Blood Sacrifice (12 page)

Maria was smiling at him, and Terence noticed the large, strong nose, the raven hair again, and how those and her other features conspired to create something from southern Italy. Perhaps, he thought, the broth was red merely from tomatoes. He thought not, but it was easier to entertain himself with such pedestrian fancies.

Edward closed his eyes for a moment, feeling an odd floating sensation. Beneath that, there was a sudden—and acute—hunger. “What’s in the soup?” he asked, tongue thick.

Maria answered, “A bit of this, a bit of that.”

Terence snorted. “A little of her, a little of him.”

Edward shuddered.

“He’s joking, of course. It’s simply pork, with a few vegetables, a little basil, some Roma tomatoes, lots of Chianti.”

His repulsion faded. Edward reached out for the bowl. “Maybe just a little.”

Terence handed it to him and Edward’s fear was overcome by a hunger that grew more relentless with each passing second. He dug into the soup. The meat was surprisingly tender, as if it had been cooked for a long time. And, yes, he could taste tomatoes, and wine, and herbs. Never mind the coppery tang beneath all this. Perhaps that metallic note had been transferred from the pot in which the stew had been cooked.

He finished quickly and set the bowl down on the floor.

“A little capper, then?”

Edward took the proffered pipe from Terence and drew in more deeply this time. The smoke hit him quickly and he lolled back, supine, on the settee.

“Let’s make you more comfortable,” Maria said, kneeling at his feet and beginning to unlace his boots. Edward made a vague purring noise, lifting his foot slightly to make it easier for Maria to remove his boots.

Terence moved in close and began to unbutton his shirt. His hands felt smooth and, at last, warm against his bare skin. Edward could do nothing but lie there, barely lifting his limbs as he was relieved of his clothing. Whatever happened, Edward was certain, would be wonderful.

He lay naked before them, watching as each shed their clothes. Their bodies were so beautiful, crafted from marble. He couldn’t wait to taste them: to kiss, to suck, to feel the tenderness of their embraces.

He closed his eyes and surrendered.

Chapter Eleven

2004

Elise is alone. There is only a wan light, barely dispelling the shadows, not even enough to really see anything. Elise curls into herself, almost fetal. She isn’t so sure she wants to see anything. There is a vague, sick dread filling her up. The terror isn’t rational, but knowing this doesn’t make it any less real.

Elise scrunches her eyes together and puts her hands over her ears. She can hear squeaking and the restless fluttering of leathery wings. Bats. They hang from the ceiling above her and their tiny, skin-crawl inducing movements tell her they are readying themselves for flight. But before they fly away, they will be hungry, and the heat of her, she’s certain, will rise up like an aura around her, attracting them. In fact, the smell of her flesh, the warmth of her body, and the pulse of her blood beneath it all is probably like light to a moth and their tiny twitterings are like gossip, word spreading fast that there is a small feast here.

She cringes as she feels a small bony claw on her shin. She draws her leg in toward herself, shaking the tiny, almost weightless creature off. But it’s gone for only a second. Like a fly, it hovers then lands on her again. This time, it’s brought a friend.

It’s only seconds before she feels the puncture of their tiny teeth. And then, almost as one the whole group arises and covers her, all fluttering wings, ember-glowing eyes, and razor sharp teeth. Piercing.

And Elise screams and screams. Screams until one of them ventures near her open mouth to nip at her lips and then her tongue, where the blood is sweeter. It squirms further inside, so she can’t close her mouth, so she can’t scream, so her eyes are stuck open in dumbstruck horror.

Elise awakens. Her face is slick with sweat and she’s trembling. She doesn’t know where she is. Her arms are still pinwheeling, trying to bat away the dark, furry shadows that covered her moments ago.

Gradually, her racing heart slows its frantic beating. Her breathing slows to normal respiration. The sweat on her body begins to cool.

Slowly, she focuses, and Maria is above her, looking down, dark eyes alive with concern. She’s holding a cool cloth to Elise’s forehead. Elise gets up on one elbow, and the room spins. She returns her head to the pillow and lets Maria continue her ministrations. The cool touch of the cloth and Maria’s gentle demeanor are comforting, yet they seem like a lie. A part of her wants to return to her nightmare. In a dream, at least for Elise, there’s always a sense of unreality, that with enough will, she could awaken and escape. Being bathed in cool water by a beautiful, but oddly cold and hard woman is surreal, but Elise knows it’s happening. She’s lying on a red velvet settee near the fireplace. She turns her head and can see the huddled forms of Terence and Edward, still asleep in the huge canopy bed, bodies intertwined. Terence’s arm lies protectively over Edward’s shoulder. But they don’t move. They are as still as corpses. Elise doesn’t want to think about the dark stains here and there on their faces. She doesn’t want to think about Elise’s teeth.

“Better?” Maria whispers. “You fainted, but were only out for a few minutes.” Maria moves the cool cloth around Elise’s fevered face. She smiles. Gone are the rows of tiny fangs. Elise wonders if she ever really saw them. Her face is clean, smooth and white as a marble tombstone. Only the fire in her dark eyes breathes life into her countenance. “Do you feel all right now?”

“Yes.” Elise’s tongue is thick in her mouth, a speech impediment. “Could I have some water?”

Maria doesn’t move, yet suddenly she holds a cut crystal tumbler of water. Elise gulps it. She is parched; she feels almost dry from within. While she drinks, she casts around for something to say. She feels numb, her mind buzzing and empty. Finally, she settles for the truest, simplest course.

“What’s going on, Maria?” She isn’t certain she wants an answer, at least not a truthful one. She is as thirsty for lies as she was for the water. Even if she knows it’s not the truth, any sort of somewhat rational explanation will calm her. At least she can tell herself that whatever Maria spoon-feeds her must be the truth. Why would she lie? All sorts of absurd notions run through her mind, involving suggestions of the supernatural or insanity (hers or theirs, she’s not sure). None of these notions seem plausible, yet how does one explain?

Maria smoothes Elise’s hair back away from her face and presses her gently back on the couch. Elise allows herself to recline, accepts the kiss, cold, from Maria’s lips. “I’m going to tell you the truth now. But you won’t believe it. Not at first, anyway.

“I know this idea has come to you and that you have probably rejected it. I can’t blame you. Most of you with your modern ideas and technology have no concept of things lying beneath the surface of palpable reality. Gone are the notions of romance…of the inexplicable. But you, my love, are an artist. And artists are the only ones that understand things not explained by science or numbers. You—or at least most of you—rely more on intuition. That’s why we like to traffic with creative humans. I hope you understand us, because it’s rare I find a mortal who does.”

Oh now
,
this is getting too weird
.
I don’t know if I want to hear any more
. Hearing words like “mortal” and “human” used in the context of conversation, as if referring to something foreign, makes her head pound and induces her desire to flee. She takes another sip of water, gets to a half-sitting position again, testing her strength. The best thing to do, she knows, is to put her feet to the floor and walk right out of here before Maria can continue. But the semi-erect position brings her a new wave of dizziness and perhaps in a moment, Maria will laugh, tell her she’s joking. Elise lies back down, staring up at Maria, like a child waiting for the rest of a bedtime story.

“A mortal? What are you talking about?” The room is closing in on Elise, almost as if the walls are alive and able to move closer to one another. Her breath quickens again, close to panting. The panic is rising. She thinks of horror stories about vampires and blood being leeched from helpless, terrified people. Her synapses fire with red-cloaked imagery, making her tremble, run hot and cold all at once.

The answer, it turns out, is simple. Maria smiles. “We are vampires.” Maria leans close to Elise. “I know it sounds absurd. And the stuff of legend, of your modern-day horror movies, is mostly untrue, stories made up to frighten, to entertain. But vampires do exist, few in number, and we are three of those few. I don’t know if we’re really the ‘living dead’ as some have called us, or if we’re just different—a new kind of animal, an organism born out of the carcass of a dead human being. Maybe we’re just another form of evolution, something as much a part of nature as you are. Maybe supernatural is a word that shouldn’t be applied to us. Perhaps ‘supernatural’ should be reserved for ghost stories.”

She pauses. The words hang in the air like dust motes dancing in sunlight. Elise wants to laugh, but there is no humor in her desire. It is the giddy laugh of hysteria, just before a shriek. She shakes her head, trying to keep the despair at bay. “Please don’t do this, Maria. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone in my life. Please don’t turn out to be insane; don’t turn yourself into some Anne Rice heroine.”

Maria laughs. “Oh, that’s a rich one. When one of us is feeling blue, we pick up one of those Anne Rice books and we laugh and laugh.” Maria runs the back of her hand across Elise’s cheek. “I do love you. I knew that underneath all the angst and the existential torment, there was someone who could make me laugh. I’m good at sensing these things.” She grows serious once more. “But it’s true, Elise. We are what I’ve said. We need human blood to exist. I know you saw the blood on our faces. I apologize for that; we are such messy eaters. But sometimes we just get so hungry and we forget our manners.”

Elise wonders if this is for real. She wants to laugh, too, to let Maria know she’s in on the joke. She wishes it were a joke. “You’re joking with me, right?” Elise already knows the answer, but a part of her still holds out hope for the finger in the ribs, the confession of morbid punch lines and misguided mirth.

“For your sake, I wish I could say what I’m telling you is all a joke. But we both know it isn’t. How would I explain away what you saw earlier? My fangs are efficient tools, nothing more.” She takes Elise’s hand in hers, squeezes. “Feel that? Feel the cold? No warmth runs through my veins. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Elise nods. Hot, sour bile rises at the back of her throat. This cannot be. She has been alone too long. The streets have warped her. This too is a dream. But the hand in her own feels real enough, solid. In fact, its icy hardness reminds Elise of stone. She yanks her hand back, recoiling at the dryness, the chill. “But sometimes,” she sputters, “sometimes, you feel warm.”
Please,
Elise thinks,
give me something, anything, to cling to. Half-truths, lies
…

Patiently, Maria takes her hand gently again and presses it to her breast, inside the robe. The skin gives only slightly. “Feel that?”

Elise doesn’t want to acknowledge what Maria is trying to tell her. “What? I don’t feel anything.”

“Exactly.”

Elise pulls her hand away and turns to hide her face in the crushed velvet of the settee. There’s no heartbeat, no matter how hard she presses her hand; there is no thump of a beating heart beneath her flesh.

Muffled, Maria’s voice comes to her. “Elise, in spite of the fangs, in spite of what we have to do to survive, there’s nothing to fear. All of us, me especially, admire you. We care about you, your art. You’re brilliant. Brilliance we don’t often see. Especially as time passes. We would never harm you.”

Elise turns back. The beauty of Maria’s face, her body, the shine in her eyes…she’s the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen. And even though her body is cold, she radiates warmth, and intelligence, and understanding, understanding Elise has not yet encountered in anyone else.

“Terence, Edward, and I have been together for a long, long time. Ages. I know this will sound fantastic, but I have been with Terence for about two hundred years. Edward has only been with us for around sixty or so. He is still new to all of this. He can tell you, though, that when we find someone rare, someone special, like you, we don’t hurt them.” Maria lies down beside Elise, fitting her body against Elise’s back, following the contours of Elise’s body with her own. “I want you to know about us. Let me share with you a little of what’s important. Little by little, our whole story will emerge, especially if you stay with me.” There is something plaintive in Maria’s voice as she speaks these words.

Elise tries to relax, closing her eyes as Maria spins her tale.

“First, it’s rare we forge any actual connection with human beings. It usually doesn’t work out. And, don’t hate me for this, but in order to truly survive, to
live
, we have to look at humans as food.” Maria rolls her eyes and grins wickedly. “It’s funny: the more they ‘progress’ the easier it is to look at them as entrées rather than people. It’s like the whole race gets dumber and dumber with each advance in technology. I wish I could tell you how many victims Terence alone has taken when he comes upon one on a cell phone. They hardly notice him until he’s biting into their neck. I can’t imagine what the person on the other end of the call thinks. No signal! Searching!”

Elise curls further into herself. This is just too weird. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. “You refer to human beings like they’re something different. Aren’t you…” Elise’s voice trails off as she wonders how to pose the question. “I mean, weren’t you…”

Maria nods. “Yes. Yes. I suppose I was once a human being. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten. I don’t look at things that way anymore. We’re not human. We’re not superhuman; we’re different. That’s one thing that sets us apart from the human race: perception. We acknowledge there are things going on that might not be part of our immediate perception. We, for example, have moved and merged with masses of people for hundreds of years, and no one ever notices we’re anything out of the ordinary. Because humans believe only what their eyes can see. And sometimes that’s wrong. And sometimes there are things you sense in a different way. The brush of something soft on your neck, the people who appear in dreams you’ve never seen before, things like that are testimony to other worlds that exist all around you.

“So, yes, I was once a human being, like you. But, aside from needing blood to continue to survive, I’ve also honed different ways of seeing. And a lot of what I’ve learned about such sight, I’ve learned from people like you. People who can remove the covers from their eyes, open them and truly see things in a way that’s different from the conventional, from how most people see things. These are the kind of people I feed on in a different way.” Maria sighs. “I’ve been around a long time, so I can sense it when I meet one. Someone like you. Someone like Edward. Believe me, there aren’t many.

“But you want to hear our story.” Maria looks dreamy-eyed. “There’s so much to tell. You just have to come to know us and let the story leak out gradually. We don’t have time to sit here and go through everything. What would interest you? That I grew up as a child in Venice when the city was still new? That Terence knew Oscar Wilde and Dante Rossetti, but that he knew Wilde much better, if you know what I mean?”

Maria shakes her head and summarizes her story—mainly with Terence—a story spanning continents and centuries. She tells of their nocturnal existence, their pursuit of blood, flesh, and art. How, at various times, their desire for each of these things has caused conflict and pain. How, at various times, all three things combined, bring them the most delirious physical, intellectual, and emotional pleasure. Maria tells her how easily they accrued their wealth through the centuries (mostly through black-market buying and selling of paintings and sculptures) and finally, their kin.

“I don’t know if you can immediately understand what we are.” Maria takes Elise’s hand in her own, almost as if to warm it. “That will take time, and it has to be time you’re willing to freely give. If you were like us, you’d discover the luxury of not living as if you’re racing to beat the clock. Immortality, or the enhanced possibility of it, gives us tremendous freedom.”