The World on Blood

by Jonathan Nasaw

  "What about my mother?" she whispered, turning the TV on loud enough to cover their voices, but not so loud she wouldn't be able to hear Nick coming down the stairs.

  "Just that I knew her. Most of us did." He patted her futon—she sat down cross-legged at the foot of the bed. "Not well, mind you. Wayne used to bring her to our parties sometimes. A beautiful woman—I used to call her Gilda, after a Rita Hayworth movie. He beat her, you know—that's why we kicked him out of our circle. We all felt so badly when we heard about… what happened."

  "But why didn't anybody ever say anything at the meeting?" Suddenly she felt dislocated, cut off, disoriented—it was as though they'd had her mother hidden away this whole year. "Why hide something like that?"

  "Oh, we discussed it out of your presence." Whistler was extemporizing—the mention of Glory had only been intended to get him through the door, but clearly he was onto something. "It was Nick and Beverly who argued the most forcefully against telling you. They think you're on the edge of madness anyway—they were afraid it might set you off."

  "So you're all a bunch of fucking liars." She started to rise; he put his hand on her leg and seemingly without effort held her pinned to the spot.

  "My poor little January." Whistler pressed his other long-fingered hand against his breast, and tilted his head to feign compassion. "The only people who come to twelve-step meetings to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth are either innocent newcomers like yourself, or broken spirits, cracked plates like St. Nick up there."

  He removed his hand from his heart and pointed to the ceiling. Then the pressure of his other hand on her thigh eased slightly—he was gentling her like a spooked horse. "We've been watching you for a year, January. We wanted so to be able to tell you about us, so that we could then tell you about the others, their lies and their pretenses. But the time wasn't ripe yet."

  He waited for her to ask him about us and we, watching her face with exaggerated concern, remembering something he'd read somewhere once, about how sincerity was all that mattered in this world—once you could fake that, you had it made. One more prompt: "But now the time is ripe: we want you to join us."

  "Who's us?" More dazed than suspicious.

  At last. "Let me see," he said thoughtfully, ticking off the names on the fingers of his left hand, beginning with the thumb. "There's Lourdes, of course. Sherman. Augie. Louise." He looked down at his hand, puzzled—the pinky was still bent against his palm. "I know there are two more. Myself of course." He unfolded the pinky. "Oh, and Henderson."

  He removed his right hand from her leg to show her six fingers in the air—she was following his every gesture now, as if he were an astounding magician—then lowered it to her left thigh again, grasping her firmly, almost caressingly, just above the knee. "We know so much about you, January. We know who you are, and what you need, and we're going to help you get it, the way we wish we could have helped poor Glory."

  He could feel the sinewy squirm of her quadriceps under his palm as she softened to him. "You see, what you need, first of all, is blood, and second of all, a family. Not to be alone. Believe me, I know—I lost my mother when I was around your age, and my father turned his back on me not long after. He gave me the same choice Nick is giving you—blood or family. I chose blood, but do you know what I discovered?"

  Her eyes were still fixed on his—there was no need for her to shake her head.

  "I discovered that I could have both, January." Suddenly his hand slipped all the way up her thigh so that his long fingers were pressing lightly against her hip and his thumb resting against the side of her sex. "And so can you." He reached behind his back with his left hand and presented her with a heavy cylindrical object, gift-wrapped in black foil. "Happy birthday."

  She took it—it felt like a thermos, and when she held it to her ear and shook it, it sloshed like a thermos. And so it proved to be, when she tore the foil off: a silver and black Star Trek: The Next Generation beauty. She ran her fingers lovingly across Captain Picard's earnest shiny-domed visage, then rotated the bullet-shaped cylinder to see the Enterprise zooming across the quadrant at full warp speed. You could tell it was full warp by the streaming lights.

  "Before you open it," said Whistler, though she had made no move to do so, "I want to tell you a few things. First, V.A. is already finished, done for, kaput—it's not your doing and it's not your fault and you couldn't save it if you wanted to. Second, Nick is in no danger—we don't want to harm him, or any of the others: we just want them to leave us alone to pursue our natures. Third, the choice is yours—you can join us or not, as you choose."

  He removed his hand from its intimate position and noticed her thigh lifting slightly as if to follow it. "But you have to decide now." He took back the thermos, casually twisted off the cup from the top, then worked the plug loose and poured a splash of blood into the cup. "If you take this blood from me now, and drink it straight down, you become a member of our Penang. You'll never want for blood, and you'll never want for a home."

  He held it out until she reached for it. "Your eyes are beautiful all sparkling with tears," he said gently as she took the plastic cup. "That's the girl."

  But she paused with the cup to her lips, so he upped the ante. "By the way, did I mention that I'd like you to think of this thermos as a Big Gulp, and of myself as the Seven-Eleven?" Her eyes went wide over the rim of the cup. "That's right, free refills."

  The cup tilted slightly, but froze again, and Whistler decided to play his last card. He knew it would tip her one way or the other—he just didn't know which. "The alternative is to stay on the Titanic until it's just you and Nick. But when that ship goes down—and it will, my dear child; believe me, it will—you'll end up just like your poor darling Glory: alone and drowning in a cold, black sea."

  FOUR

  "Hello, everybody. My name is Nick, and I'm a recovering vampire."

  "Hi Nick, hi Nick, hi Nick…" All the way around the table. "This is our first full meeting—I mean, our first meeting with the full membership—in over a month, and our first full meeting ever in our new home." He gestured to the wide open conference room, which had a small stage, and could easily have accommodated a group ten times their size. It was separated from the lobby of the Senior Center only by an accordioned floor-to-ceiling plastic room divider; the dozen vampires were gathered around one of several conference tables on the opposite side of the room. "Before we read the Twelve Steps and Traditions, there's some business we need to get out of the way."

  Nick—who was alone at the head of the long folding conference table, with Whistler seated directly to his left and January to his right—turned to Whistler. "James, after your last meeting—"

  January was tugging at his sleeve. He turned all the way around to face her. "What?" he said, annoyed.

  "I changed my mind."

  "What do you mean, you—"

  "I was thinking about it last night, trying to remember, and now I think I could of been wrong, it could of still been on my shirt or something, or I could of made it up."

  "Wrong about what? Made what up?" Whistler addressed her directly, across the table.

  "I'm sorry, James. Our last meeting, you remember how upset I was?"

  "Because you'd slipped? Yes, of course."

  "And I told everybody the reason I ran out was because I smelled blood on your breath. But I'm not sure anymore."

  "Well damn, girl." It was Lourdes, next to Whistler—he put his hand on her arm.

  "It's all right, Lourdes," he told her; then, to January: "I forgive you. I've done stupider things myself." Whistler didn't quite flash Nick a triumphant smile when he turned to him, but then, they knew each other well enough that he didn't have to. "You were about to say, Nick?"

  Nick had to force himself not to turn around to question January—he couldn't imagine what had caused her to change her mind, but decided it didn't matter. He, for one, hadn't a doubt in the world that she had smelled blood on Whistl
er's breath back in December—he would salvage what he could. "I don't see where January's having second thoughts changes much, James. The membership voted for an intervention—we don't want to take your inventory for you, James, we're just asking to see you in the sunlight tomorrow morning, or afternoon, or whenever's—"

  Sherman, seated to Lourdes's left, interrupted Nick. "Hi my name is Sherman and I'm a vampire." When the answering hi's had died away, he addressed Nick directly. "I think maybe January's retraction does change things, Nick. I know I'd change my vote."

  "Me too," said Louise.

  "Hold on, everybody." It was Augie, directly across from Nick at the foot of the table. "There's an easy way to settle this—let's just vote again."

  "Good idea," said Whistler. "And for my part, I promise to go along with whatever you decide."

  "Fine," said Nick, sensing defeat—but not yet disaster. "Let's vote. Aye means we confirm the first vote, for an intervention; nay means we drop the whole thing."

  They went around the table, starting with Whistler, who gracefully recused himself. By the time the vote came around to Nick again, the tally was nine to one, with only Beverly of the still recovered vampires voting to intervene. "You win," Nick announced to Whistler. "My vote doesn't matter."

  "I want to hear it, Nicky," replied Whistler evenly.

  "I said it doesn't—"

  "I said I want to hear it!"

  "AYE THEN, GODDAMMIT!" Nick fought for control of himself, and of the meeting. "Let's just drop it now," he said quietly. "Who wants to read the Steps?"

  Whistler put a hand on his arm. "Not so fast, Nick. We have one more piece of business."

  "Save it for after the meeting." It took all the self-control he could muster not to shove Whistler's hand away; instead he withdrew his forearm from under it.

  "It won't wait."

  "Fine, go ahead." It sounded petulant even to Nick's ears. He tried to soften it. "Please."

  "Why are we no longer meeting at the Church of the Higher Power?"

  By dint of repetition and time, the half-lie came to Nick as easily as the truth would have. "Reverend Shoemaker changed her mind."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know—I think perhaps I oversold the dangers of being a Victim."

  "You're a fucking liar, Nick." This was Lourdes—it was said completely without heat, but the effect on the meeting was electric. "Selene told us about how she left a copy of your vampire novel with your picture on it on the podium the night we left."

  She turned to the others to explain: "Those of you who don't know her, Selene was an old girlfriend of James's—she was the one who left the hooker at the church—she's been trying to get even with James for getting engaged to me, and she's doing it through V.A."

  Whistler took over again swiftly, before Nick could regain the floor. "So, Nick, now that you are possessed of this particular enlightening detail, would you like to explain how you managed to re-convince the good Reverend that you were only a Victim in the face of such persuasive evidence to the contrary? The truth, this time." He sat back, folding his arms with exaggerated patience.

  Stunned as he was, Nick still had no idea what he was up against—after all, no one had ever been punished or even censured at a V.A. meeting before. He decided to tell the truth: "I let her read my V.A. Fourth Step."

  Murmurs broke out around the table; at the far end Augie had risen angrily from his chair shaking his fist like an extra in Spartacus. Nick hurried on. "Please, you don't understand. I had to. She was going to go to the police—it was the only way."

  Whistler had stilled the uproar with an upraised palm. "Let's hear him out."

  "Thanks, James," Nick said, growing more confused by the moment. This time he told them everything, including his role in the possible impregnation of their former landlady. He thought he'd made a pretty good case for himself, too, but when he'd finished Whistler took the floor again. "Thanks, Nick. Augie, just for form's sake, does the charter say anything specifically about the penalty for breaking the fellowship's anonymity?"

  "No penalty specified. Same as all the Will of the Membership issues in the bylaws. Majority vote."

  "Fine. Well, I'm sure we all understand why Nick did what he felt he had to do."

  There were nods, murmured assents around the table. Nick relaxed—at least until Sherman suggested they have a vote anyway: "Like James says, for form's sake."

  And now—too late—Nick's professional instincts kicked in. "Wait a minute, what's going on here? A vote on what?"

  Whistler turned to him ever so slowly. Twisting-in-the-wind slowly. "Why, not to take your inventory, Nick. Just to decide whether any punishment need be applied in the current situation. I'm sure you'll do just as well as I did in the vote you forced me to submit to."

  He turned back to the others, almost as slowly. "I'm sure nobody wants to be unduly harsh. Myself, I think Nick actually saved the fellowship. On the other hand, we are a society of laws, and we don't want—oh, the hell with it." He'd almost forgotten that he'd already rigged the election. "Who votes that Nick be suspended for six months for breaking the anonymity of the fellowship? Hands?"

  Stunned, Nick surveyed the table. He had turned his body to face Whistler, so his back was to January as he counted the upraised hands:

  Whistler, Lourdes, Sherman, Louise, Henderson, Augie. "Six," he managed to say. "It's a tie." Then came a tap on the shoulder. He twisted around to face January.

  "Sorry, Nick," she said, gazing implacably into his eyes as she slowly raised her hand.

  "Seven, then," Whistler said briskly. "All opposed?"

  Nick found himself counting again, as if somehow the principles of addition and subtraction had slipped out of whack along with the rest of his universe. There were only four hands raised this time: Beverly, Toshi, Sandy, Sally. Seven and four makes eleven, he thought dully. But there are twelve of us.

  Then he remembered—but just as he started to raise his own hand, he heard Whistler's mocking voice again. "Now now, Nick—why don't you show a little class like I did, and abstain from voting for yourself? After all, it won't make any difference… All right, have it your way: the vote is seven to five. See you in six months, pal."

  But Lourdes was whispering something into his ear. Whistler inclined his head to her like a witness conferring with his lawyer at a congressional hearing, covered his mouth with his cupped hand as he replied, then addressed Nick directly again. "Lourdes suggests that your hiatus should run, not from today, but from the date of your transgression. That way you'll be reinstated in time to attend our wedding in June."

  With a sweep of his hand he included the rest of the membership: "If that's all right with the rest of you, that is. We're planning a June wedding up at Tahoe. You're all invited, of course—we'll be sending out invitations soon, but in the meantime, just hold Midsummer—that's the solstice—open."

  Whistler glanced behind him. "Oh Nick? You can put your hand down anytime. It's all over now."

  Nick looked up at his own hand in the air. Somewhere in the distance Beverly was shouting, but it all seemed so far removed. He remembered feeling like this once before, back in 'Nam, during his only skirmish alongside the Montagnards—he'd heard the distant popping sound of a rifle, and it was not until he'd fired off an entire clip that he recognized from the subsequent silence that it had been his own weapon.

  Slowly he lowered his hand. If he had any thought at all as he pushed himself back from the table and rose to his feet, it was some vague notion of leaving with a shred of dignity. But even that last hope was not moored firmly enough against the wave of rage that washed over him at the sight of Whistler's next gracefully understated gesture—a little bye-bye flick of the long fingers, and an infinitesimal lift of the yellow eyebrows.

  The son of a bitch is dyeing his eyebrows too, was Nick's last thought before he launched himself across the table. After that, only red rage, a hunger for Whistler's throat between his hands, then the sensation of f
lying—an oddly peaceful feeling, even as the room turned upside down around him.

  Chapter 4

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  ONE

  "Good evening, everyone," began Selene, looking around the keeping room, which had been remodeled into a low amphitheater with three horseshoe-shaped tiers lined with velveteen-covered cushions (red paisley: red to camouflage the bloodstains, paisley for the come) surrounding an orgy pit of foam pallets and leather bolsters. "I'd like to welcome you to the celebration of the vernal equinox. As I promised those of you who were with us at the Coven's last gathering back in February—I think that's most of you—on Candlemas, which was a celebration of the Goddess renewing herself and reembodying herself as a virgin, tonight's celebration centers around spring, and a ceremony of renewal to honor the coupling of the Goddess with the Lord of the Green, also known as the Goat-God, Pan… so it should be a lot more fun… than Candlemas."

  Selene paused for a breath, relieved to have worked her way back to her original sentence. After twenty years as High Priestess, she was still not comfortable with public speaking. And this was a larger crowd than usual—arrayed before her across the top two tiers of cushions were the full Coven, including the first-level initiates, each in her green hooded robe slit up the crotch and sides, and the reestablished Penang (which by now encompassed the entire membership of V.A. with the exception of Nick and Beverly) in their crimson satin robes with crotch-high easy-access plackets fore and aft.

  "Before we get started," Selene continued, "let me remind you of a few things. Firstly, the vernal equinox is all about the Horned Hunter roaming the greenwood hitting on everything that moves. He and the Goddess don't settle down until Beltane, so—please, couples?—no sneaking away.