Jacob, p.24
Jacob, page 24
“It’s not every day I’m in bed with a murderer.”
“I’m not a murderer. I’m a vampire. I was hungry. And they deserved it.” Jacob pauses, thinking about whether or not he should go on. I wait patiently.
Finally, Jacob looks up at me and says, “Vampire blood is delicious. It’s the best there is. You can’t believe how rich and delicious. The older the vampire, the better. It’s like fine wine. See its color, deep and dark—swirl it, smell it, sip it. Taste the balance, savor the blend—notice the nose, the texture, and finally allow the flavor to drift across your tongue, all the different places in your mouth where you assimilate the essences. Then, finally—drink with gusto. Don’t guzzle, but enjoy. Monsieur gave me a taste of Colonel Guignard before he finished him off. I’ve been hungry for more ever since—”
“You’re a vampire killer?”
“The worst kind. That’s why there’s a bounty on me—” Jacob’s smile broadens. His teeth gleam. His eyes shine in the first hints of dawn.
“Should I pull the drapes?”
“Probably a good idea—”
I return to the bed and slip back into his arms. “So. How many vampires have you killed?”
“Enough. But only the ones who needed to be killed.”
“And how do you decide that—?”
“Haven’t you figured that part out yet?” He leans in toward me. “Come on, sweetheart. Guess—” Something malicious in his tone.
“Monsieur…?”
“Nailed it in one.” Jacob grins.
“But why?”
“Well, I suppose I could say I was hungry. But that was only the smallest part of it.” Jacob sits up abruptly. “I was angry. Furious. He abandoned me. He did it deliberately. He wanted to see if I could survive on my own. Like I hadn’t already proven it surviving on the streets all those years until he took me in. He wanted to see if I was worthy. Well, I was—I am. But he wasn’t—he wasn’t worthy of me. I was loyal. He wasn’t. I never stopped being loyal. But at the first warning of danger, he abandoned me, left me alone and vulnerable—I could have been killed—until he finally decided the situation might be safe enough for him to contact me. I only survived because Langham took an interest in me. I was under Langham’s protection. Otherwise, Guignard or one of his friends would have had me for a snack. No, Monsieur was like all the rest. He was a selfish prick—but so am I. After all those years of serving him, I deserved better. That’s why.” Jacob’s eyes flash. “Any questions?”
I shake my head. I cannot look away. He’s daring me to speak. Finally, I hazard the most noncommittal sentence I can construct. I choose my words carefully. “You’re right. Being a vampire is a dangerous business.”
Jacob laughs. Loudly. “Well, there you have it. It’s a community of sociopathic killers, a gaggle of selfish assholes yanked from time and history, all of them afraid of each other—and with good reason. There is no loyalty.” He grabs me by the throat and leans in close. “Even if I were to profess my undying affection for you, you would still never be able to trust that one night I might find you so delicious I would succumb to my irrational hungers.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“More than any Nightsider wants to admit.” Jacob shrugs. “Usually when there are too many of us. When the herd needs culling. That’s when the younger ones go to ground and wait until it’s safe to come out.”
“How often does that happen?”
“I’ve seen it twice. Two different cities. New Orleans is overdue. We’ll have to get out of here soon, probably tonight.”
“So you’re not going to turn me after all—?”
Jacob stares into my eyes. “You still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?”
“You have to ask to be a vampire. You have to want it. You have to demand it. This is a private club. Not everybody gets in. You have to earn it. You have to prove you’re up to the challenge. Otherwise, you’re just another monster—and The Community kills monsters quickly. Before the rest of the world knows they’re real. Maybe you’re not ready. Maybe you’ll never be ready—”
He stops, he moves, he sprawls on top of me. His naked flesh burns suddenly hot—a ferocious burst of energy that will leave him dormant for hours. He grabs my face and his kiss is overwhelming—
Abruptly, he lets go. He lifts himself enough to focus on my eyes. “You can’t believe what it is to experience the world with hyper-developed senses, everything enhanced. You’ll blaze like you’re on fire. You’ll soar through the night, you’ll relish the incredible power of your body. The surges of strength. You’ll run as fast as a cheetah, you’ll leap like a bird. You’ll slide through darkness like the hand of death. And finally—finally, the sex! You’ll gasp with astonishment. Intense, overwhelming, unbelievable. It’ll go on for hours. Days, if you want. Forever. Where you are, it’s unimaginable. Where I am, I wouldn’t go back, even if there was a way. From this side, from this side—you’ll see how drab and dreary every moment of your life has been until now. Say yes…?”
I cannot describe it.
Jacob was right. There are no human words for the experience. It was the most extreme pain and the most incredible pleasure I have ever felt. I shrank and grew simultaneously. I flamed and froze. I died and was reborn, both in the same moment. And none of those words even come close to intimating what happened. I was no longer me and I was the most amazing me I could be. It was everything promised and more.
There was a lot to learn. And Jacob was a good teacher.
That’s why I killed him and drank him dry.
Because vampire blood is the best.
Turn the page to continue reading the bonus story, “Jacob in Manhattan”
Jacob in Manhattan
Lying naked on the bed, next to Jacob’s porcelain body, the blankets tangled at our feet, I listen to the sound of my own breathing. Sweat tingles on my skin. My heart still pounds.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he confirms.
“I thought I was supposed to drink your blood.”
“Body fluids. It’s all the same. This was a lot more fun, wasn’t it?”
I have to smile. I can still taste him.
Morning growls at the window, the curtains drawn to keep it at bay. There’s a stain on the ceiling shaped like a dog’s head. I feel a strange hollowness within myself. I touch my heart.
“Is this it? Has it started?”
“No. Not yet.” Jacob rolls onto his side, facing me. He puts a cold hand over mine, listening to the frantic beat inside. “You’re scared—?”
“Yes, I am. I don’t know what I’ve done and it’s too late to change my mind, isn’t it?”
“Way too late. You’re committed.” Jacob laughs gently. “It’s like the first time you get into bed, naked, with another man. It’s scary and delicious, both at once. This is the same thing, only more so.” He leans toward me, I turn halfway to meet his embrace and he kisses me. He pulls me close, wrapping me in his arms. “It’ll be all right. I promise.”
He holds me for a long time, long enough for me to feel his heart beating against mine. We synchronize emotionally and physically, a strange sensation. Finally, when we are both complete in the moment and ready for the next, he releases me back to the rumpled sheets. The dog’s head stain has an open mouth. He’s panting too…? Or is he smiling, laughing? He saw the whole thing, the frantic scrambling of two naked bodies rocking together, the coupling and uncoupling and recoupling. What does the dog head think?
Do I care? It’s just a stain on the ceiling. Water? How did it get there? It looks old. Is it a reminder of some long-passed storm that ripped away part of the roof and pissed its wrath into the structure below? Do I care? No.
I glance back to Jacob. He studies me with shining eyes.
“So … when will it happen?”
“It’s already happening. You’re just not going to feel it for a while.”
“How long?”
“Hard to say. Depends on your metabolism.” He smiles and his eyes gleam with a strange kind of inner light. Desire? Insight? Knowledge? Amusement? How does he do that? I can’t look away. The silence grows with a dark intensity, a sense of something impending.
I have to speak—not to speak, but to break the moment. It’s too intense. Whatever is rushing down on us, I need to postpone it a moment longer. “Um—”
“What?”
“Um—nothing.” Anything. “You were right. The sex was fantastic.”
He laughs softly, a quiet sound, barely audible. He traces his fingers down the center of my chest, down through the few brave strands of masculine identity—as if he’s tasting them with his touch.
“That’s just the beginning. It gets better.”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“That’s right. You can’t. Not yet.”
I listen to the sound of my breathing. I listen to his inhalations and exhalations as well, trying to decipher meaning. What is he thinking right now?
I’m impatient. I want to see the rest of the spectrum. I want to hear the higher sounds, the lower ones. I want to smell the things I’m missing and feel all the sensations I’ve never known. Everything he promised.
Jacob still studies me, reading me, watching the way my feelings flicker across my face, revealing all the internal processes, both physical and emotional. He seems fascinated.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching you change.”
“I thought you said—”
“Not the physical. The emotional. There are steps—all the way from fear to anger to curiosity, eventually acceptance and ownership. You’re still at fear.”
I look inside. It’s a trick I learned at the keyboard—all that writing, all that typing. The only soul you have to examine is your own. Jacob is right. I am afraid.
“I never asked—will it hurt?”
“Does being born hurt? Does sex hurt? It all hurts—it upsets your equilibrium. But if you choose to enjoy the hurt, then it doesn’t hurt at all. It’s … it’s something else. Something beyond pleasure.”
“Okay.”
“Here …” He lets his hand—his pale porcelain fingers—explore my chest, my belly, then back up again to gently tweak a nipple. “First you’re going to feel cold. Very cold. So cold you’ll think you’re dying. And that’s when the fear will kick in. The panic. The first terrifying reactions of horror—it’s really happening. The adrenaline will flow and you’ll start sweating. Cold first, then hot. Hotter. Very hot. Hotter than that. Feverish. You’ll feel like you’re on fire. You’ll smell your flesh burning, you’ll hear the crackling sounds of transformation inside, you’ll see red and orange flames scouring your body, inside and out—because all your nerve endings will be tingling at once.
“You’ll get into a cold tub and it won’t be cold enough. You’ll see steam rising off your skin. Real? Or another hallucination? You won’t know. That’s why I’m here. To ease you through it. You’ll hold onto me, screaming, crying, raging. You’ll probably try to beat me—you’ll be furious that I’ve put you through this. You’ll be delirious. You’ll see me as a monster—and then you’ll see me as your lover again—and then you’ll want to abandon yourself to delicious sex with the monster. Your body will be racked with ferocious energies—
“Yes, Joseph—it’ll hurt, it’ll be the worst hurt you ever felt—but it’ll be a good hurt—like stretching, like waking up, but it’ll still hurt. And you’ll cry. You’ll weep, you’ll sob, you’ll howl in anguish. And because all your nerve cells are firing, you’re going to hallucinate—like the worst and greatest drug trip ever. Dazzling fluorescent colors, all shifting and twisting. Amazing sounds, a symphony of contradictions. And the smells, the cacophony of odors. All of that. And the physical feelings, too. Everything. You’ll feel your skin from the inside—you’ll taste the way your organs slide against each other, how they work, the ferocious balance of this against that—all the flavors of hormones and enzymes, sugars and amino acids and everything else. Oh—and you’ll feel dizzy, like you’re flying, falling, turning every which way, tumbling into a bottomless well of fear and despair, curiosity and wonder, amazement and regret—”
“Until—?”
“Until you’re exhausted. Until you have expended every last particle of energy you have to draw upon. You’ll collapse. Your heart will slow. Slower than normal. And your breathing will get shallower, very shallow. You’ll get cold. Cold as death. You might panic, thinking you’re going to die. But there won’t be any energy left. You’ll be so empty you won’t even have the strength to die. So you’ll just go … call it dormant. But it’s not that either. You’ll be conscious, just conscious enough to know that you’re not dead yet—not yet. You’ll be hovering just above death—”
“But I’m not going to die…?”
“No. Not while I’m here.”
“Some people do?”
“Yes. Some bodies don’t have the strength to survive the transition. You do. You will. Now listen to me—when it starts, when you’re going through all these feelings, it’s going to be scary, delicious, confusing all at once. Just keep remembering, keep saying, ‘This is what Jacob told me would happen. This is part of it.’ Keep reminding yourself of that. It’s all part of the process. You don’t have to be scared. Just experience it. Enjoy it. Be it. Own it. I know these words don’t make sense—try it this way. Whatever you’re feeling, look into the heart of the feeling, look as deep into it as you can, dive into it, be the feeling. The whole feeling, ferociously, passionately, completely. Okay? And whenever you need to reach out for me, I’ll be there holding your hand, talking you through it. Can you do that—?”
His eyes are intense. I nod. “I’ll do it for you, yes.”
“No!” He’s suddenly angry. “Do it for yourself. Be everything you can see and hear and touch and feel—everything. That way, when you come out on the far side, all of that will belong to you.”
He squeezes my hand too hard, his strength is incredible. “You’re hurting me—”
“Yes, I am—” How much fury burns behind his eyes!
“Jacob, you’re starting to scare me—”
“Good.” For a moment, the pain is impossible—and then the intensity finally breaks. He lets go and pulls back. “You need to know this, Joseph. I’m not doing this to you. You chose this. You are doing this yourself. You’re going to be all alone in there. You can die—or you can come back. It’s up to you.”
“So you’re saying I could die…?”
“You could. If you choose it. If you give up. If you let the panic overwhelm you. If you choose to control it, if you remember that you’re the owner of everything that happens to you—you’ll endure it long enough for your body to start rebuilding itself. You’ll be dormant for a long time, but I’ll be here watching you, keeping you safe. And if you can remember that—” He takes my hand again, this time not so hard.
Something clicks.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
Jacob doesn’t answer. Not right away. But his expression shifts, darkens—I’ve caused him to remember.
“Yes,” he finally admits. “You’re not the first.”
“So there were others before me?”
“Yes, there were.”
“Where are they? What happened to them?”
“They died.”
“They died—?”
“Yes. We can die. Sometimes we get caught, not very often though. Usually, if a Nightsider dies … it’s because another Nightsider killed him.”
“And yours? The ones you created—?”
“Ahh. That’s a different story—”
“Tell me?”
“You really want to hear this?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You won’t like it.”
“All the more reason to tell me.”
Jacob laughs. “You might be right.” He rolls over onto his back, stares at the ceiling. “Okay—”
I was living in New York. This was long after Monsieur had died. I had an apartment in the village. Greenwich Village. It was just outside the boundaries of polite society. Bohemians and artists and sexual perverts lived in the village. So it was the perfect cover.
I was almost 90 years old, 88, I looked maybe 25—in the dark anyway. In the light, you might have seen the faint patina of lines at the edges of my eyes, but few people ever saw me in bright light, and never daylight. So I passed for young. I still do.
I had considerable resources, not just the initial inheritance I had received from Monsieur, but quite a bit of my own as well. It turned out that the original amount I had received when I first was led to believe that Monsieur had perished in a fire was only a small fraction of his holdings. It was the amount that he had given lawyer Durant to manage. But there were other lawyers, other holdings, other identities. A dozen, maybe two. Monsieur was over two hundred years old. You don’t get that old by accident. You learn a lot of ways to protect yourself.
Nightsiders cannot maintain any identity much longer than a decade. People start to wonder why you’re not aging. After the umpteenth joke about a painting in the attic, it’s time to move on. So a Nightsider maintains multiple identities and multiple properties in as many cities as he can afford. Most of the time, he’s an absentee landlord, but every few years, he sends his “son” to live in a new city, and the lawyers who manage those holdings are instructed to manage his accounts. From time to time, the absentee landlord passes away and the “son” inherits the properties, and rearranges the management to suit himself until it’s time for the next progression and the Nightsider moves on to a third city, and a fourth.
