by Densie Webb
“Yes.”
“Then,” she stops, swallows hard and leans forward, “then why can’t you change me? That way, we could be together—and I wouldn’t grow old. Right?”
The hope in her eyes pricks at me.
“I won’t, Andie. I can’t.” The thought of my sweet Andie becoming an out-of-control monster—by my hand—is beyond the pale.
“What about Peter? If you changed him, he wouldn’t die, right?”
“Oh, Andie, I understand you want to help Peter. But, believe me when I tell you that death is better. I won’t intentionally condemn someone to this eternal damnation.”
“But, Peter will be dead in a few weeks,” she says, her voice raspy.
“Andie, it would turn Peter into a monster. If he were hungry, he would turn on you—or his boyfriend—and simply walk away from the body, having satisfied his appetite.”
Her lip curls up in disgust. “But you’re not like that. And what about Nicholas?”
“I have given you a mere glimpse of what I was like in the beginning. I was vicious, a fist of hunger and fury, filled with self-hatred and remorse because of my actions. And, as far as Nicholas is concerned, he—he can no longer rein in his demons.”
“What?”
“His own bloodlust has consumed him and he has left.”
“He left? When?”
“Today. This morning.”
“Where’d he go?”
“I don’t know. Andie listen to me, I know you are well intentioned, but trust me when I tell you that you wouldn’t be helping Peter. It’s better to allow him the death he deserves and not prolong his existence, sentencing him to something far worse. I’m sorry, Andie. Truly.” I’m constantly apologizing for what I am, for what I’ve done to others, what I’ve done to her. Now I’m apologizing for what I won’t do.
“Vincent,” She clears her throat. “You do understand that we can’t be together for long unless you’re willing to, you know, change me.”
Andie may know what I am, but that knowledge doesn’t equal understanding of what it truly means, what it feels like, the pain it inflicts, the Sisyphean struggle to maintain control. I nod and stare disbelieving at the enormous elephant in the room, threatening to crush us both.
“I really don’t want to discuss this now.”
“Why is it your decision? Don’t I get a say in this?”
“No. Not in this,” I pronounce. Despite having the upper hand in this exchange, I feel defeated. “Not in this,” I whisper.
She leaves the rest of her food untouched. “I’m done. Let’s go.”
I hail a cab outside and we head to my apartment. The expanding silence fills the car to capacity. Once in the apartment elevator, she looks up at me, “So, are you going to tell me what this ‘proposition’ is that Gus was talking about?”
“We can talk when I return. I need to go out first.” We both know why. She simply nods, smiles weakly. I open the apartment door and she enters, turns to me, opens her mouth as if to say something, but then snaps it shut.
“I won’t be long,” I say.
The awkwardness of the situation is palpable. Somehow, I never stopped to consider this unseemly scenario—leaving her to wait patiently while I wander the streets of New York looking to satisfy my need. Will she pace the floor? Will she imagine a scene even worse than my reality? To quell her anxiety, will she force down a few sips of Scotch and shudder? Or will she simply sit and patiently wait for my return?
It doesn’t take long before I spot a woman, maybe forty, her hair graying, highlighted with the blond of her youth. She is weighted down with shopping bags from Victoria’s Secret and expensive boutiques on Fifth Avenue. She’s heading into Riverside Park. I look around and follow her as she wanders in, sits on a park bench, and unloads the bags beside her.
She sighs loudly, pulls out her phone, listens to messages, drops the phone in her lap and bursts into tears, burying her face in her hands. She’s vulnerable, an easy target. And what does that make me? A vulture circling its prey? A scavenging hyena? Still, I can’t walk away from this opportunity. I’m anxious to return to Andie, but she can’t stay the night if I don’t do this. I don’t want to startle the woman, so I keep a comfortable distance.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She looks up, tears streak her makeup. She no longer has the strength to be afraid.
“Go away,” she says, her face in her hands again.
“It’s not safe for you to be alone her in the park after dark,” I tell her, and I mean it. What I intend to do will cause her no harm, but there are other predators, human predators, who would do much worse.
She shakes her head as if answering a question I haven’t asked.
“Go away,” she repeats.
“Let me help you. Can I get you a cab?”
She finally looks up at me. “Can you get me a new life?”
No, I think, but I can make you forget everything that has you so distraught, erase from your memory whatever is making you cry. I glance around. It’s unusually quiet for this time of night. I move closer and lean over. “It’s okay,” I say, as I look into her very green eyes. “You’ll feel better soon.”
She relaxes, pulls her perfectly highlighted hair to the side and extends her neck. She’s still, breathing softly. It doesn’t take long, but the relief will carry me through the night. My night with Andie. I give her one last look to ensure that I leave her better than before our encounter and gently rearrange her hair to cover the marks. I lift her packages, offer her my arm and walk her out of the park. Back under the street lamps, I make certain she is steady on her feet, and return her bags and start to walk away.
“Thank you,” she calls after me. I sustain my stride, unable to erase her misguided expression of gratitude from my brain.
Chapter 46
Andie
Alone in Vincent’s apartment, my anxiety swells and I begin to pace. I wonder how long he’ll be gone. How long does it take? I try to imagine what he’s doing at this exact moment, sinking his teeth into… I just as quickly shake my head but the lurid image is still there, him leaning over some woman that he’s lured into a dark corner, piercing her neck to—feed.
My dark imaginings churn in my stomach. When he told me everything and I finally accepted it, I had looked at him and understood that he was still just Vincent. But this is the first time I’ve been faced, in any real way, with what he is, what he has to do.
I replay our encounter with Gus; it confirmed what Vincent told me, that other Kindred are monsters. When I first glanced up at him hovering over our table, “beautiful” was the description that came to mind, but on a second look, disturbing was a more accurate description. And I could taste his voice on my tongue, like curdled milk.
Though he was talking to Vincent, he kept looking at me—the same penetrating eyes as Vincent, but they were repellant, rather than irresistible. His presence made it hard to think, hard to breathe. And all his talk about propositions and consequences was confusing, frightening. When he walked away, taking his darkness with him, my relief was palpable.
Now, my stomach is rumbling. I never ate the rest of my burger and I’m ravenous, so I go to the kitchen and, out of habit, open the refrigerator. It’s empty, of course, except for a few bottles of lager. What did I expect? I grab one and twist the top off, nursing it as I slowly walk the perimeter of the room. I walk over to the expanse of windows overlooking Riverside Park, press my nose against the glass, and cup my hands on the window to block out the light from the room. Riverside Drive is quiet.
I back away and inspect the neatly organized bookshelves that take up an entire wall. He’s an eclectic reader—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Shakespeare, Dickens, Jules Verne, David Foster Wallace, Victor Hugo, Anne Patchett, Jane Austin and—Anne Rice? I pull a few titles and read the first page or two of each one. To me, reading those first couple of pages is like watching a movie trailer. I want a taste of it before I decide.
The Co
mplete Works of James Whitcomb Riley catch my eye—all ten volumes. I gently brush my fingers down the gold embossed letters on the spine of the books, pull out volume one and carefully open the first page. The copyright date is 1916, but, like all the others, it looks brand new. I can’t begin to imagine everything he’s read, everything he’s seen, everyone he’s met through the years.
I turn a few more pages, find a bookmark and begin to read one of Riley’s poems on the page.
I cannot say, and I will not say
That he is dead. He is just away.
With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand,
He has wandered into an unknown land
And—
A startled sound escapes from my throat, like a mouse caught in a trap, as Vincent strolls in.
“I was looking through your library. Impressive.”
He spots the volume in my hand. “Riley is one of my favorites,” he says as he walks over, wraps his arms around me and kisses me gently. He smells of unfamiliar perfume; tiny spots of fresh blood dot his collar. I want to look away. I want to forget what I know, forget Vincent’s past. But how can I forget his past when it’s so clearly now a part of my present?
Chapter 47
Vincent
As I reach out to embrace Andie, she glances at my collar and her lip curls almost imperceptibly. I was careful, as I always am, but perhaps not careful enough.
“So—you’re okay? Everything was okay?”
I hold her at arms’ length. “Andie, I know you have questions. Go ahead, ask me anything.”
Still looking at the stain on my collar, she asks, “Where?”
“Riverside Park.”
“Who was your—who was it?”
“A very sad woman.”
“And she’s okay?”
“Yes, I helped her to forget her sadness for a moment and I escorted her from the park.”
She looks away and bites her lip. “Um, how long does it usually take? I mean—how long do you actually…?
“Feed?” She cringes and she nods. “Just a few minutes. I take just enough to sustain me, to keep the craving at bay.”
“And—and it actually tastes good to you?”
How do I explain to her that it’s more like injecting a drug to stave off withdrawal than taking a bite of a favorite food to stem your appetite? “Yes, it tastes good.”
“Oh.” She looks away again as she tries to process this new information.
“Maybe that’s enough for now,” I say, certain that is all the truth she can handle tonight. Now it’s my turn to ask. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
I lift her chin up and lean over, my lips barely touching hers, “Stay the night,” I whisper.
“And if I say no?” she asks.
I pull the shirt over my head and toss in onto a chair, out of sight. “I’m certain I can convince you otherwise,” I say, as I slide my hands under her skirt, and along the baby-soft skin of her inner thigh. Leaning over her, I run my lips across her long neck and tickle the spot behind her ear. Her skin smells of lavender and her hair of rosemary and mint. My craving may be tamed, but my desire for Andie is not.
“Yes,” she whispers in my ear. The sound of her voice is a soft breeze wafting through me. She smiles as she backs into the bedroom, pulling me with her.
****
As we lay in bed, her head nestled on my shoulder, she is silent. Her breathing has slowed, but I hear her heart beating faster before she says, “Vincent, I was thinking…”
“Yes?”
“I was thinking that—instead of going out—you know— maybe you could—use me?”
I pull away and sit up to look at her. “No. No. Never. I could never do that to you. I know some who have a ‘source,’ but it’s a one-way relationship, if you can call it that. A ‘source’ is a slave.”
She hesitates. It’s dark, but I sense the blood rush to her cheeks.
“But it wouldn’t be against my will. Let me be your source, so you don’t have to go out—looking.”
I don’t have to think twice. “No!”
“But—I hate the thought of you, out there, with another woman.”
“It doesn’t have to be women.”
“I don’t know why that would make me feel any better. You’re still being incredibly intimate with another person.”
I take her hand in mine. “Andie believe me when I tell you it’s the opposite of intimacy. I’m using them, taking something they are unwilling to give of their own accord. They have no say in our interaction. That’s not intimacy. That’s thievery. What you and I have is intimate.”
“But if you need it and I’m willing…” She acts as if she’s offering to share a bite of her chocolate torte. She doesn’t understand the implications of her suggestion. She would not only be my lover, she would be my drug dealer. I would only want more and it would be too easy to cross that invisible line.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.” She looks hurt, rejected. But I’m not rejecting her, I’m protecting her. As I try to tell her that her offer is sweet, but misguided, Gus’s words to me when he first made his offer, reverberate, “I have the cure for what ails you.” My decision to make a pact with this particular devil is the right thing, the only thing to do.
Chapter 48
Andie
The alarm on my phone wakes me and I slowly open my eyes, blinking a few times to focus. I’ve slept with my contacts in and my eyes are scratchy. I glance around the room. I’m not at home. And I’m naked.
“Vincent?”
He appears in the doorway, dressed and ready for the day.
“I was going to give you five more minutes before waking you. But the method I had in mind might have caused you to be late.”
He winks at me, turns on his heels, and retreats.
“I went out this morning and bought you a croissant and coffee,” he calls from the kitchen. “I assume you want to return to your apartment to shower and change before work, but you need something in your stomach first.”
“Thank you. I’m starving.” I force myself out of bed and begin to search for my discarded clothes. I find my shoes on different sides of the room, my skirt on one chair, my blouse on top of the armoire, and my bra under the bed.
I scan the floor, lift the corners of the rug, check the hooks on the back of the bathroom door and come up empty. It slowly occurs to me to look at the only place left—up. I’m not sure how they got there, hanging from the light fixture—which I can’t reach. I climb onto the bed and attempt to swat my panties down, when Vincent walks in.
“Would you like some help?”
I must look ridiculous, standing on the bed, naked, swiping the air just below the light fixture, my boobs bouncing with each swipe.
But judging by the expression on his face, he doesn’t think I look ridiculous at all. He takes his time walking over to the side of the bed, kicks off his shoes, climbs up and easily reaches up. He holds the panties out for me, but when I try to grab them, he jerks them away.
“Are you certain you must leave this very minute?”
“Vincent, I can’t be late.” I reach out again and, this time, he lets me have them. Then without a word he pulls me against his chest. Seconds later his smooth skin is pressed against mine as his scent swirls around me. My heart is trying to escape from my chest and my eyelids are weighted down with lust as I drop my clothes in a heap on the bed and kick them onto the floor.
How can it feel like this every time?
****
When I arrive at work, Peter is waiting for me in my office. Sitting at my desk, actually, and twirling in circles in my chair. My first thought is that he looks good. He looks healthy. It’s impossible to imagine that his body is fighting a losing battle. That he’s going to die.
“Good morning, Ms. Rogé—I mean, Andie.” Tyler’s voice breaks my focus on Peter’s face. He appears out of nowhere, handing me coffee, eager to please.
“Yes, goo
d morning, Ms. Rogé,” Peter echoes, sounding deceptively upbeat.
“What’s going on, guys?”
“Sit down and have a couple of more sips of that coffee first,” Peter instructs as he stands up and makes a grand gesture for me to sit.
I do as I’m told and set the Starbucks cup on the only empty spot on my desk. I really need to sort through this growing mess that has taken on a life of its own.
“Okay, what’s up?”
“I’ve told Tyler about my—situation—and he is going to help you pick up my slack.”
I glance at Tyler. The cheerless look on his face makes me want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze tight.
“It’ll mean late nights for you two, but everything should be in really good shape.”
“You’re leaving—now?”
“Tomorrow will be my last day. I really want to spend time with Zach while I can.” His face freezes as he battles tears, but they well up anyway and slip down his cheeks.
“Of course. Of course. Um, does Patty know?”
“Not yet. She’s been avoiding me. A little birdy must have found out and whispered it in her ear.” He wipes his tears with the back of his hand. “You know how she is about germs. She acts like I’m contagious. Anyway, I’m only a phone call away if you need anything. You guys will be able to carry the ball into the end zone.” He rolls his eyes, sniffs, and chuckles uneasily to himself. This eye rolling is a new habit. It pretty much sums up the way he feels about everything right now.
“I’m not even sure why I said that; I detest sports metaphors.”
“So, you’re saying we’ve got all the bases covered?” He smiles, so I push it. “What’s the game plan? We don’t want the work to be below par. But it won’t be a slam dunk. We’re going to have to step up to the plate, hit it out of ballpark, throw a Hail Mary pass. Okay, so the ball is in our court. What’s our next move, coach?”
Peter and Tyler shake their heads and laugh for real this time. “You do realize you’re horribly mixing metaphors?” Peter says.
I shrug. “It’s the best volley I could manage on such short notice.”