made her hang in the sky. Looking at the moon brought to me a sense of beauty I’d never experienced before, and I felt cool and refreshed. The night was not cold, as it had been earlier, and my spirits soared with the stars.

Then he began to speak. He told me that he had saved me. He had given me life, and had given me the ability to achieve the vengeance I had desired. Furthermore, the life he had given me would last forever, and I need not see the darkness of death ever again, nor feel the ravages of time.

I asked him what he wanted for such a wonderful gift. His reply was to point behind me. He told me to stay true to the direction he was pointing, and to run. He said in about two hours, if I ran swiftly, I would come to the same break in the stones my people had pushed me through when they banished me. He told me to hurry. That the sun was now my enemy. After having spent so much time burning in the Eastern Wastes, I was only too happy to comply.

He told me his price for my gift was my own vengeance, and bade me to take it so fiercely that he would feel it from where he stood. It never occurred to me to decline, for by then the hate had built inside me and I considered it a price easily paid, if not enjoyable.

I ran in the direction he indicated, and just as he said, I came to the circle of stones that marked my village in about two hours. The anger and excitement welled up inside me as I approached the wall in the darkness. Our people had never posted sentries; we had never felt the need. And so I marched through the walls unchallenged, silent as death. I wanted to be near the hut where our weapons were stored when the fight started. That way I could prevent anyone from gaining access to them.

It occurred to me that setting it alight would accomplish the same thing and leave me free to go about my task without having to guard the weapons. So I walked to the very center of the village, where the Great Fire burned, and grabbed a flaming branch from the middle. I carried it to the Weapons Hut, and set the building alight. The straw roof went up almost instantly, and the sky blazed with light from the fire as glowing sparks flew up to the ceiling of black sky, red stars to contrast with the white twinkling ones.

Watching the hut burn gave me another idea, and I ran back to the Great Fire to get more burning logs. I hefted them easily and tossed them onto the roofs of the other huts in the village, watching with a dark glee as they, too, started to burn. Soon the skyline of my old home was awash in flames, and the screaming began.

Men yelled out in surprise and pain. Some managed to flee their burning huts in time. Some did not, and the screams sounded like music. I reveled in them. I only regretted I’d not had enough time to light all the rooftops. No matter, my vengeance had begun, and woe to the villagers who’d cast me out.

I dropped the torch in my hand and raced toward a group of men who had gathered near one of the burning huts. When they saw me, some braced for my attack while others ran for the Spear Hut. They needn’t have bothered, of course, for the roof of the Spear Hut had long since caved, and taken with it any chance of recovering any of the weapons within.

Those who stood their ground died in seconds. I tore into them with a ferocity I never knew I possessed. I ripped off limbs and pulled heads from shoulders, sending gouts of blood and viscera into the night. The blood was so thick in the air it seemed like a red mist had sprung up around the village. If I opened my mouth I could literally taste it. The smell of it drove me into a frenzy, and before I knew it I was chasing down those that ran and killing them with neither mercy nor pity, laughing as I tore them to pieces. It did not matter if my victim was man, woman, or even child. All fell to me. The world was a reddish haze populated by people running madly for their lives.

But running did them no good. I was faster, stronger, and much more vicious. Somewhere along the way I discovered a new weapon; a set of sharp teeth that had sprung from my upper jaw, and I put them to use whenever possible. I bit deeply into throats and legs and torsos, anything I found in front of my face. I felt the hunger and the rage building inside me, but I did not drink. I knew I would have to drink soon, but in my red-eyed anger I was saving it for one person.

It was all over very quickly. Two hours of running, seven blistering days of exile, and several years of being in love with a woman I could not marry had culminated in this one event. My whole life to that point added up to about five minutes of blood. My time as Houlo, leader and protector, was over. My time of Shadow had begun.

I looked up from the last body, and saw it was a child. The youngest girl-child of Harik, who had taken my place as Houlo. Her name was Akele, and she was only five seasons when I killed her. I knelt over her body and looked at her wounds. A large portion of her tiny neck had been ripped away by my own teeth. I could hear her heart beating faintly as her breathing slowed, and then it stopped altogether. Her last breath gurgled in her small chest as her lungs discovered they could not breathe blood.

I knew I should feel something. Remorse or guilt. Perhaps sorrow for the death of one so young, or even to hate myself for causing such a death. I knew it was right that I should feel such things, but in looking at her torn and broken body, I could not feel any of them.

I looked from the miniature corpse in front of me and gazed around at the rest of the village. Bodies lay everywhere, some recognizable, some no more than pieces of torn flesh. All around me the ruin of my once happy village lay strewn about like so much rubble, and already the carrion eaters were massing to erase the traces of my heinous deed. I gazed at the bodies of friends, neighbors, and people who had looked to me for leadership. Much as they had looked at my father before me, and to his father, and many other fathers down my family line for generations. I had betrayed them all; killed them without conscience or qualm, and I knew I should feel something.

Shame? Remorse? I felt neither. The only thing I felt was a burning hunger such as I’d never experienced. It ate through me and turned my insides to fire. I could barely stand with the pain of it. I thought back to the Man in the Desert, and how he had bade me to drink of his blood, and knew I would need to do so again. The Hunger roared into my head like a great fall of water. I needed to drink. The Father help me, I desperately needed to drink.

But I did not. The Man in the Desert had bade me to seek my vengeance, to take it so fiercely that he would feel it from where he stood untold miles into the Eastern Wastes. And so I would. There was one person I’d not yet seen. My first drink of human blood would come from her, and I would have her scream my name to the sky at the end of her life so that the Man in the Desert would know I had paid his price for my gift. He would know that I had taken my vengeance and more. The Moon would bear witness to my triumph, and I would be avenged.

As soon as I found my mother.

***

At this point, Ramah’s gaze dropped to the floor. He let out a deep sigh and shook his head. The light from the single candle flickered, causing the shadows on his face to move and shift. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear the rest of his story, but I couldn’t stop him from telling it.

***

I do not wish to tell you of my mother, Vincent. True, I felt nothing then. But now, sixty centuries later, it fills me with shame. I imagine my father looking down on me from his place in the sky, alongside my grandfather, and his father, and generations of my ancestors. I can see them watching with shamed and saddened faces in memory of what I did to my own mother. Suffice it to say I found her, and the Man in the Desert got his payment. In the end the deed was done, and I was born into my darkness. There I have lived long and long again into the centuries like the Muses of old.

I never regretted my decision. I have spent the better part of the last six thousand years embracing the night in all its glory. Chasing the prey, allowing the darkness to fall over me like a shroud, and running with the wolves through the midnight forests. I have seen the reflection of moonlight in the snow bathe the world in a silvery brightness, and I have seen the moon hide in the earth’s shadow and bear no light at all. I have brought death to countless men and women, and tasted the last of their lives as they slipped away. I killed even when I didn’t need to, draining blood away with abandon. In ancient times, I came to be known as the Bloodletter for my many heinous deeds. A mantle I wore proudly for millennia.

Yet I always wondered what had happened to my beloved Neelie. The Father would not answer me when I asked, and it became obvious to me that my relationship to him was nothing more than servant to master. That was well enough with me, for all he wanted of me was to keep seeking revenge, and my thirst for it was far from satiated.

The Human Race spread over the world like a plague, from a few handfuls of scattered nomads to the teeming masses you know today. They were everywhere, and I hated them all. They were the reason I had been banished. All of them living their little lives with their little beliefs, persecuting those who thought differently, or burning ‘witches’ at the stake. I took my vengeance on all I could, and the more I killed, the greater my lust for it became.

Soon, the Father made more like me. He had made one other before me, and eleven more behind. After he had created thirteen of us he decreed that we must now begin the task of perpetuating our race ourselves. Headcouncil Herris asked him why, and he told us he was leaving this world, and would watch us from his own. He told Herris we had been selected to lead his chosen people. It is from this statement that we derive the name of our race. Bachyir translates roughly to The Chosen in ancient Hebrew. Over the last few thousand years, the word has been bastardized to its current pronunciation of vampire.

The Father christened us the Council of Thirteen, then left the world of the Living for the world of the Dead. From there he communicates his wishes, and we faithfully carry them out in this world.

For centuries upon centuries I have done his will without question, killing when it was necessary, and even when it was not. The one thing I never did was create children. I knew the Father wished us to do so, and I dearly enjoyed pleasing him, but I did not wish to bring others like myself into the world. Partly because I did not wish to share, but mostly because, without children to lead, I was free to go about my business as I chose. For many centuries I was the preferred assassin for the Council. Though I sat on the Council myself, I was not above being sent on assignments by Herris, who shared the father’s desire that I create more Bachyir.

This, too, suited me quite well. For more often than not, the Council sent me to kill. And kill I did. Gleefully. It suited me that they should so disdain my lack of progeny that they would send me away, often for years at a time. I was far from content, but I was surviving, and that was all I needed. I knew I would never be content. Not until I discovered what had happened to my long lost Neelie.

How I wished for her during the long nights when there was no blood to be shed and no lives to drain. I thought of the one time we had been together as man and woman, and I would often find myself shaking. Those were the nights that I truly hated. I hated all, even my fellow Councilors. I would gladly have killed any of them had the Father not forbade us from fighting one another. So I stored my anger, loss, and frustration inside me and released it upon others when I could. And in so doing I would for a time drown out the lonely cries of a love that was killed seven days before I was.

***

Ramah paused to reflect, and his head drooped further toward the stone floor. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Although he’d just confessed to being one of the foulest, most ruthless killers the world had ever seen, I could only feel pity as he sat upon the bed with his eyes on his feet, and related to me the tale of how he’d lost his love. I could relate to that part pretty well, having just lost Raine in a similar manner. I could not yet fully comprehend the depths the Hunger could go, but I did have some appreciation of the gravity of it. I knew what it could do, hadn’t I done some awful things myself recently?

So was I any better than Ramah? The answer was no, I was not. There is a saying amomng the Bachyir: Sooner or later, the Hunger always wins. When the hunger beat me, I knew I would kill, as he had killed. Would I also come to enjoy it, as had so many others before me?

There was only one thing to do, I had to find Raine, and soon. I had to see if she could take it back.

His moment of reflection finished, Ramah returned to his sad story, which grew sadder still the longer I listened.

***

All that changed one hundred and thirty two years ago, when I met Raine for the first time. Raine was a schoolteacher in Boston back in 1854. I met her one night after I’d finished with my business. It had left me spattered with blood, and as I walked through the lamp-lit streets, the other pedestrians gave me a wide berth. Some even crossed the street before they came within ten feet of me. A wise decision on their part, actually. For although I’d had my fill of blood, I still longed to kill. Back then I always longed to kill.

Eventually, I came to a bench somewhere deep in the city’s innards. I thought it would be a good place to sit and watch for another victim, and so I did. I was only there for a short time when I heard a woman’s voice urgently asking me if I was ok, and did she need to call for a doctor? Not that the doctors of the era were very skilled, little more than witchdoctors by today’s standards, but they did know how to stitch wounds, which is perhaps what she thought I needed.

I had my next victim. I would allow her to lead me toward the hospital, and when we passed a nice, dark alley – which is something Boston was full of even then – I would pull her in and feast.

I looked up, and was just about to ask if she could help me to the hospital. The words died on my lips, however, and I never made it to the dark alley. I did not take any more lives that night, either. In fact, I did not kill again for nearly a month, and then only because the Hunger took my mind from me and forced me to do so. Since then I have fed only as often as necessary to keep myself sane. I am now much weaker than I was, for the blood keeps us strong. Once I disdained it, my strength began to dwindle.

It is not only the blood, however. When I looked into Raine’s face, the thirst for vengeance I had borne for centuries died in an instant. For a minute I could say nothing as six thousand years of anger and hatred washed away like sand in the river. My past rose to accuse me of my misdeeds, and I simply could not defeat it. I could not even fight it.

It was not Raine that I saw when I looked up, but my beloved Neelie! Can you imagine my shock? Neelie, still of dark hair and haunting blue eyes. It was easy then to see why some villagers had taken her for Chalika, for her eyes could bewitch anyone with their depths. I had forgotten how blue they were. As blue as my daylight memories of the Big Water. I could not believe it. My Neelie, who had been lost to me so many centuries before, somehow returned.

It was not her, of course, but Raine so resembles my beloved that even now I sometimes think Neelie has returned to this world when I look upon her. She is beautiful, my Raine. Well, our Raine now, I suppose.

Once the initial shock wore off and I could see that Neelie had not, in fact, returned from the dead, I began to think of her openly for the first time in eons. I wondered what she would think of me now. Even though the rest of the village had thought her an evil witch woman, I had known her to be something quite different. She would not approve of what I had become. She would never do the things I had done, would never have made the deal with The Father all those centuries ago. I could imagine her looking down upon me from the Heavens, and I knew she would feel neither hatred nor loathing, but pity. And that thought – that Neelie would pity me more than anything else – drove into my heart like a railroad spike. I felt the weight of thousands of years of guilt for the first time, and I knew my soul was as black and dead as the wastes into which I had been banished over sixty centuries before.

I started to shake uncontrollably, unable to speak or even think. My illusions were torn away, and I realized despite my burning hatred and many murders, the only death I truly desired all those years was my own. For the first time, I saw myself for the coward I was. I put my face in my hands, but I could not even cry. I was cold, and dead, and so very alone.

Then I felt her hand on my shoulder as she again asked me if I wished her to summon the doctor. I forced myself under control and told her some story about how I had just left my position in one of the slaughterhouses just outside of town. The blood belonged to those unfortunate cows that had been butchered that night. She believed me, and so she went to go on about her way, giving me a smile and telling me to have a wonderful evening, then.

I stopped her and begged her name, which she gave me and you already know. I then asked if I could accompany her, adding that the city at night was no place for a beautiful young woman to be traveling alone. This much was true. Even in 1854 there were many Bachyir in Boston. If she continued to walk the streets at night, she would soon fall prey to one of them, for she stood out like a rose among dandelions. Nothing attracts the dead like true and living beauty. Many Bachyir feel a subconscious need to destroy everything that reminds them life can be beautiful. I could not let that happen to her.

And so I walked her home, and the more we talked, the older and fouler I felt. She had that effect on me; I could see my own reflection whenever I looked into her eyes. For her part, she never recoiled from me, though she sensed something was amiss. I could see in her face the questions she longed to ask, but Raine was very shy then, and lonely, a sharp contrast to the Raine we know today. Her questions went unasked, and thus unanswered. This suited me because I did not wish to tell her the truth. I feared what I would see in her eyes once she knew it.

Raine and I became friends of a sort. We would meet at night, of course. Often we would talk into the wee hours, and many times I went straight from her side to my own place of rest. During these times, the Hunger that so often gnawed at me over the last six thousand years seemed less potent. I found I could often ignore it altogether. This time in my life was the closest I have ever come to true happiness since I last saw my Neelie that early morning so long ago, and I came to the decision that the Council could keep their next assignment. I was going to stay right there, and to Hell with all of them if they did not like it.

Such a thing was never meant to be. Less than half a year later, Raine took ill with Tuberculosis. These days, they have vaccinations and medications for it, but in the mid 1800’s, Tuberculosis was a death sentence. There was no stopping or slowing it, and I watched helplessly as it took her, leaving her weak and wasted.

I knew I should not do it. I knew I should leave her be, and let her die. Even as I bit into her flesh and tasted her blood, I knew it was wrong. But I could not bear it if she died, not when I had only recently rediscovered what I had lost. I could not let her go, and so I Turned her. I did it without asking the permission of the rest of the Council. Being on the Council myself, I am above such considerations. Though there was quite a commotion when I presented the news to them that Ramah the Bloodletter had finally produced a child. Lannis and Algor were especially vocal in condemning me for not seeking their approval, but in the end I think Herris was simply too pleased that I’d finally fathered an offspring to dwell on the issue for long.

Raine’s opinion was never sought, although when she discovered what I had done to her she reacted with as much anger and disgust as I could have imagined. She refused to speak to me at first, and I thought I had saved her only to lose her again. Then the Hunger took her, as it does so many, and she was lost. She has become as vicious as I ever was. Raine has spent the last hundred and thirty-two years doing her best to live up to my reputation. Her life as a Bachyir has been as bloody and violent as any.

***

Ramah no longer looked at his shoes. His gaze was fixed instead somewhere on the wall ahead of us, perhaps on one of the tapestries. Maybe in his mind he saw his life as it had played out. Perhaps he was adding up the twenty-nine years that had ended in five minutes of blood. Perhaps he saw the face of his mother as she died, or maybe even the face of Raine as he changed her into his child.

I don’t know what time or area of the world his mind occupied, but I could tell he was not fully in the room with me. As he went on, he spoke as if he was talking only to himself. Perhaps he was speaking to the moon that had somehow spanned the centuries, even as he had spanned them, to continue to look down upon us from among the stars. I waited for him to finish.

And finish he must, more for himself than for me, I knew. This visit was not about warning me or making sure I was prepared. This was about Ramah. About his need to share the things he had witnessed and done. It was something sacred that somehow made him more human. I knew he hadn’t intended for his tale to be so lengthy, but once he started telling it, the words had poured from him, probably unbidden for the most part. They had waited so long to come out he’d been unable to stem the flow.

No, this visit was not about me at all. Ramah had come to Confession, and he’d made me the priest, as strange as that may sound.

“I made Raine a killer” he continued, “A destroyer of men and women, although to my knowledge she has never killed a child, as I did. I am thankful for that, at least. The guilt upon my shoulders is already heavy enough. Raine has added to it, to be sure, but also to her own. I grieve for her as I think of the things she will someday feel. For in Choosing her I passed some of my own essence into her, as she has also done to you. It is an inevitable part of being Chosen; the one who changes you invariably imbues within you a portion of themselves in the act of Turning.”

Shit, I thought, remembering that Lannis had a hand in my change, as well. Ramah nodded, as though reading my thoughts.
“Yes,” he said, “Lannis finished your transformation, and so you also bear some of her black essence. I beg that you tune it out if you can, it will only lead you further into darkness.”

Ramah stood, his bones creaking as he did so. had they creaked when he sat down? I couldn’t remember, but it didn’t seem like a vampire’s bones should creak at all. Weren’t they immune to the ravages of time?

“I would have you do something for me, Vincent,” Ramah said. “This thing that I ask must not be revealed to any other. No one on the Council must know of it. If they find out, it will be the death of you. You must swear to me that you will tell no one of it.”

I swore I would not, and Ramah asked me his favor. Even in my inexperience, I knew it was in direct violation of the Council’s wishes, and would surely earn me a horrible death if I got caught. Worse than that, however, was the very real possibility (Ramah admitted this was so) of being turned into a Lost One for defying the Council.

It was easy for him to ask it of me. As a member of the Council, he was immune to their judgment. I was not, and even though I still had no real sense of who I was and what I had become, I had no desire to trade it for the life of a Lost One.

Still, I could not fault him for asking, because it was something he could not do himself. Would I make the same request if the positions were reversed? Yes, I probably would. So I promised him I would try to do as he asked. He asked for my oath that I would do my best, and I gave it without hesitation.

It was an oath I spent many years thinking I had broken.

Chapter Fourteen:

The Taint of Lannis

Ramah and I sat in the dark for a long time after he’d finished his story. Neither of us said a word. I spent that time reflecting on what he’d told me. I don’t know for sure where his mind was, but I’d be willing to bet our thoughts ran along the same path. That little village on the edge of what Ramah had called the Eastern Wastes. I couldn’t shake the images his words called to my mind. Especially that of the girl, Akele, the child he killed in his bloodlust. I could feel pity for him for all he’d been through, or for the love he lost, or even for the millennia of guilt. But that single child’s death kept me from feeling too sorry for him.

After a time, he collected himself and asked if I had any questions. I only had a few hundred, but most were inappropriate or stupid, so I refrained from asking them. It was a solemn, if horrific, occasion, and I needed to take it seriously. So I tried to think of a productive question, and I surprised myself by coming up with a few of them.

“Yes, Ramah,” I said, “I do. The Council is going to send me after Raine, right?” He nodded, “Is it likely she’s gone back to Boston?” Again, he nodded, “Would you have any idea where in Boston she might be?”

“No,” he said, “If I did, the Council would send me to deal with her myself. I never went to her home. When she took ill, I found her in the hospital, and that is where I changed her.”

“What was the name of the hospital?”

“His Holy Cross, I believe.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning. At least it narrowed down a starting point.

“Raine left a number of things behind when she fled,” Ramah continued. “You will be given full access to them. Perhaps they will help you to find her.”

I doubted it. Most likely a building or address that had existed in Boston a hundred and thirty two years ago would not still be the same. Even more likely it would no longer exist at all. Still, at least I knew where I would start my search. Boston, Massachusetts, site of the infamous Boston Tea Party.

Perhaps I could even go see the harbor. It would probably be beautiful with the sun shining on the water and the sky above the ocean lit by the fiery orange glow of sunrise… I caught myself. I would not be able to see the city by day. If everything the Bachyir had told me was true, then I would never again see sunlight. I would never need my sunglasses again, or sun block. I would never again sit out to tan, or go for a jog in the afternoon. All that was behind me. My entire life was a memory. Ramah’s twenty-nine years had added up to five minutes of blood, what would my twenty-eight years add up to?

Raine, that was all. There was nothing ahead but her. I would stay focused on that goal and think about the rest later. Hopefully I could get to her before that guy Carl did.

Thinking about Carl brought to mind another question.

“Ramah, who is Carl Sanders? He and Kagan were chasing me when I found the door to the halls and… and… Ramah?”

Ramah’s face had gone dark. I shrank back against the wall at the seething anger in his eyes. They had become so hard and intense I could almost see the meager candlelight being sucked into them, like two tiny twin black holes in the room with me. I tensed, thinking he would attack me. My back pressed against the stone of the bedroom wall, and I sat with my ass on the mattress, with nothing but air standing between me and a very pissed off, ancient vampire.

Then, as swiftly as it had come, the look vanished. Ramah’s face softened. His eyes dropped to the floor, and he shook his head sadly. Puzzled, I remained where I was.

When Ramah spoke his voice was soft, despondent, and his eyes had once again found his feet. “I am sorry, Vincent,” he said. “I have no right to be angry with you. You could not know.”

“What? What could I not know?” I asked, but he only shook his head. He stood up, and faced me as I moved closer to the edge of the bed. The anger and fury had gone. Poured out of him as easily as water from a glass. Replaced by the same melancholy, tortured face that spoke of his guilt and the loss of his daughter, which I think he blamed on himself.

“The story of Carl Sanders is one for another time,” he said, “Someday I will tell it to you, but not tonight. Now I must be getting back, there is business still in the Council Chamber to which I must attend. We shall send for you shortly.”

He made his way to the door and gripped the handle. I heard the click as the mechanism released, and the room grew brighter as the light from the hallway joined the light from the candle. The two combined to bathe the room in a flickering glow that sent shadows dancing along the far wall. Ramah paused at the doorway, then turned to regard me one last time.

“There is one thing more I need to tell you, Vincent.” His voice had dropped in tone, and held a stern quality that shivered my spine and sent my flesh rippling. “This is a deadly game, and some of the players are more dangerous than you could possibly imagine. You must be wary of all, but two in particular. Lannis has her mind set that you shall succeed in aiding her ends, and Algor is with her. Be especially wary of him. He is dangerous in the extreme. Perhaps the most dangerous of all.”

With that, Ramah left, closing the door softly behind him. I watched him go with that same mixture of pity and disdain, and could not for the life of me figure out why I was so divided. I guessed perhaps it was nerves, and that made a convenient excuse. I would find out the truth soon enough.

I sat puzzling to myself about the abrupt shift in Ramah’s demeanor when I mentioned Carl Sanders. Obviously didn’t want to discuss it, since he’d left almost immediately afterward. Could it have something to do with Raine? I thought about asking another Bachyir, but I didn’t want it getting back to Ramah that I’d been asking around, and I had a feeling that it would. News travels fast, they say, bad news even faster. When you’re a newbie vampire with a shitload of more powerful vampires pushing you around, there’s no such thing as good news. Ramah had told me he would tell me the story some other time. I would just have to wait.

Only he never did.

***

Not long after Ramah left, there again came the sound of shuffling feet in the hall, and another knock on the door. This time the knock didn’t tap quietly into the still, dark room, but thundered into it like a cannon shot. Whoever was out there wanted my full and immediate attention. Best not to piss them off.

“Come in,” I said, knowing they would anyway, with or without my consent.

This time when the door opened the shaft of light was not so glaring, as my eyes had gotten used to the light of the candle. A hooded figure entered the room, bent at the shoulders, stooped and weak with age. No cane, though it seemed like he needed one. Shuffling, the figure closed the door, cutting off the extra light from the hall. This darkening of the room seemed to suit my visitor just fine, and the figure settled easily into the chair opposite the bed.

“Do you know me, Boy?” he said in a grating whisper. I thought the look and the voice reminiscent of the Emperor in the Star Wars movies. I could almost hear Vader’s heavy breathing in the background, and I thought about Jacques in Shakespeare’s As You Like It saying ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ I felt like one of Jacque’s players at that moment. Where would the next act lead me?

When I didn’t immediately answer his question, my guest leaned forward in his chair and thrust a splotched, bent finger at me.

“I asked you a question,” he said, angry.

I shook my head as I put all thoughts of Jacques and Vader out of my mind and forced myself back to the present, which was plenty intriguing enough. He leaned back into his chair and folded his arms over his chest, apparently satisfied that even if I didn’t know him, he at least had my attention. He was right, too.

“I know you, Vincent,” he continued in that same harsh whisper. “Quite well.”

Big fucking deal, I thought. These days who the hell didn’t know me?

“You are not surprised.” He chuckled, “I did not think you would be. It would seem to you as though you had met the entire world by this point, would it not? And they all know you, don’t they, Vincent? Is it unsettling to have so many strangers know your face, your name, and your business? I bet it is, although you hide it well. Yet you have met me, Vincent. We were introduced recently.”

I sent my mind backwards, trying to recall all the people I had met in the last week or so and sort through them. It had really been a confusing time, and there were many names and faces that seemed familiar but I could not place. There had been few actual introductions, and so I ended up with a few names I remembered hearing at one point or another.

I went through the list, surprised at how small the number was. I remembered names and eliminated them for one reason or another. I knew it wasn’t Kagan or Raine, and Ramah had already come to see me. The jailer had never introduced himself. Herris had, of course, and then he had gone on to introduce the rest of the Council…

That was it!

“You are a member of the Council of Thirteen,” I replied.

“Good, Vincent. Very good. I am Algor, Fifth of the Council of Thirteen,” he said in that same dry whisper. “Now, for the tricky question. Have you any idea why I have come?”

“No.” I still couldn’t see his face, but I had a feeling if I could peek under his cloak I’d find him smiling.

“I have come to warn you. I am sure you know that the Council means to send you after Raine very soon, Ramah would have told you as much. There are those among the Council who do not believe you have the necessary heart for it, myself included. Yet Ramah has managed to convince enough Councilors to allow it. And so you will go.”

So what? I thought. Get to the point.

“I warn you now, Vincent Walker,” Algor continued as if he could read my thoughts, “if you fail to do as commanded by the Council, your punishment will be severe indeed. I have already petitioned Herris to allow me to deal with you should you fail, and he has agreed. Believe me, you would beg me to turn you into a Lost One before even a single night passed.”

He reached one gnarled, twisted hand to the hood of his cloak, grasped it, and whipped it back. I couldn’t hide the gasp that escaped my lips, or my shocked expression.

Algor’s face is not something you ever forget. A mottled purplish blotch, like a huge liver spot, covered his eyes, nose and most of his jaw. Unlike liver spots, however, the stain on Algor’s face had texture, like an oil painting, the rises and falls clearly visible among the bruised-looking flesh. The areas of his face not afflicted were a more normal hue, slightly pale from spending millennia in the darkness, giving him a spotted appearance. A lump of flesh about the size and shape of a chicken’s egg hung just over his right eye. It stuck there on his forehead like a lump of clay. A similar, smaller lump jutted from his lower jaw, half in and half out of the purplish stain on his face.

There wasn’t a single hair on his head, and probably never had been. He didn’t even have lashes or eyebrows. His teeth were just as haphazardly placed as the rest of his face. The yellowed, crooked things seemed to have been put into his mouth in no particular order. Some stuck straight out from his jaw, while still others hung jaggedly off to one side or another. His fangs, the only straight teeth in his mouth, could not reach the length of the rest, and it was pretty obvious that Algor had to rip into his victims before he could feed on them. An involuntary shudder passed through me at the thought of those hideous things tearing into my own neck, and I felt a stab of pity for anyone unfortunate enough to experience it firsthand.

Around this horrific set of teeth, his thin lips twisted into a permanent, sneering grin which, combined with a large, sharpened nose that bent nearly double in the middle made him resemble a cross between a man and a wild boar. I could envision him rooting around with his snout and fangs, burying them deep into the flesh of his victims.

If there is a more sinister, depraved, ugly creature in the world that Algor, I have never heard of it, nor do I want to. Anything that could be worse than him can stay put, as far as I am concerned.

“Do you understand me, boy?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak, so I nodded. I understood, all right. You bet I did. I understood I was getting the fuck out of there as soon as possible and never coming back.

“You think you can hide, do you?” he continued, once again echoing my thoughts. “Perhaps you could, at that. You are clever and intelligent, and so is Raine. Maybe the two of you could hole up together in some remote corner of the world where few Bachyir go. Perhaps Rome, near to the Vatican City, or even Israel. We generally do not do well in those places. Perhaps you and Raine could live there for a long happy, eternity. Is that what you are thinking?”

There was no sense in lying, he would see right through it. I knew that much already, so I nodded again, still unable to find my voice.

“Think again,” Algor snapped. “You will carry out your duty to the best of your limited abilities. I do not believe for a moment that you are capable of finding and capturing Raine, but you will try. Oh, yes, you will try your very best. And the best part of it is that it will not be the fear of failure or my punishment that will spur you on, but your own desire to bring her in.”

That confused me, and it must have been obvious because Algor barked a sharp laugh, reminiscent of the sound a hyena makes when chasing prey.

“Yes, Vincent. Your own desire to see Raine punished will drive you to your goal. Lannis has seen to that.” He grinned around his crooked array of teeth. “Did Ramah not tell you? Lannis is the one who finished your change. Don’t you know what that means?”

I wrapped my courage and wits around me, and answered his question. “Ramah mentioned something about it,” I said. “He told me I would feel a bit of Lannis inside me due to the nature of the ritual used to create me. But I also have a bit of Raine in me, as well,” I finished, managing a hint of defiance.

“Oh, it’s much more than that, Vincent. Much more indeed.” He smiled widely. “All Bachyir inherit traits from their parents, much as human children inherit traits from theirs. In this case, you have two parents, but one of them is far stronger than the other. Raine might be the daughter of a council member, but Lannis is a council member. Her voice will drown Raine’s, as well as the trace hints of that fool Ramah. The loudest voice you hear in your head, the voice you will think of as your own, will be Lannis. Her shadow will follow you everywhere. You will be unable to escape it because it will be inside you. If you do somehow manage to bring Raine back, you will desire her punishment, even her death, and you will hear your own voice demanding she be brought to justice.”

“It should be quite entertaining,” he finished, smiling. Every single one his yellowed and twisted teeth showed in his hideous grin.

Satisfied at the look of horror and revulsion I couldn’t hide, Algor stood, pulled his hood back over his face, and walked to the door.

“The Council will convene in one hour,” he said. “We will be formally charging you with Raine’s return, of course. A Lost One will be sent to collect you when it is time.” Then he was gone, closing the door behind him with an audible click.

The door might as well have closed over my own soul as I sat on the bed contemplating Algor’s words. I finally understood the origin of all the confusing thoughts I’d been having. They were Lannis’ thoughts and desires, coming unbidden into my own mind and setting up shop. I could feel the taint of Lannis slithering around in my head. The room seemed to darken with the sheer malevolence of it.

Would I have the strength needed to do what Ramah had asked of me? Would I even be able to remember that I loved Raine when I found her? Never before had I felt so helpless, not even when I lay in the dirty alley looking up at the imposing figure of Carl Sanders. Then I had been afraid, yes, and unable to move. But at least I’d been afraid of a material thing. A being that stood right in front of me. I might even have been able to fight him had I tried. But how can one fight one’s own mind?

It was an important question, and one I couldn’t answer. That is the way of the Bachyir; always seeking, groping about in the night like a blind man in an unfamiliar room. Most are Hate walking around on two legs. The kill is what they love, the only reason they exist. I heard the voices in my head whispering for me to join them in the hunt. To kill.

And Algor was right. Part of me already liked it.

Chapter Fifteen:

Added Insurance

Within an hour of Algor’s disturbing visit, there was a third knock at the door. Unlike Ramah and Algor, this time I had not heard anyone approaching, and the sudden hollow boom startled me. That more than anything told me who had come calling, though I could also feel the cold dread that flowed into the room like mist. I knew what waited for me in the hallway.

A Lost One stood on the other side of the door.

There was no help for it. The Council would have given the Lost One orders to bring me by any means necessary. Algor would have seen to that. So I opened the door and stepped into the hallway to face the thing that waited there, trying to look less afraid than I felt. The last time I’d run afoul of a Lost One, the damn thing gave me a brief tour of Hell itself. I was only there for a minute, but I’ll never forget it. I looked at my shoulder, still feeling the phantom cold of the thing’s touch. I had no desire to see it again. When the Lost One pointed down the hall, I walked in the direction indicated.

All thirteen Councilors were present, though none wore their hoods over their faces. I saw Ramah’s stoic expression only a few feet to the right of Herris, who appeared cool and collected. Algor’s twisted features were visible, as well, and such was the shape of them that I could not tell if he was smiling or scowling. Perhaps a mixture of both. His hard, empty eyes bored into me from his seat off to Herris’ left. I felt the anger burning in his gaze and knew he would kill me in a heartbeat if I give him half a reason.

Two chairs to his left sat Lannis, the Ninth ranked of the Council of Thirteen. Undeniably beautiful, she waited, still as stone, just inside the flickering shadows like a ghost. Her scarlet lips were emphasized by her pallor and also by her sharp, aristocratic cheekbones. Her black hair cascaded down her shoulders and back, with a few strands pulled stylishly over her aquiline face, blocking her left eye from view. Her right eye twinkled in the torchlight like a black diamond. She looked dark and mysterious, like something from an old Bogart flick.

But, as in my dream, Lannis was only beautiful on the outside. The depths of her dark nature could be felt even from where I stood across the room. She radiated evil like an oven radiates heat. I felt like I was cooking in it like a suckling pig, turned over and over on a spit until I was just right. I vowed to myself that whatever happened, I would not let them have the last little piece of what made me me. I didn’t realize at the time they had already taken it.

No one said anything at first. Then I heard the large twin doors close behind me, and I knew that my Lost One escort had left. I looked from one Councilor to another, taking in all of them one at a time. Some wore expressionless masks, while others – Lannis, for example – wore faces of such smug complacency I was forced to wonder what the joke was. There was a laugh somewhere, and it had to be on me.

The only place I read anything comforting was in Ramah’s sympathetic look. Not apologetic, mind you, Ramah the Bloodletter does not apologize. He was not necessarily sorry I was there, but at least he could feel some empathy for my position. It was something, and in a situation like that you have to take what you can get.

“Vincent,” Herris began in a tone of cool command, interrupting my thoughts and scattering them, “You already know why you are here, so I will not waste time. You are to find Raine Winters and return her to this very room so that she may face the punishment for defying the laws of this Council. Do you accept this task of your own free will?”

“Yes, Headcouncil Herris. I do.”

Several of the councilors grunted, some smirked. They knew the same thing I did; a choice with only two options, compliance or being turned into a Lost One, was not really much of a choice at all.

“Good,” Herris continued. To his credit, there was not the slightest trace of smugness on his face or in his voice. “Very good. You will leave this very night and travel to Boston, where I am told Raine once held a hearth and home.” He looked at Ramah as he said this, and I could imagine how difficult it must have been for Ramah to spare even that little tidbit of information. Doubtless he would have tried to conceal it.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy finding one person in the city of Boston. Perhaps it would have been simpler if the person in question was a human woman with a job and friends, or a Social Security Number I could look up, maybe. No such luck, of course. The woman I hunted was over one hundred years dead, and hadn’t had to worry about things like money and work and Social Security for a very long time.

I was in love with a woman five times my age, if you counted the twenty-six years she lived before Ramah Turned her. I stifled a mad urge to laugh, reminding myself sternly where I was. I wouldn’t want Herris catching my smile and probing into my mind looking for answers. There were things in there I didn’t want him to know. Lots of them.

In truth, it would not have mattered. Herris could read every thought in my head. He may have done so, considering what came next, but I don’t think that was the case. I rather think that Lannis had something to do with it, or maybe Algor. Even more likely, the pair of them had cooked it up together. I stood for a moment, uncomfortable under Herris’ scrutiny. Then his eyes shifted to something behind me. I resisted the urge to turn for as long as I could, which wasn’t long. After a few seconds I turned to see what had caught his eye.

The Lost One who had come for me in my room had not left like I thought. It remained in the room, standing unknown behind me like a shadow. It sulked in the darkness, seeming to suck the light from the room. I couldn’t look long at its wriggling, pulsing mass, and I turned back to face the Council, barely repressing a shudder. Did Herris intend to use it on me as coercion? If so, why? Surely he knew I would cooperate with them on my own. It wasn’t long before Herris dropped another bomb on my head, and I had my answer.

“Anna,” he said, giving the thing a name and a gender in two syllables, “Has everything been explained to you?”

Anna nodded.

“Good. And you accept the terms of your restoration?”

Again, she nodded.

“Excellent,” Herris nodded to Lannis and took a seat. Lannis stood, and started to speak in that same strange language. I had heard it once before, when she had put her torn wrist to my face and bade me to drink. She spoke it in an eerie, whispery sort of way. It reminded me of the hissing sounds small children always associated with snakes. The sibilant whispers floated through the room, slithering over the air and bending it like blades of grass in the breeze.

The air in the chamber thickened. As I watched, it shifted and blurred like it does when the street in front of you is especially hot. Waves of energy rose from the floor and danced around the Lost One. Anna’s frame went rigid, as though in pain, then curled into as much of fetal position as she could manage while remaining upright. She looked like she was in pain, but she didn’t make a sound.

Lannis’ words increased in pitch and tempo, and the wavering lines of energy grew in thickness and number. Lannis was no longer whispering; but speaking loudly into the heated air of the chamber. She was almost singing, and the shimmering waves spun in a whirling vortex of mystical energy. They gained color as well as speed, going from perfectly clear to a glowing, translucent red-orange, reminiscent of the light cast by burning embers.

No longer able to support herself with her legs, Anna fell hard to her knees on the rough stone floor of the chamber. Her knees made a solid thwack sound as they connected, and I winced. That had to hurt. The ever-increasing volume and cadence of Lannis’ voice whipped the glowing air around Anna into a frenzy, and I could barely see her through it. All I could make out was her silhouette as she went from her knees to all fours, head dropping and nearly touching the cold stone floor.

Strange sounds came from within that field of energy. Sickly wet pops that I realized marked the end of life for thousands of tiny grubs as their superheated bodies exploded. Were they killing her? I couldn’t help but wonder why. What was the point of killing a Lost One? That seemed like a mercy to me. Perhaps they were trying to make a point. Not to Anna but to me. The point being that the price of failure would be great indeed.

Lannis shouted the last syllable. It echoed off the sides of the chamber like the toll of a great iron bell, sending shadows of that last word floating through the room. The light around Anna flared a brilliant, blinding red and winked out, leaving a ghost of itself on my retina that made it difficult to see. The chamber seemed a hundred times darker than before.

When my vision cleared, I saw a figure on hands and knees. She wore the threadbare black robes of a Lost One, but there was only smooth, pale flesh where grubs and larvae had been only seconds before. Thick auburn waterfalls spilled from the hood of her robe. During the entire ordeal she had not uttered a single sound. However, as the splayed fingers of both her hands curled and tightened, she gave a sharp gasp. The sound was as sudden and unexpected as a loud bang in church, and I flinched when I heard it.

After several silent heartbeats, during which her right hand rose from the floor to within inches of her hooded head, clenching and unclenching in obvious disbelief, Herris spoke again.

“Anna.”

Her gaze shot up, and the worms were gone. No more fat grubs slunk about in the spaces where her eyes should have been, or prowled over a half rotted nose. In their place was flesh, whole and unmarred by time. Slightly upturned nose, soft cheeks and full lips, which trembled, hinting of a joy so great I would never understand it. She had just been granted the one thing all Lost Ones desire most in the universe: Restoration. Anna was no longer a Lost One, she was a Bachyir again. Dark eyes framed on either side by her auburn hair looked beyond me to the Head Councilor.

“Your body and abilities have been returned to you,” Herris continued. “You may feed once again, and are free to come and go as you please. You know, of course, that your time as a Lost One was not supposed to end for another seventeen years.”

“Yes, Headcouncil,” she replied, bowing her head in respect, “and I thank you deeply for this opportunity to serve the Father as one of his children once again.”

“You know what is expected of you.” Not a question.

“Yes, Headcouncil. Councilor Lannis has instructed me.”

“Repeat it.”

“I am to accompany Vincent Walker in his search for the outlaw Raine Winters. I am to teach him of his new abilities and instruct him in their use. I am to aid him in capturing the rogue and bringing her to justice. I am to ensure this Council’s wishes are carried out to the full extent of both our abilities.”

And I am to keep an eye on Vincent and make sure he does what he is told, she might as well have said.

This was certainly a surprise, and it took a minute for it to register. When it did, I couldn’t believe what I had just heard.

“What?” I asked aloud. Had I heard correctly? I felt like I’d been slapped in the face. They were sending another vampire along? Sure, Anna had said it was to help train me, but I knew it for what it really was. Added insurance. She would make sure I was a good little leech and did what I was told.

My vision clouded over, red and angry, and I let my self-control slip. I strode briskly to the table where sat the Council of Thirteen, forgetting in my fury where I was and who I faced. I walked right up to a stunned and disbelieving Herris and planted my hands on the table, an act which seemed to jolt him from his surprise. As I addressed him, I began to see my own anger reflected back at me.

“A babysitter! You do this to me,” I shouted as I gestured to my face angrily, “and tell me I have to serve your will. Then you give me a fucking babysitter? How dare you! You pompous, arrogant bastard! Who the hell do you think—”

That’s as far as I got. My voice vanished into the room and was soaked up by the walls. The strangest feeling came over me, then. Not choking, exactly, but similar. I felt my throat constrict and my tongue began to grow in my mouth until I could barely keep it in. I tried to bring my hands to my face, but I couldn’t move them. Something pinned them to my sides. And it squeezed. My whole body felt the pressure. It was as though the atmosphere had gained weight and substance, pushing down around me from all sides and holding me motionless and mute.

Herris stood, furious and red. The full extent of his considerable ire visible in the very air around him, which crackled with energy. Something in my chest began to burn, and I remembered where I was and to whom I spoke. These people had done this to me, and they were capable of much worse. I was being given a rather pointed reminder of that fact as the burning sensation spread throughout my entire body like a fever. If the air hadn’t held me firmly in place, I would have doubled over in agony. My guts were being roasted as I stood powerless, unable even to scream.

Ramah tugged on Herris’ elbow, and Herris turned to regard his second. A look passed between them. A look that undoubtedly saved my skin. Ramah had stood up for me, at least. Not out of any sympathy for me, I’m sure, but because he thought I was the best person to save his daughter. He still thought I could do it even though they were sending this other vampire, Anna, along to make sure I didn’t.

No. Ramah’s face said. Please.

Then, after a moment of silence, an answering look from Herris.

Very well. It said, this once.

It took only a second, but I saw it. I imagine several others in the room noted it, as well. I heard a brief grunt from my right, and I knew Algor had seen the look and disapproved of it. I didn’t give half a rat’s ass if Algor approved or not. He could stick his opinion as far up his own ass as his clawed hands would allow for all I cared. What mattered to me was Herris had agreed, and the burning in my belly ceased. I took in a great gasp of air as the pressure around my chest eased. He did not, however, release me from his hold right away. I suppose he wanted to be sure he had my full attention when he next spoke. He needn’t have worried about that, let me tell you. He had my attention. Oh, boy, did he ever!

“That will be enough, Vincent,” he said. “You are very fortunate Ramah is willing to come to your aid.” The clear undertones of his voice told me in no uncertain terms that, should I run off at the mouth again, it would be over for me, Ramah or no Ramah. “This will serve as your only warning. Learn respect, or learn firsthand what the Lost Ones know.”

With that, he released his hold on my body. It was gone so suddenly that I couldn’t hold my balance, and I toppled to the floor, losing the last of my dignity as I went sprawling face first into the stone. Herris waited for me to get back to my feet, which I did slowly. My body felt awkward and my innards were still tender from the effects of Herris’s spell.

“Anna will accompany you,” Herris said matter-of-factly, “and instruct you in the use of your new abilities. You have many, to be sure, but they are as yet untested and untapped. She is to guide you in their use. Raine is far stronger than you, and you must learn to use every advantage if you are ever to capture her. Believe me, you are no match for the daughter of Ramah. Learn from Anna, and I strongly advise that the first thing you practice should be patience, and the second, respect.”

I nodded to show my understanding, and I think I may even have mumbled something in the way of an apology.

“Do not ever speak to any member of this Council in that manner again, Vincent Walker,” Herris continued. “And do not think to disobey your orders regarding Raine. We know you were in love with her, but you would do well not to let that fact interfere with your duty to this Council and to the Father, or you will face the direst of consequences.”

I already knew what he meant, but Herris decided to spell it out for me anyway, lest there be any confusion as to what awaited me if I ever let my temper and emotions fly ahead of my common sense again.

“You would not enjoy life as a Lost One,” he said.

The look on Lannis’ face suggested that, although I might not enjoy life as a Lost One, she would certainly enjoy giving that life to me.

Chapter Sixteen:

Departure

July 25, 1986

The Halls of the Bachyir

Anna fed before we left. In a cell near the Council Chamber, the Bachyir keep a dozen or so people chained to the wall to wait for the next hungry pair of teeth that happen by. The vampires who inhabit the Halls call it “The Larder” or “the Pantry.” I can only imagine what the unfortunate humans who discover themselves in that dank place, which smells of blood and human waste, must call it. Hell certainly comes to mind.

Anna fed with the unrestrained abandon of someone who has been denied what they seek for so long they can’t hold back once they get it. It had been many years since she’d tasted blood, since the Lost Ones don’t need it to survive. They can exist without it indefinitely. They still feel the Hunger, however, and therein lies the meat of their punishment. A Lost One will feel the ever-increasing pain of the Hunger as it jabs through them, twisting their rotting innards into painful knots. But they are forbidden to feed. To even try causes tremendous pain and adds another century to their sentence.

After all that time without blood, Anna was hungry. In the ordinary course of things, the ratio of food to prey in the vampire//human equation is usually 1:1. One human is almost always enough to satisfy one vampire. That night Anna killed two. She was going for a third, eyes alight with a dark kind of joy when Headcouncil Herris pointed a single, ancient finger at her, and she froze.

“That will suffice,” he said. “There must be enough for others who wander in tonight.” He released her then, and she bowed her head in respect and replied with something to the effect of “Yes, Headcouncil.”

Herris then motioned for me to take my fill. I stared in shock and horror at the poor souls chained to the wall. The ones who weren’t screaming and had not fainted just stared at me in open terror, the whites of their eyes visible the whole way around the iris as they waited for their turn. Not one of them was permitted any shred of dignity. All were naked and shivering, and most wore the remnants of the last thing they’d eaten on their chests or staining their backsides. Hungry as I was, I could only look on in horror as several of the Councilors decided they could use a bite, as well. Ramah, for his part, did not look away, but neither did he feed.

Algor was another matter. He shuffled toward one of the men with a slow, ominous tread, allowing him to know the end was near, and to anticipate it for as long as possible. When Algor was about two feet away from his victim, he showed the man his horribly mangled set of teeth, chuckling to himself. The man lost control of both his bladder and his bowels, and the room filled with the acrid, ammonia scent of urine and the heavier, earthy smell of human shit.

Had I been able, I think I would have vomited, but of course I was running on empty and had nothing to expel. The poor guy screamed, then went mercifully silent as he passed out from fear and shock. Algor gave him a disappointed look, then launched himself at yet another prisoner, tearing into the surprised woman’s throat with those mutilated fangs.

When he did, her face turned toward me and I saw with shock it was the waitress from The Eye, Teresa, who’d left me her phone number on a napkin and told me she got off at four. She had helped me escape from Drake and his cohorts, albeit unwittingly. I stood, frozen, watching as Algor shredded her neck.

Teresa’s eyes opened wide when she saw me. A tiny hint of hope worked its way onto her face.

Help me, her eyes begged, I helped you.

I couldn’t help her. Hell, I couldn’t even help myself. I could only watch as she died, knowing I couldn’t do a thing for her. Anything I tried might hurt my own chances of getting out of there, and I needed to get out to find Raine. I shook my head and mouthed an apology. What a coward I was. When Teresa realized I wasn’t going to help, the hope left her eyes, and she started to whimper and cry, which seemed to make Algor enjoy it even more. He ripped into her neck and shook his head back and forth like a dog with a toy. I couldn’t watch any longer, and when her screams turned into a weak gurgle I staggered out of the room.

My hands shook with fear, and my eyes burned with tears that would not come. My eyes watched my feet walk out of the room and into the hall, where the part of me that enjoyed the spectacle waited in the shadows like a ghost. Why turn away? It whispered. You know you want to see...It was right. I did. Not only that, but I wanted to participate. Was that me? Or was that Lannis’s influence? For my sake, I believed the latter.

I pictured Raine’s soft black hair and deep blue eyes. The image gave me a measure of strength and helped me to keep Lannis’ taint at bay for the moment, but even I knew it wouldn’t last long.

***

Less than two hours after my second meeting with the Council, Anna and I were on our way. She showed me the path through the Halls of the Bachyir, and through the twisted, winding passages that meandered their way to the exit. Not that it matters, I thought. She could show me the way a hundred times and I will never remember it. Besides, I won’t be coming back here.

I would never have imagined such a large structure could fit inside the city and remain unknown. New York City was a big place full of big buildings, but none of them compared in scale to the Halls of the Bachyir. As Anna led me unerringly through one set of tunnels and then another, I began to feel as though we were traversing the hidden hallways of some ancient, gargantuan castle. I assumed from the sheer enormity of the place we must be underground.

When I mentioned this to Anna, she just laughed.

“You don’t know anything, Vincent,” she sneered.

“Maybe not,” I replied irritably, “but isn’t it your job to teach me? Herris himself said…”

The rest of my sentence was cut short in a flash of pain. Stars exploded in the side of my head and I went sprawling across the hallway, landing dazed and very confused about ten away. I lifted my head, wincing at the pain, and saw Anna standing over me, her right hand clutched into a tight fist

“Very well, Vincent,” she said, “Consider this your first lesson.” She unclenched her fist and I noticed the knuckles were stained with blood, my blood. She’d hit me hard enough to cut me.

“What kind of fucked up lesson is that?” I tried to ask, but all that came out of my mouth was a soft, muffled noise that sounded more like “Whafuhledat?” She seemed to understand it well enough, however.

“Headcouncil Herris,” she said, emphasizing the title, “is so far above you that for you to even think of addressing him by his given name is blasphemous. To actually do so in earshot of anyone who matters will earn you much worse than a clout on the head. For your sake as well as my own, you will always refer to him by his title. Do you understand?”

I did, grudgingly. A general in the Army has worked long and hard to earn his title, and would not take kindly to his lowliest dogface private addressing him as “Bob” or “Eugene.” But still…

“You could have just said so,” I mumbled, and rubbed the spot on my head where she’d thumped me. The bleeding had stopped, and already the swelling had gone down a considerable amount. It still hurt, though.

Anna harrumphed and continued to walk down the passage, giving my suggestion the same sort of distant, muffled disinterest as an old dowager countess in the Middle Ages would have given a dirty peasant child asking for a coin. In many ways, she was an old countess, wealthy in knowledge rather than gold. I was the peasant child. I needed her; she knew it as well as I did.

Yet she needed me as well. Hadn’t Herris himself – Headcouncil Herris, I amended to myself, I might as well get used to it – said her redemption lay in the successful completion of my mission? What’s more, he told her to teach me the use of my abilities so I would be ready when the time came to face Raine. Lastly, he had insisted I would need Anna’s help, because I was not strong enough to do the job myself.

Raine must be pretty powerful, I thought. I did not know Anna, but I suspected she was no match for Raine by herself, either. So there would be two of us against one, and I would need to know much, much more than I did if we were to have any chance of success. Anna was going to have to start teaching me, and soon.

It occurred to me it would indeed be two against one when the time came, but I thought Anna might be a little surprised as to which side of the equation she would be on. At least if I could keep that damn Lannis out of my head long enough to do what I planned. Those conflicting thoughts kept running around in my dusty old attic like thoroughbreds around a racetrack.

I love Raine, I would think, followed closely by

I hate her!

I’ll save her!

No, I won’t. I’ll kill her myself!

Such was the state of my mind when we rounded the last corner to see the door. It looked ordinary from this side. Had I known that? I couldn’t remember if I had paid it any attention the last time other than to hope it wouldn’t crash open and admit Sanders and Kagan. The only thing about that moment I could remember with any clarity was a feeling of immense relief. We stepped through it and out into the New York Night, then made our way to my place to pick up some supplies.

As I went through my apartment for the last time, the realization hit me that everything I knew was over. My memories and my life had to be let go. True, it wasn’t much of a life, but damn it, it was mine! Silently cursing the Council, I gathered up a few changes of clothes for the road and left behind my pictures (“You won’t need those” – Anna’s voice), some treasured items from my childhood (“Or those”), even my toothbrush (“No longer necessary”). I felt like I would cry, but no tears came. Tears were a thing of my old self, and I had to leave them behind, as well.

We descended the stairs in silence, and walked through the parking lot to my car. It was a 1982 Ford Fairmont I had bought brand new. It was white, clean, had four doors and a V-8, and in another year it would have been completely paid for. Ah, well. I turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the space and left the parking lot.

The clock on the dash told me it was nearing midnight. I could see New York’s night life prowling the sidewalks. Hookers, pimps, drug dealers, even cops, with the occasional johns visiting all of them in turn. Usually ending at the cop, but not always. The sad but true fact is that sometimes even the cops were johns, and every once in a while you could see one of the Boys In Blue standing idly in the neon glow of New York after dark with a distinctive faraway look in his eyes. It made me nervous to think that they were also armed, but I guess by then it didn’t really matter. Not to me, anyway. I drove on.

Several times I thought I saw other vampires. They always seemed to be hiding, barely noticed, in the shadows. Most were probably on the trail of prey. More often than not, that meant a hooker or a drug addict, which were common sources of nourishment for the Bachyir of the city because they were the least likely to be missed, along with the winos and the gang members.

Did I really see more of them out in the streets stalking their victims? Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t really know how much of what I saw (or thought I saw) was real and how much may have been my own wild imagination. About the only thing I could swear to was that watching all the people had driven the Hunger into me like a white-hot railroad spike. I hadn’t fed in the Larder, as Anna had, and it was all I could do to concentrate on the streets, the lights, and getting us to the interstate.

***

I was driving north along I-95 when Anna and I were taken by surprise. A car that had been hanging behind us for half an hour or so suddenly sped up and shifted over to the left-hand lane. I thought the driver meant to pass, so I paid it no attention until they got right next to me. Then the other car swerved into us.

The whole car jolted to the right and my forehead thunked into the steering wheel. I had just enough time before Anna and I were pushed off the road to see the face of Joel Kagan looking back at me through the passenger-side window of the other car. He flashed me a wicked smile as we went over the side of the little rise and into the trees.

“Oh, Shit!” I screamed just before the world exploded with the sound of crunching metal and breaking branches. The general din was punctuated by Anna’s own angry scream and sprinkled with the tingly sound of shattering glass. Looking through the hole where the windshield had once been, I saw a night sky that teemed with stars.

How pretty. My last thought before the impact drove such things from my mind.

***

When I opened my eyes I was lying face down in a muddy patch of dirt littered with damp leaves and pine needles. The earthy smell of damp soil and pine trees permeated my nostrils, as well as the sad odor of decay. Dead animals, rotting wood, and the like. All of which told me we’d crashed into the woods beside the interstate. I stood on shaky legs and did a quick inspection of my body.

I didn’t seem injured, but as I glanced at the trunk of a nearby tree I noticed an entire section devoid of bark. The bare patch shone red with blood, lots of it. It wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t old, either. It had just begun to dry into a tacky paste.

One look at my shredded clothes, with my shirt torn open and revealing patches of raw, broken flesh beneath, told me whose blood painted the tree. Mine, of course. Several bits of bark stuck to my skin in bloody little clumps, giving me an infected, leprous look.

Even though the blood wasn’t fresh, its coppery scent filled the air and rushed into my nose like a flood. The smell was so thick and pervading I started to get lightheaded. It soaked into my pores and coated me with a fine layer of rust-colored mist. It smelled so sweet. So good. So…right.

The Hunger doubled me over. I’d lost a substantial amount of blood in the crash, and my body cried out to replace it. Half crazy with bloodlust, I looked around at the trees, heavy with fog in the humid summer night. The night around me was thick and gray. Trees loomed barely distinguishable in the thin moonlight. Gray arms reached for a sky that could not be seen through the shadowy boughs.

Somewhere in the low gray sky, an owl hooted twice, calling to its dinner, perhaps. I thought about how good an owl’s eyes were purported to be. Could it see me standing there? Did the scent of my blood excite it, too?

Something moved in the leaves to my left, and I turned in that direction. I saw nothing, of course, but I heard the rustling and knew whatever made it was only about ten feet or so away. A small animal, most likely. A mouse, or maybe a chipmunk. Either way I knew as soon as I heard it that Mr. Owl’s calls would be answered, and he would sleep with a full belly. The thought sent a fresh surge of Hunger through me. It felt like someone had stuck a hot coil into my abdomen and turned on the juice.

I stumbled and shuffled through trees, not really knowing where to go or how to get there, just that I needed to find Anna. I almost shouted her name, but I stopped myself before I did.

Did I need to find her? Did I really?

With her out of the way I would be free to search for Raine on my own and would not have to deal with the former Lost One making me feel small or smacking me around. And what would happen when I found Raine and there was no Anna there to complicate things? About that I was no longer sure, but I did know things would go a lot smoother if I was alone when it happened.

A mosquito buzzed annoyingly by my ear. I started to swat at it, but then I decided to let it be. I watched as it settled onto my arm and poked me with its tiny needle, wondering just what would happen to it. Nothing, apparently. She drank her fill and moved on. I expected the itching to start, but it didn’t. There was no slight twitching, no urge to scratch. Instead, there was just my arm, as it had been before. If there was anything at all different, it was a dark, secret type of jealousy. She’d gotten her fill, but I still burned with Hunger.

The thought annoyed me, and the next time a mosquito came near me, I swatted it into oblivion. Where there is one, however, there are always more, and before long I grew bored with smashing the lives from creatures three hundred thousand times smaller than myself. I sent one last mosquito to Hell and started walking, with no clear idea where to go.

I only walked about five steps before the owl hooted again and I heard the sound of heavy wings in the night. After a second or two a high-pitched squeak informed me that, like the mosquito, Mr. Owl had also gotten his dinner. Lucky bastard.

The damp trunks of so many trees brought my dream back to mind. Raine had begged me to stay out of the water. What was it supposed to mean? Did it mean anything at all? Probably not.

After a few minutes of walking, the sound of snapping twigs to my right broke the eerie silence of the woods, and I froze. My entire body tensed as I stood rigid and silent, willing the noise to come again. My fingernails dug painfully into my palms as I balled them into tight fists. I waited, and the seconds stretched for days as silence swallowed all traces of whatever I had heard.

It’s probably Anna. But I knew it wasn’t. I don’t know how I knew, but I did.

Something was watching me, I could sense it. I could almost feel its eyes pressed against the back of my neck. I even imagined warm breath over my shoulder. My muscles compressed taut, ready to explode. They ached with the strain of maintaining energy that begged to be set free.

Run or fight, my body commanded, its basic response to danger. Run or fight. I set my shoulders and waited, feeling the skin on the back of my neck tickle as the hairs stood on end. I’d done enough running for one day. Time to fight.

A small, sharp pain worked its way from the nerves in my fingertips up the neural highways of my body and into the receptors housed within my brain. I dismissed it without checking to see what it meant. There were more important things just then than the small amount of pain in my hands.

I stood like that for an eon, waiting for the small crackle of underbrush that would reveal the stalking thing’s location. Awash in my own bloodlust, I damn near raised my head to the moon and screamed in fury and lust for the fight, but a voice out of the darkness caused the scream to die in my throat before I could release it. I had been expecting a noise, a crackle of twigs or the folding of bushes. I had not expected to hear Anna.

“Very good, Vincent,” she said, and stepped into my field of vision. “Your instincts are developing nicely. You have even learned to grow your claws. I am very impressed.”

Instincts? Claws? What the hell was she talking about? I could give her the instinct part of it as I knew something was there watching, but claws? I didn’t have any…

That’s as far as I got. When I raised my hands to my face to disprove her claims, I saw what had caused the brief flash of pain in my fingertips. I did have claws. Sharp ones! The bones of my fingers had stretched, piercing the skin and forcing their way out. Thick and strong, they extended about two inches beyond my fingernails. I looked at them in disbelief, and I thought they looked somehow familiar. Then it occurred to me; they reminded me of something I’d seen in a horror movie a couple of years before, Nightmare on Elm Street, with Freddy Krueger as the knife-fingered villain. I stood there in the misty night, looking at hands that resembled the weapons of a horror movie bad guy, and I started to laugh. I couldn’t help it; it was all so ridiculous.

Just then, another tiny trickle of sound hit my ears, and my laugh died as I realized something I should have caught right away. Anna had emerged from the mist on my left, but the noise I’d heard had come from my right. All at once the feeling that we were being watched returned full force, and while Anna looked at me questioningly, I whirled around just in time to be bowled over by a growling, furry mountain of teeth and claws.

I landed hard on my back, and the thing used my prone and hurt body as a springboard to launch itself at Anna. Anna was faster, though. As the thing jumped for her, it hit only air. Anna was nowhere to be seen. Thinking she had left me, I stood to face whatever the hell had just hit me.

It stood about the height of a man, but much bulkier. If it were human I would have called it fat. It had two arms and two legs, but the arms were long, heavily muscled, and covered with fur. In fact, its entire body was covered with fur from the flattened head to the clawed, elongated feet. An elongated snout, parted in the middle to reveal rows of long, sharp teeth, dominated its snarling face. Behind the savage jaws two small, dark eyes glittered angrily. Two pointed furry ears sprouted from atop its head, and I thought the thing looked like an angry dog or a wolf. I had a sudden vision of this thing loping along on all fours in the moonlit forest.

The only thing my mind could come up with was Holy Shit! A werewolf!

There are no such things as werewolves!

Yeah, there are no such things as vampires, either!

It didn’t give me much time to think. It sprang at me from its crouched position. I knew I should duck, or run, or something, but I was frozen with amazement and awe. A real, live werewolf, just as big as you please! By the time rational thought broke through my idiotic gawping, it was too late. I could neither dodge nor run, so I did the only thing I could think of; I tensed and waited for it to spring. I had fangs and claws, too, and I was hungry as hell. A low growling noise began in my own throat as I waited.

It all happened so fast I didn’t register it at first. The werewolf bore down on me, and I stood ready. Then, without warning, a bright flash lit the air around me like the Fourth of July, banishing the night and replacing it with an instant, artificial Day. The light was followed by a deafening roar and the smell of singed fur, then a loud yelp. The creature made a loud thud as it hit the ground right in the middle of the sudden blaze. I peered into the flames and saw it thrashing and rolling on the ground, filling the night with cries of defiance and pain.

Then a hand grabbed me roughly from behind and pulled me away.

“Come on, Vincent!” Anna’s voice.

I watched the thing twitch and roll in the fire for another few seconds before I turned and ran after her. She set a very brisk pace, but I had no trouble keeping up. Trees and branches whipped past with amazing speed, often striking me in the face or chest hard enough to draw blood.

The smell of the blood, as well as the excitement of the last few minutes, brought the Hunger to a boil inside me. It felt like a ticking bomb in my chest. It mounted, and I watched as Anna sped away, all the while I licked my own lips. I could take her out of the picture. I could just jump up there and kill her, as the werewolf had tried to do. I could drain her life away and fill my own. That would certainly solve a great many of the problems she presented.

The rational side of me prevailed. I needed her to teach me to use my abilities. I had grown claws on my own, sure, but what about that little disappearing thing she did when the werewolf attacked? Could I do that? Maybe, but I didn’t know how. True, I hadn’t known how to grow the claws, either; those had just sprung out of need. Would any of the other abilities be like that? And where did that sudden fire come from?

As the thinking part of my mind pushed out the hungry, predator side, the claws withdrew into my hands, again causing that slight twinge of pain. With the urgent, primal need to kill fading, I also found my speed diminishing. I figured we had left the thing far behind. Besides, I had seen it burning, likely it was dead already. No need to waste energy in a mad flight from a dead enemy.

“I think we lost it,” I called to Anna, who seemed not to have noticed I’d slowed down.

She skidded to a stop, turned, and ran back to me. I thought she might stop when she reached me and we would take a short rest. Instead she grabbed my arm and pulled.

“Hurry up, you idiot!” She shouted, “There’s no time to stop and talk!”

“But, surely the fire—”

“The fire won’t hold him long,” she interrupted angrily, “and then he’ll sniff us out and come running, and he’ll bring Sanders with him.”

“Sanders? What’s Sanders got to do with that werewolf?”

“Werewolf?” She replied, and I felt a very real shiver begin at the base of my spine and work its way up. “There are no such things as werewolves, Vincent. That was Joel Kagan, and he means to kill us. Both of us. Now run, damn you!”

I needed no further urging. Anna and I ran, and kept running, even when the woods broke and we found ourselves on the side of a two-lane highway. We looked left and right, hoping for a car to come by. Both of us were thinking the same thing: maybe we could hitch a ride. We would not be able to run forever. As our luck would have it, there was not a car in sight.

“This way,” Anna hissed. “I hear voices.” She turned left and ran. I didn’t hear any voices, but I wasn’t about to argue. So I followed, thinking if there were people on the deserted stretch of road, they would probably have a car.

If they do have a car, they’ll likely be broken down out here, I thought. But then we came around a bend in the road and I saw the most beautiful and welcome sight this side of the Promised Land. A truck stop! A very busy truck stop.

I couldn’t believe our good fortune, there must have been a dozen or so big rigs hunkered around the building like transients at a barrel fire. Not only that, but twenty or so cars dotted the parking lot, with a couple of motorcycles thrown in for good measure. I knew we would find someone willing to give us a lift. I knew it because we had something extremely valuable to offer someone for such a ride.

Their life.

As much as I hated the idea of using force, if that was what it would take to convince someone to give us either a lift or their keys, I would do it. At the thought of using such aggressive coercion my teeth poked out again, and the Hunger began a slow burn, adding another distraction I couldn’t really afford. It twisted and slithered its way through my insides, oiling my muscles and raking my nerves. My teeth poked my lower lip, drawing a brief flash of pain and a small taste of blood. I smiled. It wasn’t my night to die.

A shout from the woods told me Kagan disagreed.

I turned my head just in time to see him – no longer a wolf but back to his normal, unpleasant self – leap from the cover of the trees and run after us. While the sight of him crashing out of the bushes about a hundred yards behind me was certainly unnerving, it was nothing compared to the dread I felt when I heard Kagan’s next words.

“I found them Carl!” he shouted, “Over here!”

Then Anna and I rounded the bend and my view of him was lost as the trees on either side of the highway blocked him out. Carl Sanders’ answering shout, however, told me he must be close. It wouldn’t be long before the pair of them rounded the bend after us. I could picture it already, Kagan with his unnatural speed chasing after us in that ungainly manner of his. Worse, though, was the thought of Sanders running along beside him.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I was so damn Hungry!

Anna and I made the parking lot, and she began looking about for someone who could take us out of there in a hurry. I looked back the way we had come and was relieved to note that Kagan and Sanders had yet to come around the bend of trees and into view. It gave me a moment of hope, and I thought that we just might make it out of there, after all, if only we could find a ride.

That brief bit of hope was all I got. As Anna climbed the side of a rig that sat idling in the parking lot, I saw Kagan crash through the trees about a hundred yards away, with Sanders right behind him. The pair made straight for us, and closed the distance faster than I’d thought possible.

Anna was having no luck with the truck; the driver either wasn’t inside or wasn’t answering. As close as our pursuers were, I knew we didn’t have time to try another.

I turned and made ready to fight, thinking as I did the worst part about dying then and there was that I would die Hungry. Starving, even. It might even be nice to let go of the Hunger and the pain it brought. Maybe the warring voices

I hate her! No, I love her!

would stop in a few minutes and there would be blessed, lovely silence. Maybe I would even get to sample some of their blood before they killed me. The thought sent the Hunger twisting and growling like something caged and angry, which is I guess what it was, come to think of it. A bloodbath waiting to happen. Death looking to be dealt. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even when I was about to die.

I didn’t hear the motor at first, distracted as I was by the upcoming fight, but I did hear the voice. It broke through my thoughts of death and silence, jolting me back to the here and now.

“D’ya need a hand, Miss?”

Then I did hear the motor, and when I whirled around to face the speaker I saw the vehicle that housed it. A man on a motorcycle had pulled up and seen Anna by the truck. He must have assumed it was hers and she’d locked herself out. Nice of him to stop and offer assistance, I thought.

Then Hell finally caught up with me.

I heard his heartbeat, loud and insistent. It seemed to drag on and on. Not Thump THUMP – pause, thump THUMP, pause, but Thuuuump THUUUUUUUUUMP. Stop. Thuuuump THUUUUUUUUUMP. Stop.

Time slowed. Insects that had been buzzing madly now floated slow and lazy in the air. The man astride the motorcycle had taken off his helmet. I saw his face in fine detail. Sweat streaked his forehead, and his salt and pepper hair was plastered to it in a sticky, disheveled mess. His blue-gray eyes were kind and inquisitive, and smiled along with the rest of his face. This was a kind man, a man who liked to help when he could. A man who would try even when he couldn’t. I could read all this in his face, but more than that, I read the slow, nearly imperceptible swelling and falling of the thick veins in his exposed neck. I had just enough time to glimpse the shine of the plain gold band on his ring finger in the nanosecond it took for the door to my cell to come crashing outward full force, unleashing the beast that had been trapped inside.

I watched as someone else’s hands (not mine, they couldn’t be mine) shot straight out, grabbed the man and jerked him off his bike. The roaring sound of the Hunger in my ears blocked out his surprised scream.

Another heartbeat, faster this time. Thump THUMP thump THUMP thump THUMP.

Those stranger’s hands pulled the struggling, terrified man closer until they had him near enough to wrap him in a tight hug. He craned his neck to see who held him, but in doing so he stretched the skin of his throat taut, further exposing it. I smelled the leather of his jacket and the sweat on his skin. The crisp scent of shampoo from his last shower, as well as traces of his aftershave. More important than all of the above, I smelled the blood that pumped furiously only inches away. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the part of me that hated myself for what I was about to do screamed at me that Sanders and Kagan were still coming, but the hunger drowned it out.

I closed my eyes and bit down hard, tearing through the muscles and flesh of his neck with my new teeth. They ripped through the walls of his carotid artery, which made a sound like an overripe fruit when I bit into it. He screamed and struggled in a feeble attempt to free himself as my mouth filled with warm, sweet fluid. So smooth and rich I could not help but gulp in greedy ecstasy as more and more flowed from the wound and into my eager throat.

Another heartbeat. Weaker, slower. Thuuuuump thuuuuuump. A long pause, then thuuuuuuump, thuuuuump.

His life poured into me and promised me everything. Silent whispers spoke of dark and wondrous powers I had never even imagined possible. I felt for the first time what all vampires eventually feel: that ultimate sense of power over life and death. The ultimate revelation of what it means to be Bachyir. In that moment I knew I had lost.

I said goodbye to the sun forever.

Another heartbeat. His last. A single, weak Thuuuuump. Then silence.

He was dead. The flow of blood slowed, then ceased. I raised my head from the stranger’s neck as the last of his blood ran wastefully down my chin and dripped onto the asphalt below. The world became an unrecognizable blur as time resumed its normal pace and slammed me back into the present. My Hunger dwindled. As it receded, memory returned, and brought with it both the knowledge of what I had just done, as well as the fact that I didn’t really have the time necessary to do it.

Kagan and Sanders were still coming, and I had turned my back to them. Stupid! I looked over my shoulder, expecting them to be on top of me, seconds away from striking me dead and ripping my battered corpse to shreds. I was surprised to discover that they had only gained a short distance. They were about seventy-five yards away, but closing fast. The whole kill must have only taken a few seconds.

Without thinking I tossed the corpse aside, marveling even in my duress at how far it flew before crashing in a broken heap at the rear wheels of the truck.

It had all happened so fast, in fact, that the engine on the motorcycle was still running. I heard it idling even though the bike lay on its side. The man must have put it in neutral just before I grabbed him. It took me a second to realize the rumbling of the bike’s exhaust offered an escape. I grabbed it, placing one hand on the handlebars and one on the bar behind the seat, with my back against the side.

“Anna! Come on!” I yelled, not really sure why, especially given the fact that mere minutes ago I’d been ready to leave her behind. Something inside me wanted her to come. Something had shifted a little when I fed for the first time. I couldn’t really pick up on it then and I didn’t have time to examine it closely, already Kagan and Sanders were too close.

It was a big bike. The side cover labeled it a Yamaha V-Max. I started to use my legs to walk the bike upright, which is the best way to pick up a big bike when you lay one down, but it wasn’t necessary. It lifted from the ground as easily and effortlessly as if I’d been lifting a bicycle. Overbalanced and unprepared, I nearly fell over, but I managed to catch myself. I swung my right leg over the seat, squeezed the clutch with my left hand, and kicked the bike into first with my left foot.

“Come ON!” I yelled again, “Hurry up!”

Anna sprang down from the side of the truck and landed lightly right next to the V-Max. In the rearview mirror, I saw Kagan and Sanders still gaining ground. Not seventy-five yards anymore but fifty, their faces twisted with rage at the sight of their prey about to escape. I felt the weight shift on the bike as Anna sat behind me, grabbing my shoulders and asking if I knew how to ride this thing. I didn’t answer; instead I let go of the clutch and twisted the throttle, a little too quickly.

The bike lurched once, sputtered, and died.

“Shit!” I said.

“Shit!” Anna echoed.

Behind me, I heard dry, twisted laughter that told me our pursuers had realized the engine died. As I squeezed the clutch again and pushed the bright red START button, I glanced in the mirror. Twenty-five yards away, Kagan and Sanders loomed. A few seconds, that’s all I had left.

The starter whirred, and then the engine roared to life with a loud, low growl. I looked in the mirror. Fifteen yards now. Their faces painted with bloodlust.

Don’t panic. I reminded myself, you know you won’t get another chance if you stall this thing again.

Ten yards away, Kagan and Sanders probably knew it, too.

I let the clutch out a little slower and eased into the throttle softer than before, and the bike moved. It moved! We were moving! Once assured of forward momentum, I cracked open the throttle, and the bike leaped forward like a racehorse from the starting gate. The front wheel lifted off the ground and I leaned over the handlebars to keep from flipping over.

Anna yelled something, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as though caught by static energy. I heard a dry sizzle and Kagan’s pain-filled shout, then we were away. The front of the bike finally settled onto the asphalt and we sped off down the road in a roar of exhaust. A quick glance in the mirror showed Kagan lying on his back in the street while Carl Sanders watched us go, his fury evident in his glowing eyes. Kagan held something in his twitching hand that looked like a piece of fabric from Anna’s coat.

Which is exactly what it was.

Chapter Seventeen:

Blood and Bachyir

The trip from New York to Boston isn’t long, no more than four hours on a bad day. That night it seemed there was not another soul on the highway but us. When we saw a sign that read “Jct I-95”, we followed it, and before long we were speeding north along Interstate 95 into Connecticut, where we would switch to Intersate 84 into Massachusetts. It was a lonely ride for the most part; even the interstate was deserted. Probably a good thing, as the last thing I wanted was to see other people or, even worse, to be seen by them.

The blood that covered the lower half of my face and upper portion of my shirt had stiffened and dried in the wind, creating a crackly coating over my chin and turning my shirt into cardboard. I needed to clean up. All I needed was for some State Trooper to come blazing out of concealment in a flash of blue and red lights and see me covered in dried blood, and that would be it. Well, for the Trooper, anyway.

I wasn’t afraid of them anymore. I felt invincible. The tiny pangs of guilt that had tried so hard to be heard above my newfound immortality were losing the fight, and the ride north into Massachusetts was nothing short of exhilarating. The speedometer on my stolen V-Max read 107 mph, and I didn’t have a thought or care about anything so mundane as a helmet. The wind tugged at my hair and sent it billowing around my face. It felt wonderful.

A tug on my shoulder forced my mind back to the present. Anna was pointing to a sign that said ‘Rest Area – Next Right.’

“Pull in there,” she said, shouting to be heard above the wind.

“Why? What do we need there?”

“You need to clean up, you’re covered in blood.”

Anna was right. I did need to clean up. When the exit ramp for the rest area came up I took it, albeit grudgingly. The place was deserted except for a few cars parked on the edges of the lot. Travelers too tired to continue their drive, yet either unable or unwilling to get a hotel, slept inside them. I passed them on my way to the restroom, watching them sleep, all of them blissfully unaware that the only thing separating them from their own deaths was a thin pane of automotive glass.

I lingered next to a red Cavalier, staring at the woman dozing inside. It would be like opening a tin of sardines. I reached out to grab the handle but a something grabbed my shoulder. I turned, angry, and saw Anna shaking her head. The Bloodlust was strong, and I tried to pull free. The initial high from my first feeding had waned, leaving me like a junkie on his way down, and those annoying little voices in my head, the ones that spoke of my guilt, grew louder with every passing minute. I didn’t want to hear them; they said too many things I didn’t like. But I knew how to shut them up.

Blood. Blood would fix everything.

Anna held firm, her grip like steel. The message on her face was clear: I could either go along with her or she would drag me.

As bad as I wanted to go to one of the cars and feed, I chalked it up as a defeat by a stronger being and went along, consoling myself with the thought that Anna had better not teach me too much. For her own sake, at least. She’d best keep some of the more dangerous shit to herself.

I got to the men’s room and went in, and to my surprise Anna followed.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Wash up and be quiet,” she replied, “We have to get out of here soon. Dawn is coming.”

The implications of impending sunrise did not escape me. I turned on the water, now in a hurry to get cleaned up and be gone. After I washed the blood from my face, I took off my shirt and soaked it under the sink. If we’d still had the car, I would have at least had a change of clothes with me. But of course the car was lost in the woods somewhere behind us, probably leaking radiator fluid and oil into the topsoil.

“Why did you stop me?” I asked as I scrubbed the blood out of my shirt under the lukewarm water. “We have time for one more bite.” And yes, I smiled when I said it, as though the whole thing were a game of sorts, a joke the two of us were playing. The guilty voices were getting louder, by God, and I needed to drown them.

“Because I had to. We all feel invincible and insatiable after our first feeding, and want to run around killing everything we see.”

I could relate to that.

“If left unchecked,” she continued, “a new Bachyir can kill many humans in their first night. Not only is that counterproductive to concealing our existence, but once such a thing begins, it cannot be stopped.”

“What do you mean it can’t be stopped? Ever?”

“Shut up and listen. A vampire who rampages in such a way will never be sated; he or she will continue to devour as many people as possible. At that point their only purpose or want is to get from one kill to the next. They are little more than animals, and must be put down swiftly to keep them from doing immeasurable damage.”

Oh, so that was why she’d stopped me. I was almost grateful. Almost.

“Control of the Hunger is the first thing we all must learn. Without control, a new vampire would not last more than a few nights. Since my restored status hinges upon you living long enough to do your job, I am not going to let you run off and devour everything in sight. You have fed already, and that should sustain you for the next three or four days. Longer, if you conserve your energy.”

I finished washing in silence. The water pouring from the tap was the only sound in the men’s room. When I finished, I put my shirt back on and examined myself in the mirror. The blood hadn’t come completely out, of course, but it was faded enough so few would notice it, especially at night.

“Now,” Anna continued, “let’s go find a place to spend the day before the dawn makes feeding a moot point.”

As we left the men’s room, another man was walking in. He looked at the pair of us and smiled lasciviously. I tensed as the Hunger rose yet again, longing for blood, for life. I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he feel his own death less than two feet away? Probably not, but if he winked – and I thought he just might – I was going to feed again, Anna and her prophecies of doom be damned.

Anna had her own ideas, and she stuck her leg out just enough so that the man tripped on it and fell flat on his face. He didn’t even have time to get his hands up to block, and I heard a sickening crunch as the bridge of his nose cracked. Anna chuckled, and the stranger growled in defiance. He shot to his feet, anger blazing in his eyes and blood on his face.

The smell of his blood reached me immediately, and I felt my knees go weak with hunger. The more I smelled, the more I wanted. My teeth grew as he stomped after us. To any normal person, he would have been very dangerous in his enraged state.

For one thing, he was big. At least six–three and two-thirty. Underneath his “Live to Ride” T-shirt he had a barrel of a chest and arms that looked like small trees. His face was mostly covered by a shaggy, medium length beard that surrounded reddish cheeks and a short, pudgy nose. His beetle eyes glared at us from underneath bushy brows of the same rusty brown color as his hair, which he pulled back into a ponytail that went halfway down his back. On top of his head he wore a Harley Davidson bandana, possibly to hide the fact that his hairline was over the bend and coming into the home stretch.

To summarize, he was big, he looked mean, and he was pretty damn mad. A week before I would have been afraid. That night, however, I wanted him to start trouble. He looked like he would have a great deal of blood in him.

I never got my chance. Disregarding her earlier admonition to hurry, Anna turned and squared herself against the brutish biker. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about getting violent with women, because he walked right up to her.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, bitch?” He raised his hand to backhand her a good one.

Anna said nothing, and when he swung, a slow and lumbering blow that nonetheless would have broken her jaw had it connected, Anna’s right hand shot straight out and caught his arm in mid swing. She grasped him by the wrist and spun into him, twisting her body – and his wrist – in a tight circle. With a yelp of surprise and pain, he spun with her and barely managed to avoid having his wrist broken in the process. Anna shifted her weight and bent at the hip, bringing the man up and over her back by his nearly broken arm and slammed his back into the pavement so hard I heard a low whooooosh as the air left his lungs.

While he lay stunned and motionless she let go of his wrist and sat on his chest, putting one of her hands on either side of his head and holding it in place. She then lowered her face to within inches of his and stared down at him. I saw the slight glimmer of light from her fangs and looked around to make sure no one else could see them. Verifying the coast was clear, I returned my attention to the spectacle a few feet away.

When the man’s eyes cleared and he started to regain his composure, Anna smiled, a sight so unnerving that even I felt like screaming and running. The guy on the ground couldn’t seem to look away, no matter how much he might want to. Anna’s iron grip held him in place, forcing him to look at her sharp teeth and smell the blood on her breath.

He closed his eyes, and Anna began to squeeze. She didn’t look like she was straining at all, but the man’s eyes popped open and he sucked in a breath which I am sure was marked for a scream. Anna would have none of it, and she squeezed even harder.

“Scream and I will pop your head like a pimple,” she promised. “Your brain matter will paint the sidewalk behind you and someone almost as unlucky as you will have to come and scrape it off.”

He quieted in an instant. The fear and pain in his eyes could be seen from where I stood about ten feet away. He must have known, as I did, that she could and would carry out her threat. The idea of watching his head pop like a zit intrigued me. Some deep, dark part of me secretly hoped he would do something to make her do it. Maybe I could even have some of his blood.

“I will tell you who I am, since you asked,” Anna said. “I am the last person you want to piss off, and now I own you. You are my pet. My dog. Say it. Tell me whose dog you are.”

“Yours,” he whispered, a tear creeping from his eye.

He whimpered a little, and his voice cracked. I thought he would start sobbing soon. A dark wet patch spread across the crotch of his jeans.

I smiled to myself. Well, he was on his way to the bathroom, after all.

“That’s right,” Anna said. “You’re my dog. And you’re a good dog, aren’t you? And like a good dog, you want to please me, don’t you?”

He nodded, tears streaming freely from the corners of his eyes and disappearing into his rusty beard.

“Good. Let’s hear you bark, and you had better do it well, or you won’t live long enough to regret it.”

He tried, I’ll give him that. He let out a few pitiful yips.

“Louder,” Anna scolded, “I can’t hear you.” She squeezed harder.

“Woof...please...woof!”

Pathetic. I figured the pain of having the sides of his head pushed inward was just too much, and he was losing consciousness. Anna had made her point: don’t fuck with her. I turned and got ready to go, but then I heard a crack. It was followed immediately by another. Then I heard a wet, smacking sound. I whirled back and saw Anna pushing the sides of the man’s head in. His gray matter splattered all over the sidewalk behind him, just as Anna had promised.

His right leg twitched several times. Anna got to her feet, looking coolly down at the body and shaking her head.

“That wasn’t good enough,” was all she said, giving me a look as hard as a steel door. With that, she went back into the men’s room to clean up, leaving me staring after her in a mixture of disgust, fear, and yes, even a little admiration. She had made her point, all right. To the dead biker and to me.

But at least I wasn’t hungry anymore.

***

Later, as Anna and I sat in the basement apartment of a home owned by one of the many Bachyir contacts all around the country, I almost asked her why she killed the biker at the rest stop. I left the question unasked, however, as I realized with growing dismay that I really didn’t care.

The basement was furnished with everything a vampire would need to wait out the day. Five simple beds dotted the floor, just cots, really. A double sink sat in the corner next to a large trunk full of clothes. The whole place smelled a bit musty, but it was clean, dry, and didn’t have a single window. Perfect.

The owner of the house was a short, slight, balding man who groveled and fawned over Anna as though she were a princess. He offered to have something brought for us. It took a second for me to realize what he meant. Anna thanked him and told him we’d both fed recently, and would require no sustenance.

I went to the sink and turned on the cold water, meaning to wash my face, but the reflection in the mirror caused me to jump. I almost didn’t recognize the pale, tired man who stared back at me. My hair stuck out at a dozen crazy angles, and the hollows under my eyes had grown dark, like I hadn’t slept in days. A few spots of blood dotted my face and neck. I must have missed them at the rest stop. Overall, my face looked gaunt. Hollow. My lips, once full and pink, had thinned and faded to a dull, dusky gray. My skin had gone so pale as to be almost translucent. In several places I noted purple veins hiding just under the surface. They weren’t obvious, and I doubted anyone who didn’t know me would notice them. But I knew they were there.

The biggest shock, however, was my eyes. They had always been a grayish blue before, but as I stared at them in the mirror they looked much, much darker. Almost completely black. I could just barely make out the smaller circle of the pupil in the center of the iris. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but the face was still there. Mine but not mine.

“What is happening to me?” I wondered aloud.

“You are changing, Vincent,” Anna replied. She made it sound like it should have been obvious.

“Gee, thanks for the tip,” I said, rubbing my face with a washcloth. “Good thing you’re here, I never would have figured that out on my own.”

Anna smiled, looking positively superior in the dim light of the basement. “Do you know why we feed on blood, Vincent?”

I didn’t bother to answer.

“It’s not so much the blood we seek, though we do need it. We metabolize it for energy much as humans metabolize food. However, that is only a secondary need. What we really need is the Life that flows within the blood, what humans call the soul. Why do you think that is?

“I’ll tell you why,” Anna continued without waiting for a response, “It’s because all creatures need a soul in order to survive. Without one they would fall and die where they stood. That is the nature of death; the soul leaves the body to depart for realms unknown. To put it simply, a soul equals life, the lack of a soul equals death.”

“So?”

“So we Bachyir don’t have souls, they leave our bodies when we change. Yet all living things need souls to survive, as I said before. That is why we feed on the blood of humans. We need to import their souls into our bodies so we can keep going.”

“OK,” I said. She had my attention. I’d wondered why vampires fed on blood, and I was interested in spite of myself. What was it about the blood that made us Hunger so?

“The souls we take into our bodies do not belong to us, but to the people we kill. In effect, we trap them when they would rather go elsewhere. The ability to do so is part of the mystical energy that makes us who we are. These trapped souls constantly fight for their freedom, and little by little, they gain it. The souls we capture slip away from us as surely as sand through an hourglass, and we must take in another, beginning the cycle anew. This is how we survive, one soul at a time.”

So, that’s why we had to kill; it was literally kill or die. I could at last rationalize the need to feed. As much as I hated the idea of killing, I hated the idea of dying more. Yes, I knew it was evil, but evil was beginning to feel necessary, even good. Like the dark sin everyone wishes they could commit, but they don’t dare.

I would dare. I would have to.

I nodded, and I noticed the smile on Anna’s face turn down. Her mouth became a thin, disapproving line pressed between the top and bottom half of her face. I had a sudden feeling I didn’t want to know what else she had to say.

“Think, Vincent,” she said. “Think for half a second. If all living things must have a soul to survive, then why must we import them from an outside source?”

I shrugged. Anna frowned.

“You have no soul, Vincent. It’s gone. All that remains is a shell that needs to be filled or it will stop functioning altogether, like a car needs gasoline.”

“In other words…?” I asked, a glimmer of her meaning finally inching into my head.

“In other words,” she continued, “you are dead. You died the night you drank Lannis’ blood. When you awoke, your soul had moved on. That is why you were so Hungry. You were empty, for lack of a better word.”

I’d been standing by the bed, but at her words I sat down on it, too weak and shocked to remain vertical.

“How do you feel now that you are full?” She chuckled. “Stronger? Faster? More confident? That’s what having a soul will do for you. You’ll need another in a few days.” With that, she turned away from me, doused the lamp, and plunged the room into darkness.

The dark suited my mood, and I slipped backwards to lie on the bed. The springs in one of the other beds creaked, and I knew Anna had climbed into hers to wait out the day.

Good. Maybe she won’t talk to me anymore. Every time she taught me a ‘lesson,’ I ended up worse off than before. Certainly more confused and afraid, anyway.

I’m dead. I wondered idly if my soul had managed to get into Heaven, then realized I’d probably never find out.

Raine didn’t just turn me into a vampire, she’d killed me.

The room seemed to grow even darker, if that was possible, and my vision swam with streaks of red. I’d find her, all right. I’d find her and Heaven help anyone who got in my way. I would find her and I would do what I had to do, and if that meant there was not enough left of her for the Council to punish, so be it.

Be brave, Vincent, and be strong. I will think of you always.

Please forgive me,

Raine

Raine’s last message to me. I would think of her always, as well. Or at least long enough to get my revenge. If she thought she was sorry before, wait until I found her. And if those fools on the Council of Thirteen, who had let her go in the first place, didn’t like what I did to her and chose to punish me, so be it.

I lay on the bed, not bothering to crawl under the covers. My last thought was of Raine standing on a moss-covered stone in the middle of a river, begging me to stay out of the water.

Then I closed my eyes and died for the day.

Chapter Eighteen

Boston

September 30, 1985

Over the next two months, Anna and I split our time between searching for Raine and going over Bachyir history, skills, and society. During these sessions Anna would frequently become agitated and resort to violence. Many times she got so frustrated with me that she smacked me halfway across the room. Her volatile temper was probably due to the pressure. Quite simply, we could not fail. To do so would mean a return to the state of a Lost One for Anna, and probably a similar fate for me. The Council of Thirteen is not known for mercy.

Anna taught me the basics of my abilities, and showed me some of my limitations. She showed me how to charge my body with blood, enabling me to run faster or jump farther than any human ever could. She taught me how to grow claws, which I could use to shred an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. She also showed me how I could use my will to force suggestion on humans.

The vampire will is extremely compelling, and more often than not a human can simply be told to follow and they will. A certain percentage of humans possess enough strength of will to resist, but they are the minority and are still too weak in body to fight back. Anna encountered one such woman two weeks into my training. The woman resisted Anna’s call to come into the alley, so Anna reached out with her clawed hand, grabbed the woman’s arm, and pulled her to her death.

All in all I learned well, and even Anna admitted I was unusually apt. I seemed to have a knack for acquiring and using the gifts of my new race. Anna thought this due to the fact that I was created by two very powerful vampires, one of which was actually a Councilor. She was probably right, but I also think I did so well because I was enjoying myself. After all, I was invincible, and getting more invincible every night.

Before long Anna’s temper softened. I didn’t know if she was mellowing out or if she started to fear me as I grew stronger. Not that I cared. She eased up on me. That was enough.

The search for Raine was not going as well. Our first lead, the hospital where she died, proved to be a dead end right away. It was long gone, replaced several times over. Where the old hospital once stood was now a ragtag grouping of dilapidated apartment structures, the low rent district. The area was rife with crime and drugs. And vampires, of course. It made a perfect hunting ground for my kind because it stood lost and forgotten in a ragged section of the city, and no one cared what happened to the people who lived there.

Anna and I asked the locals, both Bachyir and human, if any of them had seen Raine. A few claimed to have seen a woman matching Raine’s description, but all their stories led to the same place: an abandoned church in the heart of the neighborhood. Anna and I approached it, but of course we were repelled by the blessings laid upon it by the faithful, which held strong even though the church looked long abandoned. It stood to reason if we could not enter, neither could Raine.

At this point I suppose I should explain something; not all vampires are affected by crosses or crucifixes. We come from all walks of life; all faiths, religions, beliefs, sexes, nationalities, etc. It does not matter who you are in life, you can be turned. The Council of Thirteen, in fact, predates Christianity by about four thousand years. So of course a cross or the name of Jesus would have no effect on them.

What does affect us, however, is divinity, and the faith it inspires. To put it simply, we as a race are in the employ of the Father, who is a servant of the netherworld. The netherworld has an opposite, as do all things. This opposing force is known by many names: Heaven, the Promised Land, Valhalla, etc. And like the netherworld, it also has its servants.

The servants of Heaven (note: I call it that only so you can relate to it) possess a certain amount of divinity, and they inspire faith in humans who seek it. Those humans who possess faith in the divine also have the ability to call down, through prayer, the blessings of those whom they worship. These blessings can be placed on an item (such as a crucifix), or a place (such as a church), or even a person (such as a priest). It is one of the few things capable of repelling a vampire. It doesn’t hurt us, and we don’t bare our fangs and hiss at it a lά Hollywood, but we can’t approach it.

Such was the case with the old church. The blessings laid upon it many years before still held, and Anna and I could not enter. We assumed Raine would be unable to enter it as well, for the same reason, but we posted ourselves there for a week just to make sure. We never saw anyone who looked like Raine enter or leave the place. The only people we saw were junkies, transients, and the occasional drunk ambling down the sidewalk in a daze.

Having dismissed the possibility that Raine could be in the church, Anna and I returned to questioning the people on the streets. It was during one of these sessions that I heard a familiar scratchy voice asking questions. When I heard my name mentioned, I perked up.

The voice sounded like anger and cigarettes. I’d know it anywhere.

No, I thought. He can’t be here, can he? I had to be mistaken. I peeked around a corner and caught sight of the one person in the world I least wanted to see. Fat as he was, I couldn’t have missed him.

Somehow Joel Kagan had followed us to Boston, and now he was walking around and questioning people, much as Anna and I were. No doubt Carl Sanders was nearby doing the same. I ducked out of sight before he saw me, and ran to find Anna.

She was in an alley, draining a drug dealer. She looked up when I approached, the lower half of her face red with blood.

“Kagan is here,” I said. “And he’s looking for us.”

“Are you sure it was Kagan?” Anna asked, “Could it have been someone who looked like him?”

I shook my head. I knew Kagan when I saw him. “Believe me, it was him. I’d know that son of a bitch anywhere.”

“If Kagan is here, Sanders must be nearby. We should go.”

No shit.

The two of us hurried back to our basement apartment, hoping Sanders and Kagan would not know about the safe house.

They did.

Luck was with us that night. The house wasn’t far from where I’d spotted Kagan, and as we rounded a corner and approached it from the back, I heard a muffled, pleading voice coming from inside the place. I never would have heard it as a human, but my heightened senses picked it up easily, even though I couldn’t quite make it out.

Then I heard a voice I recognized all too well. Carl Sanders was in the house talking to our host. He sounded pissed.

I put my hand out to stop Anna, and brought a finger to my lips. Anna gave me a confused look, but stopped. I motioned for her to duck behind a car parked across the street, and she did. The two of us huddled in silence as we watched the house.

She can’t hear it, I realized, she doesn’t know why we stopped.

No help for it, I wasn’t going to tell her and risk Sanders hearing me. I would just have to hope she listened to me and didn’t make a sound.

After a short conversation between Sanders and our host, Sanders apparently grew tired of questioning. I heard a sharp cry and a snap that sounded like breaking bones. Then the thump of a body hitting the floor.

Anna heard the cry as well, and her eyes narrowed. In another minute, Sanders emerged from the door, wiping his hands on a towel and looking around. Anna and I remained where we were, and Sanders turned to his right and walked up the street.

“How many safe houses in Boston?” I asked when I was sure he was gone.

“About a dozen. But this was the most obscure. Only a handful of Bachyir know about it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” she hissed, “That’s the reason I selected it.”

“Well, looks like we need to find another. Fast.”

Anna nodded. The worried look in her eyes scared me almost as much as the thought of Sanders and Kagan catching up to us.

***

We had to leave the V-Max behind. Neither of us wanted to be seen on it with Sanders and Kagan about. We also left behind what few clothes we had acquired since coming to Boston. We’d been able to buy most of them with money taken from our victims. It surprised me how easy it became to accept murder. I killed one person a week, and by the time Kagan and Sanders discovered our hiding place, my body count had risen to nine and I no longer had any qualms about it. Going out to kill became as natural and as easy as going out for a cheeseburger. I even started to enjoy my victims’ fear.

It made their blood sweeter.

However, fear is not as fun when I’m the one feeling it, and neither Anna nor I wanted to stay in the area. We did not even go back into the house to check on the human who given us shelter. Neither of us cared. I had never even learned the man’s name. Instead, we walked along the street in the direction opposite Carl Sanders, and when we saw a young man get out of his car in front of us, we stopped him.

“Give me your keys,” I told him.

“Fuck off,” he replied and kept walking.

I was about to grab him and teach him proper respect when Anna stepped in front of him and smiled. He looked like he was about to say something, but then his shoulders slumped and his head rolled to one side. He smiled back, not even blinking.

“Give us your keys,” Anna said sweetly. I’d never heard that tone from her before.

“Sure,” he replied, handing the keys over. “Anything you want. Here, take this, too.” He reached in his pocket and handed Anna his wallet.

“Thank you,” Anna said, “Now go on inside and go to bed. Sleep until morning.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” he replied, a dazed look on his face. Then he walked up to his door, let himself in with a key he picked up from under a stone, and went inside. Anna and I climbed into his car and I drove it away.

“Why didn’t you just kill him?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to risk attracting attention. There’s no telling where Sanders and Kagan are.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. Ramah said he would tell me later, but who knew when, or if, I would ever make it back to the Halls of the Bachyir. I had a right to know, since they were tracking us all over the fucking place. I knew I would have to fight them sooner or later. The question was out before I could stop myself.

“Who the hell are they, Anna?”

“Ramah didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head.

“I’d have thought he’d fill you in on something that important, especially since it relates to your own situation.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sanders is a renegade vampire. He was created about a hundred years ago by a female Bachyir who did so without seeking the permission of the Council.”

I could relate to that.

“As you know,” she continued, “vampires who create unauthorized ‘children’ are turned into Lost Ones, and their offspring are hunted down and destroyed without exception.”

Anna paused, then she looked over at me. The lights from the street faded in and out of the car, giving the impression of shadows moving across her face in constant, repetitive motion.

“Well, almost without exception,” she amended, casting a significant glance in my direction.

“They couldn’t catch him?” I asked, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Oh, they caught him. Raine was assigned to capture him and bring him in, which she did. He escaped. No one knows how, but the Council was furious.”

I could imagine. “Is that why he’s after Raine? Because she’s the one who caught him?”

“One would assume so,” she replied. “Although his interests would be better served to disappear altogether than to carry on some silly vengeance against Raine. For whatever reason, he chose to take it personally, and has never stopped hunting for her.”

That didn’t make much sense to me. Why would Sanders spend a century hunting Raine? She was only doing her job. Maybe she did something to him while she had him in captivity. Something horrible. The Raine I knew would not do such a thing, but I had come to realize I did not know the true Raine at all. There was still so much I didn’t know.

“Turn right here,” Anna said, indicating a road that led into Dorchester. “There’s another safe house there. If Sanders has not already been there, we should be safe enough for the day.”

An excellent point. Sanders or no Sanders, dawn was not far off, and we would have to find a place to stay soon.

“Why hasn’t anyone been able to capture him?” I asked.

“Sanders is dangerous, Vincent. There aren’t many who could stand against him, and fewer still who would try.”

“But why? What makes him so dangerous?”

“Because he was never taught anything about being a vampire. The one who created him was turned into a Lost One soon after, so he had no one to teach him how to use his abilities.”

“Wouldn’t that make him easier to defeat?”

“So thought the Council, thus they did not make his capture a high priority. They sent a low-level Enforcer to capture him.”

“I thought you said they sent Raine? Councilor Ramah told me she was their most powerful Enforcer.”

“She is now,” Anna corrected. “But in 1871 she wasn’t as strong as she is today. In the last hundred years or so she has risen through the ranks through deed and skill.”

That made sense.

“Sanders is so dangerous because he was never trained,” Anna continued. “The abilities he has managed to acquire, he learned with no guidance whatsoever. Without someone to teach him what he could and could not hope to do, he has managed to learn things on his own. Most of the skills we possess, he possesses, as well, but he learned to use them differently, and many of our elders simply do not understand how they work.”

That made sense, too.

“In addition, Sanders has managed to create abilities through his ignorance that have never been seen before. Quite simply, by not knowing a thing could not be done, he somehow managed to do it.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one, he has found a way to feed without breaking the skin. He does not have to bite his victims anymore, he has only to touch them, and their blood is his. Thus he leaves his prey with no marks.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed. “Can anyone else do that?”

“Not yet, but there are some who are working on it.”

“And Kagan?” I asked. “What does he have to do with any of it?”

“About fifty years ago, Sanders caught up to Raine. She was hunting in Hell’s Kitchen when he spotted her. He didn’t wait for her to go someplace hidden; he attacked her in the middle of the street. The two fought, which of course drew a crowd.”

“Let me guess; Kagan was in the crowd.”

“Do you want to hear this or not?” She snapped.

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Then stop interrupting. Kagan was indeed in the crowd, and he had spotted Raine wandering the neighborhood several times. He even had had feelings for her, or so I’ve been told. Of course, he had no way of knowing what she really was. In any case, watching Sanders hit Raine made him violently angry.

“The fight was going badly for Raine. Sanders was fast and strong, and he possessed unique abilities she was unable to counter. It wasn’t long before he had her on her back in the middle of the street and at his mercy. He would have killed her that night had not Kagan interfered.

“Kagan leapt at Sanders and barreled into him. As you know, Kagan is large and heavy, and Sanders wasn’t expecting the attack. Kagan knocked him over, freeing Raine, who got to her feet and ran without looking back to see if her rescuer would be all right.”

I winced, hoping Anna was mistaken but knowing she wasn’t. Raine was no saint.

“When Sanders got up,” Anna continued, “Raine was nowhere to be seen. He was furious. He grabbed Kagan’s arm and dragged him into an empty warehouse, killing anyone who tried to stop him. By the time anyone had the presence of mind to summon the police, Sanders had turned Kagan and fled.

“When the police got there they found Kagan’s body and took him to the morgue, where he spent the day. That night Kagan awoke, startling the morgue attendant. The attendant screamed, and Kagan, confused and afraid, took his first victim.”

“So Kagan is a vampire,” I concluded.

“Not quite,” Anna continued, “You see, Sanders was never taught the mystical rites necessary for the conversion. Do you recall Councilor Lannis speaking a strange language when she fed you her blood?”

I nodded.

“The language was Aramaic. The words she spoke were a prayer to the Father to grant his gift to you, that you may serve him. Sanders was never taught the words, thus when he transformed Kagan he didn’t really know what he was doing. The result is that Kagan is not quite a vampire, and not quite human. He’s a mixture of both. A hybrid.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” she continued, “he has certain vampire abilities: strength, speed, silence, and the like. But he learned them from Sanders, so we don’t know exactly how they work, either. He requires blood to survive, but he has no fangs, so he has to chew his way into an artery in order to get to it. He has been known to use a knife on occasion, however.”

I thought of Grabby’s mangled throat in the alley, and the gurgling scream he’d made as he died, and shuddered.

“Also, Kagan can die by mundane means,” Anna said. “A bullet, or a knife, for example. The thing is, he doesn’t stay dead. No one really knows why. The current theory holds that his soul never left his body, as it does with most vampires. If true, it means that he does not feed because he needs a soul, but because blood is the only thing his body can metabolize now. He can still consume regular food, several of us have seen him do it, but apparently it will no longer sustain him.

“When he dies, his soul tries to escape, but it can’t. The psalm that holds Kagan to this life binds it. The next night Kagan wakes again with the full memory of his death and what occurred.”

No wonder he was pissed. I couldn’t imagine having to go through death not just once, but many times over. There was still one nagging question, though.

“So why is Kagan working with Sanders?” I asked. “You’d think he’d hate him.”

“He does,” she replied. “But Kagan hates this life even more.”

“You lost me.”

“Carl has told Kagan he can release him, but only if Kagan helps him capture Raine. Joel Kagan is working with Carl Sanders in the hope that Sanders, once Raine is destroyed, will grant him the one thing Kagan wants most of all.”

“What? To be human again? Is that possible?”

“No and no,” she replied. “Kagan wants to die. He works for Sanders in the hope that Sanders will eventually kill him. He desires it so badly he will kill anything and anyone Sanders tells him to. Including us.”

“Damn,” I said. It was all I could think to say. I drove the rest of the way in silence and digested this new information as Anna guided me to the next safe house, which turned out to be anything but safe.

Chapter Nineteen

The Old Man

October 1st, 1985

The old man who let us into the house looked like he might fall over and die at any time. His skin had that pale, translucent appearance that only comes from old age. His thin, wispy hair looked like stretched cotton fibers glued to his scalp among the liver spots. His frail-looking frame was bent by time, and I thought he could use a walker, but he shuffled along with his old man’s gait and didn’t seem to need one.

“Welcome,” he rasped, his voice like the whisper of coarse linen, “Please come in.”

He seemed harmless enough, but there was something I didn’t quite trust about him. It’s his eyes, I thought. They don’t fit the picture.

Indeed they didn’t. They were sharp and clear and not at all the eyes of an ally. The hard gray orbs were too bright, too keen on what was going on around them to be the eyes of a fragile old man. They shifted almost constantly from underneath the white tufts on his brow, never staying on any one thing for more than a split second, and never meeting ours at all. They were the eyes of a man with a secret.

One look at Anna told me she had noticed, too. Her face showed more than her usual amount of displeasure, and I thought she would reach out and throttle him then and there. Instead she followed along after the shuffling old timer as he led us down the stairs and into his basement. I made a mental note to ask her why she didn’t kill him right away as soon as we were alone.

He led us to a stout wooden door which, I noticed, did not have a means of barring from the outside. I took that as a good sign; it would be hard for him to lock us in. He stood to the side, giving us a view of a bare stone room with two cots for sleeping and, thankfully, no windows. He motioned for us to enter, and we did.

“Do you need anything before I go?” He asked.

Anna shook her head, and the old man – who had never introduced himself – left, closing the door behind him. I listened for the sound of a latch being pulled or a bar being put in place just in case he might have hidden them, but I didn’t hear anything. After a moment I relaxed a bit, and turned to ask Anna my question.

To my surprise Anna was staring at me, her features twisted with displeasure.

“You don’t trust him, do you?” She asked.

“No,” I replied. “And neither do you.”

Anna sat on the corner of her cot and crossed her legs. By her stance, I knew I was about to get another lesson. “What makes you so sure?” She asked.

“I saw your face. What’s more, I saw his face. I saw the way his eyes darted everywhere, and they are far too bright for such an old man. If I noticed as much, then I figured you must have noticed, too.”

She nodded. “Very good. There is more, but you would not have known.”

I knew she was about to fill me in, so I sat on my cot and waited.

“The man who owns this house is named Carlton Maize. He is about ninety-seven years old and has worked for the Council his whole life. His father worked for the Council, as did his father, and so on down the line. For generations, the Maize family has maintained a sanctuary for Bachyir in the city of Boston. They know the ins and outs of our kind better than any servant family in New England.”

I nodded. I knew about servant families. They are usually people whom the Council allowed to live in exchange for providing temporary suitable shelters for vampires on the road. Some do so grudgingly, while others take a great deal of pride in it. The Council pays these families well for the service, although the rules are very strict and the punishments for breaking them are swift and severe. For a family to carry the tradition along generation after generation would mean they were proud of their work. That fact alone should have set my mind at ease, but it didn’t.

“Then why don’t you trust him?” I asked.

“I was a Lost One for eighty-seven years,” Anna said, “but before then I was a vampire for seventy-three, and I have been to Boston many times. I have stayed in this very house on no less than nine occasions. The last time I was here, back in 1895, I met Carlton Maize. He was just a little boy back then, but I recognize the features well enough. Before we left the Halls, I asked Councilor Lannis if the Maize House was still in operation. She informed me it was, and also that it was being run by Carlton.”

“Okay, so what? The guy’s old, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“You saw his eyes, Vincent. What color were they?”

“They were gray,” I replied. “Gray like the sky just before a storm.”

“Right. Gray. The Carlton Maize I met ninety years ago had brown eyes.”

Brown eyes. That’s a pretty careless mistake.

“That’s a big blunder,” I said. “It would be hard not to notice a thing like that.”

“Whoever he is probably didn’t know I had been here before and met the real Carlton Maize,” Anna replied, “They probably thought the disguise was pretty good. And it is, if not for the glaring difference in the eyes, I might not have paid the man any extra attention at all.”

“So…if you know he’s an imposter, why is he still alive?”

“Because I want to know what he’s up to, and who he’s working for.”

“How are you going to do that?”

Anna smiled. Her fangs shone in the dim light of the room. It was all the answer I needed.

***

Before we bedded down for the day, Anna placed a Psalm around us which prevented anyone from coming within ten feet of our bodies while we slept. It consisted of a circle of powdered bone spread around our beds and a few words spoken in Aramaic. It’s about the only thing we can do to protect ourselves in the wild. Normally, in a sanctuary, such a step would be unnecessary, since such a place is protected by the owners. However, since the safety and integrity of the sanctuary itself was in question, we had to resort to other methods to ensure our safety. I wasn’t about to argue.

When we awoke at Dusk, the man pretending to be Carlton Maize was already in our room. He stood like a rickety fencepost at the edge of the bone dust border.

“What’s this?” He asked. “Why the Psalm of Protection? Don’t you feel safe?”

“It never hurts to take precautions,” Anna said as she sat up to regard him. Then she uttered a word in that ancient language and the line drawn around our beds disappeared.

“Indeed,” he replied, and I thought I caught the slightest trace of a grin cross his face. “One can’t be too careful.”

Anna shot across the room and grabbed the fake Carlton by the throat faster than I could blink. Then she shoved him backward into the wall, smacking the back of his head on the concrete. ‘Carlton,’ or whatever his name was, sputtered and tried to speak, but Anna shook him and banged his head on the wall again. “Shut up,” she said. “You will speak when spoken to. Understand?”

The man’s hand darted behind his back. I ran toward them just as he withdrew it. I saw something shiny and metallic glinting in his palm, and I didn’t have time to think anymore. I dove at Anna just as a bright burst of yellow light shot from his hand into the room. I managed to knock her free, but not before she got a nasty burn on her left shoulder.

“UV!” She screamed, “That bastard had a UV Grenade!”

The man threw the depleted grenade to the floor and started to run back up the stairs. I sprang to my feet to give chase. Despite the disguise, he really was an old man, and none too light on his feet. I caught him halfway up the stairs and dragged him back, cursing and spitting.

After I wrangled him back into the basement Anna spoke another Psalm, this one sent red tendrils of smoky light from her fingers to wrap around the old man’s wrists, binding him as effectively as handcuffs.

“Get his legs, too,” I suggested, “just to be safe.”

She did, grinning.

When he was suitably bound, she slapped him across the face. “That’s for this,” she said, pointing to her burned shoulder.

The old man, for his part, didn’t flinch or draw back, accepting the slap stolidly and with just a hint of martyrdom.

“Do your worst,” he said, and spit at Anna’s feet. We were happy to oblige.

***

Two hours later Anna and I sped toward an abandoned church in our stolen car. It had not taken long to bring the old man to the point where he was willing to tell us anything we wanted to know, and what Anna and I wanted to know was, of course, who he was working for. The answer surprised us both.

“Raine,” he said just after I broke three of the fingers on his right hand.

“Raine?” Anna and I asked together.

“What do you know about Raine?” I asked.

“She told me the Council would send someone after her to bring her back. She said…she said they were going to turn her into a Lost One.” At this point he started sobbing, “Is that true?” he continued. “Will she be Lost?”

“Of course not,” Anna said, “Raine is the daughter of Councilor Ramah himself. Do you really think they will turn her into a Lost One?”

“Raine does,” he said.

“Then she is mistaken,” Anna replied, “Councilor Ramah would never allow such a thing. He would fight the Council every step of the way. If you know Raine at all, you must know that much is true.”

Of course, I knew Anna was lying, but the way she spoke she almost had me convinced, and I was in the room when the Council passed Raine’s sentence. By the look in the old man’s watery eyes, I could tell he believed her, too. At least he was starting to. Perhaps after the things we’d done to him, he merely wanted to believe. It would make giving her up much easier if he thought we were going to help her.

I decided to take a chance.

“Listen, friend,” I said, “I don’t know your name, but we both know you aren’t Carlton Maize. Whoever you are, Raine is in trouble. Carl Sanders and Joel Kagan are in Boston looking for her right now. Do you know who they are?”

His eyes widened at the mention of the two renegades. He nodded.

“Sanders has already killed the owner of at least one Boston sanctuary,” I continued, “and he’s probably looking for the others. We want to get to Raine before he does, so we can help her. She’s not safe out there right now.”

That was a stretch, and I knew it. Raine was more capable than Anna and myself combined. I just hoped the old man didn’t know that.

“Anna, fix those,” I said, pointing at the man’s fingers. “He is no enemy.”

Anna gave me a dubious look, but she did as I asked. She placed her fingers over the old man’s and whispered a few words of Aramaic. Again came that red glow, and in short order his fingers were whole again. Anna then tended to his other wounds, none of them severe, but all of them painful, I’m sure. Then she released him from her tendrils. He slumped into a chair and flexed his fingers.

“Is that better?” I asked. He nodded.

“You were half right,” I said, “The Council of Thirteen did send us after Raine, but to protect her, not to harm her. They know Sanders and Kagan are in Boston, and Councilor Ramah fears for her safety. If you know where she is, you would be doing the Council a great service by telling me.”

“And,” Anna added, “We would be inclined to overlook the fact that you are not Carlton Maize. The Council would surely frown upon an imposter holding sanctuary in such an honored house. Do you know what the Council does to humans who anger them?”

The old man’s face went deathly white, and for a short time he seemed unable to reply. Then he nodded; a weak, barely perceptible incline of the head. Anna’s threat had finished him. This time, when I asked him where to find Raine, he told me.

Afterward, I packed a few things from the sanctuary’s stock while Anna snapped the old man’s neck.

***

When Anna and I arrived at the long abandoned Church of the Apostles in Dorchester, I knew right away something was amiss. I didn’t have anything to base my feelings of trepidation on other than instinct, and Anna seemed not to notice anything, so I went along. She’d been grumpy ever since Sanders had found that first sanctuary, and I didn’t want to give her any reason to whale on me, not when we were so close. Besides, it was probably just my imagination.

From the outside, the building was immense, easily a hundred feet across on the front face. Four faded gray stone spires, one on each corner of the structure, soared high into the night, each topped by an iron crucifix. The massive front doors were thick, but decrepit, the hinges rusted away to almost nothing. Ivy clung to the outside walls, a blanket of green over the cold gray stone. The vines hid most of the Church’s stained glass windows, but the few that remained visible were boarded up, offering no view of the inside. Here and there I noted small piles of gray rubble, pieces of the church itself. The whole place reeked of abandonment and disrepair.

Whatever blessings the church once possessed were gone, and Anna and I had no difficulty entering. The doors tried to protest, but their strength had long since left them, and Anna shoved them open with ease. The rusted hinges gave an eerie screech as they were forced back into service.

Side by side, Anna and I entered the old church. Inside was more of the same. Cracking stone walls reached up to a ceiling thirty feet over our heads. Some of the beams sagged with age and weight, but most held firm, protected from the elements by the strong walls and roof. The damp, musty smell of mold hung in the air, reminding me of the Halls of the Bachyir, but without the ever-present smell of blood. Decades of dust carpeted the floor, raised up in sticky, choking clouds by our feet. The church had not seen parishioners in a very long time.

Anna and I walked down the central aisle, stirring up dust and cobwebs left by long dead spiders. Most of the pews stood intact, if rickety, but a few were no more than piles of broken wood and padding that had been chewed by mice. Scattered around the place were thousands of tiny mouse pellets, proof of their presence.

The oppressive silence stifled any urge to speak, as though the sound would profane the spirit of the long dead building. As we made our way to the pulpit I strained to hear anything at all. The skittering feet of a mouse, the buzz of an insect, even the sound of our own feet walking through the dust. But there was nothing.

My foot kicked something on the floor. I looked, and reached down to pick it up. It was a book. A journal, in fact. Leather bound, and much like the one I had gotten from Headcouncil Herris. Dried blood stuck in patches to the back cover, difficult to see against the brown leather, especially in the dim light, but I knew the smell of blood well enough by then. I turned it over to see the front and almost dropped it in disbelief. There on the cover, in the same gold lettering as the one I had in my bag, was the name ‘Raine.’ Another of her journals, but this one seemed much older than the one I already had. I opened it to the first entry and read the date.

August 31, 1872. Oh yes. Much, much older than mine. But how in the Hell did it get there?

Something was wrong; I could feel it. Some hidden instinct buried deep within my psyche screamed at me to get out of there. The feeling pulled at me; my taut muscles begged me to do something, anything. I grabbed Anna and tried to pull her back to the door, but she shrugged out of my grip and walked to the middle of the aisle.

“Raine Winters,” Anna said, her voice thundering in the silent halls, “By order of The Council of Thirteen, you are to return to the Halls of the Bachyir. Show yourself now and let’s be done.”

“Raine is not here,” came a chill voice from behind us. “At least, not anymore.”

Anna and I whirled at the unexpected voice, but I already knew the speaker. Like Kagan’s coarse, scratchy baritone, the sound of Carl Sanders’ soft, aristocratic speech would forever be burned into my memory.

There he stood in the church entryway, blocking the exit with his body. He wore the same black overcoat I had last seen in New York two months previous, as well as that same superior grin on his sharp, chiseled face.

Anna and I tensed. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I readied myself to turn and run for the pulpit, where I hoped to find another exit. I made ready to run, but before I got the chance I heard a gruff, coarse chuckle at my back. That’s when I knew Kagan had joined the party.

“Oh shit,” I said without turning around. “Shit!” The words a harsh whisper in the dead church.

Chapter Eighteen

The Church

“Sanders!” Anna hissed, “How—”

“How did I beat you here?” Sanders finished for her, “We arrived last night. We knew you would come.”

“How?” I asked, “The old man—”

“The old man told you exactly what I instructed him to tell you,” Sanders said. “We found the Maize sanctuary a month ago and replaced Carlton with our own man. He has been waiting for you to show up. Last night, he called us. We told him what to say. I admit I doubted he could pull off the deception, but he must have been convincing because here you are.” Sanders smiled.

“Your man is feeding maggots now,” Anna said. “I snapped his neck like a twig.”

If she was hoping to get a rise out of Sanders, she failed. He simply shrugged. “He was expendable.”

“Damn,” I muttered. “So Raine was never here. Nice trap.”

“Isn’t it?” Sanders said, smiling. “But you are wrong. Raine was here. This is where she was hiding from the Council.”

Sanders pointed at the journal I held in my hands and grinned, “Where do you think I acquired that?”

Sanders’ meaning suddenly became clear. Raine had been in the church; he had found her first, and killed her. I didn’t want to believe it, and for a split second I chose not to, but it was hard to deny the journal. I knew Raine’s writing, and I knew she would never have given it to Sanders willingly. That and the blood on the back told me everything.

All at once I didn’t care about revenge. I didn’t care about Lannis, or Algor, or Herris. I didn’t give a shit about Anna or Kagan or even Ramah. The Hell with all of them! All I cared about was the man standing ten yards in front of me.

I leapt forward. Claws grew from my fingers with no urging from me. I was running on pure rage and instinct. I heard Anna yell behind me, but I paid no attention to it, I didn’t have time. In a fraction of a second I was in close with Sanders, who had grown his own claws as I approached. He stood ready, confident, and eager, assured of victory. And why not? He had been around much longer than I, and he had mastered abilities I hadn’t even heard of yet, including some that baffled the most powerful among the Bachyir.

I didn’t care. I couldn’t. If I stopped to think about it, it would be over.

Enraged, I swung at his face, but he ducked underneath my swing and jabbed me in the side with one of his clawed hands. I felt the pain, but from a distance. It didn’t seem real, more like something I watched on a TV screen. I grabbed the hand that was stuck in my side and yanked it out, growling. I tried to use it to gain some leverage on him but by then my blood had soaked his wrist and I lost my grip. He yanked it free and drew back for another blow.

I dove to the right, dodging his claws by a hair’s breadth and rolling to a stop about five feet away. I sprang to my feet just in time to meet Sanders’ foot with my jaw. Reeling, I nearly went down a second time and only managed to stay upright by grabbing one of the pews. My vision blurred, and spots swam in front of my face. I saw his fist come at me again, and I just managed to duck behind the pew.

The sound of cracking wood accompanied a shower of splinters as he punched a hole through the back of the seat. Thinking fast, I reached up and grabbed his hand. When I had a secure grip, I pulled down sharply and heard the gratifying sound of snapping bones.

Sanders howled in pain and jerked his injured arm back through the hole. Feeling more confident, I leapt from my place of concealment and rushed at him. Sanders did not try to dodge, and he didn’t draw back for a blow, instead he waited for me to get close. I jumped at him, wrapping him in my arms and bearing him to the ground.

Sanders placed the flat of his uninjured hand on the back of my head and white fire shot through my skull. The pain was so intense I thought he’d cracked my skull open and reached into my brain. I fell off him and rolled to the side, stopping only when my shoulder brushed up against a pew. For a moment all I could do was lay there on the ground twitching like a man in the clutches of a seizure. I couldn’t hear anything past the roar inside my skull. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even see. At first I thought my eyes had melted. When I realized they were clenched shut, I tried to open them, but I couldn’t even do that.

A few long, agonizingly slow seconds later, the fury of the pain lessened a bit, and I heard Sanders laughing. It still hurt too much to open my eyes, but it sounded like he was standing right above me.

“That was careless, Vincent,” Sanders said, “You lost your senses in your rage, and look what it has cost you.”

“Fuck off,” I managed to croak.

“I suppose I can’t blame you,” Sanders said. “I know what it’s like.”

“What the hell do you know?” I asked. By now the pain had lessened considerably, and I thought I could open my eyes if I wanted, but I kept them shut. I wanted Sanders to think I was still incapacitated.

“I know more than you think, Vincent,” he said softly. His voice had lost its mocking tone. “Like how nice Raine can be, for example. How beautiful she is under the full moon. How sweet the taste of her lips can be. Oh, yes, I know.”

At that, I did open my eyes, and I saw Sanders standing right where I’d expected, but he wasn’t looking at me. Instead his gaze was fixed on a point far away. During this short time of relative calm I heard sounds of a fight behind me, and I knew Anna and Kagan were still engaged. I hoped the fight was going well for Anna, but when I tried to turn my head to see I discovered I could not move. Terrified, I tried to lift my arm and found I couldn’t. I couldn’t move anything. Whatever Sanders had done to me had left me paralyzed.

“What the Hell?” I said, “What did you do to me?”

Sanders seemed to come to himself, and he looked down at me. He smiled again, but this time his smile was rueful, sad.

“It’s a nice trick, isn’t it?” He replied, “I really don’t know how to explain it. I had to learn everything on my own, you see. There was no one there to teach me after Raine left.”

“Left?”

“Yes, right after she turned me.”

“What?” I asked. I tried to think of something else to say, but I couldn’t. “What?”

“That’s right. Raine turned me, as she did you. I met Raine shortly after she became a vampire, and I fell in love with her. I knew something was wrong. Whenever I asked why we could only meet at night she would change the subject or ignore the question altogether. At first I thought she was married, or attached in some other way. She never told me about the Bachyir, or the Council of Thirteen. By the time I found out about them it was too late, she’d turned me into a vampire.

“But she did it without consulting the damned Council, and Ramah found out. Ramah could never let the Council turn her into a Lost One, so he covered it up, blaming one of Lannis’ spawn for my creation. The Council punished the poor creature and tried to have me destroyed, but I escaped. Raine told me she would come for me, but she never did.”

His eyes grew hard, his expression angry.

“I was hunted like an animal. I spent years running from those foul Enforcers. I learned anything I could, whenever I could find time. After I picked up a few skills, it became easier.”

“That’s why you hunted Raine,” I said. “For revenge.”

“Yes,” Sanders said through his teeth. “Revenge.”

It was pretty obvious, once I thought about it, and it made sense. That’s why Ramah had gotten so angry when I’d asked about Sanders. It seemed Ramah had his dark little secrets still.

Just then there was a cry from behind us, and I heard a loud thump as a body hit the floor. It sounded too big to be Anna, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Sanders looked up, and he smiled. “It seems your friend has managed to kill Kagan,” he said. “But at great personal cost. She can barely stand. She will be no challenge to me, and Kagan will rise tomorrow night anyway.”

True enough. I had seen it happen myself. Hell, I had killed Kagan myself, and the bastard came back. My arm tingled slightly as the feeling come back into it. I was careful to give no indication to Sanders, who thankfully wasn’t paying much attention to me.

“I wonder what the Council will say when the two of you don’t return,” Sanders mused. He looked down at me and smiled again, “I bet Herris will be angry.” He chuckled, and he drew his hand back for the blow that would remove my head from my shoulders.

“No!” Anna shouted, and Sanders looked up.

His attention only wandered for a split second, but it was all the time I needed. I shot my hand forward and drove my clawed fingers deep into his throat. As the tips ripped through the flesh on the back of his neck he looked at me, disbelief and pain in his dark eyes.

“That’s Headcouncil Herris,” I told him.

Sanders gurgled, it was the last sound he made before I separated his head from the rest of him.

***

Sanders’ body fell to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and a spray of blood. The dust would have choked a living man, but as it was, I was much more concerned with the blood pouring from his neck. For the first time I felt the pain of the wound his claws had dug into my side, and I knew I needed to heal it before it got too bad.

As it happened, one of Anna’s first lessons to me was the technique of healing oneself. It was easy, really, as long as you had enough blood to metabolize into mystical energy. I could even heal others; Anna had taught me that, too.

And so, with the hunger burning into me like a flame, I fell upon what was left of Sanders, drinking with abandon. I knew no one would stop me; there would be no one to try and temper my feeding. Anna could barely stand, and Kagan was dead. For now.

I drank and drank until I thought I would burst, but I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I reveled in the thrill of the predator. I had proven victorious, and the spoils were mine.

All too soon it ended. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped, but I’d gotten more than enough to do what I had to do. I placed my hand on my side and recited the brief prayer to The Father Anna had taught me. The language was Aramaic, and I had no idea what the words meant, but the telltale red glow flowed from underneath my hand and I felt the tingly itch of mending flesh.

Soon the holes in my side closed, and I stood up to look around. I was in the central aisle of the church. Sanders had fallen halfway between the front entrance and the pulpit. I looked at my clothes and discovered them caked in dust and blood. At least the dust helped to hide the blood, which would come in handy when I left the place.

“Vincent,” Anna wheezed. “Come help me.”

I stopped examining myself and turned to look at her. She leaned heavily on another pew about ten yards away. She’d been badly beaten. Her face was a mask of blood, and her nose pointed to the right, reminding me of Algor’s. One arm hung limp at her side, while the other maintained a trembling grip on the pew. She must have been expending a great deal of willpower just to remain upright. I wondered why she had not fed on Kagan and healed herself, but a cursory look around the room told me the answer.

Kagan’s body lay sprawled in the choir area, one arm dangling over the wooden side rail. His head twisted all the way to the back, and though he lay on his stomach, his shattered nose pointed to the ceiling. He was easily twenty yards from where Anna fought to keep her feet, and I understood then she’d not tried to get to him because she knew she would not make it. Sanders was right, she had killed Kagan, but at great personal cost. As I looked at her, she was all but dead. Only the stubbornness of her will kept her from falling over and dying in the dust.

“Vincent,” she said again. “Hurry. I don’t have time for you to dally. We must return to the Council and report this. They will be…pleased…to…” Her speech was cut off in a fit of coughing. It seemed she couldn’t finish the sentence.

I walked over to her, going over the prayer in my head, making sure I had the inflection right for healing another. I did. Anna had taught it to me well, for just this type of situation. I did not know if she had foreseen this sort of outcome or if she had just thought it best to be prepared, but either way, it would come in handy.

When I reached her, I placed my hands on her chest and felt the splintered ribs underneath. Kagan must have hit her extremely hard to do so much damage. Anna moaned as I pressed them, gritting her teeth against the pain of having the broken ends rub together.

“Damn it, Vincent,” she croaked. “Stop that! Heal me. Now!”

I smiled to myself, and Anna saw it. Her ever-present haughty expression faltered, replaced by fear. Did she know? Did she suspect already?

“I don’t think so,” I said.

With my hands on her chest, I allowed my claws to grow again. Anna tried to scream, but couldn’t. There was no air left in her lungs as my nails pierced her torso and burrowed into the wood of the pew, pinning her there. She lifted her arm weakly to swat at me, but I paid it no notice. The blow glanced off my shoulder, barely ruffling my sleeve.

Anna’s scream turned into a whimper as my teeth sank into her throat.

***

I laid Anna’s body face down in the dust and walked over to Kagan. Anna had done a number on him, all right. It was hard to believe she could smash him up so badly. I had fought him before and nearly been squashed. But then, when I fought him I wasn’t fully a vampire, more like half. There is a huge difference between those two states of non-humanity. Rather like the difference between a plow horse and a thoroughbred. Both could run, but only one could race.

I could have killed Kagan, but I doubted it would accomplish much since, by all accounts, he was already dead. In the end I figured he’d just wake up again anyway, so I left him where I found him. I did entertain the thought of pulling his filthy coat off him and using it to cover up the blood and dust on my own clothes, but decided against it. I didn’t want to smell it all the way back to the sanctuary.

Behind the pulpit was a door, and I picked my way carefully around the ruined church and pulled it open. It opened to a large, empty courtyard. Probably used for outdoor luncheons and the like. Nothing special. One thing did attract my attention, however. In the center of the courtyard I noticed a large brown messenger bag next to a pile of gray sand.

As I approached the bag, I saw the clasp was broken, and some of its contents had spilled out onto the ground. There were clothes, a small box, and even some jewelry lying amidst the mess. Most prominent among the scattered items were the books. Several leather-bound volumes littered the area around the bag and the pile of fine grayish dirt. On one of them, I read the gold lettering that spelled the one name I least wanted to read upon it: Raine.

Here were the rest of her things. More journals, all bound in the same leather, which I now recognized as human skin. Her clothes. I saw a hint of scarlet in the bag and knew right away it was the dress she wore the night we met. These, then, were the things she’d deemed appropriate to take with her when she fled. Among them was a small plastic zipper seal bag with several strands of hair inside. The hair was the same color and length as my own, and I wondered when she’d cut it from my head.

As I reached down to grab the little bag, I got my first real look at the gray dirt, and realized it wasn’t dirt at all. It was much too light and airy, even delicate.

Ashes.

So Sanders was telling the truth, after all.

Epilogue

Three Months Later

December 31, 1986

I have just returned from my meeting with the Council of Thirteen. Although I have been gone from this place for nearly six months, the chill of the stone and the scent of death in the halls seem unfailingly familiar. They seem like home. In a way, I was born here, so I suppose that makes sense.

The Council was most eager to see me, as you may imagine. All but one. Ramah did not look pleased to see me at all. Oh well, that’s his problem, not mine. He is saddened by the loss of his daughter, and none can blame him for that, but he is weak. It is this weakness that will one day get the better of him. I can foresee a time when the Council will have only twelve members. I wonder what the Father will make of that.

They were all surprised to learn I had battled Sanders over three months ago, especially as I only returned to the Halls last night. I did not offer them an explanation, though Councilor Lannis seemed ready to torture the information from me, if necessary. Headcouncil Herris, however, seemed pleased, as well he should. By my own account, he was rid of two troublesome problems instead of one, and he had me to thank for it.

True, I had not killed Raine, but her death had been indirectly related to my coming into the night. If she had not changed me, she would not have run, thus Sanders would not have caught her alone in Boston. The fact that I killed Sanders further sweetened the news to most of the Council; even the tragic loss of Anna could not diminish Headcouncil Herris’ pleasure. I did not tell them the truth of Anna’s demise, just as I did not tell them how I dragged her body through the ruined church and laid it next to the pile of ashes that had been Raine. I did not tell them I did the same to Sanders, and let the sun clean up the evidence of what I had done. To my mind, they don’t need to know.

I showed them Raine’s journals, and the blood spattered on them. Ramah hesitated a moment, then he took one and spoke a few words in Aramaic. I could not read the red glow that came from under his hand, but I could read his face well enough. The blood on the journals was Raine’s. I had expected as much, but still, when I heard the confirmation spoken with such certainty, what was left of my heart sank. I have spent the last three months searching for any sign I might be mistaken, going anywhere I could, and feeding as often as I liked. I found nothing, of course, and in the end I thought it best to return to this place and allow the Council to examine the evidence.

They offered me Raine’s old position as Enforcer. Algor argued vehemently in support of this, saying anyone who could kill Carl Sanders surely belonged among the Council’s elite group of secret police. I have accepted the position and given my thanks to all. Humans are cattle, little more than walking Happy Meals, and most Chosen are little better. I think I will enjoy hunting them. I don’t need to know what laws they broke. To be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.

Killing them will give me something to do.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David McAfee was born in Lakenheath RAFB, England, and spent his youth traipsing about the globe with his military family, soaking up the cultures of faraway places like the Philippines, Turkey, Spain, and California. When David was in his tweens, his father retired to Texarkana, Texas, which David still considers home.

He started writing at the tender age of six, albeit on a much smaller scale, and today his work can be found in at least one horror magazine.

David currently lives in Tennessee with his wife, daughter, and a whole herd of small furry animals. He enjoys writing, motorcycling, and spending time with his family. He can be reached at Monkeyfeet73@yahoo.com and can be visited on the web at mcafeeland.wordpress.com.

If you enjoyed Saying Goodbye to the Sun, be sure to check out McAfee's first novel, 33 A.D. Keep reading for a free preview:

33 A.D.

By David McAfee

Chapter One

Jerusalem, 33A.D.

Ephraim darted around his modest wood-and-mortar home in the Upper City, grabbing as many of his possessions as he could carry – mostly clothing and a few personal items – and shoving them into a large burlap pack. Every now and then his brown eyes shifted to the door, waiting for a knock. Or worse, no sound whatsoever. The latter worried him the most because it would mean the servants of the Council had found him. A Psalm of Silence only carried for about twenty paces, so if the world around him went suddenly quiet, he would know those who hunted him were very, very close.

As an Enforcer, or at least a former Enforcer, Ephraim knew the inevitable result of breaking the laws of his people, a race not known for mercy. Now, as he packed, he couldn’t help but wonder why he’d felt the need to tell the Council about his indiscretions. Bad enough he’d defied them, but he also gave them all the information they needed to punish him. And for what? A strange feeling in his heart? A pang of conscience? Was he mad? In retrospect, it seemed possible, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. His elders wanted him dead, and unless he hurried they would get their way.

A worn, woolen tunic hung halfway off his bed. I’ll need that, he thought as he reached for it. He couldn’t afford to leave a single piece of clothing behind. He stuffed the tunic into his bag and turned to regard a large chest on the wall opposite the bed. He reached down and flung the lid open, breaking one of the hinges in the process, and started grabbing more clothes. I’ll need that. And that.

Then his fingers closed on something small and hard. He didn’t have to look at it to know it was his ceramic wolf’s head figurine, a symbol of his former rank. I won’t need that. Ephraim tossed it over his shoulder, where it shattered on the hard floor. He didn't pay it any attention as he picked up a short, fat bladed knife. I’ll need that, too. It joined the many tunics in his bag. Just as he picked up a pair of worn breeches, a noise outside his door caught his attention.

What was that? Ephraim froze, craning his ears and trying desperately to catch the elusive sound. He stood silent and still for sixty long seconds, muscles tense and booted feet nailed to the floor. The breeches hung from his fingers like a mouse in a raptor’s claw. He eyed the sickle-shaped sword on the opposite wall, ready to spring over and grab it if necessary. Although the sword was very old, he kept it sharp and in perfect balance, not easy to do with a khopesh.

When the noise didn’t return, he shook his head. The wind, he told himself, and returned to the task at hand. He had to hurry. They were coming.

He couldn’t allow himself to be captured by the Council’s minions. They would make him talk, and that would be bad. Not just for himself, but for his newfound friends, as well. The elders of the Bachiyr race had many methods by which to extract information, even from one of their own. All of them brutally effective. If they caught him, they would find a way to make him talk. Sooner or later Ephraim would tell them anything they wanted to know, the only real question was how long would it take to break him.

As he packed, his hand brushed against a small figurine of a lamb from the shelf above his bed, knocking it off and sending it toppling through the air. “Damn!” He reached out to catch it and missed, but his fingertips brushed the delicate figurine just enough to alter its course so that, instead of following the wolf’s head to the hard floor, the lamb plopped down amidst the soft linens on the bed. Ephraim breathed a sigh of relief when the delicate figure didn’t break, and reached down gently to pick it up. He didn’t miss the irony that he, the predator, had thrown away the wolf figurine and kept the lamb.

Former predator, he amended, shaking his head. I am not like that anymore. He stared at the lamb for several precious seconds, remembering what it symbolized and making sure, in his heart, he’d made the right decision. Satisfied, he placed the tiny item into a small velvet bag and tied it shut, then placed the bag into his pack, stuffing it between the folds of a coarse brown tunic. He tied the pack closed and set it on the floor in front of him.

Ephraim then stepped over to the far wall and eyed his ancient khopesh, which he had wielded for over a thousand years, though the style of blade had largely gone out of use eight centuries ago. He reached a tentative hand up to the sword, but his fingers froze before they touched the handle. Ashamed, he pictured the faces of his many victims, heard again their anguished screams, and saw their mouths stretched wide in agony. The smell of their blood returned to him, sending an unwelcome rumble through his belly. Far from the pleasure these memories once brought, Ephraim now felt only shame. How many? He wondered. How many have I killed with this very blade? He had no idea, but the number must surely be huge.

“So great is my sin,” he whispered. He could not shed tears, none of his race could, but his face felt hot and flushed, nonetheless. He drew his hand back, unwilling to touch the ancient sword, his most trusted companion for centuries, now too poignant a reminder of who he used to be. With a sigh, he turned from the wall and walked over to the bed, determined to leave his past at his back.

Now ready to go, he just had to wait for his friend to come and help sneak him out of the city. Ephraim sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Malachi’s knock. He hoped it would not take long.

Please hurry, Malachi, he thought. Time is running out. They are coming.

╬ ╬ ╬

Above Ephraim, crouched amidst the pressed oak beams that supported the structure’s ceiling, a single pair of eyes looked down at the one-time Enforcer. The Council's agents were not coming, as Ephraim feared. They – or rather, he – had already arrived. If he had looked up, he might have seen the dark shadow hiding among the lighter ones in his ceiling, but he never so much as glanced upward. His visitor thought lack of sustenance to be the cause of Ephraim's inattentiveness, and he shook his head in disbelief. From his dark vantage point, he watched the scene unfold, memorizing the layout of the room for future reference.

Earlier that evening, before he had left the Halls, the Council told him what to expect. Even so, he hadn’t wanted to believe that one of their own, particularly one with as glorious and faithful a history as Ephraim, could be capable of such treachery. Until he witnessed Ephraim’s hurried packing and the incident with the wolf’s head – an article of rank sacred to the Bachiyr – he’d hoped to discover his superiors mistaken. The longer he waited on high, however, the more he came to realize they were right.

They are always right, he thought to himself. I should have known better than to doubt. Just because he’s a friend— he stopped himself there, not wanting to diminish his readiness. He couldn’t waste time thinking of past friendships and obligations. He had a job to do, and reminiscing would only make it harder and might even cloud his judgment, which could not be allowed. He had to be clearheaded and alert for the next few minutes.

Long enough to kill Ephraim.

First, however, he had to wait and observe a short while longer. The treacherous dog would die, certainly, but not before his visitor discovered who he’d betrayed them to. Ephraim’s message to the Council had been vague in that regard; most likely a deliberate omission. To that end the watcher held himself in check through his growing anger while his thick, sharp nails dug furrows into the wooden beams. He held still, relishing the tantalizing scent of fear that emanated from his former friend, and waited for the knock that would signal Ephraim’s allies had come to save him. On that, the Council’s orders were very clear. We must know who the traitor is in league with. That is of utmost importance, Theron.

Theron had never failed the Council before, not once in over nine hundred years, and he didn’t intend to start now. As much as he wanted to drop from the shadows like an evil beast from a child’s tale, he waited. Patience, he counseled himself. Not yet. Waiting was the essence of his craft. He was a professional. If you wanted to put a fine point on it, he was the professional. The Lead Enforcer for the Council of Thirteen, albeit newly appointed. These days, that mostly meant he acted as their primary assassin, although every now and then the Council sent him for capture rather than elimination. But those occasions were few.

And this wasn’t one of them.

So until Ephraim received his visitor, Theron would sit, out of sight, and wait for the sound of knuckles on the door. However long it took. But once he had his information, then… well, then the fun would begin.

He didn’t have to wait long. About five minutes after Ephraim finished packing a loud knock thundered through the house, violating the silence with a hollow boom. Ephraim jumped at the sudden sound, but Theron had heard the visitor’s boots crunch on Ephraim’s gravel walkway and was expecting it. He smiled as he watched his intended victim’s face go from terror to joy.

“At last!” Ephraim said. “You certainly took enough time to get here.” He walked over to the door and grasped the handle. Then, just as he was about to raise the wooden latch, the relief fled his face, replaced by a look of wariness and renewed fear. “Who’s there?”

“Ephraim, you dog. Open the blasted door. We don’t have time for this.”

“Malachi! Thank the Father you’ve come.” He released the latch on the door and swung it inward.

Malachi the butcher? A human? Theron had expected another Bachiyr to be behind Ephraim’s treachery. But a human? What in the Father's Name was going on?

Malachi stepped in, ducking his head and twisting a bit to the side in order to maneuver his broad shoulders through the doorway. He wore his shoulder-length brown hair tied back with a leather thong, leaving his craggy, olive-skinned face exposed from forehead to chin, and he didn’t look pleased. He fixed his stern features squarely on the much smaller Ephraim. “Thank ‘the Father,’ Ephraim? Why would you offer thanks to a demon? Have you learned nothing these last few weeks?”

“My apologies, my friend. Old habits can be difficult to break.”

“Indeed, they can,” Malachi said. “That you are trying at all says much about your progress.” The butcher’s face relaxed. He reached his hand out and clasped Ephraim’s. “So what is the news?” Malachi looked around the room at the mess of Ephraim’s frantic packing. “Are they coming?”

“Yes.” Ephraim sprang into motion, grabbing his pack off the bed and hoisting it over his shoulder. “I’m sure of it. We have to leave.”

“How did they find out?”

“You want to waste time on explanations? Didn’t you hear? They are coming. Let’s go and I’ll explain on the way.” He started to go around the larger man, and Theron tensed. He could not allow the pair to leave, which meant he would have to kill the human first and deal with Ephraim, by far the more dangerous of the two, afterward. He readied himself to spring as Ephraim tried to squirm his way around the huge man.

But Malachi would have none of it. He reached down and grabbed hold of Ephraim’s shoulder. The thick, corded muscles on his arm twitched as he casually tossed the smaller man back into the room. He then placed his bulky frame between Ephraim and the door, folding his thick arms across his chest.

“How did they know, Ephraim?” Malachi asked again.

Ephraim glared at the human and chewed his lip, as though trying to decide how much to tell. It surprised Theron that the man handled Ephraim with so little trouble. Either Ephraim’s lack of feeding weakened him more than Theron had expected or the butcher was extremely strong. Probably a bit of both. He made a mental note of Malachi’s strength; he’d need to be wary of it soon enough.

After a moment or two spent in tense silence, Malachi spoke. “If you don’t trust us by now, Ephraim, I can’t help you.” With that, the giant turned his back to Ephraim and started to walk out of the house.

“I told them!” Ephraim cried. “I’m sorry. I told them. I thought they would be pleased, I… I thought they would see as I have seen. I wanted them to know the truth.”

Malachi turned to face him, his face a mask of rage and disbelief. “You told them, Ephraim? Dear God, what were you thinking?”

“I didn’t tell them everything. Just that I couldn’t serve them any more. I thought they would understand.” Ephraim’s voice cracked on the last syllable. “I thought I could make them understand.”

Malachi closed his eyes. His massive chest swelled as he took a deep breath. The look of anger washed away from his face, replaced by one of sorrow. When he opened his eyes Theron noted a hint of moisture around the edges. “They do understand, my friend. They understand all too well. That’s why they will kill you now, and him too.”

“No,” Ephraim shook his head, his eyes wide. “No, Malachi. Me, certainly. But him? Why? He’s done nothing to them.”

“Do you truly think they will care?”

Ephraim didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. In the shadows above, Theron could have answered the question for him. Of course the Council wouldn’t care. The Council never cared. One of their own had betrayed them, and thus he must die. Ephraim would be executed, along with any co-conspirators, be they human or otherwise. Theron’s very existence proved that. After all, why would a forgiving Council need Enforcers?

Malachi sighed, his face troubled but resolute. “We must get you out of here, Ephraim. There’s a merchant caravan going out with the first light. We can put you in a strong box so the sun will not touch you. The driver’s name is Paul. They are heading west to Lydda. There you will find shelter and solace, as much as can be given one of your kind.”

Ephraim stood, his face brightening with renewed hope. “Thank you, Malachi. I can never repay you.”

Theron had heard enough. “I can,” he said as he dropped from the rafters. He positioned himself between the entrance and the room’s two surprised occupants. In one fluid motion, he kicked the door shut behind him and pulled his sword from his sheath. Not a khopesh like Ephraim’s, Theron’s sword was of a more modern, almost Roman design. The straight, thick blade, relatively short for a sword, was designed more for piercing than cutting, though it was certainly capable of both. He hadn’t planned on using it when he left the Halls earlier, but Malachi’s strength and size presented a very real threat. Since he would need to face Ephraim, as well, speed was a primary concern. That meant using the blade. Theron hadn’t become Lead Enforcer by taking chances. The human would die first, then he would deal with the traitor.

Malachi reached for the hammer at his belt, but although large and strong, he was not fast. By the time he got his fingers around the handle, Theron had already spun a circle in front of him, blade first, and cut open his throat in a precise line from one side of his jaw to the other. Malachi sputtered and tried to speak, but his severed vocal chords failed him. The fingers on his right hand started to twitch, and the hammer fell from them and hit the floor with a dull thump. He brought his left hand up to his neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow of his life’s blood, then he followed his weapon to the floor. The big human didn’t seem angry or bewildered, as Theron might have expected, but content. His face softened into a peaceful expression the Enforcer found somewhat odd. Before he could puzzle it out, however, he would have to deal with Ephraim.

Theron whirled to face him, fully expecting to be bowled over in a mass of teeth and claws. But Ephraim stood in the same spot as before. He hadn’t moved at all during Malachi’s death, and had not plucked his infamous khopesh from the wall. Theron thought he knew the reason. He knows it won’t help. He already knows how this must end. He stepped closer. Malachi’s blood dripped from his blade, leaving a thin trail of small red puddles on the floorboards.

“Theron,” Ephraim said. “They sent you?”

“I’m the best. Of course they sent me.” Theron gave a mocking bow.

“Are you the Lead Enforcer now, my old friend?”

“Someone had to take your place. Who better than me? But you are no friend of mine, traitor.” He spat at the other’s feet, barely missing Ephraim’s dusty leather boot.

“Don’t be so quick to choose, Theron. You should hear what he has to say.”

“I don’t need to hear what he has to say. I still serve our people. The rambling words of a deranged rabbi will not show me my path. The Council's laws have protected our people for over four thousand years. You,” he pointed an accusing finger, “have violated them.”

“His words would save you, my friend,” Ephraim said, so softly Theron almost didn’t hear him.

Theron laughed. “Save me? As they saved you? You are a handful of seconds away from Hell, and you would presume to save me?” In that instant, Theron determined he would make Ephraim’s death as unpleasant as he could manage. He threw his sword to the floor and willed his claws to grow. In a few moments his fingernails grew long and thick. The brief but intense pain in his fingertips was worth it. He would rip the traitor’s head from his shoulders. “You should worry about saving yourself, old friend.”

“I did,” Ephraim replied, just before Theron leapt at him.

It was over quickly; Ephraim didn’t fight back. When Theron grabbed Ephraim’s head between his clawed hands, the traitor only stared at him with a sad, wistful expression on his face. He didn’t speak, not even to beg for his life, which was a bit disappointing. Ephraim didn’t flinch at Theron’s touch, and he didn’t scream, not even when Theron drove his clawed fingers through the flesh of his throat and began to twist, rending tendons, tearing muscle, and sending a spray of blood all over the wall. Once the head rolled off onto the floor, it was over. Theron felt let down. It was too easy.

A quick search of Ephraim’s body turned up a rolled piece of parchment. Theron noted the red wax seal, which matched the E on Ephraim’s ring, and snapped it in two. He unrolled the letter and read every word, but it didn’t tell him anything he hadn’t already surmised. It was only a letter to Malachi. Apparently Ephraim had wanted the butcher to be prepared in the event of his death, but in the end it proved too little, too late. Now both lay dead, and Theron had his answers. He dropped the paper onto Ephraim’s headless torso and went to the back of the house to find a shovel. He would need to bury the bodies so they would not be found, at least not before he completed his business in Jerusalem.

╬ ╬ ╬

It took a long time to bury Ephraim and Malachi. The hole had to be deep enough to keep any stray dogs from smelling the bodies and digging them up. Due to Malachi's tremendous girth, it also had to be wide and tall. Theron spent the better part of four hours digging the hole, rolling the bodies into it, and covering them up. He also tossed in Ephraim’s last letter to Malachi. He wouldn’t need it to convince the Council; he had proof enough already.

Afterward, he carefully replaced the layer of grass and sod to better hide the corpses, though the telltale bulge of the earth would be a dead giveaway if anyone came looking. By the time Theron finished the arduous task, dawn loomed a mere two hours away. That didn’t leave much time to make his way through the city, but he thought he could manage it.

He walked away from the house, carrying his macabre prize in Ephraim’s burlap sack, which he carried slung over his shoulder. Ephraim’s head, which bounced and jostled along inside the bag, wore neither fear nor malice on its lifeless features, instead the dead vampire's expression seemed... peaceful. Theron didn’t care. The job was done; the Council would be pleased. What’s more, he had the information they sought, for Theron now knew the identity of the person to whom Ephraim had betrayed his people. It could only be one man, the same man who’d acquired followers from all across Israel over the last few years. The very man Malachi swore his life to protect only a month ago.

Jesus, they called him. Jesus of Nazareth.

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Saying Goodbye to the Sun