Hunger (46 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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“Jesus.” His eyes touched me briefly, then lowered, and he pushed away from me, his hands, covered still with the gloves, now coated with my blood, held extended to keep me away. “What the hell are you? You . . . you're not normal, not natural, your shoulder—”
Calmly, I interrupted him in the hope of staving off his growing panic. “I told you I healed quickly.”
The tone of my voice seemed to help. He still kept his distance, but relaxed his arms. “Heal quickly, my ass. It's almost as if nothing ever happened to you, certainly no one could tell that you'd just been operated on. Hell, I'm not even sure you were, although I was the one who did the cutting.” He gave me an appraising glance, calculating, I thought, what could have caused this extraordinary healing. It was almost as if I could hear the possibilities being listed, then being denied in his mind.
I stood quietly, not moving, waiting for his next response, knowing that nothing in his background or training could ever have prepared him for this moment. When he did speak, his voice was soft and full of doubt.
“Maybe I should take another look at that shoulder. I mean, the light's not so good in here; I could've been mistaken.” Sam approached me slowly and still I did not move. He pulled the robe back cautiously, then whistled slightly through his teeth. I could feel his hands trembling as he examined me thoroughly, prodding at what was only minutes ago a fairly deep incision. “Does this hurt?”
“No, not at all. You did a wonderful job. Much better than I could ever have done. It was quick and clean, but”—I gave him a glance out of the corner of my eye—“the novocaine was a waste of time.”
“You felt everything?” He stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the sink with disgust. His voice was strained, almost angry. “If I'd thought that you could feel it all, I'd never have done it. I'm sorry, it must have been awful.”
I shrugged. “It doesn't matter now, Sam. It's over.”
“Jesus, Deirdre.” He swore again and slumped down into one of the kitchen chairs.
“Coffee?” I suggested again. “Or perhaps you would like something stronger?”
“I doubt that you have anything here actually strong enough to handle all this. Besides, I have to get to work soon. Coffee will be fine.” Some of his natural humor had returned to his voice, and he managed to give me a weak smile as I handed him a full mug.
“I hope you like it black,” I said as I turned away and poured a cup for myself. “I don't have any cream or milk.”
“I know,” he said smugly, “I remember from the other night that you have no food here at all. I must admit that I'm surprised you even have coffee.”
“I like coffee.”
“Oh.” He took a sip and watched me over the rim of his cup. “Well?”
“Well what, Sam?” I tensed, anticipating his question.
“Aren't you going to tell me? You owe me that, don't you think?”
“I am very grateful for your assistance, Sam, but what would you like me to say?”
He gave a bitter grunt. “ ‘What would you like me to say?' ” he mimicked my question. “What the hell do you think I want to hear, the goddamned weather report?” He shook his head and took another drink of his coffee, staring into the darkness of the cup. “You're not human, are you?”
“I suspect that would depend on your definition of human, Sam,” I said gently. “I personally like to think that I am as human as any other person.”
His head shot up. “Don't bullshit me, Deirdre. I get that every day from sick people who feel the desperate need to deny their inner selves. I don't know who you are, or even what you are, but I'd be willing to bet everything I have on the fact that you're not crazy and not human.”
“Yes,” I said with a sigh, sitting down across from him, “you are right, Sam, I am not crazy.”
“And?”
“And I'm not human.”
The silence was filled by the ticking of the clock. I glanced up at it and so did he.
“Alien.” The word came out so quietly that he cleared his throat and said it again. “You're an alien, aren't you?”
“An alien?” I repeated, laughing in disbelief.
“Yeah, you know what I mean, an alien, outer space and all that. So where do you come from?”
“I do know what you mean, Sam.” My tone of voice was light and teasing. “I just wasn't expecting that particular question. Actually, I come from Kansas.”
“Kansas?” He seemed even more confused.
“Yes, you know, Kansas—the Midwest, farms and fields, Dorothy and Toto.”
“But if you're not an alien, what are you?”
I tilted my head at him encouragingly. “What do you think? I should imagine you know enough about this situation by now to figure it out on your own.”
He took a long drink of his coffee, and as he swallowed I saw the blood drain from his face. He was quick to put the facts together and come up with the proper conclusion, however unlikely and unsavory it was. He jumped up from the table and knocked his half-empty mug on the floor. “Jesus.” The fear returned to his voice, and the easiness we had managed to reestablish dissolved instantly. “You're a goddamned vampire.”
Chapter 17
“A
ctually,” I said to Sam while I wiped the spilled coffee from the floor, “I am not entirely sure about the damnation, but you are correct about the other.” He had retreated, but no farther than the kitchen doorway, when I had risen to get the towel. The expression on his face indicated his own internal war; part of him wanted to run, and the other wanted answers. When he spoke, I was relieved to discover that the second impulse won.
“But how could it be possible?”
I got up from the floor and threw the coffee-soaked towel into the sink along with his blood-covered gloves. “I am afraid that I have no answer for that, Sam. I am what you said; that is a fact. But as for its possibility? I don't know any better than you.”
“But a vampire is a mythological creature, a folktale no more real than the bogeyman, or unicorns, or fairies.”
I gave him a serious look. “Is it so much harder to believe than the other fact that you so readily wanted to accept?”
He paused a moment and thought. “But alien visitations are fairly well documented and have been reported by so many different types of people. It seems more real somehow, more measurable by scientific methods.”
“And you accept scientific methods, of course.” My quiet voice took on a scornful tone. “But have you ever stopped to consider that folktales might have a basis in truth, might be the same kind of documented accounts from hundreds of years ago?”
He gave me a sheepish look. “No, not really, I can't honestly say that I ever gave it a second thought. Some things fit into reality, and others do not.”
“And even now you don't believe me, because I don't fit into your idea of reality.”
He cleared his throat. “I don't want to believe you. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I didn't have to believe you.” Sam stared at me for a time and shook his head. “But I do believe you. Only now I don't know what I should do.”
“Why should you have to do anything?”
“Well, well . . . but you're a vampire.” His voice acquired a higher pitch and cracked on the last word. “There must be something I should do.”
“Sam, listen to me. What I am is no danger to you or to anyone else. I lived in this city for ten years, and in all that time the blood I took was never missed.” He shuddered at the mention of blood, but I continued. “Generally, I take less than you would donate at a blood bank. I do no harm to others. You can check on the facts if you want. The only people killed here in that fashion were killed by Max.”
“Max.” He said the name emphatically in remembrance, from my story the other night. “Max was a vampire too?”
“Yes.”
“Then Mitch”—his eyes drifted to my face and stayed there—“Mitch was telling the truth.”
“Yes. And you should take a lesson from him. If you were to let on to others what I am, you would be treated the same—institutionalized for years. Not a soul would believe you.”
Sam laughed, more to relieve his tension than to express humor, and began to gather his instruments and pack his doctor's bag. “And does Mitch know about you?”
“Yes, Mitch knows.” A smile crossed my face thinking of him. “And he doesn't seem to think that I'm a threat to the general public. Let it go, Sam.” I moved to him and put a hand on his arm gently. “You can't do anything about this situation.” Meeting his eyes, I drew him into me as much as possible. “And you really don't want to.”
“No,” he said directly, “I don't. But I want to talk more about it, document your case, if only for my own satisfaction.” He smiled at me honestly, with only a trace of fear. “What an opportunity. Interviewing a real live mythological creature. I wish I'd brought my recorder.”
“Well, Sam,” I said with a twisted smile, “although it's not all it is cracked up to be, I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity. But it will have to be some other time.” I glanced over my shoulder at the window. The first streaks of dawn were appearing in the sky. “You have to go to work, and I have to go to sleep. I'll see you out.”
He gingerly picked up the gloves from the sink, wrapped them in the towel, and put them in the garbage. When he picked up his bag, we walked into the living room. He retrieved his coat from where he had dropped it on the floor and put it on. “When can I call you?”
“Later on, maybe in a few days. I'd like to get reacquainted with Mitch, spend some uninterrupted time with him. We have a lot to catch up on.”
“What will you do when I leave?”
“Go straight to bed and sleep until Mitch comes home. He'll be released today, won't he?”
Sam laughed. “At this point, Deirdre, I've no good reason to hold him. Apparently, there was never anything wrong with him.” He shook his head again and walked to the door. As he opened it he turned to me and his voice seemed strangely enthusiastic and youthful. “Jesus, vampires, who'd have thought?” he said, and went out.
After pulling the drapes and securing the apartment for the duration of my sleep, I went into the bathroom and removed my robe. Sam had done a good job on my shoulder, I thought as I twisted my arm around. It was still sore, but I knew that the slight stiffness and bruising would be gone by the following day; the scar from the incision, however, would require a little longer to heal. I hung the robe on the door hook, walked down the hall, and crawled into bed.
 
I open my eyes to an unfamiliar darkness, and the pain in my shoulder has worsened greatly. I feel the presence of others in near proximity, but I have been robbed of all my heightened senses. I am blind in this night—hurt, bewildered, and weak beyond relief. Panic strikes me and I attempt to scream; the sound that escapes my lips and lungs is a deep, rattling moan.
We are dying.
The voice echoes within my mind, and as I recognize it, I relax inwardly. Although I am still caught up in the grip of fear and pain and death, I know that I dream. And because I am Max, I know that this body I now occupy is older than the other I inhabited; it is hardened, embittered by ten long years of privation. I have served as priest and comrade on the battlefields of this holy war.
The mind of the younger Max knows nothing but the cause he has supported. He is shielded from our thoughts, from his thoughts, from the remembrance of another twenty blood-filled years of war. He is the present, I am the present. And I have served, my pain-ridden senses cry out, I have been found worthy of these deeds done for God. And now I will die. But even in the face of death there is a lightness of spirit, a satisfaction in the ministry for church and Savior. There is also a deep sadness for works that must be left unfinished; this is what I regret, not death itself.
The light from a lantern bobbles in the distance and moves toward me; I peer through the darkness to see who approaches.
“Brother,” the figure addresses me in a heavily accented Spanish. “Dying is difficult when much work for the Lord remains to be done.” There is an irony in the voice, but I respond to the words because they mirror my own thoughts exactly.
“I do not fear death,” the whispered words rasp from my dry throat, “for I go to my God.”
“But should there be a way to save you for future works, would you undertake it, though the path be strewn with hardships?”
I nod, and the pain of this movement causes my head to spin. I see the glint of a knife, but I am held by the gaze of his eyes as he makes a movement too fast for me to follow. A strong arm encircles my shoulders and holds my body in an upright position. I black out for a minute, and when next I am aware, a bitter tonic is flowing into my mouth; I choke and swallow. The medicine's taste is familiar, and something in my mind, alien, yet familiar, screams a warning.
“Do not drink,” it cries, “for the salvation of your soul, do not drink.”
But I cannot control my reflexes. With each swallow the taste becomes less repulsive, growing instead seductive and sweet, like the finest wine. My body blazes with heat; a healing warmth floods through my system. Infection, pain, and death all fall away from me, and I am man perfected, healthy, alive, and, the warning voice sobs, human no more.
The man wraps the sickroom blanket around my shoulders. The smell is offensive, but I welcome the warmth, for my body has suddenly grown cold. “Come with me,” he says with a biting laugh. “You do not belong here anymore.”
“You are a saint,” I gasp, bewildered and awed by my complete recovery from death. “An angel from God, come to work a miracle.
In nomine Patris, et Filii
—”
He interrupts me with another laugh. “That is enough of that. Now, come.”
Docilely, I allow him to lead me away from the life I led; he whispers counsel to me as we walk, his strong arms support me as I stumble, overwhelmed by the array of sensory stimulation I am now receiving. The stars are so bright, clearer than I had ever noticed before. I can smell so much more in the night air, and the texture of the ground beneath my bare feet is rich and firm.
I finally become aware that we are riding in an open carriage; he drives the horses hurriedly, cursing and whipping them on. When we arrive at the house, it is still dark, but I feel the approach of dawn, and catch some of his panic and fear. I do not want to enter that house, but he reaches up and throws me over his shoulder, carrying me as if I were dead. All the while, he is speaking, his voice soft and commanding. I cannot fully grasp the meaning of his words, but they frighten me and anger me. They drop heavily into my soul, and the coldness of death sinks once again into my body.
We enter a darkened chamber. I can see that it is unfurnished but for two coffins. He puts me onto my feet and stares deeply into my eyes. I cannot look away.
“I have prepared a place for you. Today you shall sleep here and tomorrow night I will explain all.” He smiles and I shudder at the malice in his face, at the sharpened teeth he displays. But I obey him and lie down in the box he has opened.
When the lid is closed upon me, I want to cry out, to leave the empty place to which he has brought me. But his command holds me, and as I sense the sun rising, my eyes close of their own volition. Of his words, only one remains in my mind and I carry it into sleep with me. “Nosferatu.”
A swirling inner rage overcomes me, wrests me from the transformed body of Max, and I stand again disembodied. I am not alone; for I feel his breath and hear his voice, heavy with hate and regret. Somehow the young and the old Max have merged together; the two voices combine in a cry that rings in my ears and causes a chill to caress my spine.
“I want to die. I should have died. Dear Father in heaven, let me die.”
 
I woke shivering, echoing Max's words. Not yet recovered from the dream, I was startled by the touch of a hand on my head, stroking my hair. I sat up quickly, snarling and hissing. “You bastard,” I whispered vehemently, “what have you done to me?”
“Deirdre? Deirdre, what's wrong? Wake up, please, wake up.”
The name seemed unfamiliar at first, but the pain in the voice finally reached me, and I realized who and where I was. I opened my eyes to find Mitch hovering over me, his expression hurt and uncertain.
“Oh, God, Mitch, I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you.”
“I understand from Dr. Samuels that you had a rough time last night. And I really didn't want to wake you.” He leaned down and kissed me warily on the cheek, his eyes betraying his fear. “But you seemed to be having one hell of a nightmare.”
“Thank you.” My voice was dry and rasping. I brushed the hair from my eyes, cleared my throat, and tried again. “I was. How long have you been here?”
Mitch looked over at the clock on the bedside table. “Oh, about an hour or so. It's wonderful just to have you here and watch you sleep.” A loving smile crossed his face, and he sat down on the bed next to me. “You have the face of an angel, Deirdre. But when you started thrashing around, muttering and crying, I thought you'd be better off awake. You can go back to sleep now if you like; the sun won't set for a couple of hours.”
“Nonsense, Mitch, now that you're here, why would I want to sleep?”
“Then do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what, Mitch?”
His mouth twisted, and I recognized the slight edge of jealousy in his voice. “Talk about what happened last night between you and Dr. Samuels.”
“Oh, that.” I reached over and touched my shoulder; as I expected, the soreness was gone, but I could trace a thin scar where there had been an incision. Then I took his hand and pulled it over so that he could feel the skin. “He told you nothing?”
“Not a word. Just that everything was okay, that I wasn't to worry, but there had been a slight emergency last night and you would probably be a little tired today.” He peered at my shoulder. “So what happened?”

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