The Bonded

by John Falin

  “What’s happening to us, Percy?” I demand.

  “I don’t know… exactly.”

  Outraged, I say, “What do you mean exactly?” I fill the last word with anger to guarantee she understands my position.

  Yet she calmly says, “I promise, I’ll tell you everything. Please give me a little more time to sort this out. When I do, I’ll withhold nothing from you. Feel the truth in my words.”

  I close my heavy eyes and shut off the outside world until all I can hear is my heart thumping blood in a soothing rhythm. Then, an unfamiliar beat begins to echo mine, but the timing is off by a fourth. I control the depleting adrenaline and let it flow out of my heart and absorb into my legs and arms where it disappears. My heart changes tempo and we are both on the same song in the same band. I can sense the continuity in her words; they are true. Feeling satisfied, I start my trek into the other world and allow the light to reenter as my surroundings take on a more tranquil ambience. I return a nod and settle back into review.

  I recall the computer-engineered art back in the ‘90s that was blasted with resolute pixels and thousands of colors. It seemed as though it was nothing more than a splat of color-saturated wallpaper. Even when I focused with an unruffled concentration, the images hid, camouflaged in the myriad of shaded blues, reds, and yellows. I actually had to unfocus for a period of time before the picture revealed its surreptitious art. Airplanes, gardens, and other dull subjects were the substandard coveted prize. Sometimes it’s better to take a step back, rub my eyes, and look through different lenses. I’m hoping that this new piece of art that has me focused conceals a prize that is much more intriguing.

  It’s a short drive from the young mountains of Frederick County to the jaded neighborhoods in Baltimore. Driving through the stillborn streets at the glacial hour of 11 p.m. on a Tuesday evening isn’t exactly a party. Even the prostitutes scurried indoors from the numbing cold and vacant corners. Yet, if one knows where the clubs are, the pulsating beat of electronica or rap swells with reverberating bass lines as twenty-somethings who haven’t joined the real-world experiment with new forms of debauchery. I was never into the club scene. Give me a rustic bar sparsely attended with soft background music that leaves me alone with my thoughts or at least the right volume for conversation. Tonight, Percy was pushing my social boundaries.

  We park in a deserted parking garage just across from Philipp’s and cross the walkway that hovers above Light Street. A winter breeze chills a small group of drunken girls cradling the edge of the lightly frozen Inner Harbor running from one bar to the next. I welcome the bitter cold with burning skin. My metabolism is nearly twice as hopped up and my temperature must be 105 degrees.

  Flashing images of that unresolved conversation in the car rise like mist in my mind. It’s an old injury on a cold day. I snatch this moment of tender isolation to break the silence as we casually stroll through the crescent harbor. “I need more, Percy. My entire life has been one endless series of moves, running from one location to another in an inane effort to find someone, anyone like me. I may not require people around me often, but I still need companionship. Do you have any idea how lonely I am? Don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful for the philosophical discussion earlier, but what are we and why was I left alone?”

  Percy’s gaze falls heavily to the ground as her hand gently messages her strained neck to purchase several seconds for consideration. Like a door’s latch barrel bolt sliding into place and snapping to lock, our eyes meet. She says with a hint of sadness, “This is a slippery slope, Adriel. I understand your heart, and I know you need details to survive, but there are others who will be affected if you are discovered to possess information that you shouldn’t have. I can reveal what you need to know, but not what you desire. I feel your pain and hurt with you, but you must be satisfied with that for now.”

  I swallow another lump of old despair, disgusted at my blatant vulnerability, and reply with a steel whisper. “I have no choice.”

  Her stare tenderly relents as the mood shifts from red to a shallow blue. “I am a vampire; at least, that’s what we now call ourselves. There was never an official name as far as I know. We have always taken what the humans call us and claim that as our namesake. I have to save the history lessons for Cassius, but I can tell you we feed on the blood of humans."

  "Well, I kinda figured that." Snow begins its feathered descent, whisking here and there at the wind's mercy.

  "But you don’t know why. We can still eat and drink the food of humans”—I smile inwardly in memory of my scotch—“but our metabolism burns it uselessly. Blood is the only nutrition source that can be utilized and dispersed throughout our bodies for sustenance. We cannot thrive on animal blood, although it will keep us alive, barely. It’s only the blood of humans that give us true life.”

  I think on that for a long moment and ask a follow-up question. "How long do we live?"

  "Vampires live for about fifteen centuries due to our advanced immune systems. Cassius celebrated birthday 1488 last year, but you should know that we do not age like humans."

  "He was the strongest and the oldest?"

  She smiles and assumes the part of teacher by approving the correct question. "Our immune system grows stronger with age, making our wounds less debilitating and recovery much quicker. Although our metabolism builds in intensity, it is eventually the cause of death. It literally burns us from the inside as our bodies succumb to the heat."

  I delay for thought and murmur to myself, “So, the myths are wrong. We aren't immortal."

  She stops mid-step, demanding my attention, and says, "Vamps and waers are not—that is correct. But all myths start with some form of truth. They are stories meant to explain the mystical or meaningful experiences that logic or science struggle with." Anticipating my response, she retaliates with offense, "Humans love stories of magic and sex, but none of us were made through a bite or sorcery, but were conceived and born. In fact, we are born resembling humans and remain vulnerable until our brains fully mature during our early twenties. That is when the change you experienced happens for us. We call it the Resurrectio, or in English, ‘The Awakening.’”

  My thoughts are racing, but I manage to ask, “Why was it so long for me? I always felt on the verge of something palpable, but could never reach it.”

  “I don’t know why it took so long for you to experience the complete change and I believe it may be more complicated than the Resurrectio.”

  “What advantage would cause one of us to remain defenseless for so long?”

  “I suspect it was an evolutionary advantage. Our children blend in without fear of other humans hunting them down. One of our children would be an infant for forty years and a toddler for another fifty if they were born with our slow aging process, or a hundred other reasons and combinations of the above. The point is that no one really knows, but I tell you this: when a child is born there is a celebration and that child is protected with ferocity for twenty or so years. We have very few children, no more than four in a lifetime.” She takes a moment to escape story hour as if lost in grief, but quickly recovers. “I sense the inquisition in your heart, but I can go no further on that detail, as Cassius will want that privilege. We need to hunt because you have had the taste and need to feed." No argument there.

  We pass the frozen paddleboats and I get a whiff of the Cheesecake Factory. Yummy. Those restaurants prey on the sweet-toothed and tight-belted… The world is filled with predators. The wind is nearly deafening. I tilt my head slightly to the left for a moment of silence and am rewarded by a distant echo of our four drunken party girl’s giggles rolling over the ice like mist.

  We stride through streets turning from Pratt Street to Caroline, then here and there, never really with an aim or direction, eventually stopping in front of some three-story row houses that still strut their original brick with antique pride. These skillfully constructed buildings remind me that this is the city of Edgar Allen Poe. Emotionally tortured,
imaginatively macabre, and mentally unstable… he should have been one of us.

  Percy says, “I need you to not lose focus so easily, Adriel.” I love when she speaks my name. Oh look… shiny object. “Be attentive to your surroundings. Look with your new eyes. Listen, smell, and even feel the vibrations formed from sloppy walking. Some of us have better senses than others, as we are all not identical in our talents. Yet, don’t let that knowledge create an avenue for laziness. All senses need nurturing and use to function at a high level.”

  I appreciate her lessons, but don’t enjoy feeling like a child. I think she understands the misstep and adjusts. “We need to scan the streets from above. Climbing is not a problem for our kind. Watch.” Before the word reaches my ear, she had jumps to the lip on the second-level window and crouches down with knees bent as the fresh snow kindly pillows her arrival, suffocating any sound. I feel the tension spring release from her legs as she slices through the thick air, grabbing the gutter edge with her hands, and in the continuity of momentum, swings to a resting place on the roof. She gives me a challenge, signaling me to follow.

  I loosen my grip, shake out my hands to hemorrhage a little tension, and take a couple of steps back to make certain I have enough speed to make the jump. I roll my neck and hear an overdue crack, bounce my knees in preparation, and as I begin lift off, my memory balks at the misuse. I muster all my concentration, persuading the wind to assist me, and I’m rewarded as I jump with uncontained strength while the wind wraps around me, nudging in appreciation of the unexpected attention. My ears pop from the shift in air pressure while rising with hands outstretched as if I am worshipping the wind god above. The exhilaration overwhelms me and is thanked with a grin of pure satisfaction.

  That’s how I land, with shit-eating grin and hair tangled from a possessed blow dryer. I’d use ponytails, but I just can’t bear to relive the ‘80s. I land, expecting adulation, but find Percy in serious thought, piecing together a puzzle.

  She asks, “How did you do that?”

  Utilizing my real gift… annoyance, I answer a question with a question. “Are you saying that you can’t?”

  “I’ve never seen one of us do anything like that. After what I witnessed earlier with your little moon jump, I was hoping to bring out your competitive nature and test your control. I must admit, you’re becoming very interesting.” Ouch, becoming?

  Here we stand. She’s wearing the ageless black on black with a long coat to hide the slender katana resting vertically down her supple back. She is slightly pale, not like movie vampires, but from someone who has had long winters and works the night shift. I’m sure we look like salt and pepper as I chose to wear the white. Usually, I don’t give a damn about fashion, but what can I say? I like the white. White pants, white shirt, and long white coat to match. Hell, I even have white hair and am walking on white snow. OKAY, maybe it is a bit much, but I sure do feel cool. She hears my thoughts and shakes her head with disapproval. I kick the snow like an embarrassed child with my hands in my pockets.

  We leap from house to house in what I suspect is an exercise of my new abilities. To be honest, I’m thankful as my speed and strength take some evaluation and retraining. Time passes, but I’m not aware of it as I flex, retract, and bend in discovery of my new and improved condition. I land with quiet precision after a lengthy jump from one townhouse section to another and find her kneeling on one knee near the roof’s edge when she beckons me. “We’ve found them.”

  I look over the edge and discover four young men kicking trashcans and talking trash as well. Baggy pants, sideways baseball caps, and the ole’ chip-on-the-shoulder attitude. One of them gets distracted by a local bum shivering under a ragged wool blanket and begins to taunt him without mercy. I let slip a sigh of relief and she immediately inquires, “What?”

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t want to feed on the families that live in these townhomes. I don’t think I can kill children.”

  She studies me for a second and says, “We are not monsters devoid of emotion and humans are not animals to be abused. What would you think of a human who killed puppies or fawns when there were plenty of stags roaming the forests? I sense a certain pragmatism in you, but I also know that it was developed by necessity.” She touches my hair, unconsciously lifting it to her nose, and smells the scent of it. My mind takes a vacation, so she caresses my lips with her index finger. “Inside, you are tender.” Her face hardens. “But remember, and this is of paramount importance. We are all not so willing to spare the defenseless. Some of the older ones, and especially those who were born recently, do not share your sentiment. They see humans as cattle, to be bred, fed, and butchered for their palate enjoyment.”

  She doesn’t let me sever the gaze and I understand. Her message has been unbroken: trust is earned, not given.

  Chapter 5

  “Adriel, this can be traumatic the first time. You’ve been raised by humans and it could be rather simple to confuse feeding with murder. Now is the time to draw upon your pragmatism and realize you are no more human than they are chimpanzees. We are surely related, having emotions, self-awareness, and sympathy. We even appear similar, unless one is attentive to details.” She smiles with teeth hardened and long. “Fortunately, as a young one, you will not need to feed often; perhaps weekly will suffice until you begin to mature.”

  I process that statement and inquire, “I thought it would have been the opposite. As we age, we require less food.”

  “While that is true of humans, it is not with us. Recall our conversation concerning the metabolism increasing with age. The more we burn calories, the more nutrients we need. I’ve seen some of the older ones feed daily, and Cassius, he requires even more. If we do not feed, our metabolism begins to burn earlier and our lives are shortened. You can imagine how important that is to an older vamp on the verge of death.” She waits a couple of seconds and allows her words to settle in, then continues. “It is a little premature for a young one, but you have tasted blood and the desire will be primal. Your mind will not permit you to have peace until you’ve completed the cycle. If you catch a scent of it, see the blood moving through thickened veins, hear the deep bass of a frightened heart, or any other sensual experience with blood, matters can become much more urgent. Choose your prey; you may not even need to kill him to satiate your appetite.”

  With those words come visuals of the warm metallic liquid slipping in and out of my teeth and the rolled-back eyes of my prey. My heart starts a warm up, preparing for the race, and my ears tune to its melodic beat. I look at Percy as she is still talking and find her lip-syncing without background music. She stares intensely, narrowing her eyes into mine and she realizes I’m somewhere else.

  It’s in that feral moment that I look at those four wannabes huddled in a circle, discussing their midnight plans to hurt the destitute or perhaps to rob the corner girl. I hear amped up voices, each with distinction and their own specific vibration pressing against my ears. I smell the sweetness of alcohol and for a moment thank Dionysus for the favor. Without thought, my tongue rolls over my bottom lip in anticipation and retreats with no reward. In livid response my upper lip snarls with incensed rage and I feel the guttural growl of blood lust rise from within. Percy reaches for my arm, but it’s too late. I drop three stories to the ground with no problem. I will myself to leap, landing with an angry thud in the center of their circle for dramatic effect. My arrival shocks them as they jump back a foot or two in surprise. But they’re tough and recover quickly with, “Who the fuck are you, boy?”

  I strain to hear their words because my heart is pounding wildly. My target’s left carotid artery is throbbing in his neck, begging me to slice it open and enjoy the spoils of battle. So I oblige by grabbing his face with my left hand and squeezing so tight I think his eyes will pop out. I then shift my hand counterclockwise to expose that pulsating artery, bear hug him with my remaining arm, and dig in. I feel his friends hitting and kicking me with idle threats.

&nb
sp; When in Mogadishu, Africa, the rain was scarce and would take its time to build in immensity. When the storms finally arrived, it was announced with thunderous booms and a hard rain that pelted the naked skin. It didn’t really hurt, but it wouldn’t go totally unnoticed either. That’s what I feel with their muted beatings. I swear I hear the outlying rumble of thunder rolling toward me. The thunder is silenced by my slurping and I feel the heat of blood explode down my throat, trickling into a stomach that churns in thankfulness. I press harder and can’t contain my need until his flailing arms become limp. The blood stops gushing and in blazing agony I raise my head and roar in dissatisfaction. With blood dripping off my chin, red-streaked hair, and the fierceness of a madman in my eyes, I see the other three are teary eyed and paralyzed from fear as they get a good look at me.

  Percy is still on the rooftop, watching in bewilderment, when I target the man who antagonized the homeless person. He realizes his predicament and sheds all remnants of street cred as he begs the others to help him. His buddy with the black Ravens cap reaches in the back of his jeans and pulls out a 9mm. Apparently, he has watched too many gangster movies and aims the gun sideways, then begins the dialogue about getting the fuck away or he’ll put a cap in my ass, etcetera, etcetera. I take a step forward, daring him. He accepts, and with an incredibly loud boom to my hypersensitive ears, he fires the bullet, which impacts perfectly centered on my chest. I guess sideways does work. The pressure is sharp and intense, and I hear a bone crack in capitulation, but the bullet doesn’t penetrate my skin. With preternatural speed, I catch the bullet as it falls and deliberately raise my closed hand toward the shooter. In stunned calmness, he watches me leisurely reveal the hot bullet smoking in my unfurled hand. As if that wasn’t enough to frighten him, my chest moves, snapping and cracking in a slow and frustrating journey to heal itself. The pain is a distant scream.