His captivity now was incomprehensible. Tommy didn't know or care how he'd gotten here. The Hunger was overwhelming and the bloodsmell was driving him insane. He needed—
Bloodsmell.
Where was it? He crouched in the corner and fought the urge to claw at the walls again, knowing it would only frustrate him. He hadn't seen electric lights in over a year and the harsh glow burned his eyes. Tangled at his feet was the rope and duct tape that had held him for only a few seconds, while smashed plaster left concrete block and steel rods exposed around the room. Now the boy's eyes searched the rubble more carefully, then followed the line of the door to the ceiling of the tiny room.
There! Suspended from a hanger about seven feet above the floor was a small plastic bottle of blood.
A millisecond later it was down and he was fumbling with the cap, which was nothing more than the pull-type kind that bicyclists used. His prison wasn‘t warm but it wasn’t cold either, and the blood was a cool fifty degrees, maybe not the same as fresh but awfully close. He sucked the last drop out, then split the plastic lengthwise with a dark fingernail, his blackened tongue cleaning the inside like he was licking the middle of an Oreo cookie. For months he'd been living on subway rats, though the wily rodents were scarce and hard to catch and the tunnels full of others who wanted only to pull him apart for sport after making sure nothing worthwhile flowed in his veins. The blood—barely more than a pint—was a rare feast.
Stomach half-full, he tossed the bottle aside and curled up to sleep and dream of dark and evil innocence.
17
REVELATION 12:11
And they loved not their lives unto the death.
~ * ~
After all this time, Vic Massucci still felt screwed up when he woke at dusk instead of daybreak. He supposed he always would.
I am a vampire, he thought. On the heels of that: How disgusting.
He sat up on the folded blankets, then stood and groaned as his muscles twisted into place. For a minute he just stood in the dark like a massive, shaggy beast, waiting for the sleep to ease from his mind, knowing that The Hunger would roar in to drive the last cobwebs from his tormented brain. He wondered how long he would have to bear this, and his mind immediately obliged with the answer.
Forever.
He lit the candle stuck onto a saucer on the rim of the small sink, but its glow did nothing to relieve his despair as feeble light crawled into the recesses of the water and supply closet that he called "home." He plugged the drain and splashed an inch of water into the sink from a five-gallon plastic jug, then dampened a washcloth and brought it up, looking reflexively at the wall to the mirror.
But the mirror was gone, pulled from the wall when he'd claimed this room as his own. He could have left it—to look in a mirror didn't hurt or frighten him, an idea just as ridiculous as the notion that vampires had to sleep on the earth. Why would anyone, alive or undead, spend half their existence lying in dirt? Still, his eyes sought the space where his thirty-five-year-old mind expected a mirror to be. He found nothing, hence the reason he'd taken down the mirror. It was just too damned eerie to know you were standing there but not see anything, plus it did weird shit to him optically. Two seconds of staring and he started feeling dizzy; ten would put his ass on the floor.
Vic wiped his face then ran the wet rag around his neck and forearms. Sometime during the day a mouse had left droppings on his shirt; he curled his lip and pulled it off, choosing another from the hangers along an overhead pipe. The shirt was an expensive Ralph Lauren polo and it fit well, the white cloth molding snugly to the massive muscles in his chest and arms. In another time it would have shown off his gardener's tan; the thought that now it just made him look like a ghost made Vic laugh aloud as he tucked the shirt into his slacks, but his mirth died quickly. Gardener, he thought bitterly. Yeah, that's me. He had no business here; he belonged in the sun, surrounded by greenery and living things. He'd grown up an Italian boy from the northwest side and in his heart he hadn't changed. Even the engraved card in his wallet still read Vito "Vic" Massucci, Specialty Gardens, Inc. Unfortunately the living things of this earth could no longer bear his hand; how could he be happy when the most important things in his life now blackened at his touch?
He left his room and descended the stairs, feeling his leg muscles bunch as they worked faithfully. He had been at the peak of his weight lifting when immortality had put a timelock on his body. Even his strength hadn't saved him then.
Anyelet . . .
Just thinking her name made him ache with conflicting emotions. In the tough public high school he'd attended, rumor was if you popped a girl's cherry, she'd put out for you forever. Anyelet had caught him outside his Elston Avenue greenhouse on an icy fall night as he was covering his hybrid roses because of a frost warning. With her lips against his throat to teach him the true meaning of cold, his struggles had been feeble tremblings and he had been the virgin. If there was any truth in that crude saying, it explained why he still found her irresistible, though he fought her mental hold at every turn and would have killed her for what she'd done to him had he not feared her so much.
On the third floor, he paused and watched Howard Siebold with narrowed eyes, dreaming about encircling the man's fat neck with his powerful hands and squeezing until Siebold's face turned black. It had been three nights since Vic had eaten and The Hunger uncoiled in his stomach at the smell of the chained men and women; as he struggled with himself, more loathing for Siebold surfaced in Vic's thoughts than he had previously thought possible. While it was monstrous that Vic himself fed on the human race, Siebold was filth, a traitor and purveyor of devastation to his own kind. And for what? A few demented sexual fantasies. The Hunger clawed at him again, warring with his revulsion and hatred; he folded his arms and spat loudly on the floor, knowing Siebold would be forced to clean it up tomorrow. On his way out, the fat man turned to glare at him. Vic's black-flecked hazel eyes glittered in the wavering light and Siebold's tongue flicked over his lips nervously; he quickly scurried away.
Reluctantly Vic made his way down the hall. Howard had fashioned red and black magnets to indicate which prisoners had replenished their blood level and could give a hungry vampire a meal. Vic had ignored The Hunger so long that his body screamed for one of the larger males; still he ground his teeth until he felt them slice into the bloodless flesh of his bottom lip and kept walking. Finally he stood at a cubicle where a red magnet clung to a disconnected door hinge. Inside, a woman cowered against the wall at the sight of his six-foot-four height, her skin mottled with yellow and black bruises. Besides that, Vic thought in irritation as he tossed back a spill of his unkempt hair, she was probably cold. In keeping with Howard's eternal depravity, she, like the others, had been stripped to the skin.
He turned the magnet to black and stepped inside. The woman threw herself as far out of reach as her chain would allow and opened her mouth to scream, but the sound trailed away to a sad moan as Vic locked eyes with her. He grabbed a dirty blanket from the floor without breaking the gaze and tossed it around her shaking shoulders.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I won't hurt you." Much, his mind whispered derisively. He cringed at the thought.
The woman was young, in her twenties, and her terrified blue eyes rolled back in her head as she moaned again. "Please," she whimpered. "No more. . . ."
"Shhhh," Vic murmured. With the blanket bunched in one fist, he pulled her into his arms, forcing The Hunger to wait. "Look at me," he commanded softly. Head rigid, her unfocused eyes met his.
The first thing he saw was that her name was Giselle.
Then he saw everything else.
The vicious arcing of the leather belt, the searing agony each time it kissed her flesh, even Siebold's promise of better things to come as his thick fingers worked himself to orgasm over her beaten body.
Rage made Vic hiss and bare his teeth; The Hunger saw its chance and took it.
With his fangs sunk into the sof
tness of her throat and the sweet richness of hot copper filling his mouth, one small thread of sanity remained to control The Hunger before it could destroy the woman whose warmth he rocked in his arms like an infant . . .
While The Hunger obliterated everything else.
18
REVELATION 19:8
. . . She shall be arrayed in fine linen, clean and white:
for the fine linen is the righteousness of saints.
~ * ~
"Please," Jo said, extending a hand toward the girl on the front pew. "Don't be frightened. You're safe here." The shaky light from the votive candle showed that her visitor was terrified, although already the little dog had come to scamper around Jo's ankles. The girl, a bedraggled teenager, scrambled from the bench, her eyes dark orbs of terror darting frantically from her pet to Jo. But for the dog, Jo knew the girl would have run out the church doors and into disaster.
"Look," Jo lifted the small terrier, "he likes me." She smiled reassuringly as the dog, its cataract-covered eyes blinking with happiness, wriggled and tried to lick her face. "He wouldn't come near me if I wasn't all right. What's his name?"
The girl hesitated, then answered cautiously. "Beauregard." The words came through gritted teeth as she fought to control her fear. "Beau, for short." She flinched at the volume of their voices in the cavern-like hall. As she pushed the hair from her eyes, Jo saw dark liquid leaking from her palms, like the stigmata of Christ.
"You've been hurt!" She lowered Beau to the floor and steadied him until he found his footing. "We need to clean you up or the smell of blood will have the vampires battering at the doors all night." She motioned to the right, at the dark shadows beyond the altar. "I've got bandages in the office. I'm Jo. What's your name?"
"Louise." The girl took a few steps but seemed reluctant to come closer. "Do you live here? In the church?"
"Of course." Jo tilted her head. "What safer place could there be?"
"There are lots of churches that aren't safe anymore." Louise glanced around again and missed Jo's puzzled look. "It's so dark in here. Doesn't that make you nervous?"
"Not at all." Jo gestured at the altar and its carefully polished holy objects. "This is a place where God's children can come for safety and solace anytime. There is no evil here, in either daylight or darkness." Her hair floated around her white dress like a shimmering veil and she swept it aside and picked up the matchbook again. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll light more candles. If you like, I'll light them all."
Back in the vestibule something scraped against the front doors. There was a quick, sputtering hiss like the pop of a dud firecracker, then a muffled, enraged howl. Louise whirled, but Jo never faltered as she touched a flame to another six candles. Beau's ears perked at the noise, but he didn't bark, and Louise was too exhausted to move away when Jo took her elbow kindly. "I'm sorry that scared you." Her voice was soothing as she urged Louise toward the back, leaving little Beau to follow the sound of their voices. "But they really won't stop unless we bandage your hands." Louise looked shell-shocked and weary, and Jo's heart went out to her. Both Louise's hands were crusted with dried blood topped with droplets of fresh red. Still, Jo couldn't help smiling. "I'm glad you came tonight," she said earnestly. Her arm came up and she gave the older girl a quick, sisterly hug.
"It's time things got started."
~ * ~
The nave was ablaze with candlelight. Louise couldn't believe it; she kept imagining a whole group of bloodsuckers knotted on the steps by the church entrance, having a friendly little conference about how to get inside. The easiest way would be to lift something really heavy—and oh, God, they were so strong!—and simply ram one of the doors with full strength. With a door busted—
"It wouldn't matter, you know." Jo's gentle voice floated from the circular area at the rear of the altar, where she was rummaging in a chest topped by a velvet cushion. "They still couldn't step over the threshold of a holy place."
From where she sat, Louise had to squint to see Jo's face and her smile amid the wildly flickering candlelight. "You read minds?" Louise asked incredulously. Directly across from Jo, Beau snoozed on another velvet settee, oblivious to the occasional scrabbling sounds at the front doors.
Jo made her way back to where Louise rested. "Of course not. I just assumed that's what you were thinking. Look." She held up bandages, adhesive tape, and a bottle of scarlet liquid—Mercurochrome.
"Do churches always keep medical supplies behind the altar?" Louise asked dryly as she reached for them.
Jo pushed her bloodied hands aside. "I'll do it, and no, that's just where I put them for emergencies. Handy, too—I don't think you would've made it to the back offices, and certainly not the kitchen. That's in the basement." Trying to descend the stairs earlier had nearly made Louise pass out; two fuzzy seconds later she had found herself held by Jo's slender but very strong arms, and she flushed with embarrassment at the recollection.
"It's been a long day," she muttered.
"I'll bet." Jo set a plastic bowl of water on the pew next to Louise. "Let's take a look." Louise reluctantly held out her palms. Both were scored with small, deep gashes; some still bled while others had stopped simply because the flesh had swollen the cuts shut. The skin was a colorful combination of blue, black, and yellow.
It's the candlelight, Louise thought grimly as Jo dipped a soft cloth in the bowl and began to carefully sponge the wounds. They won't look that bad tomorrow. Aloud she asked, "Where'd you get the water?"
"It's river water," Jo answered. Louise's eyes widened and she started to pull away, but Jo held her firmly. "Don't worry. It's been blessed."
"Blessed?" Louise eyed the bowl doubtfully. It looked clean and it had been nearly two years since any of the factories had operated. Still. . . .
"’I will wash mine hands in innocency,'" Jo quoted. "Psalm Twenty-six." She pulled Louise's hand closer to inspect it; it looked raw but she couldn't see any more dirt. She spread a towel on her knees and rested the injured hand on it while she opened the bottle of antibacterial. Louise hissed as the medicine sank into the gashes and pain lanced up her wrist.
Jo looked at her in concern. "I'm sorry it hurts, but this red stuff should keep it from getting infected."
Louise gave the girl a taut smile. "Just get it over with." Jo bent back to her task, but Louise could see Jo's dread in the tense set of the younger woman's shoulders. At last it was over and Jo taped clean gauze around both of Louise's hands. "I can't move my fingers," Louise complained. "Can’t we fix it differently?"
"You don't want to move them for a while." Jo pressed the last pieces of tape in place. "Otherwise you'll open the wounds." She pulled a small packet of aspirin from her pocket. "These will help the pain. I'll get you some drinking water, then we'll look at your knee."
Louise watched her go, noting the way Beau followed the sound of her footsteps across the floor with sleepy snuffles before laying his head back on his paws. The girl was . . . what? Some kind of angel? With her hip-length platinum hair and that white dress she was almost too bright to look at. Had she lived all these months in St. Peter's? It seemed likely since the church was still sanctified. On the one hand Louise was overjoyed to find someone else alive; on the other, it was a crushing disappointment to realize the girl had been staying here all this time but had found no one else.
Or had she?
Jo returned with a cup of water, and Louise took it and swallowed the aspirins without hesitating; everything below her wrists was nothing short of twitching agony. Like her hands, her knee was swollen and stiff, but her jeans had kept the wounds from being as deep and Louise thought it would heal fairly fast. Besides the cup, Jo had brought a small pair of scissors to cut away the edges of the torn fabric.
"Hey!" Louise protested.
"I'll get you another pair tomorrow," Jo soothed. She swabbed at the bruised knee, then carefully applied the Mercurochrome.
"So," Louise said, "you live here by yourself?"<
br />
"No," Jo answered immediately. Louise's hopes rose, then fell again with Jo's next quote. “’For he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.' Hebrews, chapter thirteen, verse five." Jo sat back. “All finished."
"Is there . . ." Louise found it difficult to push the words from her mouth. "Is there anyone else? Anyone at all?"
"Of course." Louise gaped and Jo tilted her head. "Did you really think God would let His children be exterminated?"
"I–I didn't know," Louise whispered. It was impossible for her to comprehend this girl's faith, and for a terrible instant she wondered if Jo might simply be slightly . . . daft.
"There are quite a few other people." Jo rose and gathered the remnants of gauze and tape, then put the bowl of blood-tinted water aside; tomorrow she would pour the water down a storm drain outside. "Mostly downtown, where it's easier to find food and there are bigger places in which to hide." She glanced at Louise. "That's what you were looking for, wasn't it?"
Louise nodded.
"I've seen people now and then, though they've never seen me. There's a group in Water Tower Place on Michigan Avenue, another in the Civic Opera Building. I'm surprised no one has explored St. Peter's." She looked wistful. "I really thought I'd have company before now."
"Then why haven't you spoken to them?" Louise asked in amazement. "Wouldn't you be safer?"
Jo shrugged. "They've built little communities, and while they have strength in numbers, that can be a weakness, too. I'm quite safe here and besides, I have other things to do. And there're more."
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