by Kristie Cook
“Really? So how old are you?”
“Well, um . . .” I’d never heard so many “well, um’s” come from Tristan, never seen him so uncomfortable. He really didn’t want to tell me. “I was, uh, born in 1743, but I don’t like to think of it that way. I prefer to be somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four.”
My mouth dropped as I held the coffee pot in mid-air. What the . . . ? Then several things flew through my mind . . . his quick reflexes and uncanny physical abilities on the basketball court . . . his travels all over the world . . . he could heal . . . his strength . . . how he appeared in my kitchen when there was no reason the back door would be unlocked . . . the fire in his eyes . . . Mom at the store, stressing how much blood there was . . . . I inhaled sharply. He sucked my blood!
“Oh! Oh, oh, oh!” The coffee pot shook in my hand and then began sliding through my fingers, but I was in too much shock to do anything but watch it fall. Just before it hit the floor, Tristan’s hand darted down and caught it. I jumped back several feet. “Oh, holy crap! You are a vampire!”
He looked at me and something flickered in his eyes.
“Alexis,” he said as he set the pot on the counter, “don’t be absurd.”
“Absurd?” I shrieked, backing away from him. “I know vampires. I read and watch and research and write about them all the time. And you have all the characteristics! Well, except the pale skin. And you can go out in the sun. And you don’t have fangs or anything. But maybe those are just myths . . . .”
“Alexis, are you listening to yourself?”
I stopped and stared at him. And then I realized what I said and knew he was right. It was quite absurd. But the whole night was completely absurd.
“Are you listening to yourself?” I shot back. “All night long . . . all these things about you . . . . Or are you making them up, still thinking I have some fantasy to be with a vampire?”
He chuckled. “I promise you, that’s not what I’m doing. Please stop thinking such nonsense.”
“Well . . .” Frustration overwhelmed me. “I’m sorry! But this night is completely crazy! What with almost being killed and you and everything else . . . I mean, I’m totally freaked out! At this point, I’m not sure what to believe!”
“Do you know how you weren’t killed?” he asked calmly.
“Yeah, I know . . . you yanked us off the ladders. That doesn’t mean anything. If vampires really exist . . . well, if you are one, then I know you’d be a good one.”
“I didn’t yank you off the ladders. Not the way you’re thinking, anyway. Last I checked, vampires couldn’t do this.” He flicked his hand and somehow I flew the eight or so feet between us and was suddenly in Tristan’s arms. My breath caught and my heart stopped beating. “That’s how you and Sophia didn’t end up under the car.”
“How . . . did you . . . do that?” I croaked.
“It’s a special . . . ability,” he said quietly.
“Don’t let go of me,” I whispered, “or I might pass out.”
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his lips right against my ear. “I like you right where you are.”
“You’re really not a vampire?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. I’m much more dangerous.” He lowered his mouth against my neck and sucked lightly. “But I can pretend to be one, if you ever want me to.”
“Tristan . . .”
“Sorry. But you do taste quite delicious.” He sucked again.
“Tristan.” I squirmed out of his arms. “You’re distracting me.”
“Good.” He grinned. I rolled my eyes. “Then what would you like to do while we wait for Sophia?”
I returned to making the coffee, filling the pot with water.
“Tell me more, what you can tell me. Are you really that . . . old?”
The smile disappeared and he didn’t answer for several moments. “Yes, I am. But, like I said, I prefer not to think about it like that. You’ll understand—I hope, anyway—by the time the night is over.”
I could tell there was something ominous coming later. I hated having to wait for it, but I wanted complete answers, which I wouldn’t get without Mom.
“Okay, then . . .” I poured the water into the coffee maker and turned it on while trying to think of a different subject. “So, uh . . . if you went to med school, how come you’re not a doctor? Oh, wait. You probably are, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “No, I could never complete the program, since I didn’t age through it.”
I could actually understand that. “Oh, yeah, right. Mom’s had similar . . . problems.”
He looked at me for a long moment and then took my hands into his and gently pulled me closer to him. “Alexis, you’re going to find out some things about me . . . about my past . . . that you won’t like. It may be enough to make you detest me and never want to see me again.”
I shook my head. “I highly doubt that.”
“Don’t decide yet. Hear it all out. But I need to tell you something, in case this is my last chance.” He cupped his hands on each side of my face, holding me there so he could gaze directly into my eyes. “Alexis . . . you are my soul mate. I’ve loved you since the day you first sat next to me in that women’s studies class. I didn’t know it then, but I can’t deny it now. Now that you’re going to find out who I really am, you’ll understand how incredibly amazing, but so unexpected this is. I didn’t even know I could love anyone. But . . . I love you, ma lykita.”
I stared back into his eyes and, although I knew he wasn’t who I thought he was—not normal, in other words—I still felt what I felt. So when he pressed his mouth against mine, I happily kissed him back. As he continued to kiss me, his hands slowly slid down my neck, over my shoulders and down my arms. I cringed as sharp pains shot through my forearms at his touch.
He abruptly pulled back and lifted my wrists in each of his hands, studying my arms.
“Ah, shit,” he muttered.
I looked down to see what caught his attention. Two bumps on my left forearm and three more on my right, bigger than large mosquito bites, swelled under my skin. “What are they?”
“Glass. You healed with pieces of glass still in the wounds.”
“What?” I knew he spoke real words, but I couldn’t grasp the meaning. It just wasn’t registering.
“Alexis . . . your skin grew around them.”
I stared at my arms. That’s a new one. I’d never thought of it being an issue before and now that I did—imagining the glass embedded under my skin—my stomach clenched.
“Ew,” I breathed, totally incapable of saying anything else, not able to take my eyes off the lumps in my skin.
“Where does Sophia keep her medical kit?” Tristan asked. He started throwing open and banging closed the kitchen cabinet doors.
“Um . . . in her bathroom, I think. Why?”
He took my hand and pulled me toward the hallway and Mom’s bedroom.
“I need to see if she has a scalpel in there.”
“What?” I stopped as if I’d run into an invisible brick wall, yanking him to a halt.
“We need to get the glass out, while it’s still close to the surface.”
I gulped.
“You have to cut it out?” I looked at the lumps on my arms, imagining the cutting and digging. My head became light and woozy as the blood drained to my feet.
“You’re turning green,” he said, wrapping his arm around my waist. “You okay?”
“Um . . . no!” Sweat beads popped out on my forehead.
Mom came through the front door just then, quickly shutting and locking it behind her. She gave us a strange look as we just stood there in the hallway.
“Honey, are you okay?” she asked, concern quickly filling her eyes. “You’re green.”
I lifted my arms for her to see. I could tell she knew immediately what was wrong—her whole body seemed to sink in defeat.
“Can this night get any worse?” she muttered.
&nbs
p; “Tristan says we have to cut them out?” I made it a question, really hoping she had a better idea.
She quickly regained her composure and started barking orders. “Tristan, get some old towels from the broom closet. I’ll get my kit. You, Alexis, just sit and put your head between your legs. You really don’t look so good.”
Within a few minutes, my desk lamp was set up on the kitchen table, the bright light glinting off a scalpel, tweezers, a needle and syringe and a small glass bottle. Mom sat down on my right side, taking my hand to stretch my arm across a folded towel for padding.
“Uh . . . maybe Tristan should do it,” I said apprehensively. “I mean, he did go to medical school and all.”
Mom glanced up at Tristan, who still stood beside me.
“Yeah, there’s been a lot that’s come out already,” he admitted. “But I think you’d better do this. Your hands are smaller.”
He gave her a quick run-down of what I already knew as he sat in the chair to my left and took my free hand into his.
“Don’t worry, Alexis, I know what I’m doing, too,” Mom said. She slid the needle into the rubber top of the bottle and filled the syringe with a clear liquid. “I used to be a nurse, after all.”
“Seriously?” I asked. “I never knew that.”
“Actually, that’s how I first met Tristan. During the Second World War—”
“The Second World War?” I flinched more from surprise at what she said than from the needle she just stuck into my arm. “That was, what, the nineteen-forties? But . . . you’re only forty-three. You weren’t even born yet!”
“Yes, well, that was easier for you to understand, when you did the math. But I’m actually . . . a-hundred-and-sixteen.”
“What?” I stared at her in shock and a hysteric laugh burst out. They’re both so old! “But . . . how? Will I be like that, too?”
“I can’t answer the first one and yes to the second.” She stood up and poured us all a cup of coffee as I tried to absorb that, but I couldn’t. I’m going to live that long . . . or longer? I looked at Tristan and he squeezed my hand.
“Think your mom’s a vampire, too? Or you, for that matter?” he asked with a small smile.
“Vampires? Ha! If only it was so simple,” Mom said, bringing our coffee cups over to the table. She sat back down and we sipped our coffee for a few moments, waiting for the anesthetic to take effect. She pressed her fingers in several places along my forearm.
“Can you feel that?”
“No.” I really didn’t know if it was from the anesthetic or if I numbed all over from renewed shock.
She picked up the scalpel and I must have turned green again.
“You probably shouldn’t watch,” she said.
I lay my head against the table, looking away, toward Tristan. He brushed my hair back and stroked my cheek. I felt pressure on my arm, but no pain. I concentrated on Tristan’s face, trying hard not to visualize what I felt.
“So . . . to start at the beginning,” Mom said as she worked, “we—me, you, our family—are a part of the Amadis. The best I can explain it for now is the Amadis is like a society or culture. Our family is the original Amadis, but others have joined us.”
“Like a cult?” I asked, looking up in surprise.
Mom shook her head. “No, not a cult. It’s the society or civilization for . . . people like us.”
“There are other people like us?”
“Not exactly like us . . . but they’re not like normal people either. That’s all I can say for now.” She picked up the tweezers, about to poke them into the hole in my arm. I lay my head back down.
“So our family started this uh-MOD-eez”—I sounded out the foreign word—“but others have joined it?”
“Right. Others who are sort of like us and want to live like us—for good, not evil. So, the Amadis, our family, and Tristan’s . . .”
She hesitated, like she didn’t know what to call Tristan’s relatives.
“Creators,” he filled in for her, his voice hard. “I’m telling everything about me, so let’s just get it out there. I was technically born, but those were not anything I would call parents. It’s more accurate to say I was created. Genetically designed . . . to be the ultimate warrior.”
Chapter 12
Genetically designed? The ultimate warrior? I wanted to laugh—it sounded ludicrous—but Tristan’s face was completely serious.
“The ultimate warrior for the Daemoni,” Mom said, disgust filling that last word, and I knew this was no joke. “The Amadis and the Daemoni are, well, we’ll just say innate enemies. You’ll have to wait for the story behind it, but you can understand I mean much more than rivals or feuding families. Our very kinds are, by nature, opposites.”
“Our kinds? What does that mean?”
The tugging sensation in my arm stopped as Mom sighed in frustration. “Honey, you just have to accept some things as just the way they are without further explanation. Yes, our kinds, as in our kinds of species.”
My head shot up again. “Species? We’re not even human? What the hell are we, aliens?”
To my complete bewilderment, both Mom and Tristan chuckled.
“We’re human . . . sort of,” Mom said, “just different than everyone else, which you already knew. And that’s all I can say. Besides, you’re still very much human and you will be for a long time.”
Of course. The Ang’dora. So the Ang’dora would make me less human . . . and more like Mom. She didn’t seem like a different species, though.
“You can’t say things like that and not explain.”
She studied my face for a moment. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair, but I’m not allowed to go into it. This is about Tristan, not us. I can only tell you what you need to know to understand him.”
“But you’re saying he’s a different kind than us! How am I supposed to understand?”
“I’m not, really, a different kind, I mean,” Tristan said. “Just be patient. You’ll understand soon.”
My eyes bounced between the two of them. Tristan looked apologetic—like he understood my frustration and wanted to tell me more. But Mom’s face was set firmly. She wouldn’t budge.
“Okay, fine,” I sighed. “So our family—”
“My side of your family,” Mom corrected. Of course, there’s another side. I tended to forget that. The sperm-donor, as I referred to him when I had to, had never been a part of my life and Mom never spoke of him. Now there seemed to be a reason why she made that distinction . . . but she quickly jumped on my thought. “No, I can’t tell you about the other side right now.”
She bent her head over my arm again, squirting it with water to flush out the blood. Then she picked up the tweezers.
“Right. Of course not,” I mumbled, laying my head back down. I didn’t mind avoiding that topic as much as the others. “So, the Amadis . . . if we are natural enemies of the . . . ?”
I couldn’t remember the word.
“Daemoni,” Mom filled in.
“Right. Day-MAH-nee. And the Daemoni created Tristan, then he is . . . ?”
Tristan’s face darkened and his eyes dropped from mine.
“Basically . . . designed to kill your kind,” he said grimly, wincing at his own words, as if they physically hurt him. “Their main purpose in creating me was to lead them into victory over the Amadis . . . and, eventually, humankind. The instinctual desire to seek your kind out and kill without hesitation was bred into me.”
I raised my head and tried to gulp down the boulder-sized lump in my throat. It remained stuck.
“Kill us?” I whispered around it.
He slowly lifted his eyes back to mine. They looked horribly pained.
“But . . . you’re not a killer,” I said quietly, finding this more difficult to believe than anything else they’d told me . . . or not told me. He dropped his eyes again and stared at our hands, mine in his, in his lap. I had sensed a bit of danger in him. But murder? It didn’t make sense. I
shook my head in denial.
“I have killed people, Alexis,” he answered just as quietly, still keeping his eyes from mine. “Innocent people. Amadis. That was my way of life.”
I gulped and blinked back the tears stinging my eyes.
“Was your way of life, but not anymore,” Mom added. “Right, Tristan?”
“Absolutely right,” he said fiercely. “I turned my back on that many, many years ago, before you were born, Alexis, thanks to Sophia. She persuaded me to see the Daemoni from a different perspective and I saw how evil they were . . . how evil I was. They are, in all respects of the word, demons. Evil spirits. Followers and soldiers of Satan himself.”
His voice was cold, his face contorted in disgust. A chill traveled up my spine.
Looking at him and knowing him the way I did, I just couldn’t believe it. Then I thought about the flames I’d seen in his eyes. And how, this very night, he’d said he was much more dangerous than a vampire. I’d thought he was joking at the time. I shivered. He frowned, his brows furrowing.
“A little over twenty years ago, Sophia somehow convinced me there was good inside me,” he continued, his tone and expression softening from revulsion to appreciation with each word. “She took me to the Amadis and they taught me how to change inside, how to pull that good out and allow it to be the overpowering force within me.”
“See, in their greedy desire to create the perfect warrior, the Daemoni underestimated the power of two types of blood they included in Tristan’s,” Mom explained. “There is enough Amadis and enough humanity in him that he was able to overcome the evil.”
“So, you have Amadis in you? You are like us?” I asked, feeling hopeful after all the repulsive information they’d told me about the man I loved.
“If you trace it back several centuries, we have ancestors in common. I do have Amadis blood, but that doesn’t make it easy to be like you.”
“Tristan’s been through a lot of pain and turmoil to strengthen this side of him,” Mom added.
“It still takes solid concentration and self-control, but it’s worth it. I’ll never return to who—or what—I once was.” The conviction was clear in his voice—as clear as the pain. “So . . . I came here to find you and Sophia, but I knew it had to be done in a certain way. It had to be in a place where you would be safe, just in case . . . . The Amadis told me you were taking classes at the college here, so I enrolled, too, hoping we would cross paths and I knew I could be around you without having an overwhelming urge to . . .”