The Bonded

by John Falin

  He slowly stands to his full measure and lets out a murderous laugh, letting me know that I am his after-meal snack. After my roll, I end up with my left knee and right hand on the ground, preparing to launch into a sprint and come back at him with a savage wrath. I spring forward and immediately tense up as I am catapulted into the air. I compensate for my new strength before launching and figure it would take me near or right through him, but this is definitely a surprise, and I notice I’m not the only one who feels that way. From three stories up, I see an urgent pause below as every eye is trained on me and every jaw gapes. The wind is water and I play the part of buoy as I float in whatever direction I mentally steer. I grab this moment; it’s mine; no thoughts, no plans, just the joy of it all. Of course, joy never lasts and my heart begins to feel a subtle ache of emptiness. Emaciated and dry, it reaches my parched throat and I lick my lips to moisten their chapped response. It isn’t the hunger for blood, but the peaceful, desperate need for something intangible. We lock eyes and I know the answer. The anxiety must have taken a toll on her as well when she doubles over in painful longing. Nice to know we share this little issue. In that moment, her two adversaries, stunned by her capitulation, realize their misdiagnosis a moment too late as she quickly recovers, swinging her weapon upward and amputating one of their legs at the knee, where the gap between bones exists, and barely missing the trunked neck of the other.

  Seconds later, I gently touch ground and come to a complete stop in two strides at the edge of the woods about sixty feet outside the circle. I inhale deeply and turn around to zero in on my target. Fighting has resumed and I’m thankful because this guy has really pissed me off! He begins with a trot that transforms to a gallop. I intellectually acknowledge that he is beyond human and running much faster than any human could, but his movements still seem more like syrup than tap water. His next strike he throws with his left hand as a distraction for the upcoming right hook. I’ve been in enough skirmishes and trained enough hours to see this one coming. I never take my eyes off him, slide to my right, and duck. It’s too easy, like fighting someone exhausted with no energy to lift their hands or gather any momentum. His rage boils over with a hurricane of punches and grabs, but I’m able to avoid all of them with little effort. Breathing heavily, he says, “I’ve never seen one of you this quick, but when I get my hands on you…”

  I don’t let him complete the sentence as I slice open his neck with a lame-ass sideways karate chop. How else am I going to use my fingernails?

  His blood spatters and the scent is a hypodermic shot straight to my brain. I am ready for my body’s response this time and smolder the heated desire with pure old-fashioned willpower, but it is too strong. I am panting with a feral lust for more blood, specifically his. I lose all composure and wrap my arms around his neck while lapping up every stream throbbing from the laceration when one of his buddies grabs hold of my arm and shoulder. He picks me up with ease and tosses me with naked aggression toward the remnant of the circle. I will the wind to slow me down and feel its gentle caress softening my fall. No time to think or ponder because the hunger is gaining ground and my anger is slightly unhinged.

  With no regard for strategy, friend, or foe, I start moving to kill anything in my path. I slide in and out of fair fights, swiping this leg and that arm in a frenetic pace that others couldn’t match. Someone must have pressed the slow motion button, as this is no ordinary adrenaline shot. My focus has never been so clear. The pace continues as I slide on my knees through the legs of one giant waer, severing an Achilles heel, and before his scream is set free, I’m already in descent for a thunderous head kick that booms in response. Time has no meaning; all I hear is the silent pace of my heart pumping something near magic through my blood. I land on my feet, squeeze my fingers into a fist, raise them into the air, and I let loose a war cry that could not be contained any longer. In front of me is Cassius making his way to me through a labyrinth of bodies when a waer with bloodied hands moves in for the attack. Without breaking stride or stare, Cassius lifts that beautiful sword and cuts right through his opponent’s bulky neck in one effortless swipe. His midnight stroll steps over a fresh graveyard of carnage in a fixated quest toward me.

  “Adriel!” he shouts twenty-five feet to the left. My eyes close and open frame by frame as one moment becomes 1,000 moments of a detailed nightmare. Quilici is in flight with murderous intent, and I am too late for self-defense, so I resign to an early death. I limply surrender to his tackle, smacking the ground with such might that a new fifteen-foot riverbed is created in the soft grass. I expect death and feel nothing but pain and impotent submission. He is stone and tonnage weighing down on my chest in full mount. His calloused hands could have wrapped themselves around my wrists twice, but once was plenty, as I am completely immobile. His pale yellow eyes scan over me in careful consideration before altering their direction. It is in that millisecond that I see it. He locks eyes with a distant Percy. They exchange information and his demeanor transitions from intimidation to sorrow. I immediately survey the area, wondering if anyone else was privy to that quick acknowledgement and am strangely grateful that the secret is mine to keep.

  In the little moment we’re sharing, neither of us is attentive to the war raging around us. Cassius seizes that opportunity with an impressive leap that lands him inches away with that sword aimed for the kill. Quilici must see my distressed expression because he moves with adrenalized speed, rolling stage left. The sword rushes down with such incredible speed that it digs deep into the earth like Excalibur in the stone. I catch the venomous scrutiny of Cassius with his antipathy and almost wish that the sword would have made a slight calculation error and ended this for me, as it is buried three inches from my right cheek. He is impudent, allowing the stare to linger when a fierce and low growl announces Quilici’s intentions. He’s crouched and ready to strike when I feel something odd happen.

  It’s as if my right cheek fell asleep, numb and limp, with only the prickling of blood to stir it from slumber. I feel the soft tingle of electricity in waves, far from the shock felt when touching a live wire; it is soothingly warm, placating my demon. I could rest here or feed from this. Daring not to move, I merely shift my eyes to the right and see the source. It is a small electrical current flowing from me to the sword and back again. I twitch with panic and look up to Cassius for help, but he is momentarily frozen, brow furrowed in focused pondering. In that lapse of awareness, a recovered Quilici springs into action with nearly the speed of one of the vamps. His blood-matted hair brushes my face and right shoulder nudges Cassius as he seizes the moment and grabs the sword while in flight. With a forward roll and jump, Quilici is nearly at the edge of the forest when he turns to see the effect of his audaciousness. In searing anger, Cassius is on his feet, ready to give chase, when a hand grabs his leg in prevention. It is the amputee Percy had dealt with minutes ago, providing the time Quilici would need for an escape. Cassius, with no sympathy for his sacrifice, wraps his long fingers around the waer’s throat, lifting him to his full height. His strength astonishes me. The waer fights back and squeezes Cassius’s wrists to no avail. We all feel the hatred emanating from him, and Cassius effortlessly breaks the waer’s neck with one hand. The waer’s neck and leg are already healing, but Cassius issues a command via nod and his head is removed without hesitation.

  From the void beyond our preternatural sight, the howling begins and stops with suddenness as Quilici yells, “The sword was never yours, Cassius. It will be returned to its rightful owner. We will honor our fallen tonight, but tomorrow there will be no rest until one of us is defeated!” As his sentence trails off, the howling creeps back in and Cassius joins them, letting his rage and discontent pierce the air. When he is finished, the carnage is gauged and his eyes flitter from corpse to corpse and from the injured to the healthy.

  All in all, there are three waers lifeless with a permanent absent and fixed gaze. The Weapons Master Seth, Cassius, and Percy are the only vamps to
claim true victory over their opponents. The vamp’s number is slightly higher with five dead, including the two sentries, and one with his head hanging on by two veins or fleshy muscles. I would have thought him dead by any measuring stick I’ve ever seen, but they are gently piecing him together as Cassius approaches. One of the tribe states, “He will make it, Cassius. The head was not completely severed, although he will take a year or two to heal.”

  Cassius leans over, grabs a fistful of the injured vamp’s hair, and rips the head clean from his body. I can see the madness in him as he dangles that poor vamp’s head as an example for everyone to see. “He does not deserve to live. He fought without the skill necessary to survive, and because of his failure, we have lost this battle AND I have lost what is mine! Weapons Master, if you cannot train our tribe properly, then I will replace you as I am replacing him!”

  The Weapons Master kneels in acquiescence with a grimaced face and offers his apology. “I have failed you, Cassius. If it happens again, I will embrace death by my own hand.”

  “I will hold you to that.”

  With that, he drops the head with disgust, turns, and briskly walks into what I assume is his home. The remaining seven solemnly watch the remains of the dark races disintegrate into dust as a weak-willed wind carries them away. Percy offers a silent moment of respect and swings her full attention to me. Her face is the innocent contrast to the stained blood that mars it, yet somehow one couldn’t exist without the other, and I see the tragic heroes of mythology. She catches a thought, realizing her knuckles are white with strain, and sheathes her sword in the scabbard strapped to her back.

  She walks ten feet in my direction, cups my chin in her hand, and gently eases it down with her thumb to secure my fullest attention. The hotness of her breath envelopes my ear and my eyes close as she whispers, “You need to feed. Meet me out front in twenty minutes and I will show you how we survive. House number three is yours; due to tonight’s events, you no longer have a housemate.” With a mix of sex and sorrow, she continues, “Under the basement, in the private room, you will find appropriate accommodations and a closet full of clothes.”

  Stunned, I say, “I need more than that. I need to know more.”

  She carefully considers my request and replies, “I cannot answer all your questions, as it is not my place to do so, but I will give you enough to process until you are ready for more. Is that fair to you?”

  I turn and briskly walk to house number three, and without turning around, say, “See you in twenty.”

  Chapter 4

  Showering, shaving, picking out clothes, putting them on, and meeting Percy outside takes all of fifteen minutes; it’s good to be a man. Five minutes later she pulls up in a snow-white hybrid car, and as the wheels stop crackling gravel, I hear the doors unlock. With a half grin I ask, “Vampires live in the burbs and drive hybrids?”

  She crinkles her eyes and replies, “We are a part of nature and care for our planet. Besides, it only seemed natural for me to do my part to ensure our food source survives the next millennia.” Ouch… and with that, I let slip a slight laugh, get in the car, and we slowly drive into the darkness.

  I don’t ask where we’re going because the silence is so comforting. It permits me time to work out the details of the past week or so of my life. I’ve always been able to lose myself in thought, to totally disconnect from an outside reality into a rich and textured inner world. I get lost often, forget where I am going, and miss conversation details all due to this secret escape. Yet, it provides me solace and company through long spans of isolation when alone or in a group. So I decide to close one door and open another for a little “me” time.

  The mountains of Maryland are snugly protected in a blanket of snow with eerie bare trees clothed to match. I spy a red fox hunting its prey and know it has no moral or ethical decision to cause mental anguish; it’s just a predator and a means of survival. I’ve hunted my entire life, never killing for sport, but never hesitating with conflict. I cried as I buried my dog, wept over my first hamster as his life ended, but always had certain pragmatism when it came to food and survival. I turn my attention to Percy, wondering if she has ever wept over a human as I did my pets.

  I must have been staring at her for quite a while, as I have no orientation of time during a journey through my inner world. I notice her details and appreciate the subtleties. Everything is in the details. I find myself discovering her when she finally tires of my intense consideration and breaks the quiet barrier. “I’ve been alive for 328 years and have had many men and women look at me with lascivious intent, but your stare is through me and in me, not on me. You’re different, Adriel. Different from all of us in many ways.” I’ve never been comfortable with unwanted attention, especially when someone’s dissecting me, so I shift my consideration to the window again and she thoughtfully allows me time to recover.

  After nine exits, I let out a humph, or the beginnings of a half-attempted laugh and ask, “When we return, am I going to find Cassius wearing a loin cloth, sacrificing females to some kind of blood-goat god?”

  The dam of reserved laughter gives way and we both enjoy a moment or two of abandon. After the joke’s fuel burns completely, she says, “We have never believed in gods or a god; therefore, religion has no purpose for our kind. We saw the fragile humans seek protection from supernatural beings when sticks broke under the footsteps of predators in the blackest of nights. We witnessed them begging God that the devil’s plague would not harm their family, and we watched as religion formalized to systems through thousands of years. We have never had the need for protection because we were the predators carelessly snapping twigs while on a hunt. We are immune to the ill effects of bacteria and germs. We watch as humans devote their precious time to religion and we wonder if that time and money would be better spent on the practical matters of their short lives. Your new life will be in direct conflict with whatever faith you cling to.”

  “It never really stuck with me. My parents were devoutly religious, participating in every church activity from Wednesday to Sunday and they certainly practiced what they preached, but I never understood how to reconcile it all. I could blame it on the amassing evidence of science. I could blame it on the ethical contradictions found in all religious holy books, and I could say that myths are an ancient way of understanding the world. I could say many things, but the honest truth is that I never felt the need for a god. So, when I left my parents at sixteen, I never went back. They loved me and they were gentle, caring parents, but I know they were burdened by worry when they died.”

  She waits several breaths and gently asks, “I don’t want to pry, but when did they move on?”

  “I was twenty-two and already somewhat of a vagabond, travelling the world in search of… something that I could never articulate. I returned home that winter to find the house empty with a For Sale sign posted in the front yard. I did a newspaper search for their names, discovering that their bodies had been found in the local landfill, the victims of a robbery. Their necks were broken with no other signs of trauma. I was young, but had already seen the world for what is was, and although I grieved, I understood. I understood that most people in this world are normal, content with chasing the lottery and raising children, but there are killers and they require victims.” I take a moment to muster courage and force down those old wounds. “I was adopted and they loved me as their own, never saying otherwise, but as time passed there were too many dissimilarities to ignore the truth.” I pause once more, deciding to let the single tear run its jagged course down my cheek unfettered. “Of course, the lawyers eventually found me and I was given what little they had left. Some money, their furniture and what not, and an old piece of paper with a hand scratched word. ‘Vinculum.’”

  Her head gives a quick half nod while her eyes dart back and forth, accessing old archived data. I hear a faint sigh and decide this isn’t the time for reflection, so I ask, “Have you heard of that?”

  I ca
n tell her nature is to hold information until needed, but she relents. “It is a Latin word meaning, ‘The Bonded.’”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I am very old, Adriel, and speak many languages.”

  In a moment of frustration, I decide to lay down my cards. “You wanna tell me how you knew my name?”

  A long recess in silence. “You are not ready to hear this story, even if it does involve you. I know it is hard to trust me, but I need you to listen carefully. Trust is not something freely given in my world. It is something earned.”

  “Your story involves me and possibly a link to my past. It isn’t yours to keep.” I feel her sorrow and remorse, but her will strengthens.

  “You don’t understand. Our kind can be ruthless. We have the ability to sense lies and hear understated exaggerations. If questions are asked, they will know that you are hiding something. We have ways, horrible ways, to extract information when it serves a purpose.” As she says it, I know by the nearly imperceptible twitch on her soft lips that she experienced this pain firsthand. I decide to leave this matter unresolved and she gives me a look of gratefulness.

  She slowly drags her right hand over the seat and console to touch mine, and she says, “There are things I need to…” As soon as our hands touch, the ache returns with fire. I feel myself becoming uncontained. As if outer-body experiences are based on truth, except my body is disappearing and joining hers. I am so frightened of losing myself that I knee jerk back with frantic response and nearly scream. The little car careens back and forth until Percy regains her composure. I turn to her and see the sweat formed on her brow.