Bloodline by Joel Abernathy
13
Daniel left earlythe morning after taking me to the church and told me he had some business to attend to in the city, but I was free to roam the floor. I knew what the results of trying to suss out any method of escape would be, but I tried it anyway. The only route that seemed remotely promising was the elevator, and after my last scare, its mere existence was sufficient deterrence.
I settled by one of the windows and resumed my new routine of reading and sipping coffee while I studied the world below. I’d closely watched Daniel use the machine and figured out the surprisingly streamlined gadget for myself. Now if only I could make sense of the glass slab that had Bobby and the others so transfixed.
The elevator doors slid open, and I found myself resenting the way my chest tightened in hopeful apprehension. When I realized it wasn’t Daniel, I should have been relieved. After all, he was the one forcing my hand in this awful mess.
“Hello, Doctor,” I called, closing my book as Rye came into the room. He dressed far more tastefully than the others, despite Daniel’s insistence that leather and torn fabric was standard for the working class.
“You’re up early,” he said, giving me a pleasant smile. His gaze traveled down to the book I’d just set aside. “Reading up on the organization’s history, I see.”
“VOICE has quite an interesting background,” I remarked, leafing through the pages.
“How so?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Try as I might to stay out of human politics, I’ve picked up a few patterns over the years,” I confessed. “Groups that spring up in the wake of disaster and consolidate vast amounts of power in a very short time are rarely benevolent.”
He chuckled, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Well, I like to think we’re the exception to the rule, given the extraordinary circumstances that led to our founding.”
“Yes,” I murmured, looking out at the city. Circumstances I had created, even if it was by incompetence.
Rye came to sit beside me, his gaze softening. “I never imagined I’d be saying this to the Primus, but you can’t blame yourself forever.”
I knew he meant well, but he spoke from a place of innocence. Of youth. “Please, just call me Marcellus.”
“Only if you’ll call me Rye,” he said in a warm tone.
I smiled. “Well, alright then, Rye. You seem like a busy man, so I’m sure you came here for some reason other than to give an old relic a pep talk?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. And as for relic, I’d say antique is more fitting,” he shot back, offering a hand to help me to my feet. “I’ve been asked to run some further tests on you.”
“I see. I suppose Daniel told you I agreed to cooperate with your plan.”
“He was sparse on the details, but he mentioned it,” Rye confirmed, his brow knitting in concern. “May I ask why the sudden change of heart?”
I looked away. “You could say he persuaded me it is the lesser of two evils.”
Rye gave me a knowing look, leading the way into the elevator. “I’m sure in time you’ll see it’s really not all that bad.”
One could hope.
* * *
After pokingand prodding me for the better part of an hour, albeit politely, Rye offered to escort me back to the apartment, and I thanked him with the reassurance that I could find my own way.
I was lightheaded, but not from the blood the doctor had collected along with my saliva samples. I’d never imagined my bodily fluids would prove to be of such great interest to the scientific community, but it was far from the least dignified purpose for which I had been used.
He’d kept his answers brief the few times I’d asked how such strange means could be used to turn an army on the scale Daniel had planned, but the truth he offered was still unnerving enough. The cursed poison he’d extracted from me would be synthesized and used en masse, nothing more than an inoculation to transmit this immortal death rather than cure it.
When I asked how it was possible without a blood exchange from each human they turned, he’d given me a rather long and technical explanation I was afraid to confess went entirely over my head. The most I could comprehend was that the pathogen, as they called it—a much tamer way of saying curse—could be extracted and preserved from my saliva through their methods, and my blood would complete the transformation. Evidently, only a small amount was needed.
I could still feel Enoch’s fangs buried within me, drinking as if to bleed me dry. So had Jonas. Both encounters had been characterized by equal passion, even if the one was ardor and the other spite. To think it could all be quantified and trivialized so succinctly…
I was beginning to understand why these children saw feeding as nothing more than a mundane act, devoid of meaning, shame, or intimacy. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps I was the one who needed to adapt to the times. Enoch certainly had.
I’d heard his name more in the last few days than I had in centuries. Each time, I felt the traitorous pang of longing and the guilt that accompanied it.
Sleep eluded me now that I had agreed to murder my child. Somehow, that unsettled me even more than the prospect of creating so many others. At least I would never know their touch or look into their eyes and see myself. I would never know the taste of their blood, nor the tenor of their voices. We would be to each other, as all pitiful creatures in this world of gray hues and charmless wonders were, strangers.
No matter how many vampires I sired, I would remain, as I always had been, alone.