Fiend, page 24
part #3 of Voice of Blood Series
I wept in my happiness, and let my tears fall from my eyes into the bath. I poured them over Daniel’s reconstituting body, in hopes that my joy and relief would become a part of him. “Give him faith and charity,” I prayed, “give him compassion and reflection; help him to be a better person. . . .”
I prayed and poured as night succumbed to day, and darkness settled once again.
Potential and Kinetic Energy
I could not have been happier, or more astonished, at Daniel’s first breath if I had given birth to him myself.
He lay, whole and beautiful again, his scalp hair a thatch of wet-spiky short bristles, his face patched with an irregular black beard and quite astonishingly thick eyebrows that grew together in the middle. Eyes still closed, his chest gathered itself and pushed his mouth open, exhaling a breath that stank of putrefaction. He had been holding it all the way back from Hell. Once the foul air had been expelled and he filled his lungs again, he began to incandesce from within, drawing his lips back from clean, bright, strong teeth, the eyeteeth vaguely pointed at the ends.
One of us, now. One of me. My child.
His skin was perfect. All of his jagged scars and pockmarks had vanished, and even his moles were gone, including one I particularly liked on the side of his lower belly. “Sometimes sacrifices must be made,” I said aloud, smiling down at him. “Daniel? Can you hear me?”
He opened his eyes and stared at me blankly. The variegated color of his irises had been altered to a deep, luminous viridian, like a mosaic of green glass shards, pulling the sphincter of his pupils tight. “Daniel?” I called again.
He sat up abruptly and took in the details of his surroundings in a glance. With a great crashing of water, he tensed his muscles and flew upward out of the bath, his foot barely grazing the edge as he launched himself through the door to my bedroom. When I heard the front door of my apartment being torn open, I leapt up to follow. He had nearly ripped the door from its hinges; certainly the doorknob would need to be replaced, as he had warped the brass construction as though it were taffy.
Chicot, I thought desperately, scanning the street until I caught Daniel’s trail, if you can hear me, please help.
Daniel had gone, not toward the Tiergarten’s lawns and woods, but toward the shops, the cabarets, the residences. Of course; like any good predator, he would go where there was prey. I had done it. And now the thing I had forgotten, in our immaculate plan, occurred to me. Of course, newly transformed, with a great deal of his blood left behind in the bath, he would need to feed immediately, and would not know sense until he had.
“I still need you, St. Jude,” I muttered.
I could only guess that it was near midnight; I had left my pocket watch in my coat. A Sunday night in Berlin was just like every other night, with streets packed and pulsing with action. Daniel’s trajectory took him southeast, up a tree and onto the roofs, almost as though he were backtracking the path that I had last taken, to Liesl’s apartment. But then he diverged, and I concentrated on his mind, trying to determine exactly where he was going.
The Potsdamer-Platz . . . !
I stood still and called through the ether to him. Where are you? I am trying to find you.
I could not get his attention, but I ascertained his location, kinetic images overlapping, the thrumming of heartbeats reaching his hypersensitive ears, the immediacy of scent (petrol, piss, ozone, cologne, meat and alcohol and humans everywhere), and the seemingly infinite strength surging through his body. I let out a groan of remorse. What had I done?
Suddenly, blood. A short savage spring and tear and then blood, so keenly experienced, so primal and immediate, that my own mouth watered. I tasted his victim’s panic and terror, the profoundest ecstasy for our kind, as gratifying and as fleeting as an orgasm. Daniel let the victim drop from his hands without looking at her, but I had felt the young boot-girl’s throat tear away from her neck and her head flop back like a half-empty sack.
Another minor exertion, and then another, separate, fresh gout of blood shot into Daniel’s mouth and directly into his bloodstream without the necessity of swallowing. The prostitute’s partner, her elder cousin, who had watched the vampire appear out of the shadows of an alley and consume the young girl with the surgical savagery of a viper, met her own fate, too shocked even to scream. I hurried along the streets, dodging pedestrians and car drivers who may or may not have seen my passage.
Enough, Daniel, I sent. Enough.
No—not enough.
His first words; how appropriate.
He stood luminously naked in the alley, arms still around the elder boot-girl as he drank her life away. In fact, she was dead already, her thoughts entirely absent and heart stilled, and still he drank of the blood, still hot and, for the moment, still plentiful. I stood at the alley’s portal to the Platz, blocking any view from outside, and watched him; there was nothing I could do but conceal him and wait.
At last he let her drop to a fur-coated heap at his feet, next to her cousin, who had been nearly decapitated by Daniel’s attack. His hair had grown several inches since I had last seen him, five minutes ago, and his muscles were full and taut, his penis standing at thick, hard attention. He stared at me, wiping the blood from his bearded mouth with the back of his wrist. I had never seen him look so masculine.
“Not enough,” he repeated to me.
His resonant voice could hypnotize a hummingbird into lying still, his eyes wring jealous tears from Apollo. He was mine. I had created this resplendent creature.
“You’re naked,” I pointed out, my eyes involuntarily fixated on his erection.
Daniel squinted at me. “I am a god,” he stated, “what difference does it make?”
I laughed nervously. “No, no, not a god; just Danny. That’s good enough, right? Please, my love, home, some trousers, please. Then we’ll go out. I’ll show you how to . . .”
“How to what? I think I know how.” He wiped some of the spilled blood onto his penis and rubbed it in. “I think I know exactly how.” His undisciplined mind flooded mine with all the magical spectrum of sensation, utilizing senses that he had never had before, his glowing hand stroking the stronger glow of his penis. His sacred halo was brightest surrounding his cock, not his head.
I bit my lip and forced myself to look away. “Need I remind you that you are not immortal?”
He laughed, licking his fingers. “Really?” he said lazily. “I’d love to find out.”
I bristled. Already I could hear the sounds of traffic on the street behind me increasing in volume. This alley was a very popular location for end-of-the-night hand jobs, and already I was tired of convincing horny Berliners to try another alley while trying to have a rational conversation with Temptation made manifest, an activity analogous to spinning plates while riding a unicycle. Focusing my thoughts, staring into Daniel’s eyes, I clenched my fists, streamlining my anger into power.
“Now, Daniel,” I said firmly, wrapping a bond of control around Daniel’s mind, like a slightly translucent veil, pulling tighter until I knew he could make no expansive move by his own will, but only by mine. I consolidated his hurricane of thoughts, physiology, and desires into simplicity. He knew it wise to follow. His body would move as I directed. He would want to come with me.
His face twisted with fury for a moment, then softened and blanked. “You won’t do this to me,” he said, his voice reasonable and quiet. The will, strongest, would not bend to my control; he was not human anymore.
“Yes, I will,” I said. “Come home with me this instant. Please do as I say; I only mean the best for you.”
“I have heard that one before,” Daniel replied calmly.
“Come,” I said, holding out my hand. “Let’s get out of this disgusting byway. Let me show you how to fly.”
“I already know how,” he said. But he accepted my hand. He had no choice but to do so. I was the stronger, plain and simple, and would always be so, no matter what he did; I had a hundred years and more of accumulated, increasing power, not to mention the blood of elders generations older than myself.
I scrambled up the brickwork wall of the alley, still holding his hand. He followed, barefoot, as nimble as a spider, until we stood on the roof of the building that overlooked the Platz and the station. He stared, open-mouthed, across the street, at the rolling automobiles and clustering hats and overcoats, the brilliant lights and spectacle of Haus Vaterland. Daniel’s knees buckled and he clapped an astonished hand to his mouth. “It is even more devastating than it was twenty minutes ago,” he breathed reverently. “It’s like looking through a stream at a thousand electric minnows. . . . I can see into all of their minds . . . !” He turned his stare to me. “Is this what it’s like for you?”
“Once upon a time it was,” I admitted. “But then, the lights were not quite so bright, nor so many.”
I gazed out over the street, searching for any familiar preternatural glow dotting the city of Berlin; surely we were not the only vampires in the city? But I saw no one shine but myself and this new one. Chicot had not answered my summons, and now I was glad of it; I would not have relished explaining my rationale to him. What were you thinking, again if you please, Monsieur Ricari? But I heard nothing; my relief mingled with sadness. Had Chicot gone into the fire as well? I shook off the thought. “Come, Daniel. Follow me. Don’t think too much about what you do; instinct will guide you, and I shall protect you. Just jump.” I let go of his hand, spread my arms for balance, and made the great standing leap over the fifteen-meter space between buildings.
He made his own leap, his arms crookedly akimbo and his phallus bobbing in the wind. He gave a whoop and a laugh as he alit on the balls of his bare feet, enjoying the action even without his own conscious desire to act. “It’s so fun,” he gasped. “I can’t believe I can actually do this! When I was coming here, I wasn’t thinking . . . I wasn’t aware of what I was doing. . . .” I had to smile, even as I turned away and continued home; he was so beautiful, so ridiculous, my clownspider child, with his own distinct, asymmetrical way of moving, as though he created jazz with his body.
I thought to myself that children must have been designed to remind one of what it was like to be very young, as well as a way to make amends, correct mistakes, enact revenge. I wondered what my mothers would think of the transformed Danny Blum, what they would think of me for having brought him to that state. What were you thinking, little greyhound?
Safely inside my apartment, I released his kinetic will. Unprepared for freedom, his legs collapsed when I let him go and he hit the floor with a grunt. He glowered at me as he returned to his feet. I shrugged, but failed to apologize; I still wanted him to get dressed. I told him so without speaking, glancing at the messy pile of hastily shed clothes. He slowly, resentfully pulled on his trousers. “Clothing hurts,” he muttered.
“You’ll get used to it,” I said mildly, handing him a clean silk undershirt from my own drawer.
His lower lip stuck out like a sulky child’s. “I don’t want to get used to it.” He was so pretty it hurt to look at him, even as he pulled on the delicate silk garment as though it were a hair shirt.
“You know . . .” I laughed a little and gently helped him into his coat. “I actually went to Mass and prayed for you to survive; for some reason, I was certain that I’d killed you by accident. It’s a very delicate process, you know . . . a few drops one way or the other, and you’d have just flowed down the plug hole . . .” I laughed more, helplessly, at my own absurdity, swept away with relief.
“You prayed for me?” His brow was black as thunder. The black beard gave his angular face startling, intense outlines. “Don’t ever do that again, do you hear me?”
I rocked back, staring at him. “What? Daniel, it worked. My prayer was answered.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “I lived because I was determined to live no matter what. It was my act as much as yours. Keep your God-shit away from me. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it. It’s just a wad of idiotic superstition.”
He might have punched me and hurt me less. “So is vampirism,” I reminded him. “And yet here we are.”
He snarl-grinned at me, showing his glittering white teeth. “Spoken like a true sinner,” he drawled. “We are all just man-made chemical processes, like walking cups of coffee. . . . Wait a minute. You went to Mass? When? While I was in the tub?” My contrite silence affirmed him. “You left me alone?”
“Well . . . yes . . .”
He let out his breath in a dismissive, offended huff. “I see.” I held out my hands helplessly. There was nothing I could say. He shrugged the coat more firmly onto his back, grimacing as the fabric chafed his skin. “Well, let’s go out, then, shall we, and you can show me how it’s done, O Socrates. Go on; age before beauty.”
I took a deep breath and affixed a smile onto my face. He was young, he was blood-hungry; of course he would be unpleasant. He still loved me. I felt it in every cell of my body, every shred of my brain; my heart and body belonged utterly to him, and his to me, whether he behaved himself or not. He was my offspring, and it was my duty to nurture him as I had been nurtured, teach him as I had been taught.
And I could kill him anytime, because I was stronger.
His contagious hunger tugged me out the door and back onto the dark streets.
He returned immediately to the alley. Policemen had arrived and blocked off the area with their cars, waving away the gathering crowds eager to see the latest murders. Daniel walked past it without sparing more than a curious glance, his steps leading with determination to the service entrance in the rear of Haus Vaterland.
“Subtlety,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” he answered impatiently.
A gaggle of waiters and coat-check girls chatted and laughed and gestured with their cigarettes, coats on, unwilling, for the time being, to leave the comfortable, splendid aura of their workplace. Daniel approached the group stealthily, stalking them on tiptoes, silent, and undoubtedly invisible to their eyes, though he still shone in mine. One of the girls broke away from the group and waved, walking directly toward Daniel. “Come to me,” he whispered, as faint as a dream of a breeze. “Come to me, Margot . . .”
“Good night!” beamed the girl. “Good night!”
He turned down toward where the S-Bahn train looped overhead, and the girl followed him into the shadows underneath. I left him to it, approaching the smokers visibly, and asking, clumsy and affable, thickly laying on the Italian accent, “Could you be sparing a match?”
I did not even have a cigarette, but it didn’t seem to matter. A cigarette was produced, a lit match was offered to me, and I bent my head in the usual manner. The stylishly coiffed young staff, chosen more for their looks than their skills, continued their gossipy conversation. I did not outwardly react to the shared and transmitted sensation of the attack in the shadows, the oddly libidinous gasp, the red velvet liquid pouring, but inside I trembled and wavered with my own hunger. The smokers dispersed, never thinking of their cohort, heading for late-night clubs, late-night beds. They lived in a world without vampires, never knowing the true nature of the murderers in their midst. Or perhaps they did know. This was Berlin, land of eight-year-old whores, morphine needles, and armies of violent thugs in uniform; a fanged and cloaked superman with a ravenous hunger for blood was hardly out of place.
In the shadows I could hear Daniel suckling.
I walked up, puffing on my cigarette and blowing smoke rings into the dimness. “You really shouldn’t keep drinking after they die,” I said casually.
The coat-check girl’s body hit the ground with a wet thud. Daniel glared at me, then rolled his eyes in shivering pleasure, his blood-rimed fingers steepling and clawing at nothing. His beard glistened like black oil and my silk undershirt bore a vivid stain. “But why? It’s still hot; it’s still good,” he moaned. “I can feel it going into me. Oh . . . so glorious . . . She’s been drinking peppered vodka and eating black toast with honey and jam. . . . She’s in love.”
“She’s dead,” I reminded him.
Daniel stroked his beard, then sucked his fingers. “How do you resist killing them? How can you restrain yourself?” He seized the cigarette from me and drew on it avidly, his face falling in disappointment when his body refused to react to the smoke. Poor thing.
“It comes with time and willpower. You will learn it. You will learn it all.” I snatched the cigarette back and tossed it away. His eyes drank in my movements. I slid neatly into his outstretched arms and kissed the last traces of blood from his neck. I could taste the pepper, the drugs and hormones and pleasure of the girl; he had not hurt her at all. Instinct guided him indeed.
“I could keep killing all night,” he whispered, locking his arms around me, kissing me on the lips. How wonderful he felt, the previous potential blossomed into absolute perfection. Waves of energy flowed between us, measured through our heartbeats, our breaths swirling in a loop. Hours ago he did not even exist; now he was fantasy made flesh.
His eyelashes fluttered like moths against my forehead, his spine arching and shoulders rolling with autonomic ecstasy. “Oh, Orfeo, let’s keep going! Let’s drink our way through Berlin; let’s go places we’ve never been; let’s challenge the sunrise; let’s fly!”
And in my heart I sang songs of praise. I was no longer alone.
So Much Darker Nearing Dawn
Now I was the tutor.
Our life together did not rapidly change, in outward appearance, after that September weekend, except that Daniel had grown inexplicably even more beautiful, attractive, dynamic, seductive; also, he was no longer seen during daylight hours at all, conducting all his “business” at night. In artistic Berlin, this was not particularly unusual; even wholesome Haus Vaterland stayed open until three. His intense pallor (even more pronounced than my own) was the height of underground fashion, without need of paint or powder. And Daniel had never been a sun-worshiper; there was no abrupt transition from browned to pale. It simply appeared that he had reached the zenith of the ideal nightlife complexion and the midnight lifestyle, as he had no need to work, with me and my bottomless wallet at his beck and call. “Lucky bastard!”
