I nodded and stepped over to it, working my fingers between the boards and pulling the front off. I think I managed to hide the fact that most people would have needed tools to open it. It came free with a screeching of nails from the wood and a slight cracking of one of the boards. I set the front to the side and moved the sheet of jablo protecting the front of the painting.
I not only heard his gasp, but also heard his heart rate pick up and pulse quicken. There was a bit of sluggishness, surprising considering his age. No doubt something hereditary.
Lily's Water was displayed in all her glory there. I hadn't laid eyes on the actual painting for nearly five years, so I took a moment to assess how it had held up in storage. The oils were still in good shape, with no cracking or peeling and the linen was holding up very well. The colors were still bright and there was no sign of moisture damage or anything else that would reduce the value. The frame was a lightly stained oak and showed no damage or wear. I decided for not the first time that the price I paid for storage was worth it.
The painting wasn't one of my more technically complex, but had still taken me nearly six months to finish. A young woman of about twenty was wading out into a shallow pond, a dozen lily pads floating around her as she held her dress up to her knees, the edge of the hem wet. A short distance away from her, a young man sat under a maple tree, watching her. She was oblivious to his attention, but the adoration in his expression was obvious. It was late evening, with a faint redness just starting in the sky. It was a remarkable blending of shadow, texture and pose.
I supposed I could see why it would appeal to a girl or young woman. There was a certain amount of romanticism in it, coupled with the girl’s desire to express herself and the thrill of an unnoticed admirer.
Now for the fun part, because I knew what was coming next.
"I--thought you said you had a painting," Father Mallory said, his tone confused. If done correctly, hyper-realistic art couldn't be distinguished from a photograph except with close examination, which was why my art transferred to prints so well. Half the art world was convinced I was a photographer. Thankfully some of the auction houses and public relations firms I hired from time to time were very good at making sure the full details of my art were explained and described.
"It is a painting," I assured him. "Please, look closer," I motioned him over to the painting and stepped back to give him room.
He watched me for a moment, then came over and knelt in front of it. He didn’t touch it, but moved his finger in front of it as he looked closely, only then able to see the subtleness of the brush strokes and careful blending of colors.
"Remarkable..." his voice trailed off. After a moment, he stood up again. "Surely this is worth quite a bit given the skill involved. Even as a donation, I couldn't accept something so valuable."
I took out my wallet and removed a business card from it and handed it to him. "Contact this auction house, they'll help you arrange the auction details and promotional news for it. They're the ones who have handled the sales of my other paintings so they're familiar with me and my work." I took the jablo and put it back over the front of the painting then set the lid over it again. "You'll probably want to get that nailed shut again until they pick it up to get it ready. I'll make sure they know there's no commission to me and all profit goes to the church and shelter here."
"But--Mr. Dorian." He accepted the business card and I could tell he was utterly confused. "Why?"
"We make our own penance and pay our own restitutions, Father," I told him. "Some pay more dearly than others. And we aren’t all what we seem to be."
He nodded his head again, trying very hard to work on that understanding bit. "Is it because of that girl you were asking about before?"
I paused, considering what to tell him. "I think she was special," I finally said. "And I regret that I wasn't able to do more to save her. But perhaps this will help so the next one can be saved. I suppose you could say she opened my eyes to the other side of life because she was willing to see me as person and not a--” I paused, realizing what I had been about to say. “Well, and not just my scars.”
He seemed to accept that. Good. I didn't want to have to come up with something else.
I gave him a final nod, then left the room. Feeling like I'd done something right for once.
I knew my next destination and while part of me was eager to go, the other part of me wanted nothing to do with it. Some days I wondered what I’d do if I didn’t have myself to argue with. I suppose I’d have to look for another dog. Or maybe I could visit Marcella more.
Then again, maybe not. Arguments with her tended to end violently and she didn’t like to lose.
Like I said, stubborn.
I found myself at the hospital a short time later. I still argued with myself, but my feet had made their own way there. Good for them for not getting involved with my head. I made my way along at a fairly quick pace, taking the stairs instead of the elevator and taking side hallways when possible. The nursery was on the fourth floor, so it didn’t take me too long to get there. It helps when you can jump up an entire flight of stairs at once. Thankfully humankind has gotten lazy enough very few people take the stairs unless they have no other choice.
I made a careful observation of the area first. At the moment, nobody was there to look in the nursery windows. I moved quietly along the hall, shrugging my coat up a little higher on my shoulders and adjusting the collar to hide my neck and the side of my head. I stayed to one side of the windows, my eyes scanning each bassinet, noting the names on the cards at the end of the bed.
I drew a slow breath when I saw it. In the second row, third from the end on the far side.
D. Merced
April’s baby.
She was a bit smaller than the other babies and her skin a bit paler. A monitor was attached to her, her heartbeat mostly steady on the screen. I didn’t need the monitor to know that, however. I was able to pick hers out easily from the others there. Strong, but occasionally it would seem to struggle for a beat or two.
“Can I help you?”
I turned to glance at the owner of the voice. An older nurse, but with a calm, reassuring presence. Her hair was a mix of brown and gray and was pulled back and pinned up. She had slender crow’s feet around each eye and a slight upturn to the edges of her lips. She would have been very attractive when she was younger and had carried much of it over into the latter part of her life. There was something about her that gave off a combined sense of competency and compassion. She was obviously someone who loved her work and truly believed in what she did and that she could make a difference.
She wore what had become typical hospital wear, with dark pink cotton trousers and the top of her scrubs printed in a riot of pastels. The nametag on the front of her shirt said her name was Gayle and she was an RN. Good for her.
“I was here to see a baby,” I explained, my voice quiet, perhaps subconsciously afraid it would carry through the glass and frighten the infants. “It seems I’ve been named the father of one them.”
She considered me for a moment. “I can check the records. Which one?”
I’d expected her to not believe me and to demand I leave or call security. I realized then she hadn’t flinched when she saw me.
“Dawn Merced,” I replied, testing the name as I said it. It was a good name, promising, hopeful. It could be a strong name as she grew into adulthood.
Chances were if she were to end up being put up for adoption, her new parents would change it to one of their liking.
I wasn’t happy with that idea.
The nurse nodded and moved past me, walking into the nursery and going over to the desk. She spent a few minutes at the computer there, then came back out holding a clipboard.
“Your name?” she asked me.
“Michael Dorian.”
“The mother’s name?”
“April Merced.”
“The child’s date of birth?”
�
��April 20th. By emergency C-section after her mother was shot in a mugging.”
She glanced up at me, then nodded her head.
“You are indeed listed as the father,” she said. She lowered her clipboard and studied me. “But I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you aren’t really.”
I couldn’t help but grin to myself. And I thought only my own kind stated the obvious so plainly and acted like it was normal conversation. “No, I’m not,” I told her. “I’m not even sure why Miss Merced named me as the father.”
She took a slow breath and I heard something not quite right in her chest. Not an infection, but rather something that was there. I allowed myself a quick look over her. She seemed fine, except one eyelid drooped just a little off from the other and that pupil was a bit smaller. I wondered if she’d even noticed it in herself yet.
Yes, it annoyed me to notice things like that. Especially when I couldn’t say anything about it.
“I was there when she woke up,” the nurse said. “She asked to speak to the hospital social worker and explained that she didn’t have anyone else and needed to name someone to take care of her baby. She told us both you were the only one she had to trust.”
I nodded my head. Detective Rasmussen had told me as much. “How is the baby?” I asked. I had never found out her true condition other than “stable”.
“She’s a fighter,” the nurse nodded. She walked down by that end of the windows and motioned for me to follow her. “Because of her mother’s blood loss and drop in blood pressure, besides being a little early, there’s a possibility she might have had some brain damage, it’s too early to tell for sure yet. Her lungs are doing okay, but we’ve had to watch her heart. The rhythm’s been a little weak from time to time, but overall, considering the state her mother was in, she’s doing very well.”
I nodded, appreciating her telling me. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve avoided coming up before. I didn’t want to--disturb anyone.”
She turned and looked at me. “Whether you’re that baby’s father or not, you may be the only father she’ll know.” She paused, watching me. “I looked you up,” she told me. “I wasn’t about to let her name some random person and risk letting that baby end up in some drug house or homeless camp. I was going to make sure you weren't a threat.”
I nodded again, somehow not surprised. She seemed to be that thorough of a person.
“Do you want to see her?” she asked. “You’ll have to take off your hat and coat and put on a gown.”
I paused, my stomach flip flopping on me and chest feeling tight. Hold the baby? Take off my coat and hat in public? I wasn’t sure which idea scared me more.
“My scarring is extensive,” I told her after taking a shaky breath. “It would be too much of a disruption for those of you working here.” I realized she had folded her arms and was looking at me like she was waiting for me to come up with a real excuse.
“Mr. Dorian, you’re in a hospital with a rather extensive trauma unit. Healed burn scarring is something that none of us are even going to blink twice at except to maybe ask who treated you for you to be able to work and continue in what appears to be a somewhat normal life.”
Somewhat normal. That was one way of looking at it.
Perhaps that explained why she hadn’t flinched. I suppose I hadn’t looked at it from her point of view. Still, though, even experienced doctors usually had some reaction, even if only internally.
I seemed to be discovering that a lot of things weren’t as they appeared lately.
Before I knew what was happening, she’d taken my arm and turned me towards the nursery. I stopped myself from jerking away from her, not used to being touched by someone else. I was somewhat puzzled she honestly didn’t seem the least bit afraid of me. I briefly wondered if she had absolutely no sense of danger.
She guided me into the nursery and took a clean gown from a shelf, then waited expectantly for me to remove my coat and hat. I found myself feeling very self-conscious as I did, waiting for what had become the standard reaction to the twisted and knotted skin on my neck and side of my head. Thankfully the collar on my shirt and the long sleeve hid the scars on my arm. The other nurse in the room looked up at us, but didn’t say anything, staying where she was in a rocking chair near the back of the room as she rocked a baby wrapped in a blue blanket.
Again, not even a flinch.
She helped me put the gown on, moving around behind me and reaching up to tie it. I felt fairly awkward, not used to that much contact and lack of apprehension around me.
How’s that for an absurdity? I was nervous about someone who was absolutely no threat to me at all.
She took my arm again and led me over to Dawn’s bassinet. Moving with a fluid surety, she wrapped the pink blanket around her and gently lifted her from the bed. Dawn’s lips puckered briefly and she snuffled a quiet whimper, stirring from her sleep. The nurse came around and paused before handing her to me.
“Have you ever held a baby before?”
“A very, very long time ago,” I replied. A friend at university had been married and his wife had given birth to a baby a few months before I’d been infected. His wife had been convinced I just needed to hold a baby to think I needed to find someone to settle down with.
“In case you’ve forgotten, you want to support her head and keep your arm around her securely to support her weight and so she can get used to your touch.”
Before I could even nod, she’d placed the baby in my arms, making sure her head was safely in the crook of my elbow and the rest of my arm could wrap around her.
Dawn’s lips puckered into a whimper again, then she frowned and seemed to be trying to decide if she wanted to cry.
At this point, I cheated.
Given the situation and the fact that I didn’t like my lack of control in it, I don’t think I can be blamed.
What appeared to be a quiet sigh to the nurse was me willing Dawn back into a peaceful sleep as I exhaled slowly on her.
Her whimpers slowed and she seemed to settle, her eyes staying closed as her breathing leveled out.
“I think she likes you,” the nurse said, smiling patiently.
“I don’t think she’s old enough to know better,” I returned.
“You’d be surprised,” the nurse said, taking Dawn back when I held her out to her. “Babies can be remarkable judges of character.” She laid her back down in the bassinet, covering her and making sure the monitor on her was still positioned right. She watched the monitor for a moment before nodding slightly. “I think you just don’t give yourself enough credit.”
I looked down at Dawn. Light blonde hair a faint wisp on her head, pink lips and completely innocent. To her, there were no monsters right now. There were no evil creatures who lurked through the night.
Aleksander was trying to overrun the night with monsters. There could be no hope for anyone if he succeeded. What would be an annoyance and inconvenience for those like Marcella and myself would be virtually unstoppable for the rest of humanity.
“Thank you,” I said to the nurse as she followed me back to change from the robe back to my coat and hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got things I need to attend to.”
Whether I took Dawn in myself or let her go to a new family, I now realized I needed to stop Aleksander no matter what it cost me.
Chapter Six
Inheritance
I suppose it’s in every child’s nature to break their parents’ hearts at some point. Either by marrying someone they don’t approve of, or moving farther away than they’d like, or taking up with the wrong crowd and getting into the sort of trouble that could ruin the rest of their lives.
In my case, it was no doubt because one day I simply cut off all contact with them.
I know it was terrible and I could feel the pain in the letters they sent me, at first wanting to know if things were all right. Was I just busy? Was work and university getting to be too much for me? Were friends takin
g up all of my free time? Then the letters changed slightly, became a bit more desperate, a bit more pleading. Please, just drop them a note and let them know I was all right. They’d spoken to the police and I hadn’t turned up dead, so surely something was wrong. Was I angry they hadn’t been able to send me more money to help me with expenses? They promised to try to do better. My father offered to work an extra shift to help me out if I needed it. When I still didn’t answer, they became frantic. Please, please contact them. Whatever was wrong, they’d work it out with me. No matter what trouble I was in, they’d find a way to help me fix it. They sent letters to my landlord, who would only respond saying I was still living in my flat and paying my rent on time, so he had no reason to intrude on my life.
But how do you tell your parents you’ve murdered one of your best friends and eaten his flesh?
You don’t. You don’t tell anyone.
You bury yourself in your grief and your pain and your disgust and contempt until it eats away at your very soul. Then you start to think maybe you had no soul to begin with. You spend hours each day staring at your hands, seeing the claws that aren’t there now, feeling the warm, sticky blood drying on your skin even though you washed it away a long time ago. Your head replays over and over the fury that had been inside you, the way the smell of his blood had driven you beyond mad, the way his heart had gone from a strong, steady beat to nothing within only a second.
He hadn’t known what hit him. He hadn’t seen me. He’d been walking home from the pub, alone, down a side alley that cut ten minutes off his time. It had been raining off and on through the evening, so things were damp. I could hear water dripping in the distance, perhaps from the corner of the building at the end of the alley. The rain had made the litter in the alley smell dank and half rotten.
And at that point, I hadn’t cared.
The bloodlust had hit me full force. I’d jumped from the roof, my vision red and claws fully extended. My stomach felt like someone had stabbed a hot knife through it and every sense felt like it was on fire. My entire mouth was bitter from the need to feed. All I could hear at that last moment was his heart beating and knew only one thing would help me.
Bloodlust Page 7