Blood Sacrifice

by By Rick R. Reed

  Maria reaches out and touches Elise’s cheek. “Terence and Edward will be with us. They are like family to me. No, they are my family. We’ve been together for so long, longer than you can imagine. I will make sure they are all right with the change. You won’t have anything to fear or worry about. In time, you’ll find them the most delightful of companions. Terence can be, well, Terence at times, a little vain, a little self-centered. But, deep down, he’s fiercely loyal and can be quite funny. Edward will love having you join us, I’m certain. You have so much in common.” Maria looks away when she says this last part, and the fire behind her casts flickering light and shadow on her face. It cackles, and sparks shower out of the hearth as wood collapses and dies.

  Neither of them says anything for a while. Elise notices the chill in the room and realizes the fire must be the only source of warmth. Maria doesn’t look at her for a long time; it’s almost as if she’s forgotten Elise is there. But Elise watches as something dark and inexplicable crosses over her features; there’s an internal dialogue going on. Maria’s eyebrows knit together. She frowns.

  Elise begins to grow afraid. She senses something awful is coming up. It’s strange for Elise to shift from elation to dread so quickly, like a sunny day when a northern wind blows in, causing the temperature to drop twenty degrees. Elise feels like that now; she watches as storm clouds gather on the horizon. She’s tempted to ask Maria not to go on, that whatever she wants to say, Elise can live without knowing. But she isn’t that strong. Or that weak. She simply leans back on her elbows and waits.

  Finally, Maria turns to her. She takes in a deep breath and her gaze is already beseeching.

  Elise steels herself.

  Maria waits for a moment longer, then says what she must. “There is one more thing I haven’t yet told you. And I wish I could say it’s a small thing, but it definitely is not.” Maria slides closer to Elise, so their bodies are touching. “It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t tell you.”

  Elise can stand the suspense no longer. “What is it?” she hisses, sorry for the note of annoyance and impatience that marks her words. She’s afraid of what’s coming next. It seems as though nothing can ever work out for her. She almost laughs, thinking, not even becoming one of the undead.

  Maria breathes in deep. “When you cross over…” She stops, then starts again. “When you become one of us, things within you might change. You will still be yourself, of course, but your perception will be altered. There will be profound emotional differences; you’ll see the world in a new way.”

  Elise blows out a sigh of relief. She is excited about this new development, this prospect. Sharpened perception? Seeing the world in a different way? What could be more exciting for a creative person? She understands Maria’s concern, but this could be a very good thing. She smiles. “That might be good, you know. It could help my art.” She smiles. “Sharpened senses never did an artist any harm.” She expects Maria to smile back at her. When she doesn’t, Elise shivers.

  Maria stares down at the floor. Her lips flatten into a thin line, then become lush again as she lets out a rush of air. “And—I have to tell you this—I’m so sorry.” She shakes her head. “But I’m afraid the truth is: it could harm your art. When perception changes, so does everything else. You’re right, it could be a boon to what you create. But it could also take away your artistic sensibilities, your creative ‘bent’ if you will. That’s your choice. It’s a risk. But what isn’t a risk is my love for you.”

  Elise bites her lip. Panic rises up, a scaly creature scurrying along her spine. “So you’re saying this change could make it harder for me to create? That, essentially, there’s a risk I could lose my abilities? That I might no longer be able to paint or draw?”

  Maria swallows; her hands tremble. “There are few vampire artists. Your perceptions will be more acute, I promise you, especially with our herb, but their expression will more likely be in the form of the hunt, rather than on paper or canvas.”

  Elise turns away, bile rising. She pulls at her hair, hard enough to detach some of it, and cries out in a strangled wail. A vision comes to her with all the clarity of a movie: Black night, deeper than any black on her palette. Alone, she wanders the streets south of the Art Institute, streets abandoned, punctuated only by the sounds of the wind and the occasional el train, rumbling. Her face is smeared with blood, and she beats on the doors of the Art Institute, begging for admission. But no one hears except the stone lions guarding the place. Miraculously, they turn their leonine heads to mock her.

  Elise struggles to her feet and dashes from the house, salt tears stinging.

  *

  Elise can’t stomach the thought of public transportation. The bright lights and the crowds are a horror. She pauses briefly on the front porch, vision blurred by tears, the house an oppressive presence at her back. The structure feels more like something organic, something lurking behind her, waiting to pounce. Elise eyes it warily out of the corner of her eye, moving only an inch at a time toward the steps, fearful if she moves too fast, she will be caught up in its clutches.

  Silly.

  What to do? How do I get myself home so I can crawl in my own little hole?

  The house seems to move closer as she moves further away. She hastens her pace and trips as she comes down the steps, tumbling forward, and skins her elbow. The pain stings but it’s welcome; it reminds her she’s human, letting her know she can feel. She looks down at the swatch of black on her arm, the smear of blood. It always comes down to blood.

  The traffic swarms by on Sheridan Road, a line of busy bright lights, like the eyes of insects. The air has turned even colder; Elise sees her breath emerging in blue-gray plumes as she runs, a madwoman, up Sheridan Road. She turns west, away from the lake, and heads toward Kenmore. The wind pushes her along, a cold hand at her back.

  Kenmore is a good route for traveling north. There isn’t as much traffic, and at this late hour, not much of anyone is around.

  She glances down at her watch and sees that it’s just past 2:00 a.m. Where did the time go so quickly? Had she really been inside with Maria for hours? The pot clouding her brain lingers, making Elise wish she could somehow force its soporific and confusing effects out of her bloodstream and nervous system. She needs to be clear.

  It’s not until she gets past Loyola University, and has been walking for nearly a half hour, that she notices someone is following her. She had crossed Sheridan as it headed west, then cut through the Loyola campus, bringing her out again on Sheridan. She had crossed Sheridan and headed over to Greenview. It was on Greenview, heading north again, she first noticed the footsteps.

  She hurries along, trying to vary her pace to hear if there is really someone behind her, someone trying to match her pace, so she won’t hear him or her. Home is still miles away, but it’s there, and it’s home. Never before has she thought of her little rat-hole of an apartment home, but relatively speaking, it’s Little House on the Prairie. Suddenly, it appears in her mind as a sanctuary, a shelter.

  She wonders if the footsteps had been behind her for much longer than when she first noticed them on Greenview. But when she had first left the house, she was so distraught she probably wouldn’t have noticed a pit bull snapping at her heels. Could it have been that long ago? She imagined she only noticed the footsteps that mirrored her own…what? About fifteen minutes ago? Were they blotted out by her sniffling? Her quivering attempts to gain control of her breath?

  The footfalls continue behind her, and she picks up her pace, not wanting to look behind her, not wanting to appear fearful. They draw closer, drawing a chill from her bowels up her spine. She can’t stand it, finally, and stops.

  There is no one there. The street, at this hour, is quiet, with only an occasional whoosh as a car whizzes by, its occupants oblivious to her presence.

  But someone, she feels, is not oblivious. Over the course of the next few blocks, she repeats the pattern: noticing the sound of footsteps behind her, turn
ing to look, and seeing nothing. When the echo of her own footsteps on the pavement stops, so do her pursuer’s.

  It wouldn’t surprise her if she were going insane. It wouldn’t surprise her if these footsteps were some aural hallucination, the beginning of a mental disturbance much more profound.

  But for now, she doesn’t have the time or the luxury of imagining that someone following her is all in her head. She has to worry about the chance that this is very real. She has to safeguard herself against the flesh-and-blood, fully alive monsters that haunt the streets at this early-morning hour.

  Wouldn’t the irony of this just be too rich? Elise thinks, quickening her pace. The footsteps behind her quicken accordingly. Irony: on the very night she has blown her opportunity for immortality, a streetwise criminal kills her. Perfect.

  Her heart races, and in spite of the chill, a clammy sweat breaks out, coating her face, trickling down her back, tickling in a crawly, unpleasant way. She turns again, the panic rising like something hot and alive, and peers into the darkness. She sees the glow of a cigarette a block or two away; someone hurrying across the street. She doesn’t think that person is even aware of her existence. Besides, if someone is following her, his or her footsteps are much closer. But where is that person right now? Elise searches the shadows of apartment doorways, the spaces between buildings. The wind, picking up as it blows across the lake, mocks her, making her think she’s paranoid. Isn’t paranoia a side-effect of marijuana? She wishes she could laugh, but thoughts of pot and paranoia do little to allay her mounting terror.

  She takes a few more steps. So does her stealthy friend. She whirls around to face a potato chip bag and some dust whirling around in a mini-tornado the sudden, cold wind has kicked up.

  “Look. I know what’s going on, asshole.” Elise steels herself, refusing to let even the slightest quaver creep into her voice. “You need to find yourself another route. This one’s taken.” Elise looks around desperately; in a city usually teeming with life, it is, for once, lonely. Perhaps if she runs back out to Sheridan Road? At least the lights are brighter there, and she has more of a chance of being around other people. She can even hail a taxi, even though she has no money. She could let the driver take it out in trade. It’s not like she hasn’t done it before.

  So she turns and runs. Beneath the blood rushing in her ears, the rasp of her breath, and the gallop of her feet on the pavement, she hears someone running behind her, closing the distance. She wants to scream. She wants to stop, drop, and curl into a little ball. Fetal, letting whatever is going to happen, happen.

  When a hand grabs her shoulder, the scream is at last freed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1954

  Edward was a different person as he pressed key into lock just outside his tiny walk-up. It had been so long since he felt any kind of joy that his jubilance was akin to the effects of a drug coursing through his system.

  The apartment was cold. Edward hurried to the window, closed it, and listened for the hiss and clank of his radiator. He turned to survey the paintings he had leaned against one wall, trying to decide which eight he should show. It was a tough choice. The show at Anima/Animus gallery would be his professional debut, his first steps into a different world from the one he now inhabited. He didn’t want to be overly optimistic, but this show could be the key to a whole new life, a life that did not include living in cold-water flats in ghetto neighborhoods. One that did not include working at menial jobs to make barely enough money to cover the rent with hardly enough left over for essentials, let alone luxuries. Most importantly, a new life could also include validation and professional respect for his work—and that was what was really making him jubilant and hopeful. He already felt inspired, wondering if he should whip off his clothes and pull out the paints and create new pieces for his show.

  Hold on now, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Edward turned in the dimming light (dusk approached earlier and earlier each day) and thought what he needed, and what he deserved, was a celebration. The Tiger’s Eye was only a few blocks away.

  Who knew what would happen?

  Edward arrived early at the Tiger’s Eye. Outside, the night sky had faded from lilac, slate blue, and orange to blackness, yet it was still too early for most bars to be doing a brisk business, even ones like the Tiger’s Eye that specialized in poor alcoholics whose dreams had been shattered. Even they, it seemed, preferred a later hour to begin their imbibing, at least in public.

  No matter. The place would fill up. Edward slid onto a stool and lit a Lucky. There was still the smell of beer and cigarette smoke to inhale, the multi-colored hues of liquor bottles behind the bar, and the sound of Eubie Blake playing soft in the background (with Charlie Thompson, the “Lily Rag”). When the bartender approached him, looking particularly delicious with his crew cut, T-shirt and tight black pants, Edward smiled, feeling the kind of confidence that had always eluded him. He only had a few dollars in his pocket, but the way he felt right now, he was certain he would not have to pick up the tab for many of his drinks. Not tonight. Not on this special evening, poised on the brink of the future.

  “I’ll have a Canadian Club; put a beer back on that.”

  “Sure thing.” The bartender appraised him and Edward could tell by his smile he liked what he saw. Edward watched the tip of his cigarette glow in the dim light as he waited for his drink. In a minute, the bartender was back with a squat glass half full of amber liquid (a very generous shot) accompanied by a tall, sweating glass of cold beer, its golden hue topped with a head of white foam.

  “What do I owe you?” Edward dug in his pockets.

  “Nothing. The gentleman at the end of the bar says to put this on his tab.”

  Edward pulled his hand slowly from his pocket, wondering whether he should feel his lucky streak was continuing, or if he should be worried. He had thought the bar was empty when he entered. Even now, peering down the length of the bar, illuminated mainly by the soft light over the liquor bottles behind it, he found it difficult to see anyone. He stared, letting his eyes adjust to the low light level and finally saw him, dressed completely in black, stool positioned perfectly so his smiling face greeted Edward.

  Edward turned back to the drinks on the bar, heart thudding. Terence. Edward picked up the shot glass and downed it. Holding up the empty glass, he shouted, “Another, please! And put it on the gentleman’s tab. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  He slid from the stool, very uncertain as to whether this turn of events was a good thing or a bad one. The bartender followed him down the bar, shot glass in hand, waiting to see where he would light. He sat next to Terence, staring into his dark eyes for what seemed like a long time, but was really only a minute or two. The bartender slid his beer down and placed it in front of him. Edward smiled, the corners of his mouth quivering. He breathed in deeply. “What brings you out tonight? Slumming again?” Edward felt a low simmering anger and wasn’t sure from where it was coming. He had wanted a wild evening out, to perhaps meet a boy and take him home. He wanted to laugh and drink. He wanted to be human, and enjoy the company of others of his kind: ruddy-cheeked young men bent on fornication. Terence—and his subterranean world—didn’t apply. Terence was more like something out of a dream…or a nightmare.

  He wanted to be among his own kind. Part of the anger, he realized, came from the fact he knew he would throw all these semi-wholesome pursuits away in favor of being with Terence. It felt like, when Terence was around, choice slid from his grasp. He didn’t understand why.

  Terence eyed him, a slight grin raising the corners of his lips. It was as if he could read the thoughts warring in Edward’s mind as easily as he could the front page of the New York Times at the news kiosk just outside. “I wanted to see you. I heard that you had some very good news today.” Terence slid an ice cube into his mouth, crushing it into oblivion. He grinned at Edward. “Someone’s luck has changed.”

  “How would you know about that?”

 
“Word travels fast in the artsy-shitsy grapevine. You’ve seen my home. I’m a collector. Don’t you think I have contacts? Don’t you think Soho is abuzz with your coup with Mr. Gadzinski? How you’re the next big thing? The flame and flicker of jealousy is already raising its ugly head. Tell me they’re lying when they say you gave access to your ass to Mr. Gadzinski in exchange for access to his gallery walls.” Terence placed a hand on Edward’s thigh, sending what seemed like a jolt of electricity through him.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Oh, I know it’s just envy and despair talking. I’ve seen your work. No need to exchange sexual favors for a break. You deserve it. Besides, that kind of sexual contact cheapens both you and Mr. Gadzinski. He can get a piece of tail easily enough; there’s no need to barter. Not with his influence.”

  Edward was surprised word had already leaked out about his upcoming show, which was barely confirmed, let alone planned or anywhere near execution. He was also annoyed his elation over getting the show was beginning to be eclipsed by a heat in his belly and further south over the nearness of Terence. That alone should have been sign enough for him to rise, thank him for the drinks, and head back to his original seat, or even straight out the door and up the stairs. There were plenty of other places he could drink in Manhattan. Plenty of other places to find a warm and willing companion for a night of celebration that would ultimately present its logical climax. Even the most lurid sex conducted in an alley or gangway seemed almost quaint in comparison to the dark delights Terence promised. He should go. He should really call upon his willpower and get up and leave. There was nothing to stop him (even Edward wasn’t sure he believed this) and the night was young and full of promise…without Terence.