“Because she has not killed you yet?”
Domingo knit his hands together and stared at them. He remembered what Bernardino had said just a little while before, about ties that bind. “Your kind loves. You, for example,” Domingo said. “You must have cared about Atl’s mother. She must have been your friend. Why would you help Atl if not for love? Love for her mom, maybe, but love. You felt something for her.”
“You are confusing friendship with duty. Vampires have been governed by codes for ages and ages. The young ones, they’ve forgotten this. They forget the old rules, dismiss our ways. But I still live by my code. It is what elevates us from the animals.”
“Why do you care how I feel about Atl?”
“I don’t. Moths. Flames. It’s an old story. I’m merely making an observation. Something to pass the time, you might say,” Bernardino said.
Domingo slumped forward. Bernardino lifted his hand from the lantern and the odd shadows vanished. The vampire tilted his head slowly, as though he were trying to get a better look at him. Domingo could see the veins running across Bernardino’s face. His skin seemed as thin as the wing of a dragonfly. Bernardino was alien, completely different from Atl. When Domingo looked at Bernardino he saw the vampires of movies and legends. When he saw Atl all he could see was a young woman.
“Of course, you see wrong,” Bernardino said. “We are both exactly the same.”
It didn’t surprise Domingo that the vampire had read his thoughts again. He wondered what the whole point of talking was if the vampire could simply know what he was thinking, but maybe it wasn’t as precise as words. Maybe it was just fun. Something to pass the time, as Bernardino said.
“Ask me the question you want to ask me,” Bernardino said.
Domingo frowned. He was wondering if there were ever any exceptions. If maybe once in a while vampires could love. If that love might extend to a human or if it was restricted to members of their own kind.
The question sat on the tip of his tongue and then, all of a sudden, Domingo decided he wasn’t going to ask it. He needed to talk to her, not this man. He stood up, walking past Bernardino.
“She is my responsibility now, at least for a little while,” Bernardino said. “That pesky code I told you is at work.”
Domingo paused at the entrance. “Meaning?”
“It’s stakes and sunlight in the stories, isn’t it? The vulnerabilities, the things that can get one of us killed. Stakes, sunlight, garlic, those old, trusted weapons. But those are just things. The trouble comes if you make the mistake of forgetting the hunger. Forgetting what you are.”
Bernardino moved to occupy the couch where Domingo had been sitting, tangling his long fingers together.
“She’s young. It’s easy to forget if you are young. Easy to become confused. Be careful, Domingo. She’ll consume you, if you let her, but you could also end up costing Atl her life. We wouldn’t want that, would we? Stay down here. Keep your distance. Let her be.”
The clock began to chime, marking the hour. Domingo grabbed the lantern. “I can’t.”
*
Her door was open, but now that Domingo had climbed the stairs, he couldn’t make up his mind about whether he should walk in or step away. He elected to lean against the doorframe, looking at the bed where she slept. He understood what Bernardino had said, and yet he also had understood nothing. All he knew was that he liked this girl and maybe she liked him … and yet, Bernardino said … and she …
“It’s really weird when you stare at me like that,” she said, eyes closed.
“Oh?” Domingo said. “I’m … I’m a—”
“Come in.”
“That’s a bit of a reverse, you know.”
Atl shifted in bed, turning to look at him. “Reverse what?”
“Of vampire stories. Humans are supposed to invite vampires into their home, otherwise they can’t walk in. It’s like that, but the other way around.”
“I wonder exactly how much nonsense you read about vampires before you met me,” she said.
He loved the sound of her voice, like incense. It belonged in vast, elegant rooms lit with candles and strewn with fragrant, pale flowers.
“Quite a bit,” Domingo said. He placed the lantern on a side table and approached the bed, although he stopped short of sitting on it. He simply hovered next to her, biting his lip. “Most of it was probably wrong, but you never know.”
“Sit down. You’re making me nervous,” Atl muttered, sounding irritated.
He sat down and tried to recall exactly what he was going to tell her before he walked into the room, only to find he’d forgotten. If he’d known poetry he might have attempted to recite Neruda or at least express, in some small fraction of a way, how she moved him, how he wished he could rescue her, kiss the ground beneath her feet, anything, anything, he’d do anything for this woman. But he was a kid from the slums who didn’t understand much of poetry.
“I took a bath,” he said instead, lamely. God, he was so lame.