Blood Sacrifice

by By Rick R. Reed

  She hears Maria’s voice, almost as if she were in the room with her, kneeling by her bed, stroking her calf and peering into her with those bottomless brown eyes. Elise lies on her back and closes her eyes. Feel: the brush of her hair across Elise’s leg. Listen: the whisper of satin as Maria shifts in her gown.

  And Maria’s voice sounds again, this time louder, a real presence in the room. “I love you, Elise. Come back.”

  Projected on Elise’s eyelids, a montage of images: Maria’s breasts, her thighs, the feel of her tongue at Elise’s ear. Elise touches herself, settling into the sheets, remembering.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1954

  Edward had only three dollars and thirty nine cents. He counted the bills and change once more, just to be sure, but the amount was right.

  He swept the money off his kitchen table and scooped it into his pocket. “It will have to be enough.” It was a rare morning (or day, for that matter) that Edward could entertain the idea of taking a cab anywhere, but this was one of those mornings. It wasn’t far to the Anima/Animus Gallery on Houston, but if he was going to bring a couple of his canvases—large, unwieldy things—he couldn’t very well hoof it, or even take public transportation. Besides the impracticality of it (visions of him struggling down the street with his work, getting caught in the wind, spun around), he didn’t need the stress such a journey would cause him.

  His meeting was still two hours away and yet Edward had already gone through two of his shirts, staining them dark beneath the pits, leaving a dark line down the center of his back. His heart raced; his mouth was dry.

  This was the meeting that could make all the difference, that could throw his career into the prominence and recognition he had dreamed of since before he came to New York, since he was a little boy in first grade, when his teacher had taken his drawing of an Indian around to the other teachers, to boast of her precocious six-year-old and how his work looked nearly good enough to pass for an adult’s, while his classmates were drawing stick figures and birds in the shape of V’s. It meant so much.

  He knew he would blow it. Knew he would find his tongue thick in his mouth and be unable to talk, let alone charm or impress. Or else he would babble senselessly, saying whatever popped into his head, eliciting stares from the clever, hip people at the gallery. They would exchange glances as he rambled on, rolling their eyes and giving a mute thumbs-down to the crazy young man in the sweaty shirt and the paint-stained chinos.

  The one scenario Edward could not imagine was one in which there was awe at his work and, after viewing it, a meaningful dialogue would occur, one in which Edward was offered a spot in this important show. It was hard for him to imagine leaving the gallery proud and eager—but this time with the desire for public and critical acknowledgment.

  But the clock was clicking past nine and he needed to get another shirt on (this would have to be the last, perspiration or not), and bind together with twine the two canvases he planned on bringing.

  He took one last look at the paintings, uncertain if they were the best examples to represent him or if they were merely…well, crap. Who knew? Did any artist ever really know? It seemed there was no middle ground between cocky arrogance that made someone think their work was beyond reproach, the key to seeing the world in a whole new light, strong evidence of its creator’s brilliance and once-in-a-lifetime talent, and abject self-loathing and lack of self-esteem that told the artist he was nothing more than a poseur and his work wasn’t even worth the materials he had used (wasted?) to create it.

  No matter. These would have to do. Either they would like them and offer him a position in the show, or they would politely decline them, offering icy assurances and the hope his work would find a home elsewhere (the Dumpster behind Abraham’s Deli, down the street from his building, most likely). Later, he could always drown his sorrows at the Tiger’s Eye; that is, if they were willing to run a tab for him.

  He had chosen Number Six and Number Nine to take with him. Number Six had been done about seven months ago. He had splattered a background of lime green, so much paint the color was almost a solid hue, and then he had painted himself chromium yellow, a screaming brightness that conveyed buoyancy and zest. He had thrown himself on the canvas with his arms upraised, then with his legs kicking out, with his movements at progressively higher levels, moving from left to right across the surface. The effect, Edward hoped, was one of vibrancy and joy, of life.

  Number Nine had been done just a few days ago. It was similar to Number Six, but its polar opposite. He had first coated the canvas in black—great, sweeping slashes of black, smeared across from top to bottom with his bare hands. For this one, he had painted his body with brilliant crimson, and had recorded himself in various positions of despair and longing: crouched into a fetal “c”; arms and legs splayed like a butterfly pressed to a board; and one turning from his side to his back, where his erection was subtly visible.

  The difference between the two was not lost on him; they represented the before and after of meeting Terence. He could only pray the difference was a positive one for his work, even as he knew, personally, he was entering a dangerous territory with Number Nine, taking on a much bigger addiction than booze or even heroin.

  Muse later. Now, I must go. Edward tied a knot in the twine he had wrapped around the oversized canvases and hoisted them up, heading for the door.

  “Wish me luck!” he cried out to his empty studio, hoping there was a taxi close by. He couldn’t afford to be late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  2004

  Maria’s head pounds. It’s as though something small with razor teeth has gotten inside her head, digging and biting at her temples and behind her eyes. “Immortality!” she scoffs. “You think the living dead could at least be spared the discomfort of a headache.”

  She has been calling to Elise all night, ignoring the rumblings in her belly, though it grows more insistent by the moment. This hunger is like a living thing: spoiled and selfish, not willing to stop until it succeeds in reminding her, in making her want to savor the recent past. But she feels she must reach Elise, must make some kind of connection, even if Elise isn’t consciously aware Maria is speaking to her through a telepathic wire, thoughts traveling across the expanse of city separating them. This calling, this focused concentration has tired her, has caused this sick headache. She massages her forehead, squeezing her eyelids tight, to send one more image. Perhaps this time, she will get something back. It’s all she wants. She concentrates, focusing, now, shutting out the exterior and closing in on just an image, making it real.

  There is Elise beneath her, lying on the rumpled sheets of her twin bed. A light sheen of sweat coats her face, making it slick, but also moist. The salt taste of her would stun and delight the tongue. Her auburn hair fans out across gray pillows. She gazes upward.

  Maria stares into her eyes, locking with them, drowning in the green irises. Maria holds Elise with her eyes, their minds meeting and merging, desire awakened and aroused—a hungry beast. Maria lowers herself, supported on the warm satin of Elise’s body. The connection of their flesh is like the tip of a match touched to dry kindling. The hunger rises up like smoke and flame, all-consuming. Maria dips her mouth to Elise’s, biting gently, pulling Elise’s tongue into her mouth. Sliding her hands beneath Elise’s back, Maria holds her close, tight, attempting to make their bodies one, to blot out anything that separates them. Isn’t this what so-called lovemaking is all about? The moment where two bodies merge and anything separating them dissolves. Maria imagines candlelight, the smell of wax, shadows flickering on the wall. She hears music, muted, but rising above the ebb and flow of the urban soundscape just outside: the horns, the hum of engines, the voices raised loud. The music is something minimalist, perhaps just the high notes reaching their ears; Philip Glass, maybe.

  Gently, she moves her tongue from Elise’s mouth to her ear. Taking the lobe between her teeth and biting, not hard enough to draw blood, but just
enough to let her know she’s there, to send a shiver down Elise’s spine. Moving her tongue up to lick her inner ear, the fine down of pale hair growing there, almost invisible. Breath on wet flesh, then a whisper: “Come back.”

  Maria opens her eyes. It’s almost as if she has been set down in a place she has never seen. She looks around the room, taking it in. The communion and the effort have left her drained. Gradually the room filters in: plank flooring, oak pedestal table and ladder-back chairs, with their straw seats, gathered round it. The remains of a meal, service for one, chills on the table. Chicken bones, a baked potato skin, congealing grease. The room is redolent with the odor of the food; it makes Maria nauseous.

  She looks down at the boy who had devoured the meal while she watched, less than two hours ago. She remembers his sparkling blue eyes and the way he seemed to alternate the words, “like” and “fuckin’” to the exclusion, almost, of the rest of the English language. It gave him a certain distinctiveness, a vapid boyish charm that went perfectly with the skateboard (hand-painted in purple and green and now resting in a corner of the kitchen, propped against the wall), the purple Converse shoes, and the uniform of cargo pants and oversized T-shirt emblazoned with the name of a heavy metal band Maria had never heard of.

  Reaching down, she tousles blond hair; varying shades of yellow, white and soft brown mingle in the dim light. She remembers his face, freckles and a gap between his front teeth, blue eyes trusting. She remembers the lithe form of his body, white and graceful, legs long and lean, muscles not yet stretched to manhood. She remembers the pale swatch of pubic hair above his sex.

  Maria reaches out with her tongue and snares a piece of flesh from the corner of her mouth. The taste of it, the moisture and the sharp tang of blood still clinging to it, bring her back to this world she inhabits, this ebb and flow of hunger that really isn’t different from the world the living inhabit. Flecks of blood Maria missed dot the floor around the boy. His stomach is ripped open, exposing entrails. Little is left of the face of boyish innocence: red tissue beneath where his skin was, tissue that speaks of musculature that once made the face frown, smile, cry, and laugh. Pieces of flesh are ripped from his limbs in jagged, reddened lines.

  Maria wishes, for just one moment, she could have taken what she needed from the boy and then returned him to the way he was. Assuaging her hunger is never a delightful thing, never really a pleasure. The food rumbles in her stomach, mocking.

  What is it the kids call it these days? Addiction?

  Maria jumps at the sound of a footfall and a familiar voice. She looks up dully, but does not otherwise move; she brings her knees up to her chest.

  “We have to find her. We can’t leave her out there.” Terence has entered the room, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. He has washed the blood from his face and looks cool and smooth.

  Maria had almost succeeded in forgetting she shared her home and hearth with others. “Good evening to you, too. You don’t waste any time, do you? No need to exchange pleasantries when there’s someone out there to be killed. Isn’t that right, Terence?”

  He stands before her, as if he has materialized there, brushing the blond spikes at his forehead back. They flatten and rise up quickly, a resurrection of sorts. Life, death, and rising up again: it’s all around them, in the smallest of ways. His stance and sneer makes her wish she could think him away.

  “You know we can’t allow her to go on, knowing what she now knows.” Terence bends down to lick some loose flesh from the boy’s ravaged face. “Delicious,” he whispers, and grins at her.

  “Why? She won’t tell anyone.” Maria wants to move over the boy, shielding him with her body to protect him from the violation of further ripping and renting, to give what remains of his corpse some dignity. What they have done has completely lost its allure. It now seems inelegant, base, the product of a hunger that knows no will, a desire completely out of control. They are nothing more than animals, no different from a silent winged owl, swooping down out of the black sky to grab a mouse in its talons. “Of course I know there are rules against mortals knowing about us. Of course I know that.” Maria laughs, but there is no mirth in it. “I’m the one that taught you the rules, our traditions…”

  Terence’s eyes bore into hers. “Then you know you’ve already broken it. Our first law, Maria, and you’ve ground it under your heel as if it didn’t matter.” Terence takes a deep breath. “It’s cardinal; it’s the one thing our survival hinges on, the one thing that ensures we don’t become extinct, the few of us left…”

  “Would extinction be such a bad thing?” Maria’s laugh is bitter. “What do we bring to the world? What do we contribute? Pain and loss? Heartache? Oh yes, Terence, I don’t think the world mourn our loss.”

  Terence shakes his head. “I know you don’t mean it. And I know you remember what you made sure Edward and I both know, that allowing a mortal to live with the knowledge is the worst thing any of us can do. It renounces everything we are, and have been.”

  “You don’t need to be so pedantic, you insolent bastard. I know. We’ve had this talk before. Over and over.”

  “Yes. And it doesn’t seem to make any difference.”

  “I told you, I’m trying to bring her back. She’ll come.”

  “And how many nights now have you sat in darkness, trying to reach her? Don’t you think you’d know if she wanted to hear from you again? She’s ignoring you.” Terence is very good at sneering. Over the centuries, he has perfected the scowl and frown. “We know where she is, Maria. It would be a simple matter to go and pick her up. Edward and I could—“

  “No! She didn’t ask for any of this; I don’t want some Nazi strong-arm maneuvers used on her.”

  “She has to die.”

  Maria shakes her head. “That solution is out of the question.”

  “That solution is the only one.”

  Maria shakes her head, her brow creased, frowning. If she allowed herself, she could perhaps shed a few tears, but she hates the sight of them, crimson instead of clear, a painful reminder of the truth. “Let me try to bring her here. Give me a little longer.” She feels ridiculous; he is her progeny and she is wheedling like a spoiled child begging its mother for a treat.

  Terence slowly shakes his head. “It’s not up to me to tell you what to do. But as I said, I’ve seen you sitting here night after night, with your little telepathic headset on, broadcasting to no avail.”

  “Who says it’s to no avail?”

  “She isn’t here, is she?” Terence reaches down and thrusts his index finger into the boy’s entrails, brings it up crusted with blood and pinkish matter. It disappears into his mouth and emerges clean. Terence smiles with impossibly white teeth.

  “No, but she’ll be here. I promise.”

  “I wish I could trust you.” Terence paces, the floorboards making no sound beneath his weight. Feline grace.

  “I wish you could, too. Why are you so eager?”

  Their eyes meet, flashing: competitors. Yet Maria can treat him with the condescension of victory. Elise could never be his. He discovered her, and in his fashion, she was his infatuation, brought home to share with the family like a proud trophy. With his looks and his devilish charm, women tend to fall for him immediately. The fact Elise didn’t, and worse, preferred Maria, makes Elise’s existence unbearable. It has nothing to do with tradition, and they both know that. He wants to get rid of her because she is not his. Who would she tell about them? Who would believe her? She would be locked away in a mental institution before she could say “Blood-sucker.” No, what Terence is about, what Terence has always been about, is punishment, the infliction of pain and suffering. Even now, as Maria looks up at him, he has the pose down just so: the appearance of deep thought, as if he is considering her question.

  Terence says, “You know it’s been our life to collect the creativity of the mortal, to preserve it as we have.” He frowns. “It’s the only thing they can hold over us, so we worship. We
always have. I don’t want anything more from her other than some of her art.” He smiles, a death rictus. “That’s all.”

  “You just said, and I don’t think I misheard you, that we need to kill her. That it was the only way…” Maria shoves the blond boy’s corpse away and stands, bringing her face close to Terence’s. She can smell a mixture of cannabis and blood on him. “Oh Terence, think about who you’re talking to here; don’t change position in midstream. I know you too well. You want her dead.” Maria sighs. “And besides, some of her art is not all I want.” Her eyes flash. She stops, uncertain if she should continue, wondering how her desire will be taken by Terence, or even the agreeable Edward. Should she tell them? Should she admit that after eons, she is finally in love? Even to her mind, it sounds preposterous.

  “What are you talking about?” A smile plays about Terence’s lips; already he is preparing to mock.

  Maria realizes she need say no more. Terence knows. The knowledge glints in his eyes. But she can’t help herself; words tumble out of her in a rush. “I want her to become one of us.” There, it’s on the table. Maria searches Terence’s face for signs of insubordination, waiting for him to rile against her. “Another tradition,” Maria whispers. “We can make others, Terence. Where do you think you emerged from?”

  Terence laughs until he is gripping his sides. Laughs until there is no longer any humor, until it becomes painful. Abruptly, he stops. “You can’t be serious. And besides, you’re not the only one who knows the traditions backward and forward.”

  Maria casts her eyes down; she knows what’s coming. And she knows, too, deep in her silent heart, that what Terence is about to say will be right, will be an irrefutable truth. “And I suppose you’ll make certain that Elise and I reap fitting punishment for flouting tradition.”