The Bonded (10 page)

Zaragoza, Spain, was a beautiful city, hidden from the cameras and questions of ignorant tourists. It was a city with a tapestry of rich history and modernized technology, assimilated to enhance the function without destroying the aesthetics. In a tear-down, build-new world, Zaragoza was a welcomed reprieve. They were a proud people who embraced their culture, yet subtly enjoyed the influence of our westernized entertainment in bars dedicated to ‘50s American music or techno mixes in laser-lighted dance clubs. The streets were older and buildings were colored desert browns with oil lamps delicately balanced on windowsills. Wake up late, enjoy a siesta, and party into the morning… my kind of town. Yet there was a price to be paid, as the back alleys were littered with alcoholics and the much worse, heroin addicts.

These addicts would prostitute themselves, rob their families, or murder, if necessary, for a single fix. It was both pathetic and heart wrenching. There was no predictor as to who would be an addict—it didn’t matter the class or gender; all that was needed was a predator dealer and someone who was willing to experiment. I recall passing by dark corners in the night, stifled from the smell of fresh vomit as addicted vultures would converge on those who died from overdose or malnutrition to claim what little amounts of heroin or belongings that were left.

I wonder if she’s ever been to Spain. She stares with anesthetized interest and forces out, “I don’t want to go on. Take me from this place, from this pain.” I wince with empathy and know the ‘pain’ isn’t just physical. She’s damaged in many ways. I look for Percy and see her avert her eyes as if she is a voyeur to my private world.

I say, “Is this what we are here to do? To release these people from their torments?”

“Can you think of a better way to feed? It has been ten years that they have willingly come to this place and I have mercifully granted them peace. For whatever reason, they find no solace in suicide, yet they desperately long for death. If you cannot stomach this, then please leave and I will meet up with you later.” She spoke the secrets of our kind with no fear of those who heard. There is a trust here, a long developed agreement between two parties for mutual benefit.

A soft touch presses on my hand as the woman pleads, “I-I-I don’t want this any longer. You don’t know how it feels to be controlled, to give up your body, to sever ties with friends and family, to lose what it means to be a person, to wish for death! Kill me! Please.” She closes the distance and rises to my chin’s height on her toes. I feel the warm moisture sourly exhaled from her dry, cracked lips and hear her heart faintly throb with yearning. She is so close that I can taste the inside of her scathed heart. Her blood is swishing in methodical rhythm and pressing against her neck. She tilts her head in anticipation and grabs my waist with unhinged conviction. “Feed!” she cries.

I am caught in a hurricane of primal desires. Hunger and violence are building in tempestuous pressure, swirling around me with irresistible force… and I yield. Her neck is tender as my two fangs penetrated deep into her flesh. The blood fills my mouth and I allow it to reach every part of my tongue to savor the delicious taste. I let my mind go and slip into her as I digest who she was with what she was in some sort of blood-essence sacrifice. I feel her impending death. I feel her dammed tears that want to break through, and I feel her mind cringe in memories of bartered sex and beatings, of broken ties, of selling her children, of so many horrors that as the blood enters my body, the tears leave in equal pace. I know her dreams of championing the addiction, of program after program, and dreams of having a family with a steady job, of growing old and grandchildren, of reconciling with long-lost parents. The dreams are a sick punishment that we both need to end, so I gulp ravenously. And as her memories and dreams fade, I let her lifeless body down gently next to the warm fire, watching my tears fall slowly onto her peaceful smile.

I run, not physically, but deeper into myself and let the demon have at it for a while. I hear the smacking of my tongue meeting blood as I drink from another, and I smell the disappointment of the two who were not chosen casually fade into the woods. I am in a place of isolation, lost, but present. It’s safe here and I’m numb… I’m so thankful for it. So, I fade into the darkness.

* * *

The fringe of awareness seeps into my mind and I am groggy, but alert. These hybrid cars are strangely quiet, creating a sense that we are parked, but the windows tell another story. Shadows pass as we move into the cement cave’s entrance. The gated arm lifts with obedience and we enter a parking garage as Percy snatches the ticket that sticks out like a tongue from the mouth of the machine. She says, “It’s about time. Are you all right?”

I shake my head to relieve the hazy fog of sleep and retort, “I think so. Where are we?”

“We are where it began.”

I peer out the side window and see that we’ve reached the 5
^th
floor and pass by rows of empty slots on the way to the top. I recognize the garage, one of many, but it’s mine. This is where Hanz and Franz had their little fun with me. The sting of defeat gives me thoughts of a rematch, maybe one day. “Why are we here?”

“It’s a connection to who you were and are. You need to reconcile the two before you lose control.” She knows. She must know about my demon.

“I want you to explain what you think you know of me?”

She unlocks the doors, unfastens her seatbelt (why would she wear a seatbelt?), and steps into the shaken snow globe. Once again, I follow her lead. “You allowed another part of yourself to surface without the burden of conscience. That can be very dangerous to one who holds so much power.”

I relent to honesty. “I’ve had this… pressure, this demon, since the dawn of my memory. It has always wanted out. I knew innately that if he were to gain control, then I would lose who I am in the scuffle. So, I imprison him deep in the back of my mind, at great expense, I might add,” I say, expecting congratulations.

“Adriel, there is no demon, certainly a pressure, but no ‘other’ you. You are not schizophrenic and your being is not dichotomic. You are like one of us, a predator that has had to live with prey for so long that you have judged your needs with human moral standards.”

“I
am
human, Percy. Perhaps not genetically, but I am human nonetheless. I can’t just turn it on or turn it off on a whim!” I sense her probing. “Why did you make me experience that tonight? What value was that?”

“Tell me about your feelings when the moment came?”

I didn’t want to remember, but steeled myself. “I felt what she felt, and perhaps it was even magnified to some extent. If I’m being honest, I wanted to release her from her guilt. She
wanted
to die. She wanted it so bad that I wanted it for her, and I knew it was useless to attempt to talk her out of it. Her decision was contemplated and examined. I felt her resolve. It was final, and it was my resolve as well.”

“In some ways we are more human than humans. Our emotions are hypersensitive and cross over their boundaries. We feel desire with a heat they will never understand, we experience empathy so powerfully that we can nearly read minds, and we can feel anger enough to slaughter hundreds in blind rage. You fear losing control AND you deny what you are. If you continue to entertain this denial and push it away, it will push back harder. You cannot win this battle; you cannot fight what you were born to be.”

“I need a scotch.”

“You’ve spent a lifetime numbing the sharp edges of your emotions!” Her bite retracts and her voice softens. “What you did tonight was a service. Our lives are in a symbiotic relationship with our human cousins. We are not ruthless serial killers, but a natural part of their world. We may take random people to feed on, we may choose to rid society of criminals, and then like this evening, we may decide to ‘alleviate’ suffering. This is no different from when you were a child with your dog, or as an adult with the elderly. It is no different when you protect the vulnerable from those who want to cause them serious harm, and it is no different from hunting animals that feel pain as we do. We are ‘human’ in nearly every way. You can choose to live within that framework
and
be who you are. It is time to embrace your so-called demon, to fully understand what you are and to discover what you are capable of doing.”

“I’ve seen what we can do.” I sigh.

“You are not like the rest of us, Adriel. You resemble us as we resemble humans. We share similar needs and strengths, but you are not a vampire, at least not wholly so. Just look in the mirror and admit the obvious.” The memory of Hanz and Franz debating over what I was surfaces and I know this to be true, but to have someone else utter the words is frightening. My entire life has been spent on the outside looking in, avoiding unnecessary attention and hiding who or what I really am. Perhaps it’s time for a change.

I straighten out my shoulders and sit up in anticipation. “Tell me what I am then, Percy.”

“I do not know yet, but rest assured, I am trying my best to find out. We will discover this together, if you’ll trust me.” There is something more than words in that statement. It is an oath, something ancient. Words and handshakes mean nothing today, but centuries ago, a name and reputation was all that one had, and to betray another was unforgivable. I remember a lecture in a religion course stating that in ancient Sumer, clan leaders would cut their wrists and mingle blood for what they called the Blood Covenant. Then they would cut several cows in half and walk through the blood and gore in a figure eight, symbolizing eternity, saying, ‘If I break this oath, then let this happen to me.’ That tradition passed on for thousands of years to when I was a boy, as my friends and I became blood brothers. Well, except for the sacrifice part. To break the Sumerian covenant was death then. I sense that she offers it with identical intent and if I accept, she will hold me to mine. So, we join in the eternal death walk.

I finally say, “What do we do now?”

“
We
do nothing. When we are not together, I am tracking down potential leads. It will not be much longer, but you must be patient,” she says with a defeated grin. She knows me well.

“What about Cassius? Wouldn’t he be a resource? He claims to be the oldest of all vampires and that he has potential connections to my past.” She leans over the edge with both elbows on the cement wall, disregarding their filth. I feel her tension as she contemplates a careful response and I quickly whisper near her ear, “Be honest with me, Percy.” I feel the heat of my own breath.

She says, “He is certainly the oldest that I have met… He was always fierce, even callous, but in the past century, he has become obsessed over something. He leaves for weeks at a time and has become even crueler as he ages. He is a dangerous vampire. It would be wise to remember that as you develop a relationship.”

“I think he’s a prick, but that’s just me.” She giggles in response. “Why don’t we just leave?”

“He has a part in your life, of that I am sure. Remember, he can detect when you lie, or even slightly exaggerate, and unlike you, has no moral issue with extracting that information from you in very uncomfortable ways. Stay the course, play your part, and be cautious. He is a master strategist—no one attains power without savvy and ruthlessness.” I nod in agreement. The city is sleeping, but on the verge of a new horizon.

Chapter 8

Mmmmm coffee, the bitter taste of freshly ground beans. Add the fact that I haven’t had a cup since the Resurrectio, nearly a month now, and it may as well be the nectar of the gods. I know the effects will burn off within seconds, but enjoying something that has no benefit brings a smile to my face. I balance the cup and casually stroll to the window over the kitchen sink, soaking in the haunting backdrop of snarled trees wrestling with a mild wind.

I miss the sunlit mornings with their vivid colors and dawdling warmth that pierced windows. Yet, the night has always been my favorite child. The days brought innocence and fresh beauty, but the nights were lascivious, unknown, and wild. Nearly a month of training, of feeding, of acclimating to this new life—and in spite of all its demands, I still feel sedated by the greeting nightfall. I take a mental journey through the last several weeks, as they have been blurred with a hectic pace. Although I have accepted my role as newly knighted predator, the feedings continue to bring emotional discomfort. I could deal with a small gulp or two, perhaps even draining one a night, but sacrificing two humans a night for my hunger seems inordinate. It’s a twisted metaphor; as I drain the life out of others, they drain the life out of me. The mixed feelings versus primal urges duke it out in a battle royal. I wonder if they have a vampire counselor hotline.

Locked in a dream-like stare, I command my eyes to refocus on the steamed window. My mind settles on reality; it’s time for practice. I look into the mug at the one last sip, knowing it’ll be the cold shadow of the satisfaction it once was, so I fling the remnants into the sink, place the cup in the dishwasher, and once again leave Mrs. Comfort for Mr. Out of Control.

The front door has developed an annoying little creak that announces my entrance to the outdoors. This evening, instead of the usual grumpy Weapons Master, I’m greeted by about thirty vampires. The numbers have gradually increased since the initial battle a month or so ago, and with everyone cramming in bedrooms with inadequate sleeping conditions, tensions are elevated, to say the least. Most of the anger is directed my way due to Cassius’s insistence that I remain alone in my quarters because “He is processing the Resurrectio and must be allowed privacy to be effective in the coming war!” No one buys it, of course, but he doesn’t seem to care as long as they obey. Most were suspicious to begin with, but now that he has planted seeds of doubt, they believe me to be a spy, a genetic mutation, or an inferior, undeveloped vamp. I think he has an impressive strategy: Isolate and ostracize to ensure no one speaks to me, which in turn places him in the unique position of having my fullest attention. Perhaps he thinks that there will be some variation of kidnapper-victim psychology where I develop deep feelings and loyalty to him. All of this is making me very suspicious.