Crying for the Moon

by Sarah Madison

  “Want some coffee?” Tate offered, motioning over his shoulder toward the kitchen.

  “We shouldn’t stay,” Alex said. He moved away from the balcony doors and walked over to one wall to look at the large photograph there. It was a black-and-white study of a bald eagle on a nest, perched on the edge of a cliff. He moved on to the next one: a photo of several autumn leaves that had fallen into a pond, a rim of ice at the edge of the water, the leaves half-submerged and muted in color.

  He caught the sight of movement out of the corner of his eye and discovered a digital picture frame on a small table, the images within rotating slowly through a series of nature shots. They were exquisite: deer in a mist-shrouded field; a tiny mouse feeding on a head of grain, the weight of its body bending the plant to the ground. The brilliant colors of a bluebird on a fence post in one shot contrasted with the scarlet and black of a red-winged blackbird on an overhead wire in another. As he watched, the photo scrolled to a small cardinal, puffed up against the cold, its red body the only note of color in a scene of falling snow.

  “These are beautiful,” Alex said.

  “Thanks,” Tate replied with a self-depreciating little laugh. “I have a good camera.”

  “You took these?” Alex turned to look at Tate. “These are professional quality!”

  Tate shrugged.

  Alex moved around the room looking at the photos until one caught his eye and held him transfixed in front of it. A man clung to the side of a sheer rock face, wearing a yellow and white sleeveless sports shirt and some black nylon pants that came down to just below his knees, revealing muscular calves as his foot dug into the rock wall. One leg was elevated at an impossible angle up the rock face; the other seemed to support all his weight simply on his toes. His arms, every muscle cleanly outlined by the brutal sun, appeared to be reaching for a handhold. His hands were white with chalk. A small bag hung at his waist, along with a water bottle and what looked like a mass of carabiners.

  It was Tate. There was no mistaking that auburn hair. It was longer in the picture and pulled back in a ponytail. What struck Alex the most about the shot was how relaxed Tate looked there, clinging to the wall, as though he were out for a casual stroll.

  “That’s you,” he said stupidly. He removed his sunglasses to get a closer look, setting them down on the side table.

  “Yeah,” Tate said. “I like that shot. One of my friends took it a couple of years ago. I don’t have many photos of me. Usually, I’m the one with the camera.” He gave Alex an assessing look. “You’d be really good at rock climbing. You’ve got those long legs, and I know you’re freakishly strong. There are a lot of easy climbs around here. You should go with me sometime. Work your way up to the tough stuff. Hey, we could even take a trip out West somewhere together. It’d be fun.”

  Alex found himself staring at Tate’s photo. He could see the appeal. Something about pitting himself against the elements like that—the stone, the sand, the sky. It almost seemed as though he belonged there. Yeah, right. “Only if they make SPF 2000.” Alex said sourly.

  Tate laughed. “Look at me. I burn at the drop of a hat. You better believe I pack the good stuff. I can provide all the coverage you need.”

  There it was again, that smoldering heat between them that suddenly sparked upward into a flame. Alex knew that he had to speak before he lost his nerve. Before he gave into temptation. “Tate. Look.” He hesitated, uncertain how to say what he needed to say.

  Tate’s face took on a cool expression. “Here we go. The ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech. I like you, Tate, but….” His eyes were wide open in mock sincerity as he mimicked Alex’s speech before giving him a tight little smile and turning away. He walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a bottle of wine from a small rack there, uncorking it, and pouring himself a glass. He headed over to the couch, glass in hand, looking a little stiff and unapproachable. His sudden change of demeanor, so different from the laughing, fun-loving person that Alex had come to know, was disturbing.

  “So, is it your reputation or mine that you’re worried about? Or maybe you don’t normally do guys. Is that it?” Tate’s expression was almost a sneer.

  “It’s not like that. Please. Hear me out.”

  Tate flicked a glance up in his direction before setting his glass on the coffee table and leaning over to unzip his boots. “I’m all ears,” Tate said dryly. He pulled off his boots and placed his socked feet on the coffee table, crossing his legs at the ankles. He watched Alex through half-slit eyes, sipping his wine as Alex poured a glass of Merlot for himself.

  He came over to the couch and sat down at the opposite end from Tate. Stalling for time, he took a sip from his glass and was surprised at the rich, full-bodied flavor. “Wow, this is good,” he said.

  “Alex,” Tate said reprovingly. “We’re not here to discuss my taste in wine.”

  “Yes. Right. Well.” Alex set his glass down on the coffee table and wiped his hands nervously along his jeans. “This isn’t about you. You have to believe me on that one. I’ve… I’ve never felt this kind of attraction for anyone before. I mean it. But my life is really complicated….”

  “So I gathered,” Tate said, a hint of amusement sneaking back into his voice. He reached out for his glass and took a sip.

  “You don’t know the half of it. You know about Nick’s pack—fine. You have to admit— that’s bizarre enough for the average person. But there’s more to it than just that. It’s not safe to be with me. I moved up here on the mountain for a reason. To deliberately disappear from my former life.”

  Tate raised an eyebrow. “Are you hiding from someone?”

  Alex sighed. “In a manner of speaking, yes. It’s nothing I can’t handle, but I do have to worry about the people around me.”

  “I’m a big boy, Alex. I can handle myself.”

  Alex just shook his head. “In most circumstances, I’d say yes, you can. But you don’t know Victor like I do.”

  “Tell me about him then.” Tate looked at him so calmly, so prepared to hear whatever it was he had to say—no matter how strange—that Alex was sorely tempted to tell him everything. He collected his glass and took another sip of wine instead.

  “So, if it’s not about the fact that I’m a guy,” Tate said slowly, “is it because you’re a vampire?”

  Alex spit wine out.

  “Shit!” Alex gasped, setting down the wineglass with a wobbly thump, which resulted in more spillage. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and looked down at the spilled wine in dismay. It was running off the coffee table onto the floor and had spotted the couch.

  “No big deal,” Tate said, rising easily and setting his own glass down. “After having cats puke all over the place, this is nothing.” He went into the kitchen and came back with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of something called Orange Magic.

  Alex mopped up the mess on the table while Tate sprayed the couch and blotted the stains. “You did that on purpose,” Alex muttered under his breath, quietly enough that Tate could choose to ignore him.

  “Timing is everything.” The smirk was evident in Tate’s voice. He held out his hand to accept the wad of wet paper and went into the kitchen to dispose of it, returning to take his seat on the couch.

  “What makes you think I’m a vampire?” Alex said when he could speak without sputtering.

  “Well, there were lots of little things,” Tate said, placing his feet on the coffee table once more. “There was the fact that you had no dishes or food in the house the night we all had dinner together, but you had a bottle of blood in the refrigerator. Then there was the coffin-sized crate in your front yard the day you moved in, the locked bedroom door, the fact that you hang out with werewolves—”

  “I can see where the werewolf thing might raise the index of suspicion a bit,” Alex said with a sigh. He folded one arm across his chest and rested his elbow against it as he cradled his forehead in his hand.

  “I knew you weren’t
a werewolf yourself because the others had changed but you didn’t.” Tate continued to catalog his reasoning matter-of-factly. “Honestly, at first I thought you were a celebrity hiding out from the paparazzi.”

  “You thought what?” Alex lifted his head and gaped at him.

  Tate flashed a quick grin. “Well, you were simply too good-looking for words and I thought maybe Nick was your gay lover-slash-photographer. You have that killer body and a great sense of style.” Alex could hear the note of envy in Tate’s voice. “Besides, I never saw you eat.”

  Alex laughed out loud. Tate joined him, and the moment made everything seem like it was going to be okay. Alex ignored the little voice that reminded him that was not likely. When their amusement died down, Alex asked, “Is it really so obvious that Nick is gay? Because it’s sort of a big deal among his people and I think he’d freak if he thought he was advertising in any way.” I can’t believe I didn’t see it before now.

  Tate thought about it for a moment. “No. I wouldn’t say it’s obvious. I was paying attention to Nick because I wanted to know if there was anything between the two of you.”

  “Oh.” Alex felt a flush of heat steal over his face.

  “Of course, I didn’t have any real confirmation along any of these lines until last night,” Tate explained. “But then everything made so much sense. Your disinclination to socialize, your desire to get me out of the picture….”

  Alex suddenly remembered EPT and felt bad that he hadn’t thought of the cat before now. He hoped the prolonged absence meant that the cat was hiding out somewhere until Nick’s pack went home.

  “I have questions, though,” Tate said with a little frown. “I mean, I thought vampires couldn’t see their reflections or go out in the sunlight. That kind of thing.”

  “Like Nick said, a lot of the lore surrounding vampires and the were have to do with people wanting to believe there’s something they can do to protect themselves against us.” He hesitated and then spoke with a little rush. “The thing that makes the most difference in whether or not a vampire can pass as a human is the use of the coffin.”

  Tate blinked inscrutably at him. Alex took a hasty sip of wine and replaced the glass on the table. “Okay, I’m giving away some fairly important secrets here, but the first thing you need to know about vampires is that there are two ways to sustain our lives indefinitely. One is by feeding on the blood of others. Frequently, in fact. The other is that there are a handful of coffins that can be used to renew and regenerate us. These coffins tend to be passed down through the centuries because, eventually, vampires tire of their existence and choose to die, for want of a better term.”

  Is that what you’re doing? His internal voice shocked him with the question as he realized it was a valid one. By denying himself the use of the coffin as well as feeding off humans, he was severely limiting his options. What did he want?

  Tate followed his every word intently, frowning as he took it all in.

  “Now, most vampires are created through a bond of repeated feedings. Feedings that bring you close to the edge of death but you do not cross over. A bonding so intense that sex pales in comparison. The purpose of such a bonding is to create a companion, someone who will be with you through eternity, or near enough. This is not something to be entered into lightly.” He paused for breath, recognizing the formality of his words and remembering when his father had held this discussion with him, in almost the same tone.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Tate interrupted, taking his feet off the coffee table and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You’re saying that companions eventually become vampires themselves?”

  Alex was disconcerted by the change in topic. He was trying to make a confession here, damn it. “Um, yes. Companions eventually become vampires—that’s the main reason most people do it.” It occurred to him the cycle of abuse that most companions experienced was probably the reason that many became abusive themselves, once they reached full power. His parents had been different—only he’d never fully appreciated how different until just now. “I’ve never taken anyone as a companion. As I was saying,” he said with emphasis, “it’s not something you do every day.”

  “What if you’re already both vampires? I mean, can a vampire become a companion to another vampire, or say, another supernatural being?”

  It was on the tip of Alex’s tongue to say that vampires usually didn’t form those kinds of bonds with each other—and never with another species other than humans—when he had to question that assumption. “I’m not sure. It never came up.” He thought about Victor’s casual cruelty and thought it unlikely. They had been together, but deep down he knew that Victor would tire of him eventually, when interest in teaching him the Old Ways had worn off. Victor was more representative of the Life than Alex had ever been.

  “Well, what happens to the companion if the vampire is killed? Before they become a vampire themselves, that is. Do they die as well?”

  “Most of the time, anything that is going to kill a vampire is going to kill the companion too,” Alex snapped. “Are you going to let me finish now?”

  Tate inexplicably grinned, leaning back in his seat again. “Okay, I’ll stop interrupting. Take a deep breath and go on.”

  Alex took the suggested breath, surprised at its calming effect. “Most of the time, feedings are just about food. Sure, there’s a sexual punch to it; that’s how we entice people into it willingly. We leave them with the feeling that they’ve had the best, most memorable sex of their lives.” He smiled a little, in memory. He felt his face close down as he continued. “We do kill sometimes. Some of us more than others. Feeding off human blood is addictive and there’s a power rush to having that much control over someone else’s life as well. The more we do it, the more we crave it. If we don’t have a companion and we let ourselves go too long without a live blood meal, the need to feast becomes almost overwhelming. Some vampires deliberately feed for the sole purpose of exsanguination. Some even lead their victims on, making them think they intend to turn them into companions, only to drain them dry in the end.”

  “Where does the coffin come into it?” Tate asked. There was nothing but curiosity in his expression.

  “The coffin renews us, sustains us, reverses aging, and gives us supernatural strength—just like the feedings but with a much greater effect. It takes half a dozen or more feedings every day to match the equivalence of a night in the coffin. The more time you spend in the coffin, the less you are able to traverse the human world. It robs you of your reflection, your shadow.” Your soul.

  Alex took another mouthful of wine before continuing. “It prevents you from walking abroad in sunlight but makes you practically invulnerable. When you use the coffin, the need to drink blood, hot and pulsing, straight from the neck of a living being, is undeniable.”

  “You’re not using your coffin.” Tate’s eyes were round and solemn. “What prevents another vampire from just coming along and swiping it out from under your nose?”

  “No one really understands how, but the coffins seem to be wired somehow to accept their current owner, and they must be bequeathed to another. The coffin itself is addictive.” He paused, a little shiver running through him unexpectedly.

  “My father was a vampire, one of the few with a coffin. I lived many lifetimes in his household, moving from one existence to another before anyone got wise to the fact that our family never seemed to age. My mother was his companion, and later his partner. I wasn’t allowed to use the coffin until I was eighteen. My father wanted me to be sure of my decision before accepting the Life.”

  “So, you were born a vampire, but you got to choose whether or not to live like one. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Alex nodded. “Yes. That’s a rare circumstance, actually. Most vampires are infertile, but as my dad was fond of saying, if you just try often enough….” He smiled a little at the memory of his father’s sense of humor.

  Tate grinned at him. “I
think I’d like to meet your dad,” he said.

  Alex’s face fell. “My parents are dead,” he said. “I’d moved on, seeking my own Life, when word came to me of their deaths. I inherited the coffin then.”

  “How’d they die?” Tate was sympathetic but that note of curiosity was there as well.

  “There are a couple of ways to kill a vampire. If they are deeply entrenched in the Life, feeding every few nights or sleeping in the coffin, then a vampire becomes more like everything you’ve ever heard about in the movies: sensitive to sunlight, no reflection in the mirror. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but a full-fledged vampire can only be killed by being forced into direct sunlight, being stabbed with a wooden stake through the heart while sleeping in their coffin, or by a supernatural being like a werewolf or another vampire.” He recalled with sharp clarity the sight of the handmade stake lying on the floor of his parents’ house, the tip whittled to a sharp point and cured by fire, now black with his parents’ blood. He recalled, too, his reaction that evening, when night fell and everyone was asleep in the village.

  “What happened to your parents?” Tate asked softly.

  “They were killed while they were sleeping in the coffin together. Somehow the locals found out and broke into their house just after dawn, stabbing them while they slept in each others’ arms.” Alex felt the pain of loss all over again, though it had been decades since their deaths.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tate murmured. “They sound like they were completely devoted to each other.”

  Alex gave Tate a weak smile.

  “So, where does Victor come into all of this?” Tate’s tone was one of suspicious concern.

  “I was staying with Victor when my parents were killed,” Alex admitted. “We’d met among some of the usual vampire circles, and I thought he was charming and entertaining. I moved in with him and we prowled the streets together, clubbing and feasting. After my parents died, he changed. Or maybe I just grew up. I don’t know. All I know is that I couldn’t see myself living that way for centuries. Not with him. I began to make plans to leave him, built up some financial reserves, that sort of thing. It took some time,” he added regretfully.