Michael's Blood

by S S Bazinet

  Dammit! What’s going on?

  After he felt a little better, he got to his feet again. Shaking off his bodily woes, he turned to the bed and the woman who still required a bit of his attention.

  Arrange Carol’s body respectfully, and you’re done.

  A few minutes later, he smiled again. The room was back to normal, and Carol looked peaceful under the white coverlet. He’d done a very nice job all around. He bent over to kiss her cheek. “Thank you, dear lady. I’m forever in your debt.”

  He was about to stand up when the nausea hit even harder. The pressing discomfort turned into a horrible urge to vomit. His lips barely left Carol’s cheek when the queasiness struck so compellingly that he had no time to move. The vomiting started, not meekly, but with an explosive force. A massive quantity of blood spewed out of him, splattering everything in its path. Carol’s body, the bedclothes, and the walls became a gruesome canvas of gore. Serene and pure became alarming and putrid. But he couldn’t stop heaving. The heavy, dark wine of death kept coming. Deeply spoiled, it sprung from some inner source of grisly darkness, propelled by a force that he couldn’t control.

  Wave after wave poured out of him. Blood soaked his clothes and drooled from his mouth. Choking on his vomit, he couldn’t breathe. He gasped and sputtered. The room started spinning. As he tried to steady himself, he felt Carol move beneath him. He tried to jerk back, to escape her grasping hand, but she was too quick. She had hold of his shirt and held him fast. When she opened her mouth, her teeth were razor sharp, ready for revenge, ready for his blood now. He struggled helplessly, suddenly weak and incapable, loathing what Carol had become. His spawn, his demonic issue stared back at him with lifeless, greedy eyes. He’d created a new monster who would soon feed on others, but first on him.

  * * * * *

  Arel woke up gagging and struggling for air.

  Just a nightmare! I was dreaming!

  The bed clothes had a suffocating effect, trapping him beneath their bunched-up layers. He tried to throw them off with hands that were shaking so badly they seemed incapable of functioning. When he finally managed to free himself, he sat up so fast that he almost fell off the side of the bed. He caught himself and clung to the silky comforter for support.

  Breathe, calm yourself and breathe.

  Saliva dripped down his chin. He tried to swallow and thought about the blood, the horrid taste of it when he was vomiting it out. There was bile rising in his throat now. Was the dream telling him that he could actually kill someone? Would he ever want to hurt the real Carol?

  He clasped a trembling hand to his chest. His heart was pounding. Michael had often discussed the function of the heart. The vessel was a repository for the truth. If Arel listened to what it said, it wouldn’t lie to him.

  He sighed with relief. “If I did make love to you, Carol, I would never hurt you.”

  He thought about the part of the dream that he liked. In it, he was strong again, in his young man prime. He didn’t look like some frightening ogre. He was handsome, with a body that a woman like Carol could covet. If he ever achieved such a physical state again and he met Carol, he’d be gentle and appreciative.

  His voice became a whisper. “I’d love you in the same way that I loved Justina.”

  As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. If he was ever given the opportunity to love again, he would never allow that love to end like it did with Justina.

  Justina, my beloved, I still miss you so much. If I could touch you one more time—

  He reached out, wanting to caress the only woman he’d ever been with. His hand was shaking harder than before. Putting it to his head, he realized that the fever was back. He was on fire again.

  He let his hand drop to the bed. He wasn’t young. He wasn’t strong. He was hardly a man anymore.

  If Carol saw me, she’d laugh at what a pitiful thing I am.

  He stood up and seized the heavy, carved bedpost for support. Hugging the massive piece of wood, he felt even weaker and more inadequate.

  Face facts, no one will ever want you again.

  The thought was too much to bear alone. Pushing his failing body off the post, he stumbled over to his dresser and turned on a lamp. Its glow was timid, barely spotlighting the area and leaving the rest of the room in relative darkness. But his hand knew the way to an alabaster box on the dresser. It held a small, gold key. Once he retrieved it, he had to steady his fingers in order to unlock the center drawer of the dresser. Feeling his way through its contents, he found what he was looking for, a miniature, framed picture of a woman.

  How foolish I am to keep it locked away. Who would take it?

  But he had to safeguard the photo, no matter how irrational. He fingered the glass that separated him from the image of Justina. “My dearest, look at what I’ve become.” His chest caved as he remembered her, how much she loved him. “Would you still want me now?”

  “I think that she would.”

  A voice answered out of the darkness, making him startle and jerk around. Who had dared to breach his privacy? Clutching the picture, he held it tight against his chest. When he scanned the deep shadows of the room, he saw a woman sitting on his bed. “Who are you?” His tone was raspy and demanding, but his initial panic was gone. His senses were acute in times of danger. They told him that the person in his room posed no threat.

  “My name is Abrigail. I’m a friend of Michael’s.”

  Michael! What’s he up to now?

  He paused for only a moment before he had a second panic attack.

  Why isn’t Michael here? What if Michael left me?

  Abrigail immediately spoke up. “Michael hasn’t gone anywhere, but he said you might enjoy some company other than his own.”

  “I don’t want any company, period.” His hold on the photo relaxed a little as he stepped forward, getting a feel for his guest’s energy. After all his years around Michael, he was quite capable of knowing when an angel was near. But he’d never been exposed to one that had a feminine quality. As he tuned in a little more, he felt that this angel was milder, more yielding than Michael.

  Abrigail seemed to understand what he was doing and laughed softly. “If you want, I could help you search much deeper. With a little assistance, you could learn a lot more about the angelic realm.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I know enough already, too much.”

  Abrigail laughed again and stood up. As she emerged from the shadows, she was still smiling. Her slender figure was clothed in a pale blue dress. “I understand how you feel,” she said.

  Arel glared back at her. “I’m sure you think that you do, but your kind has no idea about what a human experiences.”

  Abrigail ignored his statement and put out her hand. “May I see the picture that you’re holding?”

  He pulled back. “No!” His voice was sharp, protective.

  She belongs to me!

  Abrigail held her ground. “Please.”

  His grip tightened. Maybe he was wrong. This angel was more assertive than she looked. “Justina is none of your business.”

  “She loved you with all her heart, didn’t she?”

  His eyes flickered anxiously. Abrigail did seem to understand some things. The last time that he had been with Justina, she had worshiped him. She’d loved him too much. That was the reason for their quarrel, for the violence that followed. He’d kept the details of that event hidden for so many years, yet Abrigail’s question had resurrected them.

  He felt sick again. “If only things hadn’t escalated so fast that last night, if only it hadn’t ended like it did, with her dead in my arms.”

  As he spoke, his body began to lose what little strength it had. His arms fell to his sides. The photo slipped out of his hand. What good would it do him now? Falling back against the dresser, he couldn’t focus. Everything was going black. He was passing out.

  Ten

  AREL SHOULD HAVE been thankful to Abrigail. She had been very kind in assisting him
recover after he fainted. Now, he sat on the living area sofa, hugging the corner of the couch. Instead of offering her his gratitude, he frowned at her resentfully. He didn’t need another angel in his life, especially one who insisted on talking about Justina. “You can go now, Michael’s friend. And thanks for helping me to understand your kind a little better. Michael isn’t a fluke. You’re all bent on finding ways to make me more miserable.”

  Abrigail sat on the other end of the sofa. Her face was full of wonder and surprise. “Why would either of us want to do that?”

  Arel rubbed at his temples. “I don’t know. I’m too exhausted to think about why.” He wasn’t dizzy now, but he was still hot. He clasped at his hands, trying to still their movement. At first, he’d noticed an ordinary trembling that was normal to bodies that were afraid or weak. As the weeks passed, the condition had escalated into a rough shakiness that hit him whenever he was stressed. He was shaky most of the time.

  “I was a wreck before this started. Now look at me.” He held out a hand that seemed intent on tapping out some kind of frantic Morse code. “What chance do I have of surviving? A million Michael cells are attacking every part of me. When it’s over, there’ll be nothing left.”

  “What will be left is the real you, the person who’s buried beneath the pain that you’re feeling.”

  “And I’m supposed to be happy about that? People hide behind the pain for a reason. It’s there so they can live with themselves.” He glanced at the photo of Justina on the coffee table. “When I think about my life, I see my mistakes, horrible mistakes.”

  Abrigail glanced at the photo and back at him. “Tell me about her? Tell me how you met.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve already told me the worst. I’d like to know about the parts that were good.”

  “The good parts?” He leaned back into the deep plush of the sofa, surprised by Abrigail’s inquiry. He didn’t usually think about the joys of being with Justina. “The relationship wasn’t something that I expected.” He paused. “How could I have known that I was going to find the woman I’d always dreamed of? I wish I could have fallen in love before I became a, you know, what I am. Maybe I could have married and had a family like a normal person. But for me, love came after my life changed course.”

  He remembered the night when he’d first seen Justina, first glimpsed the woman who’d open doors that should have remained closed. Still, there was a slight stir of movement in his chest as a bit of the pain shifted, allowing the tiniest glimmer of joy. It encouraged him to go on.

  “I was at the theatre. It was one of the few places that could distract me from the hell I was in. As usual, after the performance, I was in a rush to get back to my room. I didn’t feel comfortable around people. I was hurrying through the door and didn’t see Justina. She had dropped her program, and I bumped into her. I was so embarrassed. I almost knocked her over, but I was quick. I caught her as she fell, pulled her back. And then she was in my arms.”

  He’d been young and strong in those days. When he grabbed Justina, she felt light and delicate. Like a rare flower, it was natural to draw her close. Instinctively, he inhaled the scent of jasmine in her hair, on her neck. The moment was brief, but long enough for him to know that he already wanted her. When she looked up at him and their eyes met, he knew that his feelings were mutual.

  “Justina was the first woman I held like that. Before I met her, I couldn’t approach women. I was too shy. I wasn’t like William.”

  Abrigail stirred slightly, looking curious again. “How was William different?”

  He frowned and let out a snort of disgust. “I never wanted to know about William’s exploits with women. Even before he became a monster, there was something about his eyes, a lack of anything caring in them. Women were just playthings that he enjoyed for an evening. For me, women were beautiful, mystifying beings.”

  “And Justina, was she what you thought a woman should be?”

  “She was more than that.” He shut his eyes and held the memories close, just as he’d held Justina’s photo close. “When we were together, we couldn’t get enough of each other. Everything felt right and good.”

  Justina was as ravenous a creature as he was. She’d responded to him from the moment he’d first brushed her cheek with a kiss. Still, he tried to go slowly, but she was impulsive and rash.

  She was so young, you fool. Not even twenty. You were the first man in her life. All she knew was to give you her heart and her body. She had no concept of waiting or games.

  “I can’t deny that when I kissed her that first time, I was so eager.” He looked away with a flush of embarrassment. “Sorry, I know that isn’t part of your world.”

  “Love and the physical are meant to go hand and hand,” Abrigail said with a smile. “It’s very natural.”

  “I wanted Justina completely, but I was used to control after dealing with the curse. I knew how to be patient. Justina didn’t seem to worry about anything. She was so alive, so playful, so ready to embrace life and me. I tried very hard to honor her, to protect her.”

  And you did. That part was good. You can be proud of that part.

  He smiled as he remembered himself as that young man. “I guess I did okay. She was happy when I was with her. We both lost touch with everything when we were together. It’s like our love built a wall around us, shielding us from the outside, from the real world.”

  Abrigail reached for the photo that lay on the coffee table, interrupting his musings. “She was lovely.”

  He watched as Abrigail carefully ran her slender fingers over the tiny, gold rosettes that framed the photo. It was easy to see that having a body, sensing things in a tactile way, was new to her.

  “You don’t know much about desire, do you?” he asked, feeling the distance between their worlds begin to widen.

  Abrigail gave him a quick glance. “Desire isn’t something that only humans feel.” Her tone was forceful and conveyed her own passion. “It’s part of all of us. Love is a state, yes, but when it becomes active, it becomes desire. The Creator desired both me and you.”

  “Desired me? Why? Did he need a whipping boy?” He lifted his chin defiantly and looked down at her. “Did he want me living in a family where I had a mother hating me and a father who beat the hell out of me?”

  Abrigail shook her head as she looked at the photo again. “No, that’s the world of human failings. Divine love is present in the heart. It was in Justina’s heart. She wanted a life with you.”

  The remark was like a hard slap to his face. It brought him back from his self-pity, back to Justina. “You’re right. She wanted walks in the park on a sunny day, a church wedding. What could I say to that?”

  Abrigail leaned over and put her hand on one of the cushions that separated them. “But more than any of those things, she wanted you.”

  He cringed as if Abrigail had struck him again. “Justina didn’t know what I was, what I’d become!”

  Abrigail leaned in closer. “You said that you had that part under control. Perhaps, if you had told her the truth, she would have been happy to simply have what you could give her, the real you that existed in spite of the rest.”

  He looked away, trying to remember if he did have something of worth to offer Justina. After a moment, he swallowed the bitter truth. “Once the bloom of first love withered, once she saw what was underneath the sweetness and the charm, she wouldn’t have wanted me.”

  “Would you have stopped loving her?”

  “Never!” How could he have stopped loving Justina? She was his world. His face flushed a deeper red as his heart raced. “But she would have tired of me. I guess William was right. I was and am a walking misery.”

  “But you said Justina and the love that you shared was a gift. Why didn’t you trust that it could sustain itself, that the love between you could grow and lift you out of that misery?”

  “Love is the biggest lie of all. In the end, it’s what destroyed both of us.
”

  “How?”

  “It was Justina being in love that made her want things. She begged me to marry her. She said that if I loved her, that I would.”

  Flashes of the fight they’d had on the night that Justina died wanted to surface. He stiffened in protest.

  I’ll be damned if I let myself go there.

  He glared back at Abrigail, but he managed to keep his tone even and steady. “I tried to reason with her. I truly did care. I truly did adore her, but she turned it around. When I told her that I’d ruin her life, she thought that I wanted to get rid of her.” His shoulders sagged with resignation. “Strange, isn’t it? Loving Justina meant that I had to let her go. I didn’t want to hurt her. I couldn’t let her marry a blood lusting fiend or a hopeless, despairing loser. But she took everything I said as evidence that I’d never cared about her, that I’d lied when I told her how beautiful she was, how she deserved someone so much better.

  “The more we argued, the worse it got. Justina became inconsolable. She begged me not to leave, to prove that I loved her.” He clenched his fists, not wanting to go on. But he couldn’t forget Justina’s face. It was livid with rage as she screamed at him, demanding that he give her more than he had to give. “If only she would have let me go. Why couldn’t she let me go? After that, I don’t know . . . I can’t remember what happened next.”

  A void, a black lapse of memory had always haunted him. It was followed by the worst nightmare imaginable. The next thing that he remembered was holding Justina. She was limp and covered with blood. He kept shaking her, refusing to believe that she was dead, but it was no use.

  “I must have gone insane. I must have killed her.” As he let the words come out in a whisper, he found himself once again in the past. Justina lay in his arms. How desperately he’d tried to breathe life back into her body, pressing his mouth against hers over and over. He’d begged God for mercy. “Oh please, please don’t let her be dead. Kill me! Cut me into a thousand pieces, but don’t let it end like this.” But nothing could bring her back. His frantic kisses and tears anointed bloodless cheeks that grew cold as the hours slipped by. Still, he couldn’t stop rocking her. He couldn’t stop holding her to his breast, trying to numb the pain that tore open his heart. Everything in his life that was beautiful had died with Justina. Eventually, a terrible sorrow stripped him bare, leaving him adrift in hopelessness and despair. His words became a mantra of grief. “Oh, my sweet darling, what have I done, what have I done?”