Rating: NC 17 overall (some entries as mild as a G)
Disclaimer: While I have taken the liberty of adding a few characters of my own creation, all of the original BtVS characters and their world belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and The WB. All are used without permission (I'll return them all unharmed) and no copyright infringement is intended (like most who post, I'm broke, so please don't sue).
Summary: It's the year 2047 and Aishling Rosenberg has recently discovered that her grandmother left behind a vast collection of letters, stories, research notes, etc.
Distribution: You want it, it's yours, just let me know where it's going to be living.
Feedback: Beggars can't be choosy, and I'm begging, so. . .
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Entry No. 13
So, Will, any regrets yet? No? Well just bear in mind, little girl, that old saying, "Still waters run deep." I've been still for a very long time. And your in deep! You'll regret your request sooner or later.
Love you.
Angel
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My room had become oppressive. I'm not sure whether it was the four walls closing in on me or the three pictures that I couldn't seem to put away, but I just had to get out. So, I fled the hotel on foot.
That was almost two hours ago, or so I guessed. I'd been a good vampire and left my watch behind, thus forcing myself to start re-honing my time telling skills. And, if I happened to keep Whistler waiting for a while, well I could blame it on my lack of a timepiece. Still, I was out of practice. I'd taken one last look at the time on my watch before heading out. That had been at 8:32pm. And now, judging by the area I covered and the pace at which I'd traveled, I was quite sure it was 10:30. Well, almost 10:30, anyway. Okay, I'd still have to keep working on that.
Besides, my thoughts were a bit muddled, to say the least. It was a good thing I'd had the foresight to feed - and feed well - before I'd left the plane, or right about now I'd be battling my hunger as well as my emotions. I could also take comfort in the knowledge that later tonight Whistler would be stocking the fridge in my mini-bar with bags from the local blood banks. I wouldn't need to hunt down my own source of food, at least not right away. Oh, but "hunt" - not a very good choice of words, there. I don't really hunt, at least not at the moment. But, hunting has been quite an "on again - off again" practice for me. Kind of like an internal switch that keeps getting flipped.
ON: One hundred and forty-five years of preying on mankind. I was made a vampire in 1753. I wasn't cursed by those damn gypsies until 1898. That's a lot of hunting . . .
OFF: Ninety-eight years of torturous abstinence from all human blood. It wasn't until 1996 that Whistler found me and showed me how I could obtain both good animal blood (often a necessary second choice) and human blood, without having to draw it from a living source. Not that consuming bagged blood will ever even come close to replacing that act which is quintessential to my ilk - the taking of human blood straight from the font. But, the cold stuff does provide me an almost guilt-free means of meeting my nutritional needs. And once Whistler had managed to convince me that I could serve some greater purpose than ridding New York of its rodent population, I continued on like that, with the quality of my feeding habits (and my life) greatly improved for about another year and a half. I went for more than ninety-nine years without taking a human life. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, it was gone. All those years of temperance were wiped away by one moment of true happiness. How bitterly ironic.
Back ON: My demon was again in full control of my life and we took to the streets with a vengeance.
You'll note that I said "we", because lately I'm starting to accept the fact that the demon and the soul are much more intertwined than I've dared to admit before. With their recurring battles for dominance, they have become so interdependent upon each other, that now I'm not so sure one could survive without the other.
Anyway, as I was saying, with my demon once again leading the hunt, we quickly set about eradicating nearly 100 years of homicide-free living. There were nights when even after our nutritional needs had been met we would continue to stalk more prey just for the thrill of the hunt and the sweet rewards found in its capture. At times we even killed without bloodletting simply for the pleasure derived from the act itself, killing something for the fun of it! Needless to say those were some especially brutal months for my soul, the Slayer, and the unwitting citizens of Sunnydale, CA.
OFF again and holding: Luckily our reign of terror was cut short that time after only five months. The switch was turned back off by both Buffy and Willow, one having managed to restore my soul just as the other was forced to drive me into a demon dimension.
All that, of course is part of a story already told elsewhere. I just wanted to let you know that while I am at this point in time not an active murderer that has not always been the case. And of late, I fear what the future may bring.
I often find myself wondering; if I were offered a way to feed from a human, if someone could show me how to justify the taking of that human life, would I do it? Would I continue to deny myself that rapturous experience if I could some how condone my actions? Gee, but I could offer up my services as an alternative to the electric chair or the gas chamber! Think of all the tax payer dollars that could be saved. Sorry, just a little bit of sardonic humor there. It's one of my character flaws.
You may find yourself wondering why I don't just "sample" some blood from a number of victims. Take a little from one, a little from another, like the vampires in some stories do. After all, a healthy human can easily lose an occasional pint, or even two, without suffering any long term ill-effects. Let me tell you - and I am being quite emphatic here - I can't. It's not like that at all. At least not for me.
From the moment my fangs puncture that plastic bag, every fiber of my being cries out: drain it, drain it, drain it! And I do. I can't help myself. And if by chance the first bag doesn't satisfy my needs, I'll move onto a second, and a third, and a fourth, and . . . as long as there is even the slightest hint of unsatiated hunger, I will continue on to the next bag of blood. And then, even if the thirst is quenched after just a few sips, I will continue to consume a bag until it is empty. Even when I begin to feel uncomfortably full, I can't stop feeding until the blood is gone. Hey, I wonder if there's an OA chapter for us, a 12-step program for vampires? Overfeeders Anonymous, perhaps? Ha, ha.
But I think you get my point (oh, really bad . . . no pun intended there, honest). It's just that if this is how I behave when consuming cold blood in a bag, you can just imagine how I react when I sink my fangs into a warm body. Oh how my inner voice howls!
I fear that I must tell you now that I have fed off a human after having my soul restored. It was only once. But I fed from a Slayer, from my lover. It was not done in a moment of passion, nor was it done for something as trivial as nutritional needs. Buffy offered herself to me because her blood was the only antidote for a mystical poison I had been infected with. She was my cure. And my new curse.
The Blood of a Slayer!! That hot elixir, fresh from its fountain of life, sliding over my tongue and filling my mouth before making its way down my throat then throughout my body, just the thought of it is enogh to make me shudder with pleasure and pain. Oh, sweet Jesus, feeding from Buffy was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. In can only thank God that, for the most part, the demons drive for self-preservation is what ruled my actions. I reacted on the most basic level, giving into the need for her blood as the cure to what ailed me and suppressing everything else that I was feeling. But I remember, all too well, every other thought I had, each different sensation and emotion I felt.
I'd never fed from a human with my soul in place. The emotions were overwhelming. As luck would have it, or my overworked conscience, guilt was up there at the top of the list. Had it not been, had I given in to the other feelings that assaulted me, I believed then that my soul would have been lost forever. Without the guilt, it quite easily could have been the moment of my greatest pleasure, both physical and emotional. There I was feeding for a woman I loved with all my heart. I wanted to make love to her as I fed. Yet I knew Buffy could never accept that. I'd never even dreamed of trying pierce her flesh when we'd made love before. I know that humans can derive great pleasure from the feed when it is part of a sexual encounter, but Buffy's no ordinary human. She's a Slayer and every cell in her body would cry out against such an act. That's what saved Buffy when I had fed upon her. I'm a vampire, I was in pain and dying, I became lost in the feed. Had she given in to the sexual pleasure, I would have drained her, I would have killed her. But her slayer instincts were strong and true and she was able to stop me before it was too late.
Her blood had the desired effect. I was instantly cured, but now, at times, all I can think about is how badly I want to do it again. The longing I feel for that experience causes me no small amount of discomfort, both mental and physical.
Ever since I'd returned from Hell and startedall, the last time I checked the yellow pages there were no listings for psychiatrists who specialize in the psychoses of the vampire mind; at least not since Dr. Van Helsing's passing. What? You think all characters in works of fiction are really just imaginary people? Ponder that thought for a while, why don't you?
But why have I rambled on so about my feeding habits?
Shush. I'll let you in on a secret . . . I was attempting to keep from having to share with you any of the other disturbing thoughts that were racing through my mind. I was trying to avoid having to put a name to all the mixed-up emotions I was feeling. I simply hoped to distract you with my stories of blood.
It seemed the longer I wandered about the streets the more distraught I became. I silently praised the gods of the winds for the frigid blasts they were now bestowing upon the city. Not only did the wind provide me with an excuse for my watery eyes, but it effectively dried away my tears before they had the chance to fall too far down my cheeks. I could actually "cry to the wind" and no passing man would be the wiser. Not that there were many people out and about at this hour, or that those who did pass ever really took notice of me anyway. I usually cling to the shadows. It's part of my nature. I lurk. It's just what I do. And I brood. That's another character flaw, but one which I am most definitely not willing to work-on. I like to brood. In fact, I think I'm pretty much a master in the art of brooding, much to the dismay of my friends and loved ones, who still make valiant attempts (some even successful) at lightening my moods.
"Mr. Doom N. Gloom." That's how Willow would have described me in my current frame of mind.
Dread. This gut wrenching sense of dread. I felt as though I'd been set-up. The more I walked around the city, the more I believed that to be true. I didn't sense any great evil presence here, certainly nothing with a nature any darker than the forces I'd been battling in LA. And any thing that did set off my "spider-sense", as Buffy would say, was dormant.
So, why had Whistler insisted that I come here? And now that I think about it, Cordelia had jumped on his bandwagon just a little too fast. Buffy and Giles, both of whom tend to shy away from offering me unsolicited advice, had each in their own way told me it was important for me to get to New York.
Boy, even my best friend Willow had added her two cents, tempting me with visions of New York at Christmas time and thoughts of all the libraries and museums I still missed. What a sneak.
Now I was feeling like I'd been ganged-up on. I was starting to feel paranoid. And I was suddenly afraid of being backed into a corner from which I would have to come out fighting in order to escape.
You see, I should never be left alone with my own thoughts. My mind can be terrible place to dwell. And these weren't even what I would consider bad thoughts, just a little disturbing. You don't even want to try to imagine what my worst thoughts are like.
But, it was now 11:00. Okay, okay . . . 11-ish (give me back my damned watch, already). My random movement suddenly took on a purpose as I started making my way toward a specific destination. Like a magnet to steel, I was drawn back to that place over and over again. I've visited it thousands of times before. My head was bowed against the wind so I wasn't looking where I was going so much as I was feeling my way. When my internal compass told me it was time to stop (it obviously works better than my internal clock), I did. Then I looked up at the doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral.
Only God knows why I am perpetually drawn to this spot. Night after night, regardless of the season or weather, I would come here to St. Pat's. Never to go inside, mind you; no, simply to stand at the doors and torture myself.
Some times it was a conscious decision on my part to come here. Other times, like tonight, it was akin to being on autopilot, in that I was aware of my surroundings, I was just not in full control of my actions. Then there were the nights when I must have been in some sort of a trance because suddenly the world I was in would fade away, and this world would come back into view as I found myself focusing on these damned church doors!
Ah, but I'm the one whose damned, aren't I? Or am I? Only God knows that, too, because I certainly don't. Not anymore.
I had been raised a Catholic but stopped actively practicing my religion a few years before I was turned. My lapse of faith caused my poor mother no small amount of dismay. She was a devout woman with a firm belief in her God and His endless capacity for love. Ha, she'd even named me for His heavenly minions, as though that might offer me some protection from what the fates had in store for me. How was she to know that I would instead be embraced by a sycophant of His Fallen Angel? But what has my long dead mother got to do with any of this? It's not her faith in question but my own.
So, why, even now, did I continue to come here? I wouldn't go inside. I could if I wanted to; I chose not to. That whole "vampires can't set a foot on consecrated ground" routine is a bit of bullshit. Now if one was barefooted, then it might sting a little, but as a general rule we do wear shoes, at least when out in public, anyway. And, unlike the homes of humans, the House of the Lord is always open to us.
Now, don't get me wrong. There's a lot of truth to the stories that some religious icons can do us harm. The cross burned into my palm is proof of that. Granted, the cross must be blessed first to have any ill-effect, but once it is, it can certainly pack a punch. And with crosses, size and proximity are proportional. The bigger the cross, the greater the distance we want to put between it and us.
And yet, that magic seems to lose some of its potency as we age. I am now *much* less repulsed by the presence of crosses than I was as a fledgling. Not that I'll make a habit out of going around touching them, at least not any time soon, mind you. My *very* small gold cross had once been worn out of necessity. The pain it inflicted when worn served a higher purpose. At this point in my life, I no longer have the need or the desire to partake of such masochistic practices. Although I obviously still felt compelled to cart the damned thing around with me.
To be completely honest with you, my aversion to crosses had recently done a full 180° turn. I seemed to be some what obsessed with them, at least with viewing them that is. And drawing them. I kept catching myself doodling little crosses on the edges of papers on my desk or drawing larger ones in my sketch book. I seemed to be especially fond of some of the old Celtic crosses I remember from my youth. How odd. But enough already with the crosses.
There's still holy water and consecrated hosts. Both of these have a decidedly negative effect, at least from my standpoint, when they come in contact with our person. Holy water poured on our flesh is comparable to battery acid being poured on yours. And as for the hosts, well, let's just say that being forced to ingest even one of those is always fatal for one of us; truly the "last supper". I know, it's a sacrilegious analogy, but, hey, I'll be merciful and spare you the gory details.
So, now I guess we're back to why I won't go inside this or any other church. You know now that there's no physical barrier in place to bar my entrance. No binding or spell that keeps me out. And, so long as I don't go around touching the crosses or stumble into the Holy Water font, I'm free to wander about any church, relatively safe from harm.
In fact, when I'd first discovered that as a vampire I could still enter a church, doing so became one of my favorite pass-times. Some of my greatest moments of pleasure, at that time, were derived from a game I called "Penance".
I'd go into a church, search out a priest and petition him to hear my confession. Once inside the confessional, I would begin to recount for the clergyman, in great detail, all of the sins that I had committed since I'd last made my "penance". While the booths in which we knelt were dark and shadowy (meant, I'm sure to provide a repentant person with some anonymity and the comfort found there in) my vampire eyes could see all too well the face of the priest in the booth beside mine. My demon (and with it my body) was aroused as it watched any number of emotions play across the face of my unsuspecting partner in this devilish game.
First was *always* disbelief. But as I continued to regale him with increasingly descriptive tales of my crimes, there would come a point when he could no longer deny that he, himself, had in fact buried some of my victims. From that point on, the emotions were some what mixed and varied. Fear and loathing were usually there, along with confusion and despair. And these were sweet. Oh, but sometimes I'd get lucky. There would be some compassion. Or, better yet, a true belief that forgiveness would be found in God's love. That one would almost always bring me to a climax, even before I moved in for the kill.
The kill. It was the last stage of the game. While pleading for absolution, I would beg the priest to come forward with me and to place his holy hands upon me while I stood before God to ask for His forgiveness. The poor fools, they fell for it every time!
In the final moments of the game, as I prepared to strike, the demon revealed himself in all his dark glory, and the priest would fully understand that everything he'd come to believe was at once both the truth and a lie. And we would come again. Then we'd feed.
Sick little game, don't you think? And while it definitely falls into the "Top Ten List of Angelus' Greatest Crimes," it would only come in at, oh, about No. 6. Neat, huh? Have any real desire to hear about No. 5 thru 1?
"I did it" . . . "the demon in me did it" . . . "we did it" . . .
I guess it's evident to you by now that when it comes to the subject of my duality, I am in a perpetual state of flux. Even as I go from one thought to the next, my beliefs change.
I tried to tell you earlier. There really is no separating the man from the demon. As I once told Buffy, so shall I tell you: I can walk like a man but I'm not one. I am a vampire. The man I was died in a Galway alley in 1753. Since then I have been, and ever shall be, a demon. The only thing setting me apart from my kindred is that I have been twice cursed with my soul.
It wasn't very long after the first time I was cursed that I realized I was not a human possessed. If I wanted to continue to exist, there would be no exercising my demon; there could be no reverting back to human form. Without the demon's powers reanimating my dead body, I would quickly turn to dust. I wanted to survive then and I still want to go on living in this world for a very long time. So, I had to accept that the demon and my soul would have to be co-habitants of the same body.
Once I understood and accepted that basic truth, the intent of my curse became clear. It's this terrible soul I'm saddled with that is meant to be the scourge of my existence. Every day of what would otherwise be a wonderfully evil life, I am forced to suppress my essence, bend my own will, and subjugate all my natural proclivities. But the most punitive effect of the curse is that I must bear the burden of the moral and emotional nature of a human being. I am forced to behave more like the man I appear to be than like the beast I truly am. For a demon with as dark a heart as I possess, it really is a horrible way to live.
In the early days I was content to simply chastise myself for my so-called crimes against humanity. Though, after a while I actually began to derive some pleasure from my punishment. I mean, if you no longer have the stomach for sadism, hell, you might as well go in for masochism in a big way! Hey, at least someone's getting tortured. Of course, after all that quality time I spent with Acathla and his buddies, my love for any kind of torture is now a bit jaded. I think Giles would get a laugh out of that!
So, anyway, there I was, wallowing in my own filth and misery when Whistler showed-up. I must have spent too much time alone with this stupid soul because everything he offered me sounded so good - an easier way of living, a way to be a better person, to do some good, and to be counted among those who make a positive difference in the world. All right, I was a bit skeptical at first. Then he led me to her. From the first moment I saw the Slayer, Buffy, I was head-over-heels in love. And I bought into the whole deal. I honestly did try to be a better person. I know I was a better man as a vampire than I ever was a human. And I did do some good, for a time. All because I loved her. I never even dared to dream that she might someday love me. But she did. And our mutual love was our undoing.
Even as a demon without a soul, I loved her. It was in a very twisted, demented way but I did still love her. After all, she was the one who helped to give me back my murderous way of life. How could you help but love someone who would do such a wonderful thing for you, no matter how unwitting they were? I'm not so sure Buffy will appreciate that particular sentiment, but maybe someday she'll understand where it comes from.
When it comes to the clan of gypsies that first bestowed this curse upon me, the whole lot of them must have been dumb as posts, not just the girl I killed. I mean, come on, who in their right minds would have put that kind of a clause into a curse like mine. I know, vengence was their motive, not justice. Still, I doubt that they ever imagined I would find even that one moment of true happiness. They took a big chance, didn't they? And they lost.
Yes, I suffered with the soul trapped inside me, but who the hell did they think was going to suffer if it was ever taken away again? Not me, that's for sure. I mean, when the soul was sucked back out of me, they pretty much handed me a new lease on life!
So, exactly who was it that suffered then, when my demon reigned once more? Well, it was like history repeating itself. Just as I had annihilated my own family and the friends of my mortal life, I was once again compelled to destroy those who made me feel the most human. Giles suffered for ever having trusted me, Willow for having befriended me, and Buffy, most of all, for having loved me. At least this time around those closest to me were better prepared for the onslaught. They already knew I was a vampire and they'd previously researched my past. That knowledge helped them to defend against me. And they had the Slayer on their side. The best slayer in history, I might add.
Once I realized that Buffy and the Slayerettes were not going to be such willing targets, I turned a good deal of my attention onto the rest of mankind. It was again their turn to pay for not having put an end to my existence centuries ago.
You know, now that I've had a chance to reflect on all of this, maybe that's were the purpose of my curse lies. Centuries ago . . . almost two and a half centuries ago . . . when I willing gave up my soul and became a vampire.
Perhaps the curse was intended to castigate the soul, not the demon. What if, somehow, those gypsies knew just what kind of a soul I had possessed before I was turned. It was a weak soul, a selfish spirit. I had turned away from God, and love. I lived solely for the pursuit and attainment of personal gratification. So, maybe it is my soul that's supposed to suffer for having given into Darla's temptation and allowing her to make me what I am today. Buffy holds fast to the belief that I was attacked, that I had no choice. And such is the case for many. But not for me. I believe that the choosing, the willingness to become, is what separates the Masters from the Minions. Darla may have drained my blood but she could not have forced me to drink hers in return. That was a choice I made freely. I could have chosen to die. But my soul was tainted even before I was turned. And my fear of death and God's punishment for a life not well lived made the choice easier for me, even though I knew what I would become.
This new theory would also help to explain why it was so much more painful when I was cursed the second time.
I knew Jenny had found the text that was the key to restoring my soul. I'd thought that by destroying her and her computer, I had destroyed those words as well. How was I to know she had saved them on a disk? I was a computer illiterate at the time. (I have since made it a point to learn a thing or two.)
And who could have guessed that Willow, with her blind love for Buffy and for me, would succeed at recasting that spell.
With my soul restored, I knew once again what it's like be loved and I was forced to take that memory and my soul with me into Acathla's hell. That's when my first true taste of suffering came.
And I suffer still, perhaps even more now, because I am back among people I love. You see, this time around I know about the clause in my curse. There can be no accidents. To lose my soul this time would be a deliberate choice. One I am not willing to make. I know this time that I can never allow myself to feel the way I felt as I made love to Buffy. Never again will I know that feeling of contentment which comes from being at peace with your self and the one you love.
Nope, no peace for the wicked. And no rest for the weary, because this time around, the demon knows about the clause, too, and often tests the strength of my resolve.
It seems that this time around, if I really want to redeem myself and keep a hold on this earth-bound existence, I am going to have to abandon all hopes of ever regaining my lost humanity and choose instead a new path. Demon and soul are most definitely going to have to achieve a deeper level of integration if we are going to continue to survive. Coexistence just won't be a viable option for much longer.
So, really now, why is it that I will not go into this church?
Guilt. Plain, old-fashioned Catholic guilt. It's an integral part of our religion - or at least it was when I was being brought up in the church. I refused to enter the house of God simply because I felt guilty for all the crimes I have committed, regardless of whether they'd been committed within the walls of a church or not. And I felt guilty about having shunned my faith even before I became a vampire. Perhaps, if I had not turned my back on God, he would not have turned away from me.
Oh, and there in lies the real reason why I wouldn't enter. I hated my God for having abandoned me.
I put my palms out before me, placed them upon the cathedral doors, then I leaned in and pressed my forehead to the cold, smooth surface. Sometimes there is such great comfort in knowing there are things in this world that are colder to the touch than I am.
As I began to cry once more, I couldn't help but hear the words of the Gospel echoing in my brain: "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
That train of thought came to an abrupt halt as the door beside me burst open.
"What do you want?" I growled, without even looking up.
"I'm supposed to give this to you, " a timid voice said.
Not wanting to lose contact with the feel of the door, I turned my head slightly, allowing my eyes to follow back along the path that voice had just traveled.
For a moment I thought that beautiful creature before me was a messenger from God, half hidden as he was by the shadows of the doorway. The soft light shining out from within the church created a halo about his golden head.
That illusion was quickly shattered as he took a step forward to further extend toward me his hand, which held a large sheet of white paper.
As he drew nearer, my keen sense of smell picked up the scent of cocaine. It was practically coming off of him in waves. This pretty boy had to be stoned out of his gourd!
"What is it?" I snarled as I quickly stood up straight and snatched the paper away from him. I didn't want to give him any reason to move in closer to me. I hate the smell of coke. And maybe that's because I know how much another part of me really enjoys a good hit from time to time.
<And it had been a long time.>
<Down boy, behave. No free samples here!>
<Gee wonder if Whistler could hook me up?>
<Stop, stop, stop . . . look at what the stupid kid gave you!>
The side of the paper facing me was blank. When I turned it over and gazed upon the picture drawn on the other side, I finally lost it. I lost all control and let out a bloodcurdling scream. Or at least I thought I did. Suddenly, I wasn't so sure because as I looked back up, the poor boy was still standing before me with a blank look upon his face. My scream must have resounded only in my mind.
"Did you do this?" I snapped at him.
He just shook his head, too dazed to speak.
I looked back down at the drawing. It was another one done in ink. Only this one wasn't only black on white. Colors had been added. It was a picture of me standing here, pressing my head up against the door of the cathedral. It was all in black ink except for the panes of glass in the Rose window. Each one of them had been filled with color. It was beautiful, almost like looking upon the real thing at night.
I was just about to cast my eyes away when I caught sight of one other spot of color, barely visible in the drawing - a single blood-red tear which had been caught as it slid down my cheek. How sad. Did the artist know the pain I felt in my heart? Is that why they had me crying tears of blood? It was almost perfect in its poignancy.
*ALMOST!*
That's when I noticed the smudge in the upper left-hand quadrant of the window. I was furious. He'd ruined it!
<I'll kill him if he's the one that touched it!>
And sure enough, when I grabbed his hands I found the proof I needed - colored ink stained the tips of the fingers on his right hand. Oh, but wasn't it lucky for him that before I could make good on my silent threat, it dawned on me that for the ink from the picture to have been smeared and come off on his fingers, it had to have been wet. This picture had just recently been drawn. The boy had either been there while it was done or been given the drawing immediately after it was completed.
"Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?" I roared.
Unfortunately, I could hold back no longer. I was finally overcome by all the emotions I'd been dealing with since arriving back here in New York. I gave in to the Change. I didn't even care if anyone saw me. If the stupid boy even remembered seeing a vampire, at least he could tell himself it was a hallucination brought on by the coke. But at that very moment, he was still just staring at me with a faraway look in his eyes.
I was desperate now and started howling at him.
"Tell, me you little shit, or with God as my witness, I'll suck you dry! Where did you get this picture? Who gave you this fucking picture?"
"She . . . she . . ." He couldn't seem to form a coherent thought.
"*She?*" God help me but I think my voice cracked and rose two octaves when I said that word. I sounded like a schoolboy who'd just discovered he was the object of some pretty girl's affection.
I shook him violently, perhaps hoping to clear his head.
"Who is *she*? Where is *she*?" I demanded.
<Aha, but now I know something about "her".>
Still no response from the kid. I stopped shaking him for fear that I might actually do some permanent damage.
Baring my fangs, I got right up in his face.
"Answer me, boy," I bellowed.
His glazed eyes began to roll back in his head.
"A . . . an . . . angel . . . inside . . ." That was all he managed to mumble before he collapsed into my arms.
End
Entry Thirteen