Crimson Death
Page 14

   “It is like that,” I said, and couldn’t help but smile as I said it.
   He shook his head. “That smile on your face, that’s what I wanted to feel, but it’s not like that with Cardinale, not anymore.”
   I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said, “The bleeding has almost stopped.”
   “Oh good, I’ve stopped sweating blood for the second time today.” He threw the last of the bloody Kleenex in the small trash can and turned to me with angry eyes. “Jean-Claude told me if I went mad again he might have to kill me.”
   “I remember,” I said.
   “You can’t let me hurt innocent people again, Anita.”
   “I know,” I said.
   “I told Cardinale about the last time something went wrong with me, and I honestly think she’d prefer me dead than with someone else. How can that be love, Anita? How can she prefer me insane and having to be killed like an animal to me sleeping with other people?”
   Again, I had no good answer, so I said nothing. I rarely got in trouble saying nothing.
   “Answer me, Anita. How is that love?”
   Of course, not everyone will let you say nothing; sometimes they demand more than that, even when there’s nothing good to say. “I don’t know, Damian.”
   “You don’t know, or you know that isn’t love—it’s obsession?”
   “Since I’m the other woman as far as Cardinale is concerned, I’d rather not comment.”
   “She-Who-Made-Me didn’t understand love, but she understood being obsessed with someone. She’d find someone among the prisoners or the would-be treasure seekers who would come to the castle; like ordering pizza, the food comes to you.” He laughed, but it was a bad sound, the kind of laughter that made you cringe or want to cry. “She’d pick one special person to tease and torment and maybe fuck. Sometimes they thought she loved them, but it was the kind of obsession that scientists feel for insects, so beautiful until you kill it, stuff it, and put a pin through it.”
   I fought not to point out that insects aren’t stuffed, and not to ask if She-Who-Made-Him actually stuffed or pinned her victims. Neither comment would help the pain in his eyes, so I let them both go. I can be taught.
   “You can’t equate Cardinale with her,” I said, finally.
   “Why not? Maybe after so many centuries with She-Who-Made-Me, obsession is all I understand? What if that’s what I saw in Cardinale? What if years of being tormented have made me mistake someone who wants to possess me for someone who wants to love me?”
   “I don’t even know what to say to that, Damian, except it’s probably above my pay grade on the therapy scale and it sounds like a question for a real therapist.”
   He nodded. “Maybe it is.”
   “When do you get off work tonight?” I asked.
   “Two hours before dawn.”
   “You and Cardinale live at the Circus, so you’ll be heading that way anyway. We’ll see you an hour before dawn.”
   “That won’t give us much time.”
   “I’ll fill Jean-Claude and Nathaniel in on everything, so we’ll have less to explain.”
   “An hour is still not much time to solve the unsolvable,” he said.
   “Jean-Claude doesn’t have to die at dawn, if I’m touching him, and you aren’t dying at dawn. That gives us more time,” I said.
   He seemed to think about that, then nodded, putting his coat over the back of his chair so his hands were free. He stood there bare from the waist up, except for the blood that was beginning to dry on his back. “A bright side to this cursed sleep, then,” he said.
   “Most vampires are a little afraid of that moment when they die each day,” I said.
   “I think a part of me would be relieved to finally die for real.”
   “Are you thinking suicidal thoughts?” I asked, because you have to ask, or you won’t know.
   “No, I was raised to believe a death in battle meant a good afterlife, and I was fighting when She-Who-Made-Me took my life.”
   “You mean Valhalla and all that.”
   He grinned. “Yes, Valhalla and all that.”
   “So you count that moment as your death, and wouldn’t count dying as a vampire now?” I asked, because it was me and I wanted to know.
   He shook his head. “She-Who-Made-Me killed me, Anita. Make no mistake about that.”
   I wasn’t sure I agreed with his definition of life and death and when he was killed, but if it gave him comfort, who was I to argue with it? I believed in heaven, and wasn’t Valhalla just Damian’s version of that? If it wasn’t, the difference was a question for a priest and I wasn’t one of those, so I let him take his comfort and I kept mine.
   “I’ll see you later tonight, then,” I said.
   “I can’t go to work like this,” he said. “I smell like fresh blood and sweat. It’s disgusting.”
   “I haven’t noticed you smelling bad; maybe just take a bird bath in the bathroom back here,” I suggested.
   “You haven’t gotten close enough to smell my skin,” he said.
   “You just said you don’t want me closer since you sweated blood from one touch.”
   He sighed. “Yes, I did.”
   “I’m heading to the Circus of the Damned, then. I’ve got people waiting for me.”
   “Can I catch a ride with you? I need a shower and clean clothes.”
   “You fly better than almost any vampire I know; you don’t need a car.”
   “I don’t feel myself tonight, Anita. I’d rather use a car.”
   “How did you get here tonight without one?”
   “Cardinale and I carpool. You know that.”
   “Sorry. You’re right. I do.”
   “Look, if you don’t want to give me a ride, just say so.”
   “I’m not sure you and I in a car alone together is a good idea until we know why shaking hands made you bleed.”
   He took in a lot of air and let it out slow. Was he breathing more than normal for him, and for most of the vampires I knew, or was I just more aware of it? I almost asked, but then left it alone. I’d ask Jean-Claude later after he’d had time to watch Damian tonight.
   “You’re right,” he said.
   “Maybe you can drive the car to the Circus, shower, and come back for the big dance number at the end of the evening,” I said.