Hunger

by Karen E. Taylor

He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to believe you. I wish from the bottom of my heart that I didn’t have to believe you.” Sam stared at me for a time and shook his head. “But I do believe you. Only now I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Why should you have to do anything?”

  “Well, well . . . but you’re a vampire.” His voice acquired a higher pitch and cracked on the last word. “There must be something I should do.”

  “Sam, listen to me. What I am is no danger to you or to anyone else. I lived in this city for ten years, and in all that time the blood I took was never missed.” He shuddered at the mention of blood, but I continued. “Generally, I take less than you would donate at a blood bank. I do no harm to others. You can check on the facts if you want. The only people killed here in that fashion were killed by Max.”

  “Max.” He said the name emphatically in remembrance, from my story the other night. “Max was a vampire too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Mitch”—his eyes drifted to my face and stayed there—“Mitch was telling the truth.”

  “Yes. And you should take a lesson from him. If you were to let on to others what I am, you would be treated the same—institutionalized for years. Not a soul would believe you.”

  Sam laughed, more to relieve his tension than to express humor, and began to gather his instruments and pack his doctor’s bag. “And does Mitch know about you?”

  “Yes, Mitch knows.” A smile crossed my face thinking of him. “And he doesn’t seem to think that I’m a threat to the general public. Let it go, Sam.” I moved to him and put a hand on his arm gently. “You can’t do anything about this situation.” Meeting his eyes, I drew him into me as much as possible. “And you really don’t want to.”

  “No,” he said directly, “I don’t. But I want to talk more about it, document your case, if only for my own satisfaction.” He smiled at me honestly, with only a trace of fear. “What an opportunity. Interviewing a real live mythological creature. I wish I’d brought my recorder.”

  “Well, Sam,” I said with a twisted smile, “although it’s not all it is cracked up to be, I will do my best to satisfy your curiosity. But it will have to be some other time.” I glanced over my shoulder at the window. The first streaks of dawn were appearing in the sky. “You have to go to work, and I have to go to sleep. I’ll see you out.”

  He gingerly picked up the gloves from the sink, wrapped them in the towel, and put them in the garbage. When he picked up his bag, we walked into the living room. He retrieved his coat from where he had dropped it on the floor and put it on. “When can I call you?”

  “Later on, maybe in a few days. I’d like to get reacquainted with Mitch, spend some uninterrupted time with him. We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “What will you do when I leave?”

  “Go straight to bed and sleep until Mitch comes home. He’ll be released today, won’t he?”

  Sam laughed. “At this point, Deirdre, I’ve no good reason to hold him. Apparently, there was never anything wrong with him.” He shook his head again and walked to the door. As he opened it he turned to me and his voice seemed strangely enthusiastic and youthful. “Jesus, vampires, who’d have thought?” he said, and went out.

  After pulling the drapes and securing the apartment for the duration of my sleep, I went into the bathroom and removed my robe. Sam had done a good job on my shoulder, I thought as I twisted my arm around. It was still sore, but I knew that the slight stiffness and bruising would be gone by the following day; the scar from the incision, however, would require a little longer to heal. I hung the robe on the door hook, walked down the hall, and crawled into bed.

  I open my eyes to an unfamiliar darkness, and the pain in my shoulder has worsened greatly. I feel the presence of others in near proximity, but I have been robbed of all my heightened senses. I am blind in this night—hurt, bewildered, and weak beyond relief. Panic strikes me and I attempt to scream; the sound that escapes my lips and lungs is a deep, rattling moan.

  We are dying.

  The voice echoes within my mind, and as I recognize it, I relax inwardly. Although I am still caught up in the grip of fear and pain and death, I know that I dream. And because I am Max, I know that this body I now occupy is older than the other I inhabited; it is hardened, embittered by ten long years of privation. I have served as priest and comrade on the battlefields of this holy war.

  The mind of the younger Max knows nothing but the cause he has supported. He is shielded from our thoughts, from his thoughts, from the remembrance of another twenty blood-filled years of war. He is the present, I am the present. And I have served, my pain-ridden senses cry out, I have been found worthy of these deeds done for God. And now I will die. But even in the face of death there is a lightness of spirit, a satisfaction in the ministry for church and Savior. There is also a deep sadness for works that must be left unfinished; this is what I regret, not death itself.

  The light from a lantern bobbles in the distance and moves toward me; I peer through the darkness to see who approaches.

  “Brother,” the figure addresses me in a heavily accented Spanish. “Dying is difficult when much work for the Lord remains to be done.” There is an irony in the voice, but I respond to the words because they mirror my own thoughts exactly.

  “I do not fear death,” the whispered words rasp from my dry throat, “for I go to my God.”

  “But should there be a way to save you for future works, would you undertake it, though the path be strewn with hardships?”

  I nod, and the pain of this movement causes my head to spin. I see the glint of a knife, but I am held by the gaze of his eyes as he makes a movement too fast for me to follow. A strong arm encircles my shoulders and holds my body in an upright position. I black out for a minute, and when next I am aware, a bitter tonic is flowing into my mouth; I choke and swallow. The medicine’s taste is familiar, and something in my mind, alien, yet familiar, screams a warning.

  “Do not drink,” it cries, “for the salvation of your soul, do not drink.”

  But I cannot control my reflexes. With each swallow the taste becomes less repulsive, growing instead seductive and sweet, like the finest wine. My body blazes with heat; a healing warmth floods through my system. Infection, pain, and death all fall away from me, and I am man perfected, healthy, alive, and, the warning voice sobs, human no more.

  The man wraps the sickroom blanket around my shoulders. The smell is offensive, but I welcome the warmth, for my body has suddenly grown cold. “Come with me,” he says with a biting laugh. “You do not belong here anymore.”

  “You are a saint,” I gasp, bewildered and awed by my complete recovery from death. “An angel from God, come to work a miracle. In nomine Patris, et Filii—”

  He interrupts me with another laugh. “That is enough of that. Now, come.”

  Docilely, I allow him to lead me away from the life I led; he whispers counsel to me as we walk, his strong arms support me as I stumble, overwhelmed by the array of sensory stimulation I am now receiving. The stars are so bright, clearer than I had ever noticed before. I can smell so much more in the night air, and the texture of the ground beneath my bare feet is rich and firm.

  I finally become aware that we are riding in an open carriage; he drives the horses hurriedly, cursing and whipping them on. When we arrive at the house, it is still dark, but I feel the approach of dawn, and catch some of his panic and fear. I do not want to enter that house, but he reaches up and throws me over his shoulder, carrying me as if I were dead. All the while, he is speaking, his voice soft and commanding. I cannot fully grasp the meaning of his words, but they frighten me and anger me. They drop heavily into my soul, and the coldness of death sinks once again into my body.

  We enter a darkened chamber. I can see that it is unfurnished but for two coffins. He puts me onto my feet and stares deeply into my eyes. I cannot look away.

  “I have prepared a place for you. Today you shall sleep here and
tomorrow night I will explain all.” He smiles and I shudder at the malice in his face, at the sharpened teeth he displays. But I obey him and lie down in the box he has opened.

  When the lid is closed upon me, I want to cry out, to leave the empty place to which he has brought me. But his command holds me, and as I sense the sun rising, my eyes close of their own volition. Of his words, only one remains in my mind and I carry it into sleep with me. “Nosferatu.”

  A swirling inner rage overcomes me, wrests me from the transformed body of Max, and I stand again disembodied. I am not alone; for I feel his breath and hear his voice, heavy with hate and regret. Somehow the young and the old Max have merged together; the two voices combine in a cry that rings in my ears and causes a chill to caress my spine.

  “I want to die. I should have died. Dear Father in heaven, let me die.”

  I woke shivering, echoing Max’s words. Not yet recovered from the dream, I was startled by the touch of a hand on my head, stroking my hair. I sat up quickly, snarling and hissing. “You bastard,” I whispered vehemently, “what have you done to me?”

  “Deirdre? Deirdre, what’s wrong? Wake up, please, wake up.”

  The name seemed unfamiliar at first, but the pain in the voice finally reached me, and I realized who and where I was. I opened my eyes to find Mitch hovering over me, his expression hurt and uncertain.

  “Oh, God, Mitch, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  “I understand from Dr. Samuels that you had a rough time last night. And I really didn’t want to wake you.” He leaned down and kissed me warily on the cheek, his eyes betraying his fear. “But you seemed to be having one hell of a nightmare.”

  “Thank you.” My voice was dry and rasping. I brushed the hair from my eyes, cleared my throat, and tried again. “I was. How long have you been here?”

  Mitch looked over at the clock on the bedside table. “Oh, about an hour or so. It’s wonderful just to have you here and watch you sleep.” A loving smile crossed his face, and he sat down on the bed next to me. “You have the face of an angel, Deirdre. But when you started thrashing around, muttering and crying, I thought you’d be better off awake. You can go back to sleep now if you like; the sun won’t set for a couple of hours.”

  “Nonsense, Mitch, now that you’re here, why would I want to sleep?”

  “Then do you want to talk about it?”

  “Talk about what, Mitch?”

  His mouth twisted, and I recognized the slight edge of jealousy in his voice. “Talk about what happened last night between you and Dr. Samuels.”

  “Oh, that.” I reached over and touched my shoulder; as I expected, the soreness was gone, but I could trace a thin scar where there had been an incision. Then I took his hand and pulled it over so that he could feel the skin. “He told you nothing?”

  “Not a word. Just that everything was okay, that I wasn’t to worry, but there had been a slight emergency last night and you would probably be a little tired today.” He peered at my shoulder. “So what happened?”

  “Some unlucky mugger chose the wrong victim.”

  “You were mugged?” He lost his pout and grew instantly concerned. “Where? You really should be more careful.”

  I laughed, and gave him a sharp look. “You should know better than anyone that I have very little to fear from someone not armed with a wooden stake. I was right outside this apartment and he surprised me; I suppose I wasn’t paying attention. But I can assure you he got the worst of the exchange. All I received was a bullet in the shoulder that unfortunately I could not dig out myself.”

  “Did you call the police?” He seemed personally affronted that this had occurred.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “When he left, he had two broken wrists and was missing about a pint or so of blood. I really didn’t want to have to explain that to your friends at the precinct. And I believe he’ll probably be a little reticent about attacking a lone woman in the future.”

  Mitch laughed. “I guess so. You really broke both his arms?”

  “At first I broke only one. I hoped that he would take the hint and leave me alone. But then he shot me, and it hurt. I got angry and, I’m afraid, a little carried away.”

  “And you told all this to Dr. Samuels?”

  “No, Sam never asked how it happened. I asked him to remove the bullet, and he did.”

  “In the hospital?”

  I gave a small laugh. “You know how much I hate hospitals, Mitch. I wouldn’t allow myself to be admitted. We used the kitchen table.”

  “Bloody hell, Deirdre. You let my psychiatrist perform surgery on you on my kitchen table?”

  I shrugged and smiled. “What difference does it make? Yes, your kitchen table. I’ll buy you a new one if you like.”

  “No, that isn’t the point. Didn’t it hurt?”

  “It hurt like hell. But it’s over now.”

  “But, Deirdre . . .”

  “Hush, my love.” I put one finger to his lips and traced my other hand slowly up his shirt-sleeve until I reached his neck. I pulled his head toward me so that our faces were only inches apart, and smiled. “Now, do you want to talk about my operation,” I whispered, “or do you want me to welcome you home?”

  Chapter 18

  “Deirdre?”

  “Hmm?” I murmured lazily, my head resting on Mitch’s chest, my fingers gently stroking the faint scars on his right arm, the visible memories of his confrontation with Max.

  “I think Dr. Samuels may suspect what you are.”

  I raised my head and met his eyes. “Why? What exactly did he say?”

  “Well, he never came out directly with any accusations. But he asked some really strange questions during our exit interview—all about vampires—did I still believe that they were real, did I have any guesses about how they would survive in modern times, how would they live, what would they look like?”

  I gave a small chuckle. “And what did you say?”

  He matched my smile. “I lied shamefully, of course. You’d have been proud of me. But”—Mitch paused a moment, combing his hair back with his fingers—“he seemed disturbed by my answers. He acted strange, almost as if he were disappointed that I denied everything. And from the look in his eyes, I think he suspects. It could be a problem.”

  “No, it will not be a problem. And you are wrong, he suspects nothing. He knows.”

  “How on earth could he know? And what do we have to do about it?” His voice was edged with anger, not directed toward me, I thought, but toward whatever peril Sam’s knowledge might contain.

  I stroked his cheek to calm him. “Don’t worry, my love. I plan to do nothing about Sam. He knows only because I told him and I trust him with the truth. He is no danger to me, or to us.”

  “Us.” His voice was soft now, he took my hand and kissed the palm. I closed my eyes and savored the sensation; his warm mouth sent a shiver up my spine. “I like the sound of that.” His mouth moved up to the soft, delicate skin on my wrist. “And what do you plan to do about us?”

  “An interesting question, little one.” My body tensed and my eyes flew open at the sound of Max’s voice. I glanced around the room and saw him, lounging indolently in the doorway. “What shall we do with your human lover? Transform him? No, I can tell you don’t like that idea. Marry him? Why not? The three of us could be very comfortable together.”

  Go away, I urged him silently, aware of Mitch’s growing confusion. Just go away and leave me alone.

  Max laughed so loud that I thought it was impossible that Mitch would not hear. But he seemed oblivious of the unwelcome presence in the room.

  “Deirdre? What’s wrong? I don’t mean to pressure you about our relationship, but I can’t seem to help myself. It was hell those years without you; I can’t bear the thought of losing you again. I told you before that I don’t care what you are or what you’ve done. I love you and I want to marry you.”

  “Mitch.”
I tried to keep the anger from my voice, for it was not directed at him. “I don’t want to talk about this now. Later, perhaps, when we are alone.”

  “Alone?” Mitch sat up and looked around. “Who else is here?” He gave a small nervous laugh when he saw nothing, then relaxed and ruffled my hair. “Deirdre, we are alone.”

  “I—I—I know,” I stammered, upset at my error and outraged at Max. “I meant after we’ve spent more time together alone.”

  Dammit, Max, get the hell out, I thought to him. You’re not wanted. Go away and leave us alone.

  Max threw his head back and laughed, undaunted by my anger. I could do nothing in this situation but endure his presence, and he knew it. Then his eyes softened and he nodded toward me. “I’ll come back, little one, look for me.” His figure faded and he was gone.

  I sighed and continued to stare at the empty doorway. Mitch reached over and waved his hand in front of my face.

  “Deirdre, are you okay?”

  I pulled my eyes away from where Max had been standing and turned my attention back to Mitch. “I’ve been away and you haven’t been well. I think we should wait a while, take it one day at a time. A lot of things have happened to the both of us while we’ve been apart.”

  “Nothing has changed for me, Deirdre.” His voice was sad. “I thought you felt the same.”

  “I do, Mitch, I do.” I kissed him. “But, well, there are a lot of things you don’t know, about me and how I have been living.”

  “You could tell me.”

  “I could and I will.” I got up from the bed, pulled a pair of jeans and a sweater from my suitcase, and began to dress. “But I can’t talk about it now.”

  “What are you doing? Are you going somewhere?” Mitch was growing angry, and there was nothing I could do.

  “I have to go out.”

  “Just like that, huh? Welcome home, Mitch, and then you’re off again?”

  I walked over to him and sat down on the bed. Smoothing his hair, I held him close to me. “I do love you, Mitch. You must believe that or we’ll never be able to come to terms in this relationship. And I will be back tonight. But right now I have some business to tend to.”