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Scene #37
"Hello, Mark," I croaked, shocked at the sound of my own voice,
at the age in it, and the weakness. What had he done to me?
Mark sighed with relief. "I thought you were... well, dead."
"I am." I shuddered at the pain of drawing air into my lungs for
speech. "What did you do to me, while I was... regenerating?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Obviously, we're not in the city
anymore. I couldn't take you back to my apartment—I'm
time-sharing it after all. Then I remembered this place... Used to
belong to my uncle. I... wanted you to be safe." Ah yes, I
remembered, the uncle who "hunted" big game, the one who thought
humanity the pinnacle of the food chain. That explained the furs,
at least. "Safe? After you shot me? Tell me, Mark—what was on
that bullet?" "I... used an anticoagulant. Saw it on National
Geographic, or something, once... where the biologists were trying
to control the population of... er, vampire bats." "Oh, you
bastard." I began coughing then, and couldn't stop, until Mark
hauled me up off the low cot on which I lay, and pounded my back,
until blood flecked my lips and I could finally breathe again.
In that moment, which seemed to stretch far longer, I caught a
glimpse of myself in an old, cracked and greying mirror. The reason
my kind dislike mirrors is simple: we cannot cast our glamour on an
inanimate object. There is no consciousness to affect, no refined
sensibilities to persuade, no mortal senses to deceive. I could not
compel a shiny surface to show anything but what was. And when I
saw how I appeared, I understood my weakness: My hair was
silver-shot, my skin withered, the flesh shrunken away. I felt
revulsion for what I saw. There was no blood to sustain my human
appearance. "You bastard." Mark lowered me gently back onto the
cot. I saw now that the great weight that held me down was nothing
more than a few ragged old furs and blankets. I was closer to death
than I had been in 700-odd years. And in those years I had brought
death to so many, to sustain... what? That thing in the mirror?
How could Mark stand to see me thus? Yet, I knew this was not
what he saw. He remembered me as I was when we were not
adversaries, but friends. Else he surely would have killed me
before now. "I have blood here, cow's blood, if you can take
it." Mark couldn't look at me. I knew very well why. I could have
used my glamour on him then, could have persuaded him that I had
not changed, but I hadn't the power. Before, I could have saved
him, but now I was too weak. Sooner or later, the others would find
him, and as I was now, there would be nothing I could do to stop
them. "Cow's blood?" I tried to laugh, an unpleasant sound,
more like choking. "Really Mark, you do watch too many movies."
"It's not... you can't... I mean...?" "Oh, it will suffice
for now, but for true healing..." I shrugged, just a tiny movement
beneath the furs. But he saw it, and nodded, staring at his shoes.
"It's my fault. I should have known better. This isn't what I
wanted, please believe me." His voice, his eyes, so earnest,
pleading for forgiveness. The foolish mortal guilt, and compassion
for another. How could he feel that for the predator I was? How
could he see anything in this of which to be ashamed? He had nearly
rid this world of its greatest predator; one of them, anyway.
Surely, for the sheep, it is no sin to slay the wolf. Those at
the top of the food chain necessarily had fewer scruples.
Suddenly, he pulled up his sleeve, sticking his arm out, within
reach of my mouth, should I choose to fasten upon it like a tiger
on a steak. He winced, closing his eyes against the expected bite.
Poor, gallant Mark! And then I did laugh. Like I hadn't laughed
in decades, until once again it ended in coughing, and
back-thumping. "What, are you suicidal? After you do this to me,
you offer me your blood? And why should I not take your offering—all of it—and kill you for what you have done?" He looked
wounded. "Because," he said simply, "you won't." I shook my
head. "You see goodness where it doesn't exist. Because I have
human form, you expect human mercy. But I am not human. Why should
I spare you?" "You do have goodness in you." I snorted in
derision, expecting a Luke Skywalker speech, but he pressed on.
"Why did you kill the pimp, and not the prostitutes, as the others
did?" I looked at him in astonishment, and new respect. "How
did you learn so much?" "I had a pathologist look at the
wounds. The bites appeared human, but were not all the same. He
identified three individuals. I... just thought I knew you well
enough to know which one was you." "You took a big gamble."
"I was right, wasn't I?" "Yes. You were," I conceded. "But
you must know that there are two more full vampires, in their
prime, well fed, and mad as hell for what you've done. Now what,
hotshot?" "Just two more?" "Yes. More than sufficient to
kill you, mortal. And thanks to you and 'National Geographic,' I
won't be strong enough to stop them." "We'll see. In the
meantime, let me pour you a drink." He was grinning now,
irrepressible, irresponsible, all-too-mortal Mark.
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