“We will not debate with you, witch,” Lord Tensley replied. And with that he stabbed his knife through Harold’s upper right arm, a serious injury to receive in those days without modern surgical techniques and drugs. Even in the cold wind, I could smell the amount of blood pouring out of Harold. By bartering, I had made a mistake. I had to get to him soon.
“I will come down now,” I called, setting aside my bow and arrow.
Yet I hung behind the castle gate even as I peered my head out at the wicked gang. Knowing they were coming, I had placed a fresh horse and supplies just beyond a nearby bluff. If Harold could get to the animal, I knew he would ride to a cave two miles distant that only the two of us knew about. There he could hide until his girlfriend extraordinaire figured out a way to wipe out the enemy. Harold had the utmost confidence in me. Even at that moment, bound and bleeding as he was, he smiled at me as if to say, give ’em hell. I was not worried about that part. It was keeping him alive at the same time that concerned me. But to that end I sought to focus my gaze on Lord Tensley as I looked out from behind the gate. He continued to avoid my eyes, however.
“Let him go,” I called, pitching my voice as powerfully as I could, knowing, if given the chance, that eye contact would magnify my subtle influence tenfold.
“Come out now, witch, or I stab his other arm,” Lord Tensley called back. “Then your heathen lover will be doing no more of those corrupt paintings of your filthy body.”
Harold was in fact left-handed. I had to restrain myself from replying that if I was burned at the stake, then Harold wouldn’t be doing any more paintings of me in either case. And as far as my filthy body was concerned—he hadn’t minded the look and smell of it until I had told him to take a hike. Another phrase, by the way, that I think I invented. There is a place for sarcasm and this was not one of them. I stepped into the open and spoke steadily.
“Now you keep your word and release him,” I said.
Lord Tensley did as requested, but it was a feint. I knew the moment he had me bound and gagged he would chase after Harold and either cut him down or recapture him to be tried as a witch alongside me. Still, Lord Tensley could not know about the horse I had waiting nearby, and for that reason I exchanged a long stare with Harold as they untied him and let him climb to the ground. Harold and I had a deep telepathic bond; it was another special element in our relationship. Even with the pain of his wound and the pressure of the situation, he was able to sense my mind. Common sense also came to his aid; he knew I would want him to get to the cave. He nodded slightly before turning and fleeing into the night. Sadly, he left behind a trail of blood that I could smell only too clearly.
When he was out of sight, I turned my attention to Lord Tensley’s son, who had no reservations about looking at me. The young man was barely sixteen but large as an ox. He had one of those cheerful blank expressions that made me think that if his karma remained constant, then in his next life he would be a lineman for a professional football team and make two million dollars a year. Never mind that at that time there was no football, or even dollars for that matter. Some faces and things I just have a feeling for. It was my intention to send him on to his great destiny as quickly as possible, but I knew subtle suggestion would not work on his primitive brain. Stepping forward and focusing my eyes deep into his head, I said in a calm clear voice:
“Your father is the witch. Kill him while you still can.”
The boy spun and shoved his sword into his father’s gut. A look of immense surprise shone on Lord Tensley’s face. He turned to me just before he fell off his horse. Of course I was smiling.
“I know you’ve kept one of Harold’s paintings of me in your closet,” I said. “I look pretty good for a witch, don’t I?”
He tried to answer, but a glob of blood came out of his mouth instead of words. Toppling forward, Lord Tensley was dead before he hit the ground. Half the knights fled right then, including the athletic son, the other half stayed to fight. I dealt with them quickly, without mercy, largely because I was in a hurry to get to Harold.
But I was too late. I found him lying on his back beside the horse I had left for him. The wound in the arm had punctured an artery, and he had bled to death. My Harold—I was to miss him for a long time. To this day I have never returned to Scotland.
What was the moral of the story? It was painfully simple. One cannot argue with evil men. They are too unpredictable. Waiting for Eddie, with his mother firmly in hand, I know he will do something weird.
Still, I do not know what the moral of Krishna’s story is.
FIFTEEN
The smell of Eddie, even from four blocks away, is clear to me. Not that he makes any effort to sneak up on me. I assume this is because he values his mother’s life as much as his own. His car stays at the speed limit. He parks out front. Two sets of feet come up the porch steps. Eddie actually pays me the courtesy of knocking. Standing on the far end of the living room with my gun to Mom’s head, I call for them to come in.
The door opens.
Eddie has broken both of Joel’s arms. They hang uselessly by the agent’s side. Despite his intense pain, Joel strives to appear calm, and I admire him for it. He has many fine qualities—I really do care for the guy. Again, I have to tell myself that I cannot risk all of humanity for this one life. Joel flashes me a wan smile—almost in apology—as he is shoved through the door before Eddie. But he has no need to apologize to me, even though he has done exactly what I told him not to do. True courage, in the face of almost certain death, is the rarest quality on earth.
Eddie has found himself a gun, a 10-millimeter affair—standard FBI issue. He keeps it close to Joel’s head and Joel’s body close to his own. Eddie really does have a serious complexion problem. It looks as if when he was an adolescent he tried to treat his problem acne with razor blades. The experiment was a distinct failure. But it is his eyes that are the scariest. The green centers look like cheap emeralds that have been dipped in sulfuric acid and left out to dry in a radioactive dust storm. The whites are more red than white; his eyes are not merely bloodshot but hemorrhaging. Perhaps a local pollen irritates them. Maybe it’s the sun I dragged him out into earlier. He looks happy enough to see me, though, and his mother. He flashes us both a toothy smile. Mom doesn’t reply, not with my fingernails around her throat, but she does appear relieved to see her darling boy.
“Hi, Mom,” Eddie says. “Hi, Sita.” He kicks the door closed behind him.
“I’m glad you were able to make it on time,” I say. “But I didn’t mind waiting. It’s been pleasant talking to your mother, getting to know what Edward Fender was like as a young man growing up in troubled times.”
Eddie scowls. “You’re a bitch, you know that? Here I try to be friendly in a difficult situation, and you try to insult me.”
“I don’t consider your trying to kill my boyfriend and myself an act of friendship,” I say.
“You drew first blood,” Eddie says.
“Only because I was quicker than your friends. Drop the B.S., Eddie, please. Neither of us is here to kiss and make up.”
“Why are we here?” Eddie asks. “To play standoff again? That didn’t work so well for you last time.”
“I don’t know. I destroyed your silly gang.”
Eddie snickers. “You’re not sure of that.”
I smile. “Now I am sure. You see, I can tell when someone lies. It’s one of those great gifts I possess that you don’t. There is only you left, and we both know it.”
“What of it? I can make more whenever I feel the need.”
“Why do you feel the need? So that you can always have someone to order about? And while we’re on the subject, what is your ultimate goal? To replace all of humanity with a race of vampires? If you study the situation logically, you’ll see that it won’t work. You cannot make everyone a hunter. There will be nothing left to hunt.”
Eddie appears momentarily puzzled. He is intelligent but not wise. His vision is shar
p but also myopic; he does not look beyond next week. Then, just like that, he is angry again. His temper comes and goes like flares in a lava pit. Logic is not going to work on him.
“You’re just trying to confuse me with that witchy voice of yours,” he says. “I’m having a good time and that’s all I care about.”
I snort. “Well, at least now we understand your priorities.”
He grows impatient. Pulling Joel tighter, he digs his thumbnail into Joel’s neck, coming close to breaking the skin. “Let my mother go,” he orders.
I act casual, even as I dig my nail into his mother’s neck. “You have a problem here, Eddie. I hardly know this guy. You can kill him and I won’t bat an eye. You’re in no position to give me orders.”
He tries to stare me down. There is power in his gaze but no control. “I don’t believe you will just kill an innocent woman,” he says.
“She bore you,” I say. “She’s not innocent.”
In response Eddie pricks Joel’s neck. The ice-cream man has a good feel for deep-rooted veins. The flow of blood is immediate and thick. Joel shifts uneasily but does not try to shake free, which he probably knows is impossible anyway. So far he has allowed me to play the game, probably hoping I have a card up my sleeve that I’m not showing. All I have is Krishna’s abstract tale. But as Joel feels his life draining away, soaking his white shirt a tragic red, I understand his need to speak. Yet he has finally begun to grasp the stakes of this particular pot and is not afraid to die.
“He’s not going to let me walk out of here alive, Sita,” Joel says. “You know that. Take your best shot and be done with it.”
The advice is sound. Using Mom as a shield, I can simply open fire. The only trouble is Joel is not Ray. He will not heal in a matter of minutes. He will certainly die, and still I won’t be sure of killing Eddie. This problem—it is age old. To do what is right and save the day without destroying the very thing the day is lived for. I hesitate a moment, then dig my nail deep into Mom’s neck. The woman lets out a terrified gasp. Warm blood spurts over my fingers. Which pump will run out sooner? I honestly don’t know. Mom shakes visibly in my arms and Eddie’s face darkens.
“What do you want?” he demands.
“Let Joel go,” I say. “I will let your mother go. Then it will just be between the two of us, the way it should be.”
“I will beat you to the draw,” Eddie says.
I am grim. “Maybe.”
“There is no maybe about it and you know it. You’re not going to release my mother. You’re not here to negotiate. You just want me dead.”
“Well,” I say.
“Just use your gun,” Joel says with feeling. His blood drips off his shirt and onto his pants. Eddie has opened the jugular. I estimate Joel has three minutes to live. He will be conscious for only half that. Slumping slightly, he leans back into Eddie, who has no trouble supporting him. Although Joel struggles to remain calm, his color is white. It is not easy to watch yourself bleed to death. And what makes it worse is with his broken arms he can’t even raise a hand to press over his wound. Naturally, Mom tries to stop the bleeding, scratching me in the process with her clawlike fingers, but I keep the red juice coming. They will both die about the same time, unless I do something quick, or Eddie does.
But I do not know what to do.
“Release him,” I say.
“No,” Eddie says. “Release my mother.”
I do not reply. I begin to panic instead. I cannot stand by and watch Joel die. Yes, I, ancient Sita, the scourge of Krishna, who has killed thousands. But maybe my unchanging nature has finally been rattled. I am not who I was two days ago. Perhaps it is because of the loss of Ray and Yaksha, but the thought of another death on my hands chills me to the core. A wave of nausea sweeps over me, and I see a red that is not there, a deeper red than even the color of blood. A blotted sun sinking below the horizon at the end of the world. It will be the end of humanity, I know, to surrender to this maniac, but the mathematics of human life suddenly won’t add up. I cannot spend one life to protect five billion. Not when that one life begins to wobble and sink before my eyes. Joel’s blood now drips off the hem of his pants, onto the dusty floor. Mom’s blood does likewise, through her frumpy nightgown. What is wrong with Eddie? Can’t he see the seconds ticking by? His mother cries in my arms, and I actually feel sorry for her. Yeah, I know, I picked a wonderful time to turn into a softy.
“In less than a minute your mother will be beyond help,” I explain. “But if you act now, I will heal her neck and let her go.”
Eddie sneers. “You can’t heal. You can only kill.”
I harden my voice. “I can do both. I can show you. Just let him go. I will do the same with your mother. We can do it together, simultaneously.”
Eddie shakes his head. “You’re lying.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But your mother is dying. That’s a certainty.” I pause. “Can’t you see that?”
Eddie’s cheek twitches, but his will doesn’t. “No,” he says.
Joel sags dangerously to one side and now has to be completely supported. There are two pints of blood on his shirt, two on the floor. His eyes are the color of baking soda. He tries to tell me to be strong and he can hardly get the words out.
“Just shoot,” he begs.
God, do I want to. A bullet in the brain to put Joel out of his misery, then another five bullets in Eddie, in more choice spots than at the Coliseum. With his mother’s life still in balance, I am confident I can get off all six shots without taking a bullet myself. But the balance is on the verge of tripping; the scale is about to break. Mom sags in my arms. There is no longer enough blood in her veins to keep her heart from skipping. She has strength left for her tears, however. Why do they affect me so? She is a terrible person. Krishna will not be waiting to welcome her on the other side, if there really is such a place. Yet, ironically, it is her very wretchedness that makes me pity her so. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I don’t know what to do!
“Joel,” I say, showing Eddie just how lousy my hand is by letting pain enter my voice. “I didn’t want any of this.”
“I know . . .” He tries to smile, fails. “You warned me.”
“Eddie,” I say.
He likes to hear the weakness in my voice. “Yes, Sita?”
“You are a fool.”
“You are a bitch.”
I sigh. “What do you want? Really? You can tell me that much at least.”
He considers. “Just what I have coming to me.”
“Christ.” I want to throw up. “They’ll kill you. This planet is only so big. There are only so many places to hide. The human race will hunt you down and kill you.”
He is cocky. “Before they know what’s happening, there won’t be many of them left to do the hunting.”
Joel’s dripping blood is like a river, a torrential current I cannot free myself of no matter how hard I try. Once upon a time I enjoyed such red floods, but that was when I believed they flowed into an ocean. The endless sea of Krishna’s grace. But where is he now? This great God who promised me his protection if I but obeyed his command? He is dead, drowned by the indifference of time and space like the rest of us.
“Krishna,” I whisper to myself. “Krishna.”
He does not appear before me in a vision and explain to me why I suddenly release my grip on Eddie’s mother. The surrender is not an act of faith. The despair I feel in this moment crushes the breath of either possibility. The woman stands at death’s door but somehow manages to stagger toward her son, with a twisted grin on her face that reminds me of a wind-up doll’s. Her darling son, she believes, has conquered again. A sticky red trail follows her across the wood floor. Bereft of my mortal shield, I stand helpless, waiting for the shots that never come. Of course, time is on Eddie’s side, and he probably has worse things planned for me. He waits while his mother comes to him.
“Butterfly,” she says sweetly, raising her bloodless arm
s to embrace him. Shifting Joel into one arm, Eddie acts as if he is ready to hug her.
“Sunshine,” Eddie replies.
Yet he grabs his mother with his free hand. Hard.
He yanks her head around. All the way.
The touch of the demon. Every bone in her neck breaks.
Hitting the floor dead, her eccentric grin is still plastered on her face.
Guess he wasn’t that crazy about Mom, after all.
“She was always telling me what to do,” Eddie explains.
The next minutes are a blur. I am told to surrender my gun, which I do. Joel is deposited on the couch, where he stares glassy-eyed at the two of us, still alive, still aware of what is happening, but unable to do anything about it. Eddie does allow me to stop Joel’s bleeding, however, with a drop of blood from my own finger. Eddie probably just wanted to see how it was done. On the whole, as Yaksha predicted, he is very interested in my blood. By remarkable coincidence he has a syringe and plastic tubing in his pocket—don’t leave home without them. The modern medical devices no doubt facilitated his manufacture of other vampires. Pointing his gun at me, Eddie has me take a seat at the dining room table. He also has a tourniquet, which he instructs me to tie around my upper left arm. I am a role model of cooperation. My veins pop up beneath my soft white skin. It is odd that I should notice a mole on my elbow right then, one which I never knew I had, even though it must have been there for the last five thousand years.
I cannot believe that I am about to die.
Not taking his eyes or his aim off me, Eddie fetches a couple of glasses, and ice, from the kitchen. Clearly he wishes to celebrate his conquest with several toasts. I do not flinch as he sticks the needle in my largest vein and my blood traces a clear plastic loop into his glass. I’ll have a Bloody Sita—on the rocks. The glass fills steadily. We look at each other across the dining room table. Joel is lying semiconscious ten feet off to my left, his breathing labored. From vast experience I know a large blood loss can cause a person to smother. In a few minutes I may even know it from personal experience. The grin on Eddie’s face is most annoying.
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