Blood Life (9 page)

Eleven

Distorted reflections, twisting his face and tying his body in curious positions, captured Roman as he leaned against the black oak bar, unable to take his eyes up from the polished marble floor. Each slab was placed with precision, every position seeming necessary and planned, as was Roman’s. He lifted his head up into the haze that brought the ceiling down to eye level.

His limbs were too heavy. His friends had disappeared and the bartender eyed him too keenly. “What was in that drink?” he accused the man, words coming in slurs.

The bartender smirked and removed his tainted glass, tossing it in the trash instead of the sink to be washed. In his head, Roman heard laughter, whispers of malevolence and promises of revenge.

Roman, using the bar for support, turned away from the man, too weak to inquire. Any moment, he felt he’d fall to the ground dead. He could feel the poison swimming in his stomach, making its way into his bloodstream. He forced himself to focus on the room.

Through the thick tobacco smoke, lights seemed to split and divide into monstrous forms. All of the strength escaped from his knees as if his body had been drained of life. Falling back against the cold, leather barstool, Roman saw a form silhouette in front of him. The bartender cursed behind him.

Her garments appeared fluid as if they were falling from her body, and as she moved towards Roman, he could not see her limbs in motion, simply curls and drafts sparkling through her gown.

Black velvet and silk folded on top of each other as she moved closer to him. Her hypnotic glare, staring through his eyes into his soul, controlled his instincts to run. The voice arrived before he saw her clearly.

“Roman, you must leave now!” The sounds were low, as if rising up from an unseen depth to reach him. “Leave now, you must return home!”

“Y-you poisoned me!” His voice broke the constraints, “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“That is not of importance now. I have not poisoned you; it was him,” she pointed to the bartender’s back as he fled through the back door. “Not only that, you are feeling her disorientation. You are one with her. You are seeing with her eyes.”

Roman staggered toward her, trying hard to focus on clearing his head.

She continued: “The bartender did not give you enough to kill you; he only wished to stall you for his master to have enough time to commit his deed. You must fight it! You must go to Alexandria now; she needs you!”

 The mysterious woman watched him, studying the lines on his forehead crease. Veins bulged against the flesh of his throat.

“Alexandria!” He stumbled toward her, matching her approach. “How do you know her?” He pointed at her, raising his voice to attract attention. “Witch! I want nothing of your magic.”

Her words were flat and drawn out, “I do not offer you magic, Roman; I bring you sorrow and my failure. There is so little time! You must go save her while she still breathes. Life drains from her as we speak.”

Their stares turned everything to silence. Roman saw how the pale shades of white hung across her cheeks, then rose, flawlessly coating her forehead and jaw. The bone color pooled around her eyes, breaking through her dismay. From her expression, Roman could do nothing but surrender. He had to believe that Alexandria was in danger.

“Sleeping Lyca lay

While the beasts of prey

Come from caverns deep

View’d the maid asleep.”

 –William Blake

Twelve

The channel seemed deeper, the troughs and rivets in the road more treacherous. Every rushed step seemed more dangerous and awkward. The city, with its dark gray ceiling, closed in around him and shoved him through the atmosphere. Mud clumped against his boots and his shirt had reached the frail point of hanging off his shoulders as he fell through his doorway.

The odor of the room reached him as he was rising from his knees. A solid, coarse smell that relentlessly tortures the senses; the rancor of fresh blood overwhelmed him.

“Alexandria,” her name rang out, yet he did not realize he shouted it.

The exhaustion of the clamor brought him to rest against the wall in the hallway. Her name rang out from his throat again, still uncontrollable. His vision was stolen to a mass on the floor in the sitting room. What used to be a wonderful, skilled woman, of witch’s blood, lay unmercifully dead.

Roman covered his mouth, sweat beading along his forehead, and walked in to get a closer look. Elizabeth was stripped; scratches and bruises covered her body. It was the position of her body that told him a rape had taken place before her death, or maybe after.

He lifted her blood-drenched hand to find her forefinger absent. A broach of Amethyst that her mother had given to her before she died, sat quietly in a puddle of bile and saliva in front of Elizabeth’s open mouth. Roman backed up the way he came, sick with fear and denial. He could not bring himself to look away from her petrified eyes, open and locked on his.

Sliding down against the wall, Roman fell into view of the bathroom. Laughing, taunting voices filled his head. He frantically looked around to find nobody there. The pure ivory basin and polished marble floor were now a reservoir. The wooden shutters with broken glass allowed lines of light to seep through, revealing small portions of the red coating on the floor and walls. Overflowing, trickling droplets down the side of the basin were streams of liquid life; but through Roman’s eyes, they were signs of Alexandria’s death.

His first step came out from under him, as his body was crushed across the room and against the basin. Already weeping and shaking his head to try to shut out the voices, he lifted his eyes over the rim to find Alexandria’s lifeless body.

Complete, haunting, silence.

Streaks of her blood marked the wallpaper: four lines, two intertwined and braided down the middle with one straight on either side of the formation.

Marked, he thought as he ran his fingers along the gashes, smearing the blood. He dropped to his knees beside the tub, reaching into the water to collect Alexandria into his arms. He pulled her to him, sobbing, suffocating himself in the tender flesh of her neck.

“NOOOOOO!” he screamed to the ceiling. “WAKE UP!!” He pinched himself, finding no satisfaction; he beat his own head against the tub, trying to beat himself out of the nightmare, the trick.

He found himself outside the house aimlessly searching the surroundings with blind eyes. He held fast to Alexandria, carrying her with him. The weight pushed him back down to his knees. He looked up and saw the sky revolve and twist. He witnessed no Gods above him.

“Have the ethereal angels been lost,” he cried at the top of his lungs. “Can you strike me down, or have you lost your lightning arms? Now I am truly here to stand against this term of mortal torment alone. I have lost my will to live!” Gravity brought him face down. He protected Alexandria’s limp head from the dirt.

“There is no one left to heal this hideous wretch, nobody to choose my mortality. Oh, if I could free my soul from this pressing time of mourning, if I could drop my aegis and expose my heart, there would still be no God to take its rhythm. Who would allow this withered corpse to fall into the covenant of the earth and join my Alexandria?”

He laid her body down softly in front of him. Smoothing her hair back, he kissed her eyelids, closing them to give her peace.

A strong, masculine hold pulled his head from her chest.

“Stand, Roman!”

Reluctantly pulling his grasp from his love, Roman stood up. Swaying on his feet, he tilted his head down, unable to look away from Alexandria’s unmoving form.

Slowly, he convinced himself to lift his eyes and study the force that had demanded his attention. He found himself staring into the face of the woman from the pub. Her velvet garments were whirling and enraged.

“She is just resting . . . isn’t she?” His words tore at the woman, her face grew darker and she reached out to take his hand.

He snapped his arms away as she did. “You filthy witch—” his voice couldn’t unleash the rage in his heart, “—I’ll burn you!”

He lunged with all his might, only to land at her feet. He turned and scrambled back over to Alexandria, protecting her from the woman.

She stood, frowning down at him. “You would be mad to try.”

“Her blood—” he gathered her body into his arms again, holding her out for the woman to view, “—you drained her blood . . . you took her from me.”

He found himself choking on tears again as he lay on the ground and pulled Alexandria on top of him, cradling her to his chest.

“No, not me,” the woman answered solemnly. “Lokee took her life; I am your protector, but I could not save her. If I left you, you would have ended up as Alexandria is now. Don’t you dare blame me! I, Devendra, have been with you.”

Roman looked up at her, surprised by her name and familiarity. Devendra leaned down and took Alexandria into her own arms, carrying her away.

Roman jumped up, following her to a grove of redwood trees not far from town. The walk seemed to take hours, as he fell countless times, weeping and unable go any further. Devendra urged him on, promising a light at the end of his tunnel.

Moments later, they reached a bed of roses, fresh and at full bloom. Devendra laid Alexandria down on them, murmuring a soft, sweet prayer, then with a thrust of her hand, ripped open the Earth and lowered Alexandria’s body down into it—safe to rest in peace.

Thirteen

It seems almost common knowledge that cannibalism has extended throughout human history and religion; but few realize that this vein of instinct still underlies our Nature. The act of consuming another human being was at first for food, sustainment, the propagation of life, and these reasons have not dwindled. Every layman knows that blood is the liquid of life; the distinction of those in light and those in darkness lies in this very fact: Blood is life.

To grasp this concept, to make this final extension of possibilities is a mortal barrier; for to conceive this idea, one does not have to understand—one has to taste.

The taste is always on the tongue, coursing just below the senses. The unenlightened are so oblivious, so trapped in their small ideas that they never realize that the Blood Life is within them, sustaining them, and can be exhumed from them. To cross this barrier is the only gift given by a vampire: their only gift is life. And they have been passing this gift down to the chosen mortals since the first vein was pierced.

In the time of ritual, the times of Dionysian ecstasies and Olympian lore, mankind discovered the fountain of youth. Through dismemberment, cruelty and sacrifice, the taste burned its way into the tongue. It was when Gods were celebrated; their gifts were celebrated—when life was celebrated.