Strange City

by Anth

  The Art of Dying

  by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  The lights came up in a sudden blaze, driving the darkness away from the easel, back to the stu­dio lofts furthest corners, confining the night's gloom to the shadowy spaces behind the sparse furnishings—and of course, to the world outside.

  Bethany suppressed her displeasure and discom­fort at this abrupt, unexpected brightness; she would have thought that Anton would have chosen softer. more romantic light, but apparently he was sincere in wanting her to see his work.

  She glanced at the canvas, not expecting much— not expecting anything, in truth, but to not even look would have been rude, and she liked to think that she was never unintentionally rude. Anton seemed so very intense about his artistic efforts; she really had to at least pretend to take them seriously.

  The casual glance lengthened, and turned into a stare. She took a step toward the painting, her gaze fixed on the bright image.

  A moment ago Bethany had been concerned only with the dark burning of the Hunger and the delicious antici­pation of feeding, with the almost painful teasing she had been subjecting herself to as she let Anton babble. She had been caught up in the perverse enjoyment ot delaying the moment when she would taste Anton's blood, in increasing the tension between need and satis­faction so as to heighten the eventual pleasure.

  Now, though, that tension had vanished; the Hunger itself was nothing but a minor distraction as she studied the intense colors, the textured surfaces of the painting.

  It was a cityscape, San Francisco at dawn, knives of sunlight cutting between the gleaming towers and shattering to jeweled shards on the waters of the Pacific

  It was utterly beautiful

  She stared at it, drinking it in with her eyes, want­ing to absorb every detail.

  "Glare," she said, her eyes still fixed on the paint­ing. "Too bright."

  Instantly, Anton twisted a knob and the light dimmed. "I had the lights way up so I could work on it," he said "It was bright, but I didn't see any glare. I guess your eyes are more sensitive than mine."

  Bethany smiled to herself "Yes," she said.

  'You like it?" Anton asked.

  Bethany struggled for a long moment, and at last managed to tear her gaze from the picture and look at the artist's intense bearded face, at his black hair and guileless eyes.

  That man had created this beauty

  She shouldn't have been so surprised, she told her­self. After all, she had met Anton when that earth­quake, earlier this evening, had startled them into bumping against one another at an artists' reception at the Palace of the Legion of Honors. Why should it come as a shock to learn that he, too, was an artist? Who else would she expect to meet at an artists' reception? She had gone mostly because it was a pleasant diversion on a quiet Friday evening, and what made it pleasant was the art, and the artists.

  Of course, the surprise wasn't that he was one of the hundreds of kine in the Bay Area who put brush to canvas; the surprise was that he was a true artist—in Bethany's opinion, an artist of real genius

  That opinion might not carry the weight of some, after a mere forty years of undeath, but Bethany was confident of her conclusion, If this painting was not a work of genius, Bethany told herself, then she was no true Toreador, she was as bad as those poseurs of Serata's.

  No, even those fools with their fads and flash, even the youngest Childe in the Clan, would see Anton's brilliance in an instant.

  "It's wonderful," she said, smiling at Anton.

  He smiled back, a smile of pleased relief. "Would you like to see some others?" He gestured at a dozen other canvases, leaning face-in against the east wait of the studio.

  "Very much,' she replied, thrusting away, for a moment more, the pulsing Hunger that drove her

  One by one, he lifted the canvases and displayed them, while Bethany stared in wonder at street scenes, sunsets, still life, each with that distinctive hard-edged, brittle light, like nothing she had seen before. While none of the other paintings were quite as magnificent as his most recent work, it was clear that that new creation was merely a continuation of ongoing artistic development, not a wild, one-time fluke.

  Anton was a genius, the most brilliant painter Bethany had ever met in the flesh.

  "Why haven't I heard of you?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "I haven't exhibited anywhere yet. Haven't tried. I have an inheritance [ live on, and I wanted to build up a body of work, my family always said my work wasn't good enough ... do you really like them?"

  "I love them—and I love you! Come here!" She meant it—she loved him, as he would love a fine wine. She threw out her arms to him.

  She would have to be careful. She was very hungry, but she must not drink too deeply

  Not yet.

  This one must be saved, must be made one of the

  Kindred, not given to useless, ungrateful death—but she could not do that without permission of the Prince. She was no anarch.

  She would have to speak to Vannevar Thomas as soon as she could; she could not allow Anton to face the everyday risks of mortal existence a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Such talent must be saved for the ages.

  As his arms went around her, as her lips neared his throat, she took one more glance at the painting.

  Very careful.

  "Bethany!" The voice was deep and penetrating.

  Bethany paused, startled; she lowered her bulky parcel, then turned and peered through the dimness and smoke of the Alexandrian Club's main lounge

  She saw a figure approaching, and recognized it. Stefan," she said in flat acknowledgment.

  "I almost didn't see you," Stefan said as he squeezed his way through the crowd; the black leather of his tight pants brushed audibly against someone's clothing, and the silver pendants on his chest jingled.

  Bethany had not particularly wanted to be seen, but she saw no reason to state the obvious; she sim­ply waited.

  "I didn't expect to see you tonight," Stefan said. "Weren't you going to some sort of event? Our host said you were.'

  "Over hours ago," Bethany replied.

  "Oh, but. . surely you didn't leave alone!"

  "Is there something you want, Stefan?" she asked, already tired of the pretense of friendship. Stefan was one of the trend-following foots in Serata's circle, and there was no love lost between that group and Bethany's own, more traditional faction of the vampiric Clan.

  "No, no—not at all! ] was just surprised to see you." He smiled. "Pleasantly surprised," he hastened to add.

  "I don't know why," Bethany said, I come here often, [f either of us should be surprised, Stefan, I would think it would be i. You are scarcely a regular here.'

  "Ah, Bethany, you misjudge me. While I can scarcely tolerate the self-proclaimed artistes who run the place, [ must admit that this is a fine place to meet with oth­ers of our kind, and when I return to the City to pay my respects to my Sire I often stop in here afterward.'

  Bethany bristled at the slighting description of the club's management—both Cainen, who ran the Alexandrian Club upstairs, and Melmoth, who ran the secret club beneath, were her own kind, and kin­dred spirits, as it were.

  "You come here, even though you don't like the management, and yet you ask what I'm doing here?"

  "No, no, sweet Bethany," Stefan protested. "I merely express my pleased surprise at my good fortune, that our visits should thus coincide! I had resigned myself to missing the pleasure of your countenance."

  She turned away from this flattery, picked up her parcel, and took another step toward the alcove beneath the stairs.

  "Oh, don't hurry off!" Stefan protested, stepping quickly beside her.

  "Stefan, I have business elsewhere." She pushed past him and ducked into the alcove.

  He followed her as she opened the heavy oaken door and hurried down the thirteen steps into the stagnant gloom of the Vampire Club.

  At the bottom she paused in the tiny foyer, and Stefan joined her. The foy
er was small enough that the two of them, and Bethany's package, made an uncomfortable crowd.

  "Aren't you going to knock?" Stefan asked, reaching for the massive brass ring

  Bethany brushed his hand aside

  "Stefan," she said, "I am here on business, to see the Prince, who I'm told is visiting my Grandsire. You have no business here!"

  Stefan smiled, his long, white teeth a flicker of light in the darkness. "All the Kindred are welcome here, Bethany, i would not dream of interfering with your business, whatever it is—but I'm as welcome here as you are."

  She glared at him; untroubled, he reached past and lifted the heavy knocker, Three times he let it fall against the carved oak while Bethany simply stood, her gaze hostile.

  As the door swung open, Stefan remarked, "Besides, I hardly see what the great secret is—it's obvious that that thing you're carrying is a painting, and I presume it's a gift for the Prince. Why should the presentation be private? Afraid he'll see just how poor your work is?"

  Its not my work!"

  "Ah. then your artistic judgment."

  "At least I have some artistic judgment, you bloody poseur!' Bethany snapped, pushing past Stefan into the main lounge of the Vampire Club.

  His laughter trailed after her as she descended through gloom and stale air to the lower deck,

  In this place nothing lived, nothing breathed—bat the undead moved in their semblance of life, past paintings that mocked the living, glorying in their own darkness. Here, Bethany met with her Prince.

  Twenty minutes later, the preliminary formalities out of the way and the situation explained, Bethany carried the painting into the library, where the light was best, and carefully unwrapped it A nude's oil-paint eyes looked on from one wall, while Vannevar Thomas, vampire prince of San Francisco, and Sebastian Melmoth, master of the Vampire Club, watched with interest.

  The mission of the Toreador Clan is to preserve great art," Bethany said, talking to cover her nervous­ness, "and great artists, through the Embrace." She saw Melmoth's lips quirk with amusement at her pre­sumption, and realized that she was telling her elders things they had known for longer than she had existed. "While of course I am still young by the standards of our kind, I have faith in my own opinions—I would never have been taken into the Clan myself, were I no judge of art. And in my opinion, Anton Prihar is truly a great artist." She pulled the last of the wrappings away, and held up the painting she had borrowed.

  For a moment there was utter silence as Bethany's audience took in the painting—the towers cut by golden glory, the water spattered with diamonds of light. Then Stefan, standing in the doorway, began applauding. Bethany almost dropped the painting; she had been so intent on the two elders that she had not seen Stefan's arrival, "Superb!" Stefan called.

  Thomas turned "And by what right, whelp, do you dare intrude on this discussion?' the Prince snapped.

  Stefan's hands dropped, and he bowed respectfully. "Your pardon, sir; [ am here as the representative of Allanyan Serata, Primogen of the Toreador Clan in your city. It seems plain to me that this matter concerns her,"

  "Ah," Thomas said. "And how is it that Mistress Serata was aware of this meeting?"

  Stefan looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  "She isn't!" Bethany shouted. 'Stefan just followed me! He's just trying to make trouble; he's hated me for decades!"

  "Oh. Bethany, I don't hate you," Stefan protested. "I am simply drawn irresistibly to save you from your own fo—"

  "Silence!" Thomas said

  Stefan stopped in mid word,

  "I asked you a question, Stefan," Thomas said qui­etly. "And I did not ask you, Bethany."

  Bethany cast her eyes downward as Stefan admit­ted. "Bethany spoke the truth, O Prince: I met her upstairs by chance, and followed her here, t did so, however, because my Sire has charged atl of us who curry her favor to keep an eye on the actions of those who would deny her authority as the eldest Toreador in the city—this Melmoth, the one who calls himself Tex R. Cainen, and all their descendants, ail their fol­lowers in the , . . shall we say, the aesthetic disagree­ment that divides our Clan? You know they call us mere poseurs, that they're so caught up in past glo­ries that they can't see.,."

  "W* can't see! You're so dazzled by flash and glitter that you throw away all aesthetic judgment . , ." Bethany began.

  "I need no speeches," Thomas interrupted. "You may dispute art theory elsewhere, not in my presence."

  "My apologies," Stefan said, smiling ingratiatingly. "But I truly am here as Seratas representative'

  Thomas smiled back. "I see," he said. "And as Seratas representative, would you agree that this Anton Prihar should become one of the Kindred, that his skill might be preserved?"

  "Oh, absolutely!" Stefan said. "Bethany's stumbled on a real gem this time, no question about it!"

  "You are, of course, an irrefutable authority," Melmoth murmured quietly, Stefan ignored the sarcasm.

  "And if I say that San Francisco is overpopulated, that there are to be no more Kindred created at this time?" Thomas asked.

  "Then we would have no choice but to obey." Stefan said with a cruel smile.

  "Yes, sir," Bethany said, ignoring Stefan's obvious pleasure in her discomfiture. "But please, don't say that."

  "The work is quite remarkable,' Melmoth said, to no one in particular,

  Thomas threw a quick glance at Melmoth, then at Bethany. "You all agree, then, that this painter should be Embraced?" The three Toreadors all indicated silent assent

  "Very well," Thomas said. "I will permit it,"

  "Oh, thank you!" Bethany said.

  Stefan bowed. "I will inform Serata at once," he said, "I have no doubt that she will wish to Embrace this artist herself."

  Bethany turned, shocked.

  "But I found htm!" she said. "His blood is mine!"

  "And if Serata says he is hers?" Stefan asked, smil­ing Bethany, wordless with fury, turned to the Prince.

  Stefan quickly said, "Surely, the Prince will not deny the rights and privileges of the Primogen, to favor this foolish young creature? Allanyan Serata is an elder of the Fifth Generation; Bethany is what, Ninth?"

  "Eighth," she said coldly."[ found himJ"

  "And would you refuse him a chance at greater power than your own?" Stefan asked her. "Is it, per­haps, your own power, your own ambition, that inter­ests you, rather than this human's art?"

  Bethany's hands came up, curved into claws.

  "And pray, sir," Melmoth interjected, "What is your interest in denying this young lady her treasure?"

  "Spite," Bethany snarled. "It's just spite"

  Melmoth cast an expressive glance at the ceiling, then at the Prince.

  Thomas gazed contemplatively back.

  "Sebastian," he said, "you see my predicament. These two have pitted the authority of the Primogen and the natural respect for one's elders against proprietary rights. I feet like Solomon confronted by the two mothers disputing over a child; how to resolve this, save by refusing this man the Embrace, and thereby letting his talent die in a few short years?" He started to turn back to the others, not expecting a reply.

  Melmoth surprised him by murmuring, "I always wondered why Solomon didn't ask the child which was its true mother. Surely even an infant knows that much—and this Anton Prihar is no infant, as his painting makes plain."

  Startled, Thomas paused. A slow, thoughtful smile spread across his face.

  "Indeed," he said. "Indeed!"

  The two vampires stood side by side before Anton Prihar, their dark clothing and black hair islands of night's darkness in the brightly lie studio, their pale faces colorless blanks against the vivid hues Anton had chosen for the walls To the artist they appeared an intrusion from some hostile, washed-out other world.

  As, of course, they were—they belonged to the world of eternal night, the world of the Kindred, a world he had never known existed until meeting Bethany the night before, a world whose intrusion he had tried to
stave off.

  "Choose!" Stefan demanded. "We bring you eternal life, centuries in which to create beauty; you need merely tell us which you would prefer to escort you into immortality, little Bethany, or the great Serata."

  "What does it matter?" Anton asked despairingly, the useless silver cross dangling from his hand. "Why should I care?"

  "Your power would be greater as Serata's Childe," Bethany explained. I can't deny that; it's a fact of our existence. But she and her followers have no true understanding of art, Anton; they're mere poseurs, dabblers, prone to trends and fashions, with no appreciation of lasting greatness."

  Ha!" Stefan said. "We aren't afraid of change, if that's what you mean—we appreciate innovation and originality, we aren't caught in the outmoded patterns of the past."

  Anton paid no attention to Stefan; he looked at Bethany, then down at the cross, then back at the vampire.

  "When we met at the museum,' he said, "I thought it was fate- J thought the earthquake was destiny at work, throwing us together that way. But I thought you were a woman, not a bloodsucking monster."

  "I am a woman," Bethany protested. "But I'm mare than that, And you can be, too."

  "You drank my blood last night," he accused her.

  "Yes," Bethany said

  "You're a vampire."

  "Yes."

  "But the cross doesn't affect you " He jingled the silver chain.

  When Bethany and Stefan had arrived at the studio door, returning the borrowed painting. Anton had confronted them with the talisman, thrusting it in their faces; they had ignored it as Bethany asked. "May we come in?"

  Anton had admitted them, and listened as they explained the choice the Prince had set before him. Now the artist was asking questions, and Bethany did her best to answer—she did not want to deceive him. She wanted him to know what Say before him, to understand that he need never die.

  "No," she said, "crosses and silver don't affect us. Nor garlic, nor the rest of it. All myths."

  "And you don't sleep in coffins all day, and come out at night?"

  Stefan smiled sardonically as Bethany admitted, "We don't necessarily use coffins, but that part is basi­cally true. Sunlight burns us, can destroy us."