Hunger (59 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
“It was in the chest in Max's room. It seemed appropriate that I should wear it this evening. Mitch didn't think I should, but I thought that she should be remembered.” My voice softened a bit as I stroked the gold. “Max would have appreciated the gesture.”
Victor looked at me with a strange expression on his face. “Do you know who that is?”
I snapped the catch open and glanced at the portrait, feeling a reminiscent smile cross my face. “Of course,” I said confidently. “It's Max's mother. Did you know her? She was a beautiful person.”
“I never knew her.” Victor's voice was flat and even. “But Max spoke of her often. He loved her very deeply. He never really seemed to get over her death.” Then he stopped and gave me an intent glance. “When did she die? And how?”
I knew the answers as well as I knew my own family's history. “She died two years after Max entered the seminary, a year before the Thirty Years' War started. As to what she died of, I assume it was what we now call tuberculosis, although, in my century we would have called it consumption. What you would have called it, I have no idea.”
“And when did Max transform into a vampire? And who was responsible?”
“Ten years after the war had started. He had been wounded and was going to die.” I closed my eyes to avoid Victor's burning glance and to bring the memory of the dream to the surface of my mind. When I spoke, my voice was soft and not entirely my own. “We were saved by a vampire. We were going to die, but he came along and promised us eternal life. I thought he was an angel; he worked the miracle and I thought he was an angel.” I snorted angrily. “I was naive, too immersed in my religion to understand the ways of the world, and I didn't know any better. Can you believe it? I thought he was a goddamned angel. But he wasn't! He was Nosferatu; then I was Nosferatu.” The word came out like an obscenity. “His name was . . .” And I paused, searching deep within me for Max's residual memories. I knew that somewhere beneath the loathing and the depravities, past the countless dead bodies and the long centuries, there lurked a face that he had blocked from my view. Or perhaps I had blocked its recognition. Whatever the reason, I struggled to tear away the veil that obscured that identity.
Finally I found that for which I searched, and my eyes opened wide on Victor's astonished face. “His name was”âthe voice speaking was my own againâ“Victor Leupold.” I paused again and matched the face before me with the one my memories held. “Victor Leupold . . . Victor Lange. It was you who turned Max into a vampire.”
Chapter 30
V
ictor's face turned even paler than usual. “Max?” he whispered, searching the room as if he thought he could see him. “Max is still with you? He must be, how else would you know of these things you have told me. Why didn't you tell me that Max was still with you?”
ictor's face turned even paler than usual. “Max?” he whispered, searching the room as if he thought he could see him. “Max is still with you? He must be, how else would you know of these things you have told me. Why didn't you tell me that Max was still with you?”
“I have had dreams of him for years now. I have heard him and seen him. Quite honestly, I thought I was just going crazy. And I did not know it would matter to you whether he was haunting me or not, or believe me, I would have told you sooner.”
“I have read of this phenomenon.” Victor's voice was eager, full of emotion. “How if the bond between two vampires is strong enough, one will linger even after his death. But I never really believed it. And no vampire living today has ever experienced it. What is it like?”
“Do you want the truth?” I looked at him shyly, feeling ill at ease.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Of course.”
“Well, there are times when he is a comfort to have around, but most times it is simply hellish.” Then I laughed, surprising both myself and him. “He is actually more of a bastard dead than alive.”
“But I must speak with him. Can you summon him?”
I laughed again, this time with more humor. “Have you ever known Max Hunter to come when he was called? Or to do anything merely because you wanted him to?”
Victor looked at me skeptically for a moment, then suddenly his expression lightened and he laughed himself. “No, Deirdre, I suppose not. I can't imagine that even death would change him that much.”
“So, what are we to do?”
Victor stood up and poured himself a glass of wine. He gestured with the bottle, and at my nod, poured one for me.
“There is a way.” He hesitated. “Not without risk to you, nor, for that matter, to me, but a way in which I can speak to Max. He must have stayed with you for a purpose.”
“Other than to devil me, you mean?”
His eyes showed amusement only for a second. “That would be one reason, of course. But somehow we both know that it goes deeper than that. If I can ascertain his purpose, then maybe it'll help us both out of the awkward situation we are in.”
“What are the stakes?” I was curious about why he wished to pursue this avenue so avidly.
“Your mind, maybe even mine.”
“Look, Victor,” I said determinedly, “I know I haven't been taking this trial as seriously as I could. But I hardly see that a few weeks or even months of starvation on my part would be worth the prospect of losing my mind. Or justify your wish to risk yours. Why not just take the sentence? It can't be so terrible, can it?”
For the first time since I had met Victor, I saw a clear, readable emotion in his eyes. It was fear, complete and utter terror. “Maybe Ron wasn't that good an attorney after all. What kind of sentence did he tell you to realistically expect?”
“A set time of incarceration and starvation. But he did emphasize that it would not result in death.”
“He took it as lightly as that?” Victor looked surprised.
I thought for a moment. “Well, no, he seemed very upset at the prospect, and gave me the impression that it was a fate worse than death.”
“And so he should have.”
“But I don't really seeâ”
Victor interrupted me angrily. “What he forgot to mention is that the starvation sentence for this particular crime is rarely any shorter than fifty years. Normally it is almost twice that.”
My eyes opened wide. “One hundred years?”
“Exactly so. Think it over carefully, Deirdre. Do you still wish to take your chances with The Cadre's sentence?”
I really didn't have to think very long. A hundred years was almost the entire duration of my life as a vampire. Even the mere contemplation of living those years without sustenance was painful, unthinkable. “No.” My voice was shaking. I understood why Ron had neglected to tell me that one crucial fact. Had I known it at the onset, I would have been long gone, the rules of The Cadre be damned. “What do I need to do?”
“Have you fed recently?”
“Three nights in a row, actually.” I gave a short, cynical laugh. “I thought I was preparing myself, you see. As if it would have done any good.”
“Well, your instincts have still served you well. That will help you. Finish that”âhe gestured at my glassâ“in fact, finish the whole bottle. You need to be relaxed and at ease. I will do the same.”
He went behind the bar and opened another bottle of dark red wine. But instead of bothering with the glass, he drank it straight from the bottle. I giggled nervously; the gesture seemed so incongruous, so out of character for someone as elegant and polished as Victor. He gave me a stern look; I shrugged and followed his lead draining my bottle shortly after his was emptied.
“Now,” he said, pulling his chair forward so that our knees were touching, “relax and don't fight me. I need to enter into your mind and find Max.” He held my hands in a tight grip and looked into my eyes. At first I felt nothing except for his cold hands on mine, then delicately at first, growing stronger and more persistent, I could feel his first tentative intrusion into my mind.
A chill crawled up my spine, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. A wave of panic swelled within me, and I longed to run from this rape. But he held me, cruelly I thought at the time, with hands and eyes. And there was no escape.
“Easy.” I heard his whispered thought as if it were mine. “Easy. Don't fight me.”
I heard him and acknowledged the wisdom of his words, but couldn't relax, couldn't stop my fighting. I screamed, and tried to pull away from him. His hands had become shackles on my wrists; his eyes were swords driven deep into me. “No,” I said. “I can't.”
Then I felt a presence that was not Victor, and I struggled less, being more used to his occupation of my mind.
“Trust him,” Max's familiar voice urged from deeper within my being, caressing me and calming my terror. “Trust him and let him in.”
I took a deep breath and suddenly Victor's penetration became, not rape, but a warm and loving presence, like a return to a lover's embrace. I felt his gratification in his success, and his eagerness to pursue Max was as strong as my own.
Â
I lead Victor down the paths of my life, pausing briefly at the points at which Max and I intersected. There is the carriage and the shadowy figure that carries me from the wreckage; he hurries away and we pursue him, stopping again at a small midwestern truck stop. Here he stays longer, and we almost catch him making love in an empty field on a star-filled night. But he is farther ahead than we are. We quicken our pace to find ourselves in his office at the Ballroom of Romance. He is impaled on the door, and we watch in horror and sympathy as he bleeds out his life by my hand. Then the room blackens and we seem to be nowhere.
I call his name and suddenly we are at the same cemetery that I have walked in my dreams. But this time I do not need to search the stones for Max's name, for his blood calls to me, his being calls to me, and when we arrive he is waiting for us, as I knew he would be, leaning against his tombstone.
“Hello, Victor,” Max says with a twisted grin. “It certainly took you long enough to find me.” He beckons to me, and as always, I go to him. He pulls me to him, holding me closely against his chest. “Although Deirdre and I have been living such exciting lives, I sometimes did not wish it to end. But now that you are here, I know it's for the best. I'm tired.” He brushes his eyes and the soft drops of his tears on my upturned cheek burn. “God, I'm tired and I'm more than ready for my rest.”
“Max.” Victor's voice sounds hurt; I can feel his pain. “Why didn't you come to me?”
“Ah, old friend, that hurts, doesn't it?” Max's voice is hard and cruel. “You feel betrayed, I suppose. It could even be a betrayal of the magnitude I experienced many centuries ago when you took my humanity from me. I hope so. I would be very thankful to know that I was capable of inflicting similar pain on you.”
“But I saved your life.” Victor is crying, his voice jagged with emotion. “I gave you everything I had. You were strong, you were powerful, you were immortal. And you owed it all to me. I loved you like a son, like a brother.”
“That's true; and I was grateful, for a time, for what you gave. But over the years I learned it could never replace what you had taken.” Max's arm tenses around my shoulders and his anger echoes from the surrounding graves.
“I was a man of God and with the taste of your blood I lost my one chance for salvation. There were compensations, of course, many wonderful compensations: the women, the blood, the sensations of life. But as I sunk deeper into a depravity that you encouraged, I began to hate what I was. Began to hate you. And powerful as I was, I was powerless to change.
“Then”âMax's voice becomes tender, lovingâ“Deirdre came to me. As trusting and as innocent as a child. She taught me to love again, not in the pure way that I loved as a priest, but as a man. How could it be a pure love? I was so depraved, so degenerate. But I did love her. And I hesitated telling her who I was; I was ashamed of my excesses, knowing that she could not forgive them, or me. I tried to guide her along the paths I had taken with you. âRevel in your power, revel in your life' was the message I wanted her to accept. âBe as a goddess among humans.' ” Max choked out a small, cynical laugh. “It didn't work.”
“Max, I'm sorry.” I find that I am crying now too.
“Little one, you don't need to be. If you had accepted that path, I think that deep down I would have been disappointed. But I had to take my chance. And when I finally came to the realization that you could never accept life on my terms, I found quite simply that I did not want to live.” Max sighed, then laughed. “I suppose it could have gone either way that night. You could have killed Greer and come with me. But that wasn't really what I wanted.”
“Then Deirdre is innocent?” Victor stares at Max in disbelief.
“Innocent?” Max shrugs. “Oh, I don't doubt that there was a part of her that wanted me dead. Can you blame her? But I wanted to die, Victor, and I hadn't the courage to face the sun. So, as usual, I took the coward's way out, the way of least resistance, and forced her to kill me. By doing that, she gave me what I most wanted, rest from my wicked life. But her grief and remorse and love held me here.” He smiles, the cynical expression that enters his eyes is so familiar, it tears at my heart. “To be honest, I really didn't fight too much, it was an interesting two years. But that time is past, and I must go.” He reaches out and grabs Victor's shoulders, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Good-bye, Victor. Walk softly this night.”
“And you.” Victor puts his hand to his face, then turns away, walking down the cemetery paths, leaving me alone with Max once more.
My lower lip trembles and tears stream down my face. “Max,” I plead with him, “why did you never tell me?”
He holds me close to him one last time and I feel his being envelop me like black, silken wings. “And what would you have done, my little one,” he whispers into my hair, “if I had?”
“I would have loved you.”
“Ah, thank you for that, Deirdre.” I feel his body shake slightly and look up to see that he is laughing. “I almost wish it were true. But when you met Mitchell Greer, there was no longer any room for me in your life. You had grown beyond me. You would never have given him up willingly, nor I you. And so neither of us had any choice, did we?”
“No,” I say, knowing the truth of his words, “but it should have been different. You should not have died.”
“Deirdre.” He cups my face in his hands and kisses my mouth gently. “Victor gave me eternal life, and for that I will eternally curse him. You, my little one, you gave me death, and I will love you forever.” His next kiss is longer, more passionate, but I feel a pulling away, a parting of our unity. I look deep into his eyes.
“Rest easy, my love,” he says, “and sweet dreams.”
“And you, Max.”
He smiles. It is one of the truest expressions I have ever seen on his finely sculptured face, not mocking or cynical, but honest and sweet and loving. It is the smile I had seen the younger Max wear in my dreams. I feel despair, for I will never know that man. He touches my cheek softly and then he is gone. I am left alone once more, crying over his grave. But this time, I know, will be my last visit. The man that I know as Max Hunter, who is more than a father to me, and more than a lover, the man born as Maximiliano Esteban Alveros so very long ago, is finally dead. God rest his soul.
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