Thirst No. 1 Page 26

  “I do not know what the story means,” I whisper. “Can’t you tell me?”

  “No. I don’t know what it means, either.”

  I raise my head. “Then we’re damned!”

  Gently he takes a handful of my long hair. “Many in the past have called us that. But tonight you will make them repent those words because you will be their savior. Find him, Sita, bewitch him. I was every bit as powerful as he when I came for you that night I made you what you are. I did not come back willingly. You had bewitched me—yes, even then—and I was a monster every bit as corrupt as this Eddie.”

  I take his hand. “But I never really wanted to destroy you.” He goes to speak and I quickly shake my head. “Don’t say it, please.”

  “It must be done. You will need the strength of my blood. It is the least I can give you.”

  I hold his hand to my trembling mouth, but I am careful with his fingers, keeping them from my teeth. I do not want to bite them, even scratch them. How, then, can I drain him dry?

  “No,” I say.

  His eyes wander back to the sea. “Yes, Sita. This way is the only way. And I am closer to it this time. I can see it.” He closes his eyes. “I can remember him as if I saw him only yesterday. As if I see him now.” He nods to himself. “It is not such a bad way to die.”

  I have had the same thought, and yet lived on. I do not deny him his last request, however. He has suffered greatly, and to make him go on as he is would be too cruel. Lowering my head and opening his veins, I press my lips to the flesh that brought my own flesh to this mysterious moment, which has sadly become a paradox of powers and weaknesses, of hopeless characters lost in time and space, where the stars turn overhead and shine down upon us like boons from the almighty Lord, or else curses from an indifferent universe. Yet the flavor of his blood adds color to my soul, and drinking it I feel an unlooked-for spark of hope, of faith. As he takes his last breath, I whisper in his ear that I will not do likewise until the enemy is dead. It is a vow I make to Yaksha as well as to Krishna.

  THIRTEEN

  Once again I sit outside the house of the mother of Edward Fender. The time is eleven-thirty at night. Christmas is ten days away. Up and down the block cheap-colored lights, like so many out-of-season Easter eggs that have been soaked in Day-Glo paint, add false gaiety to a neighborhood that should have been on the late Soviet Union’s first-strike priority list. Sitting in Gary and Bill’s patrol car, I allow my senses to spread out, in and outside of the Fender home, around the block. My hearing is my greatest ally. Even the movements of worms through the soil a quarter of a mile away come to my sensitive ears. Mrs. Fender is still awake, sitting in her rocking chair and reading her magazines, watching a save-your-soul-before-Armageddon Jesus program. She is definitely alone in the house, and I am pretty sure Eddie is not in the immediate neighborhood.

  This puzzles me. With the police security near the warehouse and his confidence in the cleverness of his Yaksha hiding place, I can understand why Eddie left the ice-cream truck unguarded. But I cannot understand why he has left his mother wide open for me to take hostage. By now he must have figured out that I found the warehouse through her. Again, I am wary of a trap.

  With Yaksha’s blood in my system, my strength is back to a hundred percent, maybe even at a hundred and twenty percent, although I know I am still no match for Eddie, who drew upon Yaksha’s blood many times over several weeks. Unfortunately, my state of mind is shaky. After Yaksha drew his last breath, I weighted the canvas bag that covered his lower portion with stones and waded out into the water and sank him. I made certain his remains are now safe from harm. He will never be found. Yet he has left me with a riddle I can’t solve. Krishna told him his story five thousand years ago. Why was Yaksha so sure Krishna gave it to him to give to me for this particular emergency? For the life of me—and my life is very large—I can’t see how I am going to destroy Eddie by dancing for him. For me, the word faith is as abstract as the word God. I trust that everything is going to work out for the best about as much as I trust that Santa Claus is going to bring me a bottle of blood for Christmas.

  What can I do? I have no real plan except the obvious. Take Mrs. Fender hostage and force Eddie to come running, and then put a bullet in his brain when I get the chance. On my lap rests Officer Gary’s revolver. Or is it Officer Bill’s? It doesn’t matter. It was in their car and it has six bullets in it. After tucking it in the front of my pants under my shirt, I get out of the car and walk toward the house.

  I don’t knock. Why bother? She will not open the door for me. Grabbing the knob, I break the lock and am on her before she can reach for the remote control on her TV. Modern Americans are so into their remotes. They treat them as if they were hand phasers or something, capable of leveling any obstacles. Fear and loathing distort her already twisted features. Yet the emotions are a sign that her brain has cleared. I am so happy for her, really. Grabbing her by the throat, I shove her up against the wall and breathe cold vampire air in her ugly face. Before burying Yaksha in the sea, I stripped down to nothing, but I was still wet when I put my clothes back on. The pants Joel bought for me drip on the wood floor as I tighten my grip on the old lady. Her weird gray eyes peer into mine, and as they do her expression changes. The bondage scares her but excites her as well. What a family.

  “Where’s your son?” I ask.

  She coughs. “Who are you?”

  “One of the good guys. Your son’s one of the bad guys.” I throttle her a bit. “Do you know where he is?’

  She shakes her head minutely, turning a little blue. “No.”

  She is telling me the truth. “Have you seen him tonight?”

  “No.”

  Another genuine reply. Odd. I allow a grim smile. “What did Eddie do as a kid for fun? Did he stick firecrackers in frogs’ mouths and blow their heads off? Did he pour gasoline on cats and light them on fire? Did you buy him the gasoline? Did you buy him the cats? Really, I want to know what kind of mother it takes to make that kind of son.”

  She momentarily masters her fear and grins. The expression is like a crack in swamp mud, and smells just as foul.

  “My Eddie is a good boy. He knows what to do with girls like you.”

  “Your boy has never met a girl like me before.” I throw her back in her chair. “Sit there and keep your mouth shut.” Taking the chair across from her, I sit down. “We are going to wait for Eddie.”

  “What are you going to do to him?”

  I pull out my revolver. “Kill him.”

  She hardly blinks. In fact, on the whole she is remarkably accepting of my extraordinary strength. Her boy must have enlightened her on the new kids in town. Her fear continues to remain strong, but there is a cockiness to her as well. She nods as if to herself, her arthritic neck creaking like a termite-infested board.

  “My boy is smarter than you. I think you’ll be the one killed.”

  Turning off the TV with the remote, I cross my legs. “If he’s so smart, then why didn’t he run away from home the day he learned to walk?”

  She doesn’t like that. “You’re going to be sorry you said that.”

  I am already bored with her. “We shall see.”

  An hour later the phone rings. Since I hope to scare Eddie into rushing to the house, there is no point in having the mother answer and pretending that I am not here. Eddie will not fall for so simple a ruse anyway. I pick up the phone.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Sita.”

  It is Joel and he is in serious trouble. In an instant I realize that after I left him, he went to this house, where he was abducted by Eddie. Eddie was here while I was rescuing Yaksha, probably outside hiding, probably confident I would return here the first chance I got. But when I didn’t show, he took the man who rescued me from the flames, no doubt thinking he could use him as leverage with me. In a moment I understand that the chances of Joel living through the night are less than one in a hundred.

  “He is nearby
,” I say.

  Joel is scared but still in control. “Yes.”

  “He has made his point as far as you are concerned. Put him on the line.”

  “I am expendable,” Joel says. “You understand that?”

  “We’re both expendable,” I reply.

  Eddie comes on the line a moment later. His voice is liquid grease. He sounds confident, as well he should.

  “Hello, Sita. How’s my mother?”

  “She’s fine, busy boasting about her son.”

  “Have you hurt her?”

  “Thinking about it. Have you hurt Joel?”

  “Just broke his arms is all. Is he another boyfriend of yours? That last one of yours didn’t last so long.”

  I strain to sound casual. “You win some, you lose some. When you’re as old as I am, one is as good as another.”

  Eddie giggles. “I don’t know about that. Right now I don’t think you could do any better than me.”

  I want to antagonize him, make him act foolishly. “Are you making a pass at me, Eddie? Is that what this is all about? You want to rule the world so you can be sure to have a date for Friday night? You know, I talked to your old employer and heard what your idea of a good time is. I swear, with your social graces, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re still a virgin.”

  He does not like that. It is good, I think, to find sensitive nerves before we again meet in battle. For all of Eddie’s intelligence, he seems to have a fundamental immaturity when it comes to dealing with people, and I don’t mean that he is simply psychotic. Many psychotics I have known have had excellent interpersonal skills—when they weren’t murdering people. Eddie is a sorrier case. He was the nerd in the high school library at lunch picking at his zits and fantasizing about rape every time a cheerleader walked by. His tone turns mean and nasty.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” he says. “I want you to meet me at Santa Monica Pier in thirty minutes. If you are not there by then, I will begin to kill your friend. I will do so slowly just in case a flat tire has delayed your arrival. It’s possible you still might be able to recognize him if you’re less than twenty minutes late. My mother, of course, is to be left in her home unharmed.” He pauses for effect. “Do you understand these instructions?”

  I snort. “Oh, gimme a break. I don’t jump when you say jump. You have nothing with which to threaten me. Such a thing does not exist on this planet. You want to talk to me, you get here within thirty minutes. If not, I will hang your mother’s head on the front door in place of a Christmas wreath. The red color will be in keeping with the holiday spirit.” I pause. “Do you understand my instructions, you foul-mouthed pervert?”

  He is angry. “You’re bluffing!”

  “Eddie, you should know me better than that by now.”

  With that I hang up the phone. He will come, I am sure of it. But I have to wonder if I want him to bring Joel, if another standoff with an important life hanging in the balance will not cause me to falter again. Almost, I pray that he kills Joel before I am forced to kill him.

  FOURTEEN

  A thousand years ago, in the Scottish Highlands, I was faced with a situation similar to the one that now confronts me. At the time I had a royal lover, the Thane of Welson, my Harold. We lived in a moderate-size castle on the northwestern coast of Scotland, where the biting winter winds blew off the foaming ocean water like ice daggers carved by frigid mermaids. They were enough to make me dream of Hawaiian vacations, even though Hawaii had yet to be discovered. I liked Harold. More than any other mortal I had met, he reminded me of Cleo, my old Greek friend. They had a similar sense of humor and they were both leches. I like horny men; I feel they are true to their inner natures.

  Harold was not a doctor, however, like Cleo, but an artist, and a great one at that. He painted me in a number of poses, many times nude. One of these paintings now hangs in the Louvre in Paris, and is attributed to an artist who never even existed. Once I visited the museum and found a skilled art student painting a copy of the work. Coming up at his side, I just stood there for the longest time, and he kept glancing at me and getting more curious. Indeed, looking a little closer he even acted kind of scared. He wanted to say something to me but didn’t know what. Before leaving I just smiled at him and nodded. Harold had caught my likeness perfectly.

  At that time in Scotland there was an arrogant authority figure in the area, a certain Lord Tensley, who had a much bigger castle and ego than my Harold, but not the great object of his desire, which just happened to be me. Lord Tensley wanted me in the worst way and did everything in his power to woo me away from Harold. He sent me flowers and horses and carriages and jewels—the usual Middle Ages fluff. But I will take a sense of humor over power and money any day. Besides, Lord Tensley was cruel, and even though I have been known to bite a few necks in my day—and crush a few skulls—I have never thought of myself as one who enjoys pain at another’s expense. One story had it that Lord Tensley had beheaded his first wife when she refused to smother their slightly handicapped female firstborn. All of Lord Tensley’s subsequent lovers had stiff necks from checking their backs constantly.

  While I was with Harold, I was going through one of my reckless periods. Usually I go to great lengths to keep my true identity secret, and it wasn’t as if I romped around the Scottish Highlands biting the neck of every MacFarland and Scottie Boy who walked by in the dark. But during that time, perhaps because I was lazy and tired of arguing with people, I used the power of my eyes and voice to quickly get what I wanted. Naturally, after a time, I developed the reputation of being a witch. This did not bother Harold, as it had not bothered Cleo before him. Both were progressive thinkers. But unlike Cleo, Harold actually knew that I was a vampire, and that I often drank human blood. It really turned him on to have such a girlfriend. When he painted me, I often had blood on my face. Harold occasionally asked me to make him a vampire so that he wouldn’t have to grow old and die, but he knew of Krishna and the vow I’d made to him and so he didn’t press me. Once Harold painted a picture of Krishna for me from my description, and that was a work I treasured above all others, until it was destroyed in England in a German bombing raid during World War II.

  Because I had shunned Lord Tensley, and had developed the reputation of being a witch, the good man of God felt it was his duty to have me tried and burned at the stake, a practice that was later to come into vogue during the Inquisition. In a sense Lord Tensley was a man ahead of his time. He dispatched a dozen armed men to bring me in, and because Harold’s entire security force consisted of maids, butlers, and mule boys, I met the contingent myself before they reached our castle and sent their heads back to Lord Tensley with a note attached: The answer is still no. I thought that would scare him off, at least for a while, but Lord Tensley was more determined than I realized. A week later he kidnapped my Harold and sent a note to me stating that unless I surrendered myself promptly, he would be sending me Harold’s head. Storming Lord Tensley’s heavily fortified castle would have been a difficult proposition, even for a creature such as I, and besides, I thought a little feigned cooperation would bring Harold back to me all the sooner. I sent another note back: The answer is yes, but you have to come get me. Bring Harold.

  Lord Tensley brought Harold and twenty of his best knights. Hearing them approach, I sent my people off. None were fighters and I didn’t want them to get killed. Alone, I stood atop my castle gate that cold dark night with a bow and arrow in hand as the witch-squad rode up on their horses. The nervous exhalations of the men and animals shone like dragon’s breath in the orange glow of the flickering torches. Lord Tensley carried Harold before him on his own horse, a jagged knife held tight at my lover’s throat. He called up to me to surrender or he would kill my boyfriend before my eyes. The interesting thing about Lord Tensley was that he didn’t underestimate me in the slightest. Naturally, one would expect the ten heads I sent back to him to make him cautious. But the way he maintained his distance, keeping Harold directly in front
of him, and even the manner in which he avoided looking in my direction made me think he honestly believed I was a witch.

  That was a problem. Generally in the past, before the advent of modern weapons, I could extricate myself from most situations by sheer speed and strength. An arrow or spear shot in my direction—I could just duck aside or catch it in midair. There was never a chance someone could defeat me in a sword fight, even when I didn’t have a sword. It wasn’t until guns were developed that I had to move more carefully and use my head first before my feet or hands.

  For a long moment I licked the tip of the arrow in my hand and considered taking my best shot at Lord Tensley. The chances were excellent that I would be able to kill him without harming Harold. The problem was I would not be able to stop the other men from quickly chopping up my lover.

  “I will surrender,” I called down. “But first you must let him go.”

  Lord Tensley laughed. He was an intensely handsome man, but his face somehow reminded me of a fox that dreamed of being a wolf. What I mean is he was sly and proud at the same time, and didn’t care if he got his snout bloody, as long as it was at mealtime. Harold, on the other hand, was as ugly as a man could be and still have all his basic features in the right places. He had broken his nose on three occasions, each time while drunk, and the sad thing was that each shattered cartilage actually improved his appearance. But he could make me laugh and he could make love all night and what did the rest of it matter? I would do my best to save him, I knew, even at the risk of my own life. Cowards I have always despised above all else.

  “You surrender first,” Lord Tensley called back. “And then we will let him go.”

  “I am all alone here,” I said. “A frail woman. Why don’t your knights come get me?”