Jacob, p.23
Jacob, page 23
I didn’t know what to say. I knew he was right.
“Have you studied the nature of language, Jacob? She’s a cruel mistress. She enslaves us. She captures our lives and turns each moment of existence into a petroglyph, something scratched into a rock. The raw experience, the confection of sensation—it all gets crystallized and fossilized and leached of life. The words we use are distant reflections, mere shadows standing between ourselves and the light. Language denatures experience. Look at what the word love has done to the experience of two souls uniting—are we talking about emotional congruence or physical lust? Or merely infatuation masquerading as affection?”
Still, I sat silent, my hands folded in my lap, my face down.
“What I offer you, my beautiful boy, is time—enough time to discover what is really possible. These mayfly people, they flicker in and out of life so fast they have no time to learn what’s possible, let alone achieve it. What I have—what we can have—is the chance to—” Monsieur stopped, frustrated. “I’ve run out of words. You can’t know what’s possible until after you’ve achieved it.”
Finally, I look over to him again. “Monsieur, I do not doubt a word of what you are saying to me. And I have had enough experience to understand the way of life you are offering. I expect that I have had more experience than any human. So I believe I have some sense—as much sense as is humanly possible—that what you are offering is a rare and treasured gift, one that many would accept without hesitation.
“But I have had the misfortune of spending too many years in Boston, too many years alone in my rooms with nothing but a gas lamp and my books for company, my books and my journals—in which I have painstakingly recorded my thoughts on so many matters. I have had to consider not only my own inverted nature, but the nature of the species that produces men like me—and creatures like you.
“I have longed for a sense of …” I had to stop and take a breath. I wasn’t sure what words would best express the churning dilemmas in my soul. “You know my history. If it had not been for your years of kindness, I don’t know where I might have ended up. Perhaps dead. Or in prison. But you saw something in me worth saving, worth nurturing—you took me in, you cared for me, you fed me and clothed me and educated me. You gave me a love of learning, you gave me knowledge, you gave me success in the world—and I owe you everything. I owe you my life—”
“But—?”
“But the one thing you could not give me was the one thing no one can give another. It’s the thing you have to discover for yourself—”
“And that is—?”
I had to laugh. “I don’t know if there’s a word for it. Soul, perhaps? Self? Identity? It’s that feeling of knowing who you are.” He waited patiently while I struggled to assemble my next few sentences. “All my life, I had this sense that I did not fit in, that I was not like anyone else around me. When you took me in, at first I thought we were the same, that we shared the same nature, an affection for our own kind, but then as I began to pay attention, I became painfully aware that—that there was another kind of difference between us, an unbridgeable gap, perhaps.
“When you sent me to Boston, I thought—no, I hoped that I would meet other young men like myself, that I would find a kind of companionship, a kind of community where I was not only understood, but accepted as well. And for a few short weeks, maybe even a little longer than that, I actually achieved that illusion of acceptance. But no, it was only an illusion—
“When I returned to Seattle, when I lived in Mrs. Grogan’s house, when I took in Georgie-Boy, I thought for a moment that this was who I could be—but that turned out to be only a desperate grasp as well. It has only been in the year since then that—”
“Go on …” Monsieur encouraged.
I took a breath. “It has only been in the time since you abandoned me, in the time since The Community shunned me, in the time since I have been on my own, that I have discovered what I am.”
“And that is…?”
“I’m a monster. Just like you.”
Monsieur waited for me to continue.
I said, “The thing is—I don’t know if I want to be a monster. Just like you. Of all the different opportunities, becoming a … a Nightsider has always looked like the inevitable one. I’ve never really felt as if I had a choice to be anything else.
“And that’s the dilemma that I am facing here, Monsieur. It is not that I don’t love you. I do. The depth of my hatred for you—for what you have put me through—it’s also a measure of how intensely I have loved you. And perhaps I might even love you again. On the other side. But do I want that? I don’t know.”
Monsieur smiled and nodded—it was his acceptance of my feelings. He already knew, of course. He might as well have been reading my mind.
“So …” I said. “I find myself confronting two questions.”
“I hope that you can resolve them soon. It’s getting early,” Monsieur said, a deliberate hint that he was growing impatient, that this conversation must reach a conclusion while there was still time to retreat before the dawn.
“You offer me an enhanced physical capability, but have you also offered me any enhancement for my soul, for myself. Will I still hunger for knowledge? Will I still question the nature of existence? Will I look at the stars with greater clarity? Or will I fail to notice them at all?
“Because that is the real question here. Will this transformation be so complete that I will no longer have the ability to doubt, to question my choices, to even wonder about the consequences of this choice and whether or not it was worth it? Are you even capable of answering this question honestly?
“Monsieur, tell me now—will I be such a monster? Will I enjoy being that kind of monster so much that I will not know how much of a monster I am?”
“What did he say?”
Jacob lies on his back, staring not at the ceiling, but at his memories of moments long past.
“He said the only thing he could say. He said, ‘You asked if I was capable of answering your question honestly.’ I can only tell you that if I was offered the choice to go back, I would not.’ I said to him—but is that you talking, or the transformation?
“And he said, ‘We are one and the same. As you will be.’” Jacob lifts himself up on one elbow to look at me. “There was only one way I could ever have my question answered.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I do not. It is as Monsieur said. I am what I am.”
I reach over and touch him, his chest, his porcelain skin. “But—the questions you asked. Were they answered for you?”
“Yes, they were. And no, they weren’t—not in the way you understand them. But from the other side, yes. And I know how frustrating an answer that is for you. Because I was there once too.” He leans across and kisses me. Not a vampire kiss. A human kiss. A human kiss plus Jacob. I nearly pass out from the intensity of it.
He laughs—not malicious. Joyous. “That’s just a hint of what’s on the other side. Do you want it?”
“Aren’t you going to … finish your story? About you and Monsieur? What happened next?”
“What happened next? I can’t tell you. That is, I can’t describe it. It’s what Monsieur said. There are no human words because there are no equivalent human experiences. I could give you the Nightsider words, but they’d have no meaning for you. If you want to know, there’s only one way to get here.” He touches my face, strokes my cheek with his hand—
“Why me? Why do you want me?”
“Why does anyone want anyone? Because I do. Because you want me.”
I sit up in the bed and look at him. “No. You picked me out from the beginning. You told me your story—because you knew I’d write it. You knew I’d put myself into your story and write it from the inside. Except you never told me the rest, what it’s like to be there, where you are. You teased and taunted and tickled, but all you ever told me was your journey to the moment of choice—”
“That’s right.” Jacob swivels around to sit opposite me. Naked and cross-legged. A marvelous view. But his words are blunt. “We never tell anyone what it’s like to live on the nightside. You know the joke. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. And eat you. I’m sure you’d be delicious.”
“So that’s the real choice you offer? Transform or die?”
Jacob shrugs. “In your case, you’ll die happy. I promise that much. I’ve already given you a tease. So what’s it going to be?”
“You already know. You’ve been stalking me. I’ve been stalking you.”
“Ahh, sweetheart—you’ve been lusting after my body.” He spreads his arms and legs wide, sprawling backward across the bed. “Well, here it is. Here I am. Take your pleasure on me. Die happy.”
I don’t move and after a minute he rolls up onto an elbow, stares at me. “No?”
“No.” I explain. “Yes, I would enjoy having sex with such a beautiful man. But we’re beyond that now, aren’t we? You want more than sex. You want the same thing I do. A relationship. That’s why I’m asking. Why me?”
“Why not?”
“No. You said it at the beginning. Why would a man who’s had more than a century and a half of life—why would he want a naïve sixteen year old girl? Or boy? I’m not even thirty yet. I’m still a kidult. I have nothing to offer you. I’m not your intellectual equal. I don’t have the same depth of experience. If I say yes, I’ll be agreeing to a century or more of being overshadowed by your strength, your knowledge, your power—”
Jacob sits up. He nods slowly, knowingly. He points, as if to an invisible blackboard. “There. That’s it. Your insight. You’re still untrained, yes—but with experience—” He shrugs. “With experience, you could be the equal of any Nightsider.”
“And if not?”
He shrugs again. “Vampire blood is the best of all.”
“Really?”
“We’re not immortal. We heal fast. But we can be killed.” He traces the line of his carotid. “Slice me here, I’ll bleed out in minutes. You wouldn’t want to though—”
“Why not?”
“Because once you’re known as a vampire killer, every vampire in the world will want your blood.”
“You guys are that committed to revenge?”
“Oh, hell no. It’s the blood. You’ll have the most delicious blood in the world.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because—” Jacob rearranges himself on the bed, curling up against me now, the comfortable position of two men who have just made love, and are now just chatting aimlessly about things of no importance—the resolution of the immediate dilemma has been casually set aside for later consideration. “Because—” Jacob says, “—of everything that happened afterward.”
“Are you going to share that with me?”
Jacob almost-laughs, a chuckle deep in his throat.
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“I’d better not.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ll turn it into a great sprawling novel of history and bloodshed. The Vampire Wars.”
“Mmm. You’re probably right.”
“I don’t recommend it.”
“Why not?”
“Too many of the survivors are still around. Nightsiders don’t like publicity. I don’t think you’d survive.”
“What if I wrote it into the novel that the Nightsiders will likely kill me for writing the story? So that if I die suspiciously, everyone will know it’s true?”
“I like the way you think,” Jacob says.
“Is that why you stalked me for so many years?”
“I was waiting for you to ripen. One way or the other.”
“Ahh.” One way or the other. What a nice way of phrasing it. “So tell me about the Great Vampire War.”
“It wasn’t that great. It was mostly messy.” Jacob pulls away so he can face me again.
“It goes all the way back to my time in Boston. And there’s a lot of politics involved.
“Politics. Yes. Like you wouldn’t believe. The Nightsider culture is a collection of individuals divided not only by geography, but time as well. You don’t give up your past. It shapes you, trains you, hardens you. The man who was turned in 1732 does not think like the man who turned in 1832. Think about it. It’s always going to be this group versus that group. More than ever among us, with so many different backgrounds. We have little continuity of purpose, and less sense of unity. We’re strong and we’re fragile—both at the same time.”
“So … what happened?”
Jacob adjusts his position under my arm. “Well, let’s just say that there were some members of The Community who didn’t like me very much. Can’t say I blame them. I was something of a brat. I still am. But that’s part of the condition. You age really slow. I mean, look at me. I look as young as you. But they didn’t hate me alone. They also resented Monsieur for inviting me into their circle of secrecy.” Abruptly, Jacob stops. He twirls his fingers in the sparse hairs that decorate the skin above my sternum. “This is probably going to disappear. Most vampires are hairless.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. It’s those wolf guys who are hairy, remember?” He plays with my nipple. “You’re going to be so hot—”
“You’re assuming—”
“No, I’m not—”
I don’t answer.
Jacob sighs, a deep exhalation. Neither exasperation nor resignation. Nor wistful either. Just a sigh. Impatience?
“Anyway,” Jacob continues. “They didn’t like me. They didn’t like Monsieur. They hadn’t liked him all that much before. Now they had another reason. Me. Monsieur used up all his favors protecting me from them.”
“He really loved you then—”
“Vampires don’t love. But whatever the equivalent is, yes. He did.” Jacob turns slightly, so he can stare at the ceiling. “I think it would be fairer to say he had an investment in me. Time. Money. Teaching. So, yes. There was a certain connect. The others understood that—
“But Colonel Guignard in Boston, he’d never forgiven me. He was old. Very old. He saw my curiosity, my inquisitiveness, as an insult. I guess it gnawed at him. In his world, the way he was, what he was before he became what he was, if someone annoyed you—well, you made them disappear. I think he’d turned just after the French revolution, maybe even during the terrors, so that way of thinking was imprinted on him. You get imprinted you know—
“Anyway, Colonel Guignard was determined to disappear me, but Monsieur said no. My questions had not been an insult, had not been a threat, and Guignard was out of line. So, of course, this triggered a schism. Another schism. One of many. It’s a web of shifting alliances. Wealth. Power. Blood. Territories. We go from one war to the next. What’s that phrase? ‘Bitchy little schoolgirls?’ Yeah.” He stops himself. “No, there’s a better one—empathy deficit. You’re familiar with that description? That’s us. We’re sociopaths. We kill people. If we have any empathy left, we try to kill the ones who deserve it. But if someone annoys us—well, they deserve it. I annoyed the Colonel, and—” Jacob sighs again, remembering. “He had to get rid of Monsieur so he could get rid of me.”
Abruptly, Jacob places his hand on my heart. “Your pulse is accelerating.”
“It’s a scary story.”
“It gets worse.”
“I’m sure—”
Jacob listens to my heartbeat a minute longer, then continues. “The fire—Monsieur’s house in Seattle? That was the work of Colonel Guignard. Not directly. But an ally. Not the best ally, though. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. So Monsieur was warned, just in time. He still had friends. By the time the Colonel’s agents arrived, Monsieur had slipped away. They didn’t find out, not for a long time, that they’d failed. Monsieur let everyone think they’d succeeded. So he could plan his revenge.”
“I assume you succeeded?”
Jacob laughs softly, deep in his throat. “Shakespeare was wrong. Revenge is best served hot and bloody.”
“Are you going to tell me all the details—how you and Monsieur hunted down the Colonel? I could probably turn that into a pretty good horror novel. Maybe even win a Bram Stoker award.”
Jacob smiles, nods. “It took a while. There’s a lot to tell. You’d need to know the whole history to understand all the players and the sides they chose, but the important thing is that Colonel Guignard wasn’t all that popular himself. I mentioned Langham, remember? The one I stalked and finally met in San Francisco? I still don’t know how old he is. He didn’t like Guignard. He didn’t like Monsieur either, but he liked Guignard even less. But most of all, he didn’t like Nightsiders killing each other. It was a bad precedent. Hell, it started a war—or continued one, depending on when you came in. Apparently, there had been a truce, at least since the Civil War. But then when Guignard ordered Monsieur burned, he crossed a line. So when Monsieur reached out to Langham, through an intermediary, Langham agreed to meet with us. By then, Monsieur had turned me—”
“You never did tell me how that worked—”
“And I’m not going to either.” Jacob laughs softly in his throat. “There’s only one way to know—” Another knowing chuckle. “Soon. You’ll see.”
“You’re still assuming—”
“No, I’m not.” He licks my neck. “Right there. You could be so delicious. But that would be a transitory pleasure. And I want more than that. There will be so much better with you on the other side.”
I push him away, gently. “Finish your story.”
“There’s not much left to tell. We killed the Colonel. And his friends. There were three of them. And the arsonist, but he was just a human, hired for the job. But Monsieur gave him to me and I ripped his throat out—slowly. His screams were—” Jacob shrugs. “Wet. I think the best way to describe the sound is wet. And gurgly. Monsieur also let me have the one who killed Georgie-boy. Your heart—it’s pounding again—”
