by Garon Whited
Okay, I would have thought of the duct tape. You can’t run a household without something like duct tape.
There wasn’t much big stuff, but there were a thousand little things. I had to go to the store and get more boxes to hold it all, as well as sticky notes and markers to inventory it.
I also stayed out of Myrna’s way and let her boss the thing. Fred stayed near her. I think they had a talk about letting the kids be the face of the charity; Myrna mostly only bossed things after the kids took in the donation. I can live with that. So can she.
Pizza showed up. A lot of it. Fred accused me of being nice again. I evaded his questions and did my best not to lie to a man of the cloth.
“Gary and Mark are going to need a place to live,” I pointed out, derailing the interrogation. “Has anyone bought the house on the corner?”
“Not that I know of. I think it’s still for sale.”
“Everything along this street is the same cookie-cutter make, right?”
“Well, the interiors are obviously different, based on the homeowner’s own sense of—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off, “but the layout is the same.”
“Yes. They were all built together. One company put up all the subdivisions around here, one right after the other.”
“Great. Once we get the cash processed through, can you make arrangements to use it as a down payment? It would be nice if Mark has someplace to come home to. Besides, I’d like my barn and bedrooms back.”
“That strikes me as a good idea,” Fred agreed. I found out later he had already started the process. He didn’t tell me. He let me think it was all my idea. Which, technically, it was. I had it all on my own, even though he had it first. He has more practice being charitable and kind. He’s a minister, not a monster.
At least, I assume he’s not a monster. For all I know, Myrna’s a werewolf and he’s an elf after plastic surgery.
“Myrna can pick out the furniture from the stack,” I added. “She can also decorate the house. We’ll sell the excess furniture and suchlike.”
“You’ve got a talent for this,” Fred told me. “Want to help me with the Christmas food drive for the homeless?”
“No. But if you ask me for something specific, I’ll probably agree.”
“Like, can we store everything in your barn?”
“That would be specific. Yes. Do you think you’ll need to?”
“No, I don’t. We have a big kitchen at the church and lots of other space. Never fear—I’ll think of a way to make you useful.”
“Works for me.” I tossed empty pizza boxes into the recycling bin, consolidated some lonely slices, and laid out more full boxes.
Susan buttonholed me and drew me aside.
“Gary hasn’t got much in the way of spare clothes,” she told me. “I wash whatever he isn’t wearing, but another set would be helpful. Could we go through the donations and find more that will fit him?”
“Sure. But there’s dozens of bags. We’ll need help.”
“Oh, well. I guess,” she agreed. She recruited Mei Ling and Rosa—Rosa is Patricia’s mother. We went to my place, I introduced them all to Francine, and we went through piles upon piles of clothes. I carried a trash bag full of clothes into the room, dumped it, and they went through it to check the sizes. I fetched another one, dumped it, and carried the bag of rejects out to the barn. I had to step quickly; they were faster than I anticipated. We worked our way through the pile in surprisingly quick time.
I did not have a fire going in the fireplace. Getting a flame-call while they were present did not seem a good idea. Firebrand understood and lay quietly on the mantle.
With a sack full of clothes, Susan went to run them through the wash. Mei Ling and Rosa both thanked me profusely for being such a nice guy. Rosa even clasped her rosary crucifix and thanked God I was there to help.
I’m definitely pleased she’s happy. I’m not sure how pleased she would be if she knew. I feel like I’m lying to her, somehow, and I don’t like it.
The Four haven’t spent much time in the barn, lately. That’s okay; they’ve been busy. I suspect they’ll be back on Sunday, though. The big charity drive is over and life can go back to whatever passes for normal. They got their pictures taken, smiled all around, kudos were awarded, and they accomplished something. I’m happy about it; they’re happy about it. Gary’s especially happy about it and has no idea how to adequately express his thanks.
He asked me what he should do. Write notes? Shake everyone’s hands?
“Gary, who did the hard work?”
“You and Fred.”
I growled at him a little.
“Patty, Luke, and Ed?”
“That’s better. So, who do you thank?”
“Patty, Luke and Ed.”
“Very good. How do you thank them?”
“I don’t know!” he blurted, exasperated.
“You say it,” I told him. “They’re your friends. They didn’t do it for thanks. They did all this because they love you. You don’t have to thank them. But, if you want to, say it and move on. If you make a big deal about it you’ll embarrass everyone. Say ‘Thank you,’ and never mention it again unless one of them brings it up. Okay?”
“And that’s it? That’s all I do?”
“Are you four friends?”
“Yes.”
“What else would you ever need to do?”
We packed up everything late that afternoon. Fred and I handled the money before we started moving boxes into the barn. We left the stand assembled; taking it apart would be a project. It was nailed and screwed together. I promised to handle it myself with battery-powered tools.
Then I had to fake a phone call as an excuse to leave Fred to the other work; sunset was starting to bother me.
After my Shower of Death, I woke up Mary, had her help me with my makeup, and went back out to apologize to Fred. He really wasn’t in shape for hoisting and hauling boxes. I sent him home and finished it for him. We were almost done, anyway.
Mary and I tried more rabbit blood. She reported it was equally disgusting tonight. It still slithered its way across the table to me, but it barely crawled. Good enough for emergencies, then, but not at all palatable.
I took Mary to dinner in the big city.
“Tell me something,” I started, during the cab ride. “Is there a privacy setting for cabs? Or do I need to get my own car?”
“Get your own car,” she advised. “I’ve never been sure if these things record or not. It’ll still track your movements—a self-driving car is part of the traffic system, so it happens automatically. You should be able to turn off the microphones in your own car, though.”
“Fair enough,” I replied, and we remained silent until we got out.
“So, what did you want to say in private?” she asked, taking my arm and playing the part of girlfriend out on the town. I put my hand over hers and smiled at her.
“How to be an angel of death.”
That stole her tongue for a bit. She walked next to me, hand on my arm, while she thought it over.
“I’m not sure I know where you’re going with this,” she admitted.
“Let me start with a question. What are vampires for?”
“You mean, like, as a species?”
“Exactly.”
“Giant mosquitos?”
“Be serious.”
“Not if I can possibly avoid it.”
“Well, a little more serious than that, at least.”
“Okay. Not a clue,” she admitted.
“Nothing in nature is without purpose. Everything fits together to form an ecosystem. Does that make us apex predators?” I asked.
“I’d have to guess so,” she answered. “Ecology isn’t my area. I suppose humans need something that eats them.”
“That’s my thought. Now, first lesson. Let’s go to a hospital.”
“Am I going to enjoy it?”
“It’s a good place to get
dinner and a show.”
“Oh, this I have to see.”
We went into a hospital and I started spreading tendrils out, the strands radiating outward all around us like an invisible cloud. They brushed over and flowed through stone and steel and wood and flesh, touching lightly on every spirit we passed. Still holding Mary’s hand, I gently drew her feathery tendril outward, spreading it wide to feel what I felt with mine. Like a child on her father’s shoulders, her senses expanded, riding along.
It didn’t take long to find someone. Oncology and ICU are usually good places to look. I try to avoid the psych wards; people in there are usually confused or medicated. That makes it hard to find someone who really is in a fit state to eat.
“Feel that?” I asked, indicating one particular tendril. She nodded, wordlessly. “Can you feel… him?” I asked. She nodded again as we found seats in a waiting area. “How he hurts, how he’s tired, and how he wants it all to hurry up and be over with? He’s dying. He knows it. It’s all over but the pain.”
“I can,” she whispered. “I can. It hurts.”
“Then help him.”
“I can’t. Not from here.”
“Then I’ll help you. Come on.” I helped her reach out to him, guided her to his spirit. Again, with a child simile, it was like lifting a child to let her place an ornament at the top of a Christmas tree. I helped her reach out to the dying man. Her feathery touch wrapped around him, enfolded him, and slowly drained away what little vitality he possessed.
“Keep going,” I told her. “Don’t stop now.”
“How do I—?”
“Work your way in deeper,” I encouraged. “Dig down. There’s more in there, but you have to reach for it.”
“There isn’t anything.”
I took her tendril in mine and pushed with it, drilling down, digging in.
“…wait. There is something. It feels… different.”
“That’s it,” I encouraged. “Push deeper, then pull. Take as much time as you need.”
She kept going, frowning, trying to pull more from him. It’s much harder to drag the soul out of someone than the vital energy. I make it look easy with lots of practice and more than a little brute force. Mary had neither, but she had help. Slowly, the substance of the man drained from his flesh, swallowed in tiny bits by the touch of her feathery darkness.
I handed Mary a tissue; bloody tears were leaking down her face and trying to slide in my direction.
“He passed away without pain or fear,” I whispered, “and some part of him will forever be a part of you, immortal and eternal.”
“Dennis,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “His name was Dennis.”
“There you are.”
“I didn’t know… that we could… that after we drank from them, we could…”
“Suck out the rest?” I guessed. She nodded. “The vitality you’ve been feeding on is good stuff, easy to extract, and tasty, if that’s the word for it. It takes work to extract the soul. But that’s what we’re for. We’re the doorway between life and death and rebirth. I look for someone who wants to die, who is ready to die, and we take a walk together into eternal night.”
“How many—?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay. Is that all we do? We wait for the dying to be ready, then take them?”
“That’s what we’re for,” I told her, gently.
“But… that feels like… it’s like we’re vultures. Scavengers. I’m not sure I like that.”
“You can look at it that way,” I admitted. “Or you can bear in mind an angel of death is the final physician. After our ministrations, all the agonies of the flesh are ended.” I glanced around. We were still mostly alone. I lowered my voice. “There are other things we can do, as well. Wait a minute.”
I worked hard for a few minutes, surrounding us with a minor I-Belong-Here spell. As long as we didn’t do anything unruly, people would assume we were supposed to be there and pay us no attention. We went to a locker room and changed into scrubs. I found a cart to push and Mary carried a clipboard. We might not even need the spell; no one questions a person who carries a clipboard and walks with purpose.
Visiting hours in an oncology ward aren’t like visiting hours elsewhere. Technically, they have them, but realistically, visitors show up at all hours. It depends on the patient, when they might be conscious, and how close they are to dying. Unofficially, at least. There’s always some traffic. We went right in to a patient room. I don’t think anyone even looked at us.
The kid in the bed was bald as an egg and thin as a shell.
“Now,” I told Mary, quietly, “don’t take anything. Feel around. You’ll find something inside her that doesn’t belong there—a sort of feverish vitality.” Mary got a faraway look in her eyes.
“There are all sorts of different things in the flow of her life,” Mary reflected. “Some parts of her are more alive than others.”
“You’re good. It took me a long time to figure that out. Remind me to see how you do with different parts of people’s brains.”
“Excuse me?”
“Skip it for now. Concentrate on finding the brightest spot—the piece that’s burning with vital energy.”
“I found it. It seems to… it’s mostly in the… there’s one big spot, then several smaller spots?”
“Probably in the lymph nodes,” I guessed. “I hear cancer likes to do that. Just find the big one for now.”
“Got it.”
“Drain it. Kill it. Just the tumor, not the kid—treat the tumor like a parasite inside her, a separate entity. Wrap your tendril around the brightest part, surround it on all sides, wrap it up. Then drain only the inside of that ball of tendril. Carefully.”
While she did that, I felt around inside the kid with tendrils and scanned her with magic eyeballs. My eyes see the flow of life and the pulse of vital essence. She wasn’t in good shape, but there were glittering, seething places that shone fever-bright. I touched them, identified them, and used some of my personal energies to craft a filtering spell. My tendrils, like a fine-meshed net, swept through the kid’s flesh, harmlessly passing through everything except those fever-bright things. Those bright, unnaturally vital places simply snuffed out.
I wonder if Mary could do that without a spell. She has a delicate touch far superior to mine. I have to cheat.
The kid was actually much better off after we were done. A few more weeks of chemotherapy and maybe some surgery to remove a few dead lumps… assuming the kid would survive that long. She really was in poor shape; even a healing spell would be too draining. Instead, I bound up a little vitality, placed it in her, and wrapped it in such a way that it would release slowly over the next week.
“What do you think?” I asked Mary. “Cancer tastes odd, doesn’t it?”
“It’s like straight energy. There’s no… person. Water without flavor is about the closest I can come.”
“I agree. Weird, isn’t it?”
“Very. But what did you do?”
I explained. Mary considered my explanation.
“So, we can cure cancer?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Surgeons can, too—sometimes. This isn’t a cure for her. At best, it’s a reset. On the plus side, she’s just had the equivalent of thirty or forty radiation treatments without the radiation side effects. She stands a chance, now, with proper medical help. Considering she’s already in an oncology ward, she’ll get it.”
“Is this what we’re for, too? Helping people like this?”
“Good lord, no. We’re bloodsucking fiends, haunting the night and seeking out our prey from among the merely-mortal. This is incidental. We can do this if we feel like it. I felt like it.”
“For a bloodsucking fiend, you’re a pretty decent guy.”
“I get that a lot. I’m good at faking it.”
“So, do we do this sort of thing down in the morgue, now?” she asked. “To get blood? Or do we rob the blood bank? I have to warn y
ou, I’ve tried corpse blood before. It’s awful.”
“Oh, that. I think you’re going to love this next part.”
We retraced our steps, changed into our street clothes, and I led her out into the city.
“Remember how I said I look for someone who wants to die?”
“Yes. I felt it. I never felt anything like that before. He really did want to die, and I could tell.”
“There are different kinds of wanting to die,” I pointed out. “That man—Dennis—was at the end of his life and waiting for the clock to run out. He didn’t have a choice, not really. The kid didn’t want to die, but she was about to do it anyway—not really our business, even though we had the power to interfere. Now, though, we find volunteers.”
“Volunteers? Suicidal people?”
Instead of answering, I smiled my best inscrutable smile and turned with her to proceed down darker streets, narrower streets, less savory neighborhoods. Comprehension dawned on her face and she smiled. I like her smile, fangs and all.
The encounter went about the way it usually does, with the exception that the three robbers were not only interested in my money but also in my girlfriend. While one of them put an arm around her neck and brandished a knife, the other two pointed guns and told me to fork over my valuables.
Those two bled nicely from the dismemberment; the blood humped up and crawled over both my legs, soaking into my skin and vanishing. The man holding Mary suddenly had a broken arm, no knife, and her fangs in his neck. She’s stronger than she looks and wickedly fast. I think those moves were practiced. I should ask if she has any martial arts belts. Maybe I should ask how many, rather than if. I should definitely get some pointers; I rely on superhuman speed and strength, not on skill. That could be a problem, someday.
I pulled up a manhole cover with one finger and we ditched body parts. I put money in my pockets, a pistol in the back of my belt, and Mary put the knife and other pistols in her purse.
“See?” I laughed, putting her hand on my arm again. “I told you this part was good.”