Eternal Darkness, Blood King (8 page)

My ears picked a marked missed palpitation in his cardiac rhythm. I smiled, knowing that his end was finally near. He stared at me in silence for a while. I felt him trying to get inside my mind. For the longest time, that had been his life’s mission; and every time, I rejected him.

In this game called life, there are individuals born with certain abilities. These same skills can be developed in all of us. When I was turned, parts of my brain were awakened, parts that most people never get to use. The ability to control people’s will, to move matter from point A to point B, or to read minds is not beyond us if only we learn to use the part of our brain that controls and manages our core energy. That same core energy is what some call the soul.

We are all flesh-and-blood batteries, and like any other energy source, it can be transformed, manipulated, and redirected, if only we had easy access to the knowledge of how to do so.

The old man was above most. He had trained himself over the years in how to control his core energy using his brain; but for all his efforts, he was not a match for my abilities.

One thing he can do better than pretty much anyone else is contacting that invisible force around us. The one we all share and move through—some people call it gods, spirits, ghosts, and even angels. He is open to this force and knows how to translate the different types of changes in energy. Then his brain would perceive whether it was a positive or negative source. The old man can only interpret this information as far his capacity allows him. In most cases, it ends up with just a hunch, a premonition of either danger or fortune; and that is more than enough.

We started to speak in Spanish.

“Basta, no puedes leer mi mente,” I warned him. “Stop it. You can’t read my mind.”

He was sitting in front of a big table, writing down something that he had just read in a book. There was a half-empty bottle of scotch whiskey next to a half-full glass.

“Hace tiempo que no os veo Viejo,” I continued. “Long time no see, old man.”

I quickly recognized the Bible among the books.

It is funny how the wicked always turn to ‘God’ when their youth and strength are gone and death is near.

I read his mind easily and saw his doubts. I also found something unexpected: The old man, the assassin of children, was hungry for peace.

I’d be dammed if I was going to let him get away with it that easily!

“I believe you’re on a foolish quest,” I added.

Frank wanted to speak. I could feel he was about to voice out his thoughts, so I hurried with mine.

“Just now you were thinking that God had no choice but to let the devil loose, so there could be a balance in the world,” I said.

Frank dispensed with all intentions to speak.

“If you look closer you may find that the devil is just an extension of god,” I smiled at his drunken expression. “That’s if you believe that sort of fiction,” I added.

“Three years,” he said. “Not a word, not a letter, not an e-mail. And just like that, you show up.”

His abnormal heartbeat was starting to annoy me.

“You should check that up,” I said with a wicked expression. “That heart of yours is sick. I’ll say you won’t last more than six months,”

I watched as the old man reached for the glass of scotch and drank.

“Maybe I’m being overoptimistic,” I observed.

The old man put the glass back on the table and poured more whiskey.

“¿Me acompaña?” he said, chuckling. “Would you care to join me?”

The music was beautiful. I decided to listen to it rather than to the old man. I hid my body deep in the darkness of the room. The old man tried to track my movements with his tired eyes. I stood in silence, concealed by the shadows, and looked at him. He had aged badly, and that notion made me smile again.

“¿Estoy hablando solo?” he asked. “Am I talking to myself?”

Suddenly, I approached him, maybe way too fast for his own good. I just felt like toying with him for a bit. With a bit of luck, he could delight me by suffering a heart attack. I grabbed his head violently and opened my mouth. Instinctively, my fangs went for his neck. Then I stopped. I could smell the red liquid under his old skin, and I wanted it all.

“Yes, do it, please!” He said.

His voice distracted me from my murderous intentions. No, it won’t be this easy, I said to myself.

“¿Te gustaría eso no?” I whispered in his ear. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

The old man closed his eyes. “Yes.” He quickly replied.

“What if I’m here to take instead of give?” I whispered again.

The old man opened his eyes. “¿No es así siempre?” he replied with another question. “Isn’t that always the case?”

That was the old bastard I knew. Deep behind those tired eyes, the killer still existed. Somewhere under that costume of wrinkles and dry skin, the purest evil was waiting for the right purpose to awaken. As much as I loathed him, I also needed him. For now.

I stood near one of the house’s columns, using the shadows as a cover, putting a considerable distance between the old man and me, trying to regain control of my thirst.

“Please don’t leave!” The old man said.

I looked at him from a distance, debating with myself whether to leave or stay.

“You said it yourself. I don’t have much time left,” he continued.

“Why that should be of my concern?” I asked.

He tried to locate me inside the shadows, but his old eyes failed him.

“I have always been faithful to you, haven’t I?” He asked.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Oh, but I have!” The old man said vehemently.

I loved to see him get all worked up.

“From the moment I found you, fifty years ago in that dirty hole you called home in Texas, you have only craved one thing, more than the love of your dying mother, more than the promises to your lost sister, or the lust for the human flesh of your victims,” I said, slowly coming out from the shadows.

I went to stand in front of the table.

Frank kept his eyes on me. “Our friendship has been bigger than our flaws,” he said.

“¿Amistad?” I asked. “Friendship? Why should I be friends with a dying, drunk rapist, pedophile, cannibal mass murderer like you?”

My words forced him to look down. He was weaker than ever.

“I’ve helped you before, haven’t I?” He asked.

“No. You have helped yourself by helping me before,” I clarified.

The old man’s eyes came back to life. He looked up at me with rage. “So why don’t you end it right here, right now? Put me out of my misery!” He screamed.

I couldn’t help but laugh at him.

He stood there, watching me.

“That’s the old Frank, the one who breathes evil,” I said, controlling myself. “In times, you have been helpful, I must admit.”

The old man took a couple of deep breaths, still watching me. “So that’s why you’re here?” He asked.

I regained my composure. “Maybe you could be helpful again.” I proposed.

The old man grew serious, his face expression telling me he was almost offended. “Tal vez,” he said. “Perhaps.”

His answer made me smile. I liked to see him reclaim some respect, even if he had no ground on which to stand strong. Then he tried again to reach for my thoughts. That was Frank, always a bastard.

“Stop trying to read my thoughts, old wizard.” I said, letting him know that his efforts were futile, again.

“Isn’t that what you do with mine?” He replied.

“There’s a presence that I have been feeling lately.” I began to explain.

The old man reached for the scotch bottle.

“¿Uno de los tuyos?” he asked. “One of yours?”

“No, this is a presence like nothing I have felt before.” I said, walking toward him.

Suddenly, I wanted a taste of his blood. I stopped next to him, grabbed his left arm, and made a thin cut on his wrist with my nails. I saw the dark red liquid flowing freely, and I dived into it, swallowing it slowly, savoring it. I felt the warmth growing in the center of my chest. My heart started to beat faster, stronger. The euphoria began to build up, and I knew had to stop, or I would kill him. I felt his pleasure in the small pain I caused him. His mind opened for me, and I saw disturbing images of death and pain, children screaming pleading for their lives, human flesh being eaten by the one I was feeding from. I walked away, torn between the taste of life and the sickness provoked by all the mental images I had access to.

“¡Oh monstruo!” I said out loud. “Oh, you monster! The things you have done to so many of them!”

I closed my eyes, trying to clear my own thoughts; and when I opened them, the old man was holding a handkerchief against the cut on his wrist, looking at me in silence.

“I need you to scan this presence.” I said.

“What makes you believe this is a spirit?” He asked.

I considered my answer for a moment.

“I don’t know, but once you begin hearing strange voices, my guess is that it’s time to try a different approach.” I said, realizing that I was thinking out loud more than replying to his question.

The old man looked at me in silence for a moment, trying to read me.

“I hope you can guess my name.” I said with a smile.

“I beg your pardon?” Frank said.

“You were trying to read my thoughts, trying to find out what the voice said. Well, it said,” ‘I hope you can guess my name.’ I added.

The old man shook his head in disapproval. “I hate it when you read my mind,” he confessed, grabbing his pen and writing something down in his notebook. “How do you feel when you are in his presence?” He then asked me.

“I can’t say because I have never been in front of it. But when I feel it, my arms and legs get numb; and out of the blue, I feel weak.” I said, trying to be as honest as possible.

Frank stopped writing and looked up. “Weak? Dizzy?” He asked.

The Sonate reached its climax, making me close my eyes. I was in love with that piece long before Frank was born. It took me to a different time, a specific place—to her, when we were us, when eternal life was bliss. Eternal life was Kamille.

“Amo esta pieza,” I said out loud, letting myself get carried away by the violins. “I love this piece.”

“Perhaps you’re coming down with something, or perhaps you’re losing your mind.” Frank said, breaking the magic of the moment forever.

I opened my eyes and looked at him with a severe expression on my face. “Don’t be ridiculous, old man. I don’t get sick.” I said.

“How long since you have been feeling this presence?” Frank asked, continuing his interrogation.

“Months. But in the last several weeks, I have been feeling it growing stronger, closer.” I explained.

The old man put the pen down on the table and reached for his scotch.

“There are entities—spirits or demons, if you will. Sometimes they get reckless. Other times, they’re sent by others for a purpose.” Frank said, assuming a serious expression just before drinking from the glass.

It had to be the mother of all jokes—dying just to find out that your soul has become the courier of another. A pile of lies, all of it.

“I didn’t come here for a fairy tale,” I said.

Frank put the glass back on the table.

“I know you don’t believe in heaven or hell, and maybe that’s why this is happening to you.” He added.

His assumption really made me furious.

“It is not that I don’t believe. It’s that I haven’t found a reason to do so.” I said in a serious tone. “After more than two centuries, I can honestly tell you that there’s no other godlike creature out there but me,” I continued.

The old man swallowed hard. “Maybe now is when you get your reasons,” he said.

I knew the man: This newfound faith was just a masquerade.

“Fine, if it is a demon, a spirit, an angel, or God himself, just let me know!” I said.

The old man nodded in approval, as if agreeing with me. But I knew better than that.

“Eso es lo que deberías hacer, invitalo a venir,” he suggested, grabbing his pen again. “That’s what you should do—welcome it in. I’ll call the spirits and try to find out something.”

“Just get back at me before you die,” I said, trying to provoke him.

Wisely, the old man ignored my comment and, in all accounts, nodded and kept writing in his notebook. “Your phone number still the same?” he asked.

I moved fast, looking for the exit. “Yes, old man,” I said in a ghostly whisper.

Sometimes I can’t help being so dramatic.

I walked outside and found the full moon again. I stared at it and wondered if she could be looking at it at the same exact moment. I tried to concentrate in the now, but my memories sometimes take the best of me.

I sensed the scent of Frank approaching from inside the house. He stopped just at the back entrance. I knew what he was about to say, and I didn’t want to hear it.