by Lund, S. E.
"If that comforts you, believe it," Vasily says.
"Do you see wings?" I say, staring at Vasily.
"Seeing is believing," Vasily replies.
The other vampires take seats around the room, murmuring in muted conversation as they wait for Michel and Julien to finish. Michel comes to me and lifts my chin so that I have to look in his eyes
"How are you?"
I shake my head, unable to speak.
"Come," Michel says, offering me his hand, leading into the bedroom. When the door closes, he pulls me against his body and leans against the closed door. His wings curve around us as if in protection and when he presses his lips against my neck, a connection forms between us. I'm overwhelmed with his emotions – pain and longing, desire for me, hunger for my blood, frustration at the way he can't completely control any of his emotions. The intensity makes me momentarily dizzy, but then he begins to recede until he's only a presence at the edges of my awareness.
He strokes my neck. Pressed against him as I am, I lay my hands on his skin, which feels as cool and smooth as marble, yet vital rather than unyielding. Almost touching me are feathers from the wings and I long to reach out and touch one to see if it's real.
"Tell me what you are," I say. "You and Julien."
"We're still us," he says. "What do you think we are?"
I shake my head, not wanting to sound stupid. He says nothing, just waits. Finally, I take a chance.
"I haven't read anything about vampires having wings. There are stories of vampires turning into bats, or even ravens, but not," I say, hesitating, knowing it sounds ridiculous. "Not angels."
"Why is it so hard to believe?"
"I don't believe any of it," I say. "I'm a scientist."
He tips my chin up so I look directly into his eyes.
"And when a scientist is confronted with new evidence, she incorporates it into her understanding of how the world works."
I resist his reasoning.
"When you no longer trust your own senses, how can you trust the evidence? There has to be some physical reason for this," I say. "For these." I reach out but don't touch one of the black feathers just inches from his shoulder.
"Go ahead," he says. "They're real."
It feels like any other feather I've touched, only on a much grander scale. The same barbs, woven together to form the fabric of the feather, the thick hollow rib in the center, and an iridescent shine created by the diffraction of light through the layer of pigment molecules. Undeniably a feather and undeniably wings.
His face is calm, so beautiful in its ivory perfection.
"What happened to you? You've changed."
"We finally gave in to what Soren had planned for us."
I take in a deep breath.
"I've gone completely insane." I say, despair welling up inside of me. "You and everything that's happened? A psychotic break."
He presses his forehead against mine briefly.
"Trust yourself." He brushes hair from my face. "This is more real than what you think is reality."
"I give in," I say, tears stinging my eyes, certain that I am in fact insane, the break with reality I had as a child after my mother died returning due to stress. I'm trapped in my delusions. "Whatever this is, I can't fight it."
He cups my cheek with his hand, and wipes away a tear with his thumb.
"Don't despair," he says, his voice filled with emotion. "You aren't insane. You merely see things too well and that's your great tragedy."
He bends down and kisses me, softly, a kiss more of compassion than lust, and I reciprocate, reaching up to hold his face, not caring any longer whether I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome or psychosis.
After a moment, he lets more of himself fill me and a wave of raw emotion sweeps over me, almost overwhelming me with its intensity. Need, desire, lust, hunger, fear. Every emotion is mirrored in my own body and mind until I didn't know where I end and he begins, what are his emotions and what are mine. Then he pulls completely back, withdrawing so that all I feel is his physical presence, his skin against my hands, his mouth on mine. He breaks the kiss, but keeps his forehead against mine.
"I have to go back," he says. "They're expecting us to lay out our plans, discuss our strategy. We had to do this to be free," he says, brushing hair off my cheek. "But know this. You're not Julien's. You're mine. He may have marked you first. He may have had your body. But you're mine and he won't touch you again. That was all for show for we need to project a united front." He kisses me again. "We have to become everything we despise. We have to become monsters. Don't hate me, Eve, for what I've done and what I'll do. One day, you'll understand."
He leaves the room, closing the door behind him. In the darkness, I notice a faint shimmer on my hand from touching his wing. In the moonlight flooding in from the window, it shines like diamond dust.
I go to the bathroom and stand in the darkness, letting my eyes adjust. Then, I rub the dust against my neck, the flecks like a spray of faint stars against the endless blackness of space.
Chapter 44
We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal."
Tennessee Williams
I WAKE MUCH LATER and all is quiet in the suite. I expected Michel to come in with me during the night, but he hasn't. I slip out of bed and tiptoe to the door, cracking it open to see if Michel or Vasily are still up. The lights are out and so I leave my room and walk barefoot through the hallway searching for him.
The room is empty. I find him standing at the window in the living area, looking out over the cityscape in the distance, his wings hidden and he's now just a man. He turns to me.
"Eve – is something wrong?"
I go to him and take his hand, then I lean on him, my cheek against his chest. He says nothing, but I hear his sharp intake of breath. He slips his other arm around my waist and leans down, his lips pressed on the bite on my neck.
"Since I'm insane now," I whisper. "I might as well just give in. You can have me anyway you want me," I say, my voice cracking from emotion. He pulls back and examines my face. "Whatever you need to do," I say. "It seems like the logical thing for me to do in this little delusional world I've created. I'll be your pet," I say. "That appeals to me so much. Anything you want."
"This isn't a delusion," he says, squeezing my shoulders. "Eve, this is real."
"It can't be real. I don't believe in angels and demons and vampires with wings."
"It's real. I now have the gift of transmutation. I can alter my body at will. That's all. I'm still the same."
"How can that be possible?"
"I told you before about the origin of vampires."
"The myth that fallen angels created you."
"Not a myth. It’s all there in Enoch. All vampires have this in them, but it’s suppressed by our human origins. This is just our nature being brought out. I drank the waters of life and have been purified."
"You took some kind of drug that activated some kind of psychic ability so you can project images at will. There's no way you can alter matter like this. It's not physically possible."
"It's not a delusion or a projection."
"I've gone insane,” I say. “That's the only explanation. I don't even believe in mental projection. It's not possible according to the laws of physics."
"The laws as humans know them you mean." He sighs. "How can I explain this in terms you'll understand?" He shakes his head for a moment. "Imagine self-assembling nanobots, controlled by an intelligence, converting energy into matter and back again."
"Occam's Razor – the simplest explanation is the most likely. I'm insane."
He sits on the couch and pulls me between his legs. I put my arms around his neck and lean in, pressing my cheek against his.
"How can I prove that you're not imagining this?"
"You can't," I say, rubbing my cheek against his. "You could do anything, and it could just be my own mind making it up. So I give up. I give in. Since this is a delusion,
I might as well enjoy it. I might as well go for everything."
I reach up and slide my hand behind his head, pulling him to me, kissing him, the feel of his cool lips on mine sending a wave of desire through me. He kisses me back, and for a moment, we connect and the kiss deepens, but just as my lips part, he pulls away.
"No," he says, "not like this. I don't want you like this."
"With me like what?" I run my fingers through his long bangs, brushing them out of his eyes, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Ready and willing? Can't you tell that I want you? I want it all. All in, like I said. No more doubt. No more resistance. I’m your little pet, your little blood slave."
"With you thinking you're psychotic. You think this is a delusion but I'm real. This," he says, placing my hand on his chest, "is real."
"Of course you'd say that." I wrap my arms around his neck again. "But real or delusion – who can tell? There's no way, so why bother to even try?"
He removes my hands from around his neck and pushes me away.
"Stop," he says, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Don't argue with me, Michel. I'm offering freely. Here," I say and pull my hair to the side, pulling down the strap of my nightgown, offering my neck, shoulder, and breast.
He shakes his head and I can see the desire in his eyes.
"I know you want it, Michel. I can tell when you touch me. You hate that Julien fed on me and fed me his blood. That I've tasted him and not you. Do it. Feed on me. Feed me your blood. Make me your little blood slave. You can't prove to me that this is real. I could be a brain in a vat and this is all just a simulation for all I know."
I close my eyes and wait. When he doesn't reply, I open my eyes. He holds a hand to his forehead as if thinking. He fixes my strap, and then pulls me out of the room and to the closet, handing me my coat. I slip it on, content to just let him do what he will with me.
"There is a way. Come."
"Nothing you do can prove this is real," I say, smiling at his sour expression.
"Care to bet on that?"
We go down the elevator to the first floor and he speaks to one of the guards, who removes a set of keys from a cabinet.
"Let's go," he says and pulls me outside into the chill night air. "I have something to show you."
We take the highway to Franklin Park. It's very late and the parking lot is empty. Michel helps me out of the car and takes my hand, leading me into the heart of the park beneath the trees. I'm following him in my nightgown and trench coat.
Deeper in the grove of trees, the scent of wet pine is strong. Memories of pine trees and the crash of surf against the rocks brings a feeling of melancholy that chases away my sense of abandon from earlier. We come upon people, some alone, some in pairs or small groups. They're smoking crack and shooting up. Others watch, waiting their turn. Michel releases my hand and motions for me to stay where I am.
I can see him despite the darkness, but the others can't. He stands behind the small group, his wings unfurled completely. The moonlight casts a soft silvery light on his skin, so that he resembles a cemetery angel standing watch over the dead. He bends down to one young man who sits alone on the grass and touches him briefly on the neck, but after a moment, passes him by. The young man doesn't even notice, just keeps staring off into the distance.
Michel slips through the tree and I follow, keeping him in sight. He goes to a scraggly young man fastening a belt around his bicep, preparing to shoot up. A young man sits on the ground in front of him, a lighter and spoon in hand. Michel goes to both men, his hand resting on their necks for a fleeting moment. Neither man notices his touch, as if Michel were nothing more than a light breeze on their skin instead of some kind of vampire fallen angel measuring their souls.
In a clearing deeper in the trees, another man stands off to the side counting money, licking his thumb as he flips the bills. Michel stands behind him, his wings spread out wide, and lays his hand on the man's neck. He closes his eyes for a moment, his head tilting to the side as if deciding. Then, the man drops the money on the ground as if his muscles have all relaxed, his mouth opening, his neck lolling back. I knew that feeling. Michel pulls him deeper into the trees and I follow, amazed at my own mind as it creates this strange scenario.
When Michel releases his grip, the man blinks as if awakening from a dream. He glances down for his wad of bills then searches around in alarm when he notices it's missing.
"My money—" He sees me and frowns. "Did you take my fucking money?"
I back away and he lunges at me, grabbing me by the hair when I turn to run.
"Give me my fucking money, bitch, or I'll fucking cut you."
He pulls a knife out of his pocket and wrenches my neck to the side. My heart races as I felt the coolness of the blade against the skin over my jugular and I realize how close to death I am. I fall into fight mode, time shifting, and I have him down on the grass, the knife out of his hand and in my hand at his neck instead. Michel appears before us, his wings stretched out full.
"Let him go, Eve," Michel says and I release him. Time returns to normal and the man stands and tries to run, but Michel's too fast, faster than me, grabbing him by the neck, lifting him up as if he weighs nothing, his feet dangling. The man tries to grab hold of Michel's hands but can't budge them.
"You're paying tonight, Alan," Michel says, his voice a harsh whisper. "For everything wrong you've done."
"What? What have I done?"
"For the man under the loading dock," Michel says. "For the girl in the flop house. For all of them." He throws Alan down, and Alan sprawls on the ground, scrabbling in the dirt, trying to stand up and run. Michel stands over him, a menacing figure of black wings, red eyes and long fangs. He follows Alan, never letting him get more than a few feet away before tripping him, kicking his feet out from underneath him each time he manages to rise. Soon, Alan's weeping, tears and snot mingling on his face, his expression one of pure terror.
"Stop! Oh my God, please stop!"
"Your God's forsaken you, Alan, and sent me instead," Michel says, his voice dripping with contempt. "I'm your god now. Your judge, jury and executioner."
I stand a few feet away, covering my mouth, not wanting to watch but unable to take my eyes off the scene playing out in front of me. I will Michel to stop, determined to have this end peacefully with Michel merely drinking the man's blood to satiate his thirst. Michel picks up Alan from behind and twists his neck to the side. He looks at me, his face so dark, his once-beautiful features such a hideous mask of rage that I barely recognize him.
"If this is a dream, Eve, wake up. If this is a delusion, will me to show mercy."
"Please," I say, wanting him to stop. "Don't hurt him."
"Time to die," he says, and then his fangs rip into Alan's neck. Alan screams in pain, wrestling around, his arms flailing, his legs kicking helplessly as he tries to escape Michel's grasp.
"Please God" Alan gasps, "please God stop!"
I will Michel to stop but he doesn't and soon, Alan's spraying blood out of his mouth, choking on blood, frothing red out of his mouth, his windpipe severed so that blood fills his lungs. Then his efforts flag and he goes limp in Michel's arms, emitting a hideous croak as he dies. Finally, Michel rips his head off and drops his body to the ground like he's no more than a sack of coal. He throws the head towards me and it comes to rest next to my foot. He looks at me, his mouth a bloody gash, his long teeth glinting in the moonlight.
"This," he says and wipes his mouth. "This is real."
I stand frozen in place, hands covering my mouth to keep from crying out loud, tears blurring my vision. Alan's eyes are half-lidded in his severed head, and bloody froth bubbles cover his mouth.
"Why?" I glance up at Michel, but he doesn't respond. Instead, he brushes past me and I follow, not knowing what else to do. He stops at the edge of the grove of trees, just outside the streetlights that line the parking lot. I'm too horrified to even look at his face.
"Why did you
do that?"
"So you'd know what you were getting when you offered yourself to me." He turns to face me, wiping his lips with a hand. "Not quite as beautiful and dreamlike as you imagined."
"I don't want you to kill me."
"But I could. Another vampire would have by now because there's nothing we like more than draining a human to the point of death. Nothing else satisfies quite as much." He looks away and shakes his head, an expression of dismay on his face. "You think this is some kind of psychotic episode – a delusion – and you can say and do anything because it won't matter. It's all just a dream. You offered yourself to me, offered to let me make you my pet, my blood slave. You can't imagine how much license that gives me. Once given you can't take it back. I just want you to know what you're getting."
"What am I getting?"
"Me."
Michel, black wings, bloody fangs, red eyes. A killer.
Numbness descends over me and the glib feeling I had back at the loft dissipates completely – shocked out of me when Michel tormented Alan the way a cat plays with a mouse. Terrifying the poor creature as it fought for its life then killing it in a most inhumane manner. I remember the manuscript and the description of him chasing down the two girls, killing them in front of each other.
"Is this another kill outside the treaty?"
He nods and stares at me from under a frown.
"I'm beyond that now."
"What do you mean?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he folds his wings until they disappear, and opens the door on the passenger side of the car, motioning for me to get in. We drive back to the warehouse with only the sound of the engine to accompany us. Once back, I run up the stairs before him, waiting for him to open the door. I go to the door to the bedroom without looking at him.
"Not going to invite me into your bed now, are you?" he says from the hallway.
I turn to him, tears in my eyes.
"Why did you do that?"
He comes to me, leaning down so he's just inches from my face. He traces my bottom lip with a finger but the touch of his hand imparts nothing of his emotions.