The Blood That Bonds

Chapter 2
The World Within The World




Somewhere dark. Somewhere wet.




Two woke to the sound of water. Droplets formed, it seemed she could hear them expand, growing to monstrous size before gravity inevitably trapped them in its hold, pulling them to the earth. Every impact an explosion, a single drop becoming many, many becoming infinite. It was as if she could hear the impact of every molecule, and for a brief moment she believed her mind might split, trying to process this information.

And then, just darkness. Just water dripping. Just her ragged breathing, the feel of cold, damp stone under her cheek. She could smell wetness and rot in the air, mold from the stones, the dim scent of sex still on her body. She was naked, cold, disoriented. Confusion gave way to fright, fright to panic, and Two scrambled into a sitting position, gasping.

Dim, not dark. A candle guttered somewhere to her left. She could make out the area around her in vague outlines. As her eyes adjusted, she saw her clothes in a jumble on the floor to her right. This was something to think about, something to take her mind off of the questions, the fear. She crawled to the clothes, picked them up. Panties, jeans, shirt.

Feeling more human, more herself, Two set about trying to remember how she might have arrived at this place. Slowly the events of the previous night pieced themselves together in her mind. The car, the restaurant, Theroen. Driving fast, taking her somewhere, doing something... but that piece wouldn’t come. In its place, everything was a dark red, filled with the noise of rushing water and the thud of some distant drum.

Brighter now, her eyes adjusting, able to make out details where before there were only silhouettes. Two saw a table, a chair, a simple bed off of which she might have fallen during her sleep. A toilet in the corner, behind a screen. A small sink with a mirror above. The walls in front, behind, to her right made of stone.

And to her left, iron bars from ceiling to floor, forming the fourth wall of the cell in which she was being held.




Two stared at these bars for an indeterminate amount of time, unable to gain control of her limbs, let alone make any pretense of moving. Cold shudders of fear ran down her back. Trapped, her mind repeated over and over, I’m trapped. At last, with an effort of will greater, perhaps, than any she previously had made, she shoved these thoughts away. Forced herself to look around. Tried to find something to occupy her mind.

The mirror. The sink. Two stood on shaky legs, a newborn colt attempting to walk, steadying herself on the table. She could feel tear tracks drying and tightening her face, though she could not remember crying. She ran the faucet, splashed water on her face, looked into the mirror.

Terror. Recoiling with a cry, tripping over the chair, crashing to the floor, the skin on her palms shredding on the cold stone. The image in the mirror had been Two, and not Two. Her eyes, brilliant green to begin with, now glowed with that odd luminescence. Her pale skin had changed subtly, imperfections wiped away, bags under her eyes gone. Her teeth as she grimaced were sharper, more pronounced, particularly the canines.

But worse, worse by far, and that which had truly caused her to recoil in horror, was the entirety of the reflection itself. It was not what she was seeing that brought Two to a sudden and full understanding that something was simply not right. It was how she was seeing it - the details her eyes were able to pick out even in this dim light were somehow finer than anything that human eyes should be able to process. She could see everything about herself, in a way that she had never seen before, and it was this incontrovertible evidence that something within her had been changed so substantially, in such a short time, that broke down the last remaining walls she had constructed in her mind against her rising fear.

Two rolled her had back, let out a wail of utter horror and despair, and gave in to the panic that had been gnawing at the edges of her mind.




She called to Theroen, to Darren, to her mother and father. Molly, Rhes, Sarah, Sid. No help came for Two. No explanation, no escape. She wept, she screamed, she threw herself against the bars.

It was not until she saw the tears she was crying, wiped on her hands and tinted with red, that she regained any sort of composure. The sight was a harsh slap, stopping her in her tracks. Red tears. Bloody tears.

And with that, Two remembered it all, in minute detail. The car, the kiss, the sex. She remembered Theroen bringing her to the delicious moment before that final peak, and pressing his teeth against her neck. Her mind replayed the event in slow motion, those teeth hard against her flesh, nanoseconds of waiting spread out forever, the moment when the body tenses, begging for release. Waiting. And then her heart had throbbed, body climaxing, vein pulsing. Theroen’s teeth split her flesh asunder, and all that was left was the rushing, draining sensation, timed to the throb of her heart.

Two let out a low, animal moan of terror and revulsion and lust as these memories flooded into her head, crowding out any concern for the present. The recollection was horrifying, the blinding white pain remembered all too well. Yet below, a dark fire awoke, a need she could not imagine existing in this time and place.

Two glanced at her hands. The skin had already healed, cuts and scrapes from the fall turned to new, white flesh. Intricate spider webs of veins stood out on those hands, more pronounced against the pale skin. Two understood now what she was, or was becoming. Her mind attempted to shove the thought aside, fill with rationality, fill with excuses. But what excuse could there be? What possible rational explanation existed for this?

When the hunger awoke inside of her, some time later, she knew instinctively that no ordinary food would cure it.




* * *




In the summer of her seventeenth year, Two and Rhes had taken a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Two had never been, and it had been several years since the last time Rhes had been to the galleries. At his insistence she had gone along, not expecting to find anything of great value to her. In this, she had been proven wrong. Two had found herself absolutely captivated by nearly everything they had seen.

Here, laid out before her, was a visual history of the world. Her rapture with this idea was dichotomous. Narcissistic; all of this work lead up to her own creation. Selfless; all of this came from beyond her, outside of her, cared not whether she ever existed, would go on existing long after her own life had ceased. She was everything. She was insignificant.

Two had not been more profoundly impacted by anything in her life, save perhaps her decision to leave home. Rhes had finally been forced to drag her from the building, promising to return with her. She hadn’t read everything on the Egyptians. She’d missed the section on twelfth century representations of Christ. They took the train home in near silence, Rhes astounded and deeply pleased with Two’s appreciation of the museum. He did not ask her to explain, knowing that if she could have, she most certainly would.

Two struggled with it for some time, attempting to put her feelings into words, attempting to express to Rhes how insignificant and how important she’d felt, and how delicious the merger of these two feelings had been. Two was quite literate. A love for books had served her, in truth, far better in this area than the high school education she’d given up on probably could have. Yet there was no word she knew -- and perhaps no word at all -- for how she felt.

Two had made many trips to the museum that year, with Rhes and alone, absorbing all she could see. Trips to the Museum of Modern Art followed, galleries of new work in Greenwich Village, street artists in SoHo. Never any desire to attempt to create the work herself, only to immerse herself in others’ creations, to learn and experience what she could through them. To absorb some alternate view, as meaningful and inconsequential as her own.

Art had brought Two a deep, abiding love for the complexity and magnificence of human life. Even in utter disgrace, trapped in horror, she had still found some grim beauty in the structure of it all.

Now, she felt as if this precious connection with the rest of humanity had been torn from her. She had become something outside of the scope of those eons of art. Against her will she had been made an interloper, no longer welcome in the human world. It seemed as if those ties that she had found within the art had been severed.

As the blood tears dried on her cheeks, her preternatural eyes staring out through darkness no human could have penetrated, Two felt truly and completely alone for the first time since Rhes had first brought her to the museum.




Sitting on the stone floor in the darkness, listening to the drip of water, Two wondered when she might see Theroen again. Clearly, she had been put here in order to ensure that she would not run away in his absence. There was no reason for him to continue holding her in a cell once he returned. She had not protested, had not attempted any type of escape.

This, more than anything else, calmed her. If Theroen had intended simply to kill her, she would be dead. The altered physiology, the translucency in the mirror, the blood tears... these things suggested some further plan, one in which she joined him among the ranks of the undead. He would not leave her here to rot. She would see him again.

But not that night.




* * *




Two rose from sleep in a manner entirely unfamiliar to her. Before it had always been fuzzy, a gradual awakening. Now, she went from the deepest blackness to instant, total comprehension. It was startling. She sat up, looked around more from habit than from any need to clear her head. She was still in the cell, of course. Nothing had changed.

Almost nothing.




Before her was a bottle of water, and a note. Two took it, read it, crumpled it up and threw it out through the bars.

Two, please accept my apologies for my absence, and the appalling conditions of this cell. It is the only place in where I can be assured you will neither flee, nor come to any harm while I am away. I will see you later this evening. If you are thirsty, it should still be within your capacity to drink water at this time. - Theroen

No apologies for the bite, though. No apologies for the lack of warning. No apologies for whatever he had done that had begun this process without her permission. No apologies for taking away that beautiful connection with humanity, for making her some sort of monster.

Two felt a crawling, tightening sensation in her spine, followed by sharp cramp in her abdomen and the muscles behind her shoulder blades. Her mouth felt dry, her skin hot, and a wave of panic flooded through her. She knew this feeling, and a small part of her brain was surprised that it had taken so long to come around.

Her body had been without her drug for at least 24 hours now, and it wasn’t happy about it.

“Oh, God...” Two fought against the panic, knowing it would only worsen the symptoms, and was able to push it back for the time being. The gnawing desire still sat in the back of her brain, and her muscles ached like she had the flu, but she was not yet in the horrible pain that she knew was the next stage.

She uncapped the water, drank, felt it run down the length of her chest. It seemed as if her senses were amplified at times, and yet this occurred without warning or pattern. If she could control it, she had not yet learned how.




Steps above her, the opening of some heavy door, and then Theroen was there.




“Hello Two.” He stared in through the bars at her.

Two, with a strength belying the shakiness inside her, replied back. “Nice place you’ve got here, Theroen. Love the decor.”

Theroen grinned, reached out with a key, unlocked the door to her cell. Iron grating on iron. Squeal of rusty hinges. He stepped backward, gestured with his hand.

“You’d probably like a shower. Some new clothes?”

Two looked at him, eyebrows raised.

“You turned me into some kind of monster, Theroen.”

“Did I?”

“I can see in the dark. I was crying earlier, and my tears were pink. I scraped my hands, and they healed in a couple of minutes. What the f*ck did you do to me?” Two could feel anger replacing fear, and welcomed it.

“Something you will one day thank me for. Two, you have to trust me.”

“I don’t have to do anything! You bought my time for a night, Theroen, not my life.”

“I’ve given you a gift.”

“Take it back!” Two shouted. “I didn’t ask for your gift.”

“You wanted to be with me, yes?”

Two was quiet. Theroen continued.

“Yes. And not because of anything I did, either. No drugs, no magic. I gave you a taste of freedom, that’s all. A look at what it might be like to be with me. And now you can be. Forever.”

A shiver ran down Two’s spine at this. She continued her silence, holding on to her anger.

“I’ve given you immortality, Two... or at least the path to it. I’ve given you a way to be free of your addictions, free of your life on the streets, free of that pimp selling you every night.”

“If you were offering that, I wouldn’t feel like there are shards of glass in my spine. I need to go, Theroen. Now. I need that pimp. I need my fix. I never asked for any of this.”

“You asked with your eyes. You asked with your body.”

“I asked for your love. Not your ... your ...”

“Blood?”

“Blood! I don’t want this, Theroen. I don’t.”

“You don’t know what this is.” Theroen gestured at her, then at himself. “At least let me show you.”

Two considered, shivering. Was this a fair request? Was this man, so little the monster she’d seen portrayed in movies, read about in books, honestly giving her the chance to make her own decisions? She had perhaps another 12 hours before the withdrawal became unbearable.

“If you trust me, Two, I will show you a way to break from the world you are trapped in. I will give you escape.”

Two shook her head. She couldn’t see it.

Theroen sighed, lifted his finger to his lips and without hesitation bit down. Blood immediately welled, and Two felt a sudden surge of adrenaline and terrible hunger. She took an involuntary step forward, before catching herself.

Theroen held his finger out. Two took another step, stopped herself.

“I don’t want it!”

“Yes you do, and not only because of your new nature. Two, I’m sorry for this...”

Theroen moved suddenly, so fast that Two could not even react to it. Before she could even take in a breath to scream, he had grasped her, pressed his finger against her lips, and released her. Two licked them instinctively, and the blood was like fiery liquor on her tongue, hot and sweet. Ambrosia. It left her breathless. She sat down on the small bed, dazed.

“Jesus,” she said.

Theroen smiled. “No, Two. Jesus has nothing to do with this.”

Two looked up at him. The aches in her joints, the chills, the craving for the drug; all had faded far into the background. Two or three drops of Theroen’s blood had pushed the symptoms of withdrawal away almost completely.

“Let me show you what can be, Two. Will you trust me?”

Two stood, stretched, marveling at the sudden strength in her limbs. She looked again at Theroen, and saw in his eyes the same man who she had felt such strong feelings for the previous night. Two made her decision.

“No, Theroen, I won’t trust you. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

Theroen looked crestfallen. He opened his mouth to protest, and Two held up her hand, smiling slightly.




“I won’t trust you... But I’ll let you show me.”




* * *




The dungeon was in the basement of what must have been a mansion. Two had never seen rooms of this size, rooms that seemed to stretch out forever and ever. The decor was stunning in its complexity, if not necessarily its artistry. Gorgeous, sixteenth century paintings hung over gaudy, lacquer-glass statues of naked, sexless elves. It appeared as if anything that had -- ever -- grabbed the owner’s fancy had been purchased and pushed into a corner. The mansion was over-decorated, over-filled, over-furnished.

Yet within minutes, Two was absolutely spellbound. Her eyes wanted to move everywhere at once, taking it all in. Luxury like she had never seen. The ability to buy and buy and buy until, finally, all sense of aesthetics was lost. Here a massive oak table, glowing with its own inner light from countless centuries of oiling and finishing, carved in a manner her museum background allowed her to identify as fourteenth-century. There, a black velvet painting of dogs playing poker, bought from a vendor standing outside of a gas station, no doubt. It was overwhelming.

Theroen guided her through the rooms, giving her the grand tour, but it was clear from his face, his voice, his expressions that these possessions were not his. It was obvious that he thought little of them, and perhaps viewed most with some level of derision. Two knew very little about Theroen, really, but what she’d seen of him so far spoke of an ingrained aesthetic that, had he not very likely been around this clutter for quite some time, would have actively disdained it.

And indeed, Theroen was hurrying her through the rooms; quickly pointing out things he thought would be of interest to her, ignoring the rest. He was not trying to tempt her with luxury, and said as much.

“Everything in the world is yours for the taking, but that’s not important. You know it’s not important, I think, the same as I do. What’s important is the life that can be lived. Hundreds of years, Two, and there’s still so much to see! So much to do!”

Thereon didn’t seem like the emotional type. Two wondered if this was a rare outburst that she should be appreciating. She tried her best, but all the while that same nagging thought pulled at the back of her mind like the ebb and flow of the tide. Not human. Not human. No longer connected to that beautiful web of grief and love and death and striving, striving to find some meaning in what must, by definition, be an empty universe.

But there was temptation here, as well. Wasn’t there a spark of excitement in her, brought on by his words? The scope of what she had seen in that moment in the Ferrari when she had nearly lost herself in despair was minimal next to what Theroen was now proposing.

Two had never felt so torn in her life. Humanity. Immortality. The spirit. The soul. She shut her eyes, breathed deeply, pushed it away. She’d told Theroen she would let him show her. She meant to keep her words.




A set of oak doors that Two was unsure even Theroen could open, let alone herself. Massive, solid in a way that modern creations simply weren’t, they stood before her at the end of a long hallway. Theroen paused, looked momentarily pained, turned to Two.

“Abraham.”

It was a threat, a warning, an invitation, an explanation. The quality of Theroen’s voice as he spoke the word was indefinable. Two repeated it, forming the word as a question, looking for detail.

“My father. My... he runs this household. He does not interfere with my daily life, usually, but I owe my allegiance to him. Or I did. Now...”

His words trailed off, and for a moment his eyes, normally so clear and focused, were distant. Cloudy.

“Theroen?”

“It’s hard, now. I’m too strong. It’s too soon.”

She didn’t understand a word of it. She made as if to say this, and he shook his head as if in answer.

“It doesn’t matter. Tonight, we are sticking to basics, and it is not fundamental that you understand this right now.”

“Do you all talk in riddles all of the goddamn time?” Two was somewhat exasperated despite her desire to understand. Or perhaps because of it. Theroen surprised her with a bright grin.

“You will enjoy meeting Melissa,” He laughed

“Will she tell me what’s going on?”

“In more detail than you could possibly want.”

“What about Abraham?”

“If you experience anything less than abject terror, I’ll be amazed.”

Two raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”

“And worse. Abraham is... eternal. He is not like others of my kind, not even like myself or Melissa. He never was. You’ll, well... no, you won’t understand, but you’ll feel it. If it gets too bad, I’ll know, and I’ll do my best to keep you from harm.”

Two looked at the door with renewed concern. This didn’t sound like anything she had any interest in experiencing. Melissa sounded fun. Abraham sounded dark at best, deadly at worst. Theroen looked at her, smiled again, touched her cheek.

“You’ll be fine. He may even like you. I don’t think you’re like anyone else he’s met.”

“Couldn’t that work out just the opposite?” Two questioned. She felt like crying, and didn’t know why. It seemed as if she could find nothing but despair inside herself, as if the duality of her human persona, light and dark, had half been erased.

“It might.” Theroen’s voice was curiously gently. “I wonder the same every time I speak with him.”

Two took a deep, shuddery breath, looked down the hall, steeled herself.

“Okay. Well, let’s go meet Abraham.”

Her voice trembled only the slightest bit.




* * *




The room was pitch black. The doors, which Theroen had opened with remarkable ease, made not a sound as they swung backward into a blackness which the light from the hallway could not begin to penetrate. They stood on the threshold like archeologists at some newly unearthed tomb. Like Hansel and Gretel at the door to the witch’s cottage, waiting to see what might spring forth from the darkness within.

When the voice came, it was all Two could do not to turn and run, screaming, down the hallway. It was like rotting graves; gravel grinding at the bottom of some blackened well; the howl of wind through the Trinity cemetery in October. Age beyond age, depth beyond depth, darkness beyond darkness.

“You visit me, my son. You bring something? A treat? A taste for Abraham? So long since you last brought me some lovely treat.”

“Hello, father.” Theroen’s voice was low, subdued, respectful. Two could not detect fear, there, at least nothing akin to the terror currently sitting unsteady in her belly.

The thing in the room chuckled, a low grating sound that sent squirms of revulsion up Two’s spine. She fought them off, gripped Theroen’s hand instinctively.

“But so bravely she stands!” the creature said. “It should please you, my dear. Others have been unable to stand even long enough to hear my voice. Such bravery, yet such fear. Do the legs tremble, my dear? Does the heart beat and beat? Does the blood run thin?”

This struck the creature as uproariously funny, and he howled out at them from the darkness. Two felt what little grip she retained on her composure slipping rapidly away. Theroen sensed this, spoke up, cut off the laughter.

“This is the one of which I spoke, Abraham. This is Two.”

A momentary pause. Two felt herself being considered by the thing, the sensation like worms crawling sluggishly across her skin.

“She is still young,” Abraham said at last.

“Yes.”

“You are still young!” he roared suddenly, and Two was unable to keep from cringing back, making some small cry. Her face paled, then reddened with embarrassment. Theroen appeared not to notice. He stared into the darkness. Nodded.

“You knew, when you made me, what I was to be,” He said after a moment.

A sigh, like the shuffle of old papers.

“Light a candle, my son,” Abraham said. “I would see you as a mortal does.”

“No mortal sees like we do, father,” Theroen replied, but he produced a match from a pocket, struck it against the granite table directly to the right of the door, lit the wick of the massive candle that stood atop it. The room seemed almost to swallow this light and then, perhaps finding it unpleasant to the taste, grudgingly released it.

A gleam at the far corner. Eyes.

“Handsome, handsome boy,” said Abraham, and Two could barely perceive a slight shaking of the head. “Why do you insist on looking such? Why cut your beautiful hair? Why dress in these ridiculous clothes?”

“Those who do not change wither. Those who do not change die,” Theroen recited.

“Speak not such things to me!” Abraham leapt forward suddenly, slightly further into the light, leaning over his massive wooden desk, white knuckled grip on the far edge, powerful shoulders supporting the torso as he stared in fury at Theroen. Two shrank back, managing to hold in her cry this time. The light helped. Theroen’s apparent fearlessness in the face of a being multitudes more powerful than himself helped more.

“Speak not such words from the scrolls of Eresh, in such a manner, to he who has given you everything!”

“Everything and nothing, father. Ashes and dust. Life in death.”

“Impertinence in youth,” Abraham grumbled. He sat back down, and Two found that she could barely recall his image, as if her mind had blotted it out. She remembered a heavy head of hair, complemented by large eyebrows and a beard. Had he been young? Old? She couldn’t tell. Only that he was huge. Taller and broader than Theroen, thick through the shoulders, muscular. A dangerous man even as a human, let alone in his current state.

“I speak only what you have taught, father,” Theroen said. He took a step forward into the room, gently pulling Two with him. Abraham chuckled. The sound was bitter, cynical. There was no humor in it.

“Ahh. My first thought was, he lied in every word. It does not suite you, Theroen.”

“I am no liar, father. No cripple.”

“Oh yes? Well. No cripple, anyway, as well you prove out there, traipsing about in the mortal world, driving your fast cars, laying with your women in patches of grass.” He looked at Two with a raised eyebrow. Two made an effort to return the gaze, succeeded. The vampire laughed again.

“So brave,” his voice was quiet, contemplative. “Why is she not finished?”

Thereon paused a moment, and Two sensed that the next few moments were critical.

“Her previous... employer. He forced things upon her against her will. Many things, one of which was a drug.”

“She is impure?”

“The change will cleanse her.”

“And what drug is this?”

“Heroin, father. Do you know it?”

“Opium, yes?”

“Processed chemically, but yes.”

“She is unclean, Theroen.”

“She is pure in heart, father. She is pure in soul. The blood will strip her of mortal needs, mortal addictions, mortal weaknesses.”

“So sure?” There was dark humor in the old vampire’s voice.

Theroen said nothing.

“No, you are not sure. Not sure at all, my impetuous fledgling. Yet you do not answer my question. Why is she not finished?”

“I did not know we were susceptible to such things. The drug is still too recent in her veins. It ... It made me quite ill.”

The vampire screamed laughter at this, rocking back in his chair. Two wanted to cover her ears with her hands. The sound went on and on, madness and hate and anger disguised as humor, as anything so remotely human.

And then, abruptly, stopped.

“Oh, my. ‘Quite ill’ indeed, I’ve no doubt. That drug, Theroen, more than any other, is poison to our kind. It would likely have killed a lesser creation. You are Eresh-Chen, though. You seem to have recovered.”

Theroen nodded.

Abraham turned his attention to Two, caught her in his eyes. “Come to me, my dear.”

Two felt her feet moving, almost against her own will. She heard Theroen draw in a breath, but he said nothing. Two understood now that Theroen felt no fear for himself, held no question of his own safety, but that he feared for hers very greatly. The final moment of the interview had come, judgment was to be handed down, and what Abraham might deem proper was as unfathomable as his deep, black eyes.

Two stood next to him at the chair, terrified, gasping for breath but unable to move away. Unable to look away. Abraham reached out, touched his finger to her forehead. The contact brought with it a jolt like electricity. Two gasped, nipples instantly hard, warmth between her legs once more awake and throbbing.

“You enjoy?” The vampire laughed at her. Two felt dizzy. She was hyperventilating; couldn’t help it.

“A taste, Theroen, of this tainted blood?” He questioned, and his voice mocked Theroen, mocked them both. She was his for the taking, all three knew it, but he found the formality deliciously, darkly entertaining.

“If you must, father.” Theroen’s voice was strained. Abraham seemed to smile at this, as if he approved of both the acceptance and the clear hatred in the voice of his creation.

“It is always such, my son, when this comes. She will break your heart.”

“So be it,” Theroen said, and Abraham grinned broadly. He touched his finger lightly to Two’s shoulder, and her knees buckled. She fell to the floor, looking up, enraptured, terrified. His fingers now under her chin, like those of a lover, raising, exposing the pale neck below. Two gasped, panted, black spots appearing before her eyes. She was dimly aware that she was weeping, and that the warmth below her waist had become a roaring blaze.

The vampire leaned his head down, settled the points of his teeth against her neck, waited. Just as before, the moment stretched out into eternity. The world became surreal, painted in shades of grey and yet more vibrant than anything Two had ever witnessed. She felt a tear grow on a single eyelash, fatten, drop. It hit her face, the warmth of her body fading quickly as it cooled, leaving a track down her cheek. Her heart throbbed. The vampire tore through the flesh of her neck in an instant, seeking the blood forced through her veins by that thudding organ.

Pain again, like glass, exquisite, blinding, maddening, and a spike of sheer ecstasy running through her like before, like with Theroen, this caused only be Abraham’s touch, Abraham’s teeth. Such power. Two leaned her head back, wailing in terror, in pleasure, in agony. It was death, it was birth, it was the coalescence of the entire universe in a single moment.

And then it was gone. The vampire pulled back, Two fell to the floor, gasping, weeping. Her eyes fluttered open and shut, trying to make sense of the myriad images before her. Theroen, looking away, unable to watch what was transpiring before him. Abraham, eyes closed, head tilted back, enjoying her blood like a man tasting fine wine. The candle on the table flickered light on the door, and now it seemed the flame itself was a door as well, light from inside spilling out, like a hole in the fabric of reality. Two wept for its beauty.

“It makes me lightheaded,” Abraham said. “The blood is tainted indeed, and yet so strong. So delightful, ah, she will be a good daughter for you. Daughter, sister, lover... whatever you choose to make of her. It will be many years before she finds the strength to leave you.”

“It... may be many years before she... finds the strength to stand up.” Two heard herself as if from down a long hall, and was aghast at her own blasphemy. To speak, and so impertinently, in front of this creature who had given her such pain, such pleasure. Surely now he would strike her down.

But Abraham only roared his horrible, mocking laughter, clapping his hands together. Theroen snarled something, moved towards her, and Two understood in that instant the hatred burning between master and pupil, father and son. Was it like this for all of them? Would it be like this for her? No, Two realized. Not for her and Theroen. There was no hatred there.

“Or perhaps I am wrong!” Abraham cackled. “Perhaps I am very wrong indeed!”

And then Theroen had her in his arms, and she was resting her head against his chest, neck throbbing, wanting only to sleep. She tried to speak, tried to tell him that she did not feel defiled, that even as pleasure and pain had torn through her body, she had thought of Theroen, and it had been clean. She could not say so much, her eyelids so heavy, sleep forcing itself upon her with clumsy, brutal hands.

She forced herself awake, took her hand, held it to her neck. Fingers bloody, Theroen striding rapidly down the hall, not running, only leaving, his fear lost in his anger. The oak doors shut behind them and Two wondered if Abraham had moved from his desk, or closed them with only a thought. She pressed her bloody fingers to Theroen’s lips, and he stopped, looked down at her in surprise.

“Not like that.” Two’s voice was a whisper, and she was crying again. “Not like he says.”

An expression of powerful emotion passed over Theroen’s normally unreadable face. He made a sound, smiled at her, kissed her fingers. Bloody white lips, bloody white teeth.

Two slept.




* * *




The bed was softness unlike anything she had ever experienced. Or perhaps it was her skin, newly remade, that felt it so. Silk sheets, pillow covers, heavy down blankets smothering her, warming her, giving her a sense of comfort she had never before experienced.

The waking was as it had been before, instantaneous, frightening almost in the intensity of consciousness. One moment, blackness; the next, total lucidity. Two woke with Theroen’s name on her lips, a soft whisper, and she smiled against the silk.

Had there been dreams? Visions of her life as an immortal? Had she dreamt of who she might be, what she might do? Two’s heart raced as her mind pondered these things. There was time, now. Time enough to see all of the art that ever she could desire. Who cared if she was no longer a part of the web of humanity which produced it? Could not one stand outside of a house and still admire the decor within? Was it not possible to appreciate strains of music which the ear could not, in truth, even process into a coherent whole?

I’m falling in love with him, she thought, and in love with what he is. And though she felt an almost inevitable tragedy in this, as if some instinctive part of her warned against so seemingly easy an answer, she could not deny the truth of her statements. Abraham be damned; Theroen was not like him, never would be. They did not have to hate. It was not a requirement, not set in stone. She’d seen Theroen’s face as she pressed her blood to his mouth. Not greed, nor hunger, nor hate, but only an overwhelming desire.

Love? Or at least the beginnings of it, as she was now feeling herself? Two thought so, yes, and that was enough.




The click of a latch. Two felt no fear. Not Abraham, then. Theroen, of course. She turned, sitting up before he could speak. She didn’t want him to speak. Not now. Catching him in her bright green eyes, now luminescent from the vampiric blood in her veins, as he had caught her so many times in his own.

An interminable moment, but sweet, as they looked into each other’s eyes. Theroen’s face held that same gentle smile with which he seemed always to look upon her. You are all I have wanted, his eyes told her, since the first time I beheld you. Two felt this echo in her own soul, and she broke out into a grin.

She let the sheets pool in her lap. Bare skin, bare breasts, no shame. She laughed as his eyes flicked down momentarily, and back again to her face. It did not anger her, this look. It brought her only the joy that comes with being desired.

“Lovely,” he said through his smile, and she knew he meant not only her breasts, but everything else. Filled with warmth, she closed her eyes, lay back, enjoyed the feeling of silk on skin.

Theroen sat next to her in a large wooden chair with a padded cloth back, as relaxed as ever she had seen him, a posture which still might have looked formal next to a normal man. He was composed, so composed. She wondered if it was the effect of immortality.

He smiled, shook his head. “No.”

“Just you?”

“Just me.”

She looked up at him from the bed, let her eyes tell him that if the chair was uncomfortable, other arrangements could be made. Theroen laughed out loud.

“Oh, if only I could, Two. But I haven’t the time that I’d want to spend.”

Vague disappointment, but she accepted it. They had forever, perhaps.

“Perhaps?”

“Are you reading my mind?” She questioned, a mischievous grin surfacing, pretending to be offended.

“Your mind is a fascinating place. I find it hard to draw away.”

“Where are you going? Why can’t you stay with me?” She had meant it as another playful question; the spurned, jealous lover. Another game, nothing more, but she saw a momentary flick of something on Theroen’s face. Frustration? Anger?

He sighed, examined his fingernails. “Abraham requires my services. I would do this thing for him, particularly now.”

“Why?”

Theroen looked up at her, the expression of one in love stamped clearly on his face, eyes locked again with hers.

“He didn’t kill you.”

“Did you think he would?”

“I did not know.”

Theroen looked away from her, ran a hand through his hair. It seemed that this admission, more than any other, hurt him. Two tried to understand the reason for his pain. She reached out, touched his hand, drew it between her breasts, held it against her heart.

“I did not know. Two. I have not feared anything, at all, in centuries. Not even Abraham. Nothing alive, nothing undead. Not until we approached his chamber. And to see you in his arms? Under his spell? Terror. Terror.”

“He couldn’t hurt me, in the end, you know. That’s what he wanted, and I didn’t give it to him. I wasn’t thinking of him at all.”

“No?”

“No.” She sat up, leaned forward, kissed his lips. “I was thinking about someone else.”

Theroen touched her cheek, touched her hair, held her head in his hands, kissed the skin of her forehead.

“That comforts me,” he said at last, “and you make me regret heeding Abraham’s summons this night. There is much else I would rather be doing.”

Two smiled at this, so like her own thoughts.

“Go, then. Do what he wants, and come back soon.”

“So quick to dismiss me?” It was Theroen’s turn, mock hurt in his voice, a grin on his lips.

“I’m afraid if I don’t, I’m going to jump you whether you like it or not.”

Theroen laughed, deep and rich, and stood up to go. But Two called him back. One last kiss, long and deep this time, and during, Two bit her own lip, felt the blood seep from the wound, shared it with him. The taste of it was like fire, like nectar, like life and death and dreams.

And oh, how those mortal fears seemed like candles in a strong wind, blinking out of existence, one after the other.




* * *




Pain lanced through Two’s midsection, stomach knotting, muscles cramping. She sat up, doubled over, gasped. In the depths of her body, a need that had nothing to do with blood, nothing to do with her new nature, reawakened.

Heroin, the pain cried out to her, and Two felt tears standing out against her eyes, thought these themselves felt dry and burned. No. This was over. This was her past. She had left this behind.

Another spasm. Another cramp. Two cried out, arms wrapped around her stomach, Abraham’s words coming back to her.

“She is unclean, Theroen.”

Theroen’s protest, that the change, her rebirth into vampiric immortality, would cleanse this need from her. Abraham’s deceptive chuckle.

Suppose it didn’t? Suppose now she would be trapped in this addiction for the duration of her immortal life?

Two thought that if this were the case, such a life would end more quickly than expected.




And so it went. Two could not remember when Theroen had left her, could not remember how long it had been, had no conception of time. She cursed herself for not remembering to ask for his blood. She cursed Darren for ever giving her the drug. She cursed God for putting her on this earth. Pain and thirst ravaged her. At times it seemed she burned, at others chills wracked her body like physical blows. She did not call for Theroen, though she wanted to. She was afraid only the thing she had met last night would answer.

Just as it seemed she could take it no longer, that she would leap from her bed, dress, return to the city, return to Darren, return to it all in exchange for the syringe which would numb this pain, she felt a presence in the room with her. Her fear gave her a momentary respite from the pain, but this was not the abject terror that she had experienced in Abraham’s presence, nor the quiet awe that Theroen inspired. It was something in between.

“Who?” She asked the darkness at the end of the room.

“Melissa,” Said a voice from the shadows. Two could make out a pair of gleaming eyes observing her. She tried to think of an adequate greeting. Words failed her. Hi, I’m Two. I need some heroin. It was almost enough to make her laugh out loud.

Melissa came forward into the light. She was a study in contrast. Her hair was jet black, long and straight. Her brown eyes had not been lightened by vampirism, only intensified into deep black pools. Her skin was white porcelain, her lips a deep, sensual red. She was beautiful, taller than Two and well built, wearing a pair of black jeans and a cream-colored blouse. She appeared concerned.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look terrible,” She said, sitting in the same chair that Theroen had previously occupied.

“I’m not... doing too good,” Two admitted.

“Sick?”

“Withdrawal.” Two felt a slight flush of shame at this admission, but what did it matter now?

“With...” Melissa’s eyes grew large as she realized what Two meant. She pushed her hair back behind her shoulders unconsciously, bending over Two, seeming equally curious and worried.

“Theroen?” Two asked, trying not to let her voice sound as weak as she felt.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I wish I did. I’d get him.”

Two sobbed once, got control of herself, looked again at Melissa.

“Can I have my clothes?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure.” Melissa handed them to Two, who pulled them on underneath the covers.

“Sorry,” Two said. She fought against the pain, sat up, forehead rested against her palms, elbows against her knees.

“It’s okay. I guess it’s weird, having some chick you’ve never met staring at you while you’re all sick and naked and everything.”

Two laughed a little, wiped tears from her eyes.

“What kind of drug?” Melissa asked. There was a faint accent to her voice. Two couldn’t place it.

Two did not look up. “Can’t you read it? It’s sort of been on my mind.”

“I’m not like Theroen. I mean, I might be someday, but not now. His powers are way beyond mine. I just pick up things once in a while.”

“Heroin.”

“Oh, ouch. That’s not good. I mean... you know. Pot, E, maybe even a little coke, sure. But Heroin’s bad shit.”

Two shuddered, looked up at Melissa, eyes watery, tears very close.

“No kidding.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Hey, hey... sorry,” Melissa said, that expression of concern coming to her features again. “I’m not trying to be rude. Seriously. I’m a little scatterbrained right now myself. Always like this when I oversleep, and the girl last night had so much wine in her.”

Two raised her eyebrows, confused.

Melissa rolled here eyes. “And now I’m rambling. I can’t control it. I’m sorry. Can I do anything to help you?”

Theroen was right; Two did like Melissa. She was the polar opposite of the calm, collected vampire who’d brought Two to this world, but Two liked her just the same. She smiled, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Unless you’ve got a fix in that purse, I don’t know if there’s much you can do.”

Melissa shook her head, her expression almost sad, as if it was indeed a travesty that she was not carrying the drug.

“No. Just some makeup and Kleenex and,” She looked around as if confirming that no one was listening, “maybe some weed.”

Two laughed, wincing at the pain this brought. A vampire carrying ganja. Wonders never ceased. Melissa grinned as well, maybe seeing the humor, maybe just happy to see Two smile.

“You can smoke that?” Two asked.

“Sure.”

“And it’s, like, the same as for a human?”

“Beats me. It does something, though. Everything does. What we find palatable, though, may differ a lot from humans. I think heroin would probably be too much for me.”

“When Theroen, uh... started me, he said that it made him really sick, just getting it from my blood.”

“Theroen’s a wuss!” Melissa laughed. “I mean, I’m sure it did... and if it was that bad for him I’m sure it’d be awful for me too. But he’s also pretty picky. He doesn’t even like it when there’s a little alcohol in the mix. Just all that serious ‘no, only blood, nothing else.’ Stuff.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Does it matter? Bad? Good?”

“How old are you, Melissa? How old is Theroen?”

“Ooh, hmmm,” she mused, “I don’t know. He might want to tell you that himself.”

“What about you, then?”

“One hundred and forty eight and three days. Or twenty-two, depending on how you look at it.”

“You don’t look a day over one-twenty.”

Melissa laughed, and then looked again in concern as Two doubled over. Hot and cold flashes were running through her, and she was bathed in a cold sweat.

“Oh, f*ck. I think I’m going to puke.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“Theroen’s blood stops it. I don’t know. Would yours?” Two spoke slowly, through clenched teeth, trying to fight against the sudden onset of nausea.

Melissa shrugged. “Beats me. Worth a shot. I don’t mind. I probably shouldn’t let you just go at my neck or whatever, though.”

“Theroen bit his finger.”

“Sure.” Melissa’s teeth made a tiny clicking sound, like the noise of a stapler, and she held her finger out to Two, blood welling up from two tears in the skin. “Hurry up, before it heals.”

Two looked up at her. “Sorry. This is some f*cked up, bizarre shit.”

“Live a hundred and fifty years, and you’ll see things that make this seem pretty tame. Do it, if you think it’ll help you. I don’t mind.”

Two put her lips on Melissa’s finger and let the blood roll on to her tongue. The effect of the blood was immediate, energizing her, and it was all she could do not to clamp down with her teeth. Melissa seemed to sense this, and grinned. “Yummy. Vampire blood is awesome. Hard to get, though.”

Two swallowed twice, forced herself to pull away. Her nausea disappeared, along with the cold sweat and the chills. Some of the pain remained, still, but it was distant. She guessed that Theroen was much older and stronger than Melissa, and that this affected the potency of his blood.

“Better?” Melissa asked, and Two nodded.

“Yes. Not perfect, but much better. Thank you.”

Melissa licked the last few drops of her blood off her fingers and smiled. “No problem. What’s your name?”

“Two.”

“Like the number?”

“Yes, like the number.”

Melissa laughed and clapped her hands. “That’s so cool! That’s much better than Jennifer or Betty or Melissa.”

Two shrugged. “I guess?”

“People with cool names never appreciate them. Now then. What you need is a bath. That’ll take your mind off of this withdrawal stuff until Theroen gets back, and then I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

Two crossed her arms, scratched her shoulders. A bath sounded wonderful.

“You can use mine. The one in here sucks. Theroen doesn’t know anything.” Melissa helped her up. Two stood on shaky legs, looked around, took a breath.

“How far is it?”

“Not far. Can you walk a bit?”

Two nodded. Melissa went to the door, opened it, held it for her. In the hallway, the vampire took the lead, and Two followed.




* * *




The bath was heaven on earth. Giant marble slabs, green and black and grey patterns tracing themselves out across what seemed, at first, to be miles of stone. The basin had to be twelve feet long, three feet deep. Sitting straight up, Two saw, the water could easily have covered her head. The faucet, gleaming in a dull manner that spoke of authentic gold, was enormous. The water steamed as Melissa turned it on.

“I like flowers. Do you like flowers?”

Two had no idea what Melissa meant. She shrugged. “Sure?”

“In the bath, silly.”

“Oh.” Two honestly didn’t know. She’d never tried it. “Why not?”

Melissa laughed, took a basket from the shelf above, dropped hundreds upon hundreds of blossoms into the bath water. Their fragrance filled the room immediately, cherry blossoms, rose petals, the sweet smell of citrus. Melissa lit candles, turned off the lights, stood in front of Two, unbuttoned her blouse. Two shrugged it off. There was nothing embarrassing in this, though Two could not say why. Melissa, for her part, seemed entirely unfazed. She helped Two out of the rest of her garments, held her arm out for balance as Two climbed the steps to the bath and stepped in. Two descended into the petals, felt the warmth embrace her, and sighed. Melissa sat on the step, played with the water at her fingertips, smiled at Two.

“Good?”

“Oh, yes.”

Melissa handed her a gigantic sponge, natural from the look of it, and some sort of perfumed bath lotion. Two cleaned herself slowly. Melissa chattered, behind her and to the right, about all sorts of things. New pop music she was enamored with, the wonderful lights and throbbing beats of the raves she attended, the new interpretation of Shakespeare running on Broadway. Her tastes were more varied than anyone Two had met. She kept the conversation casual. One might not have known these were two vampires, or one and a half at least, if not for the pale skin, the luminous eyes, the sharp, tiny teeth flashing occasionally in the light of the candles.

Eventually, Two was as clean as she was going to get. She lingered, relaxed, the withdrawal back in some dark corner, brooding, not yet ready to return. Melissa ran water, filled a clay jug, ancient glaze cracked along its contours, and wet Two’s hair. Two leaned back, eyes closed, as Melissa’s fingers worked shampoo through her blonde curls. It was like a supernatural visit to a salon, Two reflected, and laughed slightly. Melissa seemed to catch this thought, and smiled as well.

She helped Two from the bath, dried her, helped her choose perfumes Theroen might like, helped her dress in a long, flowing gown. Green, like her eyes. It was a bit too long, but otherwise fit well.

“He’ll say he prefers black, if you ask him, but he’s just buying into the whole vampire thing. You look like a goddess, and he’ll know it.”

Two looked at herself in the mirror, amazed at the change. White skin, green dress, green eyes, golden hair. The gown was of an older style, décolleté, leaving little to the imagination, pushing her breasts upward and making them seem fuller. She looked like a lady at court. Two smiled, giggled like a little girl, touched her own hair as if not believing. In her nineteen years, she had never seen herself like this. Two had always understood that she possessed some level of beauty, and knew also that the vampirism was enhancing this even more, but still would never have believed she could look like this.




Behind her stood Melissa, still in her simple jeans and blouse and yet radiating supernatural beauty as well. Smiling, she touched Two’s neck, and Two turned. A small, sweet kiss on the lips, and Melissa peered into her eyes, beaming.

“Soon we’ll be sisters! Or nearly enough. You and Theroen will be together, and we can all hunt and live and see and do! Won’t it be wonderful?”

Two thought it might, indeed.




* * *




“I don’t care for all of this antique crap.”

Melissa’s directness, something Two realized now was as innate to her being as Theroen’s composure, was regardless sometimes surprising. Two raised her eyebrows.

“No?”

They were sitting on the back terrace, looking out at the woods. The moon was huge tonight, reaching the bloated, red fullness she had seen promised not three nights ago. It hung low over the sky. The night was still young. Two’s earlier pain had made the time seem much longer than it had actually been.

“No. It’s pointless. Abraham buys the stuff without any thought, at least that I can tell. Mostly he doesn’t even do the buying. Theroen does, though Theroen detests a lot of it. That might be what Abraham has him doing tonight. Or it might be that he’s retrieving dinner for Abraham. He doesn’t hunt for himself anymore, you know, just relies on Theroen. Doesn’t even have to drink more than every once in a while. I think maybe the little blood he took from you, like you said? That might have woken up the thirst.”

“How does Theroen feel about bringing him victims?”

“Better than about buying him stupid furniture.” Melissa’s eyes gleamed. She grinned.

“It doesn’t bother him, then? Picking out a life to take like he was going to the grocery store?”

Melissa looked at Two, shook her head, smiling.

“That’s not how it is ... not for Theroen or even for me. We don’t have to kill, anymore. We don’t need that much blood. Abraham kills because he likes to, that’s all.

“But even if we still had to ... you don’t understand. You were asleep for the only real drink you’ve ever had. You don’t know how it is yet. You think a couple of drops from a finger are good? Wait until you’re a full vampire.”

Two remembered the taste of Melissa’s blood, of Theroen’s, of her own. It had been sweet on her lips, hot and powerful. It had left her breathless.

“You have to kill at the start, but you get over it,” Melissa continued. “Mortals die all the time. That’s what makes them so beautiful. They get all into their art and their music and their careers and everything, and then they get old and die. Or they die young. If we don’t bring them death, something else will, some other time. We are predators among them. And most of them? In that last instant before death? Most of them love us.”

Two shook her head, not in negation but confusion. It all seemed deceptively easy. It all seemed so right, and yet here she was sitting with a young woman talking casually about the slaughter of human beings.

“You’re only half. When he makes you full, Two, these things won’t concern you. Or at least, I doubt they will. Not past the first kill.”

“You said we’d be sisters. Did Theroen make you, then?”

Melissa laughed, not at Two’s ignorance, but at the idea itself, as if the very thought were absurd.

“No, my father is Abraham. My blood is Abraham’s blood. I only meant sisters in that our bodies are of similar ages. And both of us will have been reborn into darkness, as the poets put it.”

Darkness. Two could feel darkness at the back of her mind, beginning to gnaw at her again. The idea of a fix right now, after the nice warm bath, out on the patio with a friend, seemed dangerously appealing. Melissa cocked her head.

“You’re thinking about drugs.”

Two felt her face reddening, nodded. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I imagine it’s hard not to. I wonder if it’s like the thirst. If it’s like when we’re forced not to drink for a few days. It burns in us, Two. It’s all I can think about. Sometimes it’s like that even on normal days. Sometimes I’ll feed two... even three times a night.”

Two didn’t know. Of the thirst she knew only a vague desire, not a desperate need. Of the heroin, she knew nothing else.




Time passed. Several times Two was one the verge of asking Melissa for more blood, but stopped herself. She didn’t want to seem that weak. She could handle it until Theroen returned. Light shakes and a dry mouth. No worse than getting the flu, really, for the moment.

In the distance, in the trees, a howling. Two looked up, eyes widening. Melissa’s reaction was immediate. She stood and peered out into the forest.

“Oh, shit. I have to go, Two.”

Two felt fear flood through her, fear of being alone, of the pain returning. Two turned to Melissa with pleading eyes.

“Why? What is it?”

“I have to. And you have to go back inside.” Apology implicit in the voice, but Melissa offered no explanation. Two looked at her, mute. She wanted to ask for more blood, if Melissa was going to leave her alone, but the vampire seemed agitated and nervous.

“I’ll take you back up to your bedroom, if you want. Then I have to go.”

Two nodded, biting her lower lip, trying to suppress the fear and depression that wanted to engulf her.




Lying in the dark. Hard to breath, hard to think, conscious thought slipping in and out like the tide. Sometimes there was only pain, sometimes she could hear herself sobbing. Chills, nausea, and the maddening craving for the drug. God, all she wanted was to get high. Was it so wrong? Thoughts of Darren, Molly, the drug, the needle. Two wanted to leave this mansion, return to her pimp, beg for his apology and for her ration. But she couldn’t walk. She knew that soon she would try to crawl, crawl back to New York, back to Darren, on her hands and knees. She had no choice.

More howling from the outside, and then quiet. Just the wind, the rustling of leaves, the sound of grass shivering under its assault. Two’s eyes were wide open in the dark, not seeing the room around her. Instead she saw the forest. She heard light, quiet breathing. Gasps from further away. Was this her body? Golden hair at the sides of her vision, hanging in long, loose curls like hers. Yet her chest felt heavier, the breasts larger, the body lankier. She moved across the ground in a manner completely unfamiliar to her. This was not Two.

The pain cut through the vision. Two gasped, moaned, lay back, and again the seeing overtook her. No, not Two. Not her eyes. Not her body. Someone else. Some other.

Ahead, a silhouette, something struggling its way through the forest. Something that Two could barely see was moving in lumbering steps, gasping, weeping, praying in some nameless language to some nameless god. The prayer of the victim. The prayer of the hunted. Two’s hear raced, adrenaline flooding her body, excitement and lust and terrible, terrible hunger. The prey was at hand, the hunt over.

Speed, now, overtaking the victim, warmth flooding through her body as dull excitement awakened between her thighs. Was it always like this? Would she never grow used to this, never lose that throbbing heat? She tasted the man’s sweat, salty, as her teeth and tongue caressed the surface of his neck. He lay there, caught by her powerful arms, unable to move, unable to breathe.

The attack was not a clean bite, not the civilized piercing Theroen’s teeth had made in her own vein, barely noticeable afterward. Two felt her head move forward, felt her jaws clench like powerful machines, felt bone and muscle and cartilage crush between her teeth. A tearing sound, like wet cloth, resistance giving way as she jerked and twisted her head. Two screamed out loud at this sensation, in her bedroom in the mansion.

The blood sprayed, coating her face in warmth. Below her, the man was jerking, seizuring, pain and pleasure overtaking him even as his death throes began. Great draughts of blood, they seemed to never end, pumping and pumping from his ruined throat.

Two closed her eyes, driving this vision away, descending into the pain. The pain was better than this. The pain would help her forget, help her erase this memory of brutal, violent death. Yet these things did not happen. Two could not forget, and in the depths of pain she found she could admit to herself the truth, somehow more bearable amidst this physical assault on her body.

Hadn’t she wanted it? To rip, to tear, to feed? Had not her body peaked as those awful teeth began their assault, as it had with Theroen? As it had with Abraham? Had it not reacted to this horror with pulsing ecstasy, calling for more, calling for the blood?

Had she not loved it?




* * *




Two was sitting up in her bed, pressing against the wall, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them, shuddering. It took several seconds for the sound of the door opening to register with her. She looked up. Theroen, standing before her, concern and love and sorrow on his face, watching her with his awful composure. Two put her head down on her arms and began to sob.




He was holding her, powerful arms, gentle touch. He lay next to her on the bed, and she wept into his chest. He whispered into her ear, calming, soothing, and his fingers touched her lips, and Two tasted blood there. She licked it greedily.

“I am sorry, Two. It was foolish of me to leave without giving you this. It is my fault. I’ll not leave you again now. We will be together until this is done, and then forever.”

The pain receded. Gone, not forever, but for the moment, and for the moment that was enough. Two twisted in Theroen’s arms, sobbing, crushed her body against his, kissed his neck, kissed his lips. Theroen kissed her tears from her face.

“I am so sorry, Two. I would never have left you if I’d know it would get that bad, that fast.”

She shook her head. She didn’t care. She didn’t blame him. He was here, now, and the rest was unimportant.”

“Has it been this way since I left?”

“No.” A whisper. It was all she could manage.

Theroen sat up, seemed to notice her clothes for the first time. Two smiled sadly as he looked her over, shrugged her shoulders, looked at him in apology.

“It looked a lot better... before.”

“You look radiant. How strong you must be, to look so, and in such pain.”

Two lowered her eyes. Was this strength? Theroen ran his hand through her hair, seemed awed by its softness.

“Melissa helped me.”

Theroen nodded, as if expecting this.

“I thought she might show herself. She’s incorrigibly curious. Good that it was Melissa, and not Missy.”

“There are two of them?”

Theroen sighed, shook his head.

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someday soon, I’ll tell you much more of Abraham, and myself, and Melissa... and why we are who we are. You are lucky, Two.”

His smile, though, was bitter.

“Why?”

“We are unlike any other clan of vampires I have ever come across. We are as unique in our makeup as any mortal. Abraham, myself, Melissa... sweet Melissa, cruel Missy; sometimes she is both in a single night. Abraham was old when he made me. It gave me power beyond any of a normal fledgling. He was ancient when he chose to make Melissa, yet rather than bestow power upon her as it had me, the infusion of his blood broke her mind.”

Two thought again of the howling in the woods, and Melissa’s immediate departure. She began to ask Theroen of this, but he was looking away, lost in thought.

“Melissa is my sister, and I have loved her as much as many mortal brother might. I fear for her. I fear for what may happen when I leave.”

“Leave?”

“I cannot stay here much longer. Twenty years, maybe less. Abraham and I...”

He trailed off, eyes clouding again. She saw sorrow there, and anger. Finally he sighed, shrugged, looked away.

“You don’t like each other, do you?” Two’s voice was soft.

“We despise each other.” Theroen turned to face her again.

“Why?”

“You felt his evil. You know it does not reside in me. He assumed the blood would convert me, change me as it had him. It did not. For four hundred years I have been his errand boy, slave to the whims of a depraved fiend whose lust for power and dark knowledge know no bounds. I have seen him murder dozens in a single night, solely to try, and fail, to read the future in their steaming entrails.”

Two shuddered. Theroen looked at her, nodded grimly.

“I am no knight in shining armor, Two. I have killed, many times, without repentance, and I would have you do the same. You must understand this. But I am not evil in the manner that Abraham is evil; active, conscious, focused. I am evil like a hurricane. A force of nature, nothing more.

“There’s no evil in that.”

“Isn’t there? But it doesn’t matter. I am the creature I have been for near half a millennium. Any moral dilemma which might once have existed has long since been washed from me. But I still hold the rest. I still hold love for human life, and I take it only when necessary. I loathe Abraham for his inability to feel these things.”

“Why haven’t you left already?”

“It’s the blood that bonds. It keeps me here. But the link grows weak as my powers increase. They are already well beyond what they should be for my age. This, too, is a source of frustration for Abraham. Most Eresh fledglings are not ready to leave their masters until well past their fifth century.”

His eyes flashed suddenly, a look of disgust crossing his features.

“Yet it is his own fault!” Theroen snarled. “He waited too long to make his children. He knew that age makes the blood unpredictable. He knew that if I was not driven mad by it, I would wield power unlike any ordinary fledgling.”

“But he keeps you here anyway...”

“Out of spite, yes, and malice. Abraham hates me, perhaps more than I hate him, but he would not be rid of me. I am his, do you understand? Or so he feels.”

Two took his hand, kissed the fingertips.

“This is the world within the world, Two.” Theroen’s voice was gentle now. He looked again into her eyes. “This is a secret life unknown to those who walk during the daylight. Oh, there are legends, rumors, movies and television and comic books. But they do not believe.”

Two was kissing his face now. Chin, cheek, lips. Theroen kissed back absently, his mind still on their discussion. Two moved her lips to his neck, felt the pulse of his blood buried beneath the flesh, and was overwhelmed with sudden desire. She pressed her new, sharp teeth against the flesh, waited for his acknowledgement. Apprehension. Would he deny her this gift? Would her yearning go unfulfilled?

She heard the smile in his voice. Satisfaction. He understood now; she wanted what he offered.

“It is yours for the taking, Two. It always has been.”

Two, unfamiliar with the mechanics of her own body now, pressed too hard, tore instead of pierced. The blood flowed out around her lips, dripped down her chin. Theroen, his unearthly calm never leaving him, lifted his hand to her head, pressed her against him. Two wrapped her arms about him, fastened herself securely to his neck. Drank. Swallowed.

Warmth unlike anything she had ever known. Dizziness, desire. The blood coursed over her tongue, down her throat, hot and wet and alive. Two moaned, her arms tightening, and here it seemed was everything she had ever wanted. Thoughts of heroin were cleared from her mind. This was freedom. This was love. The full, rich liquid of life which Theroen now gave her freely was beyond anything within the scope of her experience.

She dropped backwards, satiated, her thirst still small, her change still incomplete. Lying on the bed, gasping, reeling. Weeping again? It seemed she had wept more in the past two days than ever before in her life. Joy, pain, fear, desire. Theroen lying against her now, the wound at his neck already healing.

“It’s okay to weep. I understand,” he whispered into her ear. “Ah, Two. There will be so much for us after. Soon, my love. Soon.”

Soon, Two thought. Soon and then forever. She held on to Theroen, lost in the blood, lost in the ecstasy of it all. Small kisses now, lover’s kisses, and the joy she felt was too real to be wrong, too powerful to be denied. The moment it was safe for him to do so, Two was prepared to beg for Theroen to drain her, to fill her again with his blood, to finish her transformation.

Immortality beckoned.




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