40

Curious, it was, that my enjoyment of the child was heightened by the presence of the two upstairs. It was reminiscent of Joshua and his newspaper stand back in Colorado. Not the circumstances, certainly, but the publicness of it. There in the picture window of his store; here under the feet of the child’s brother and Boyd—humanity’s self-appointed savior.

I despised them.

The child was sweet and wonderful, warm and nourishing, and I enjoyed every drop of her, until the very end. At the very end, when life finally winked out and the torrential outpouring of memories and experiences flooded my mental vault, I felt the child cry out for her brother, and I felt his answer. I knew at that moment that I had sucked in a little of this Will person as well. The two of them were close, very close indeed.

Even so, the kill lacked adventure; it served its purpose, and merely confirmed my instinctive feeling that a greater conquest—an exercise of my supreme talents—yet waited.

But then the child was dead and I needed to remove the carcass from my presence.

The boy’s hand-hewn coffin. A perfect repository. I crawled from my space, pulling the corpse with me. I quickly undid the catches and dropped the body in, then refastened them. I heard the restlessness above. While the child held my total concentration, I had let lapse the music for those above. And now they were aware—free and restless.

Come, then, and let this be over between us. I sat on the edge of the box, tapping the worn tip of my cane on the concrete floor, waiting. Come, boys. Come to Angelina.

They came. They walked through the kitchen; I could feel their hearts pounding. They hesitated at the door; then it opened, and a flashlight swung down over the stairs. I was bored with them already. The warmth of the child’s blood flowing through me made me want to stop all this, made me want to rest, to sleep.

Then the bare bulb flashed to light, momentarily blinding me, but I recovered quickly, and when I could again see, the two were crashing down the stairs.

I stood, cane in hand, ready to face them both.

Boyd came toward me first, the boy in his shadow.

“Angelina?”

“Hello, Boyd.”

“Angelina, what’s happened to you?”

“I’ve grown up. Matured. And you?”

“Grown up? Look at you. You’re a mess.”

Insecurity flashed through me, and the music came up automatically to protect my vulnerability. I couldn’t afford to dwell on it. In a moment, I was back in control. “I have what men have searched for throughout the ages.”

“What’s that?”

“Eternal life.”

“Where’s Amy?” The boy spoke from behind Boyd.

“In the coffin you built for her. Convenient disposal, thank you.”

“Oh, Angelina, knock it off.” Boyd’s abruptness was inconsistent with the memories I had of him. “Do you like this lifestyle you’ve chosen?”

Like it? He didn’t understand.

“You don’t, do you?”

I looked at him, I watched the boy peer at me from around Boyd’s side. He prodded Boyd, who gritted his teeth and elbowed back at the kid.

“Come with me, Angelina, and we’ll take care of you. We’ll give you everything you need—”

“No! Kill her!” The boy lunged at me.

I stabbed him with music and he dropped to his knees. Boyd bent to his aid, then looked back at me. I relaxed my stance, eased the boy’s discomfort, readied myself against Boyd. We stood no more than six feet apart, glaring at each other, antagonism pouring forth, for a long moment. The boy held his stomach and moaned.

“You all right, Will?”

“He’s all right,” I answered for him.

Boyd stepped closer to me. I stood straighter, not flinching from his gaze. He looked softer than I remembered, more . . . human, mortal. Warm. He held his hands out in the gesture of peace, and his eyes, brilliant in their intensity, held me with the little brown spot on one iris. Such depth in that spot.

“Come with me, Angelina. Stop this.”

I had always known that Boyd and I would meet again—there was a mysterious bond that held us. I had known it since we first met.

“Please, Angelina. It’s not good, what you’re doing here.”

He took another step closer to me, and I was drawn to him, attracted to him by more than his scent; there was something more, something I had once known about Boyd but forgotten, forgotten in the drama of the scenes we had shared since meeting, forgotten in my fantasies, forgotten in the madness of my life . . . forgotten.

“Angelina, I—Angelina, you don’t have to live like this anymore.” He held his hand out, and I looked at it. Large and warm, open and inviting, soft and safe. I was so tired, so sleepy.

Then a scuffle from the floor, and “No!” and the boy leaped at me. In surprise, caught off guard, I took one step back and the coffin stopped me. My knees buckled and I sat down hard, bringing the music and my cane up at the same time. His eyes turned glassy in response to the music as I took careful aim for his temple, but as I swung the cane in a mighty arc, his sister, within me, betrayed my aim. She halted my arm midswing. I hesitated for the briefest of moments, just long enough for the music to falter, the boy to recover his trajectory, and my aim to waver. Then I was back in control and I brought the cane down with all my strength, cracking him hard. But I missed his head and broke my cane on his shoulder. The cane flew from my stinging hand, and then the boy was on me, crushing the breath from me against the box.

“Will, stop!” I heard Boyd cry, but then he, too, was holding me down atop the coffin and my music and I were powerless to stop them.

I struggled, but my legs were weak and of little use. They slid me from the coffin to the floor, where the boy sat on my legs as he worked with one hand on the hasps. The other arm dangled uselessly at his side. I had damaged him; I could see his pain, red and purple all about him, and still he was in a heat to avenge his sister. Such resilience. Such motivation. I was impressed.

Boyd held my wrists to my shoulders and looked down into my face. Again, in the midst of my fury, fear, and agony, I had that feeling about Boyd. I began to softly play the music for him while the boy cried and pounded, cursing, on the box. Boyd responded. He relaxed just the slightest bit, just enough.

The hasps came free and the boy threw open the lid.

“Don’t look in, Will,” Boyd said. But, of course, he did, and he began to moan. I lay quietly, panting from the exertion, just playing the music lightly for Boyd, keeping the touch feather-­light, letting the boy immobilize himself with his own stupid emotions.

“Help me lift her in, Will.”

Will looked back at Boyd with a flushed, perspiring, tear-stained face. “Amy,” he said.

“Help me put Angelina in the box, Will,” Boyd said, and I had to increase the music just a touch to counteract his emotional response to the boy.

Will reached his good arm into the box to pick up his sister, and I cast uncertainty into Boyd at just that time. He was torn between restraining Will and restraining me, and his balance shifted slightly.

I twisted violently and caught his forearm in my teeth. I clung to it with all my energy, feeling my teeth rip into the tendons and cords, sucking deeply, desperately, all his juices, blood flowing across my face, into my eyes, as I sucked his spirit, nursing his soul from the flesh.

I saw the blow coming, but heeded it not. I had tasted in Boyd something new, something so extraordinary that I needed every moment to ponder it. It brought me a new sound, a new music; it opened up new vistas, new arenas; I broke through to the next level in self-discovery. I clung with my life to his arm, drinking more, more; there could never be enough of this, it’s all so new, and the mysteries of the universe began to unfold.

And then the boy hit me and I retreated into the void, to rest, to heal, to wonder.

“I recognized her by her eyes. I knew by the eyes. She had changed so much over these years; she’d grown to be a monster, but the monster was definitely Angelina.

“It was strange to finally confront her in that basement. I’d lived for that moment, and it was finally upon me, and soon it would be over and that made me kind of sad. It had been quite an adventure. She had given me a lot, Angelina had.

“I can’t exactly say what happened down there, it all happened so fast. Parts seemed to be in slow motion, and parts seemed to be distorted, weird, as if I were drugged or something.

“Will was really upset over his sister, but his grief nearly got him killed. Angelina could have killed him with that cane, but she only got his shoulder.

“Anyway, we finally got her into that box; we just threw her in on top of poor Amy. I guess we didn’t have to do that; Angelina was unconscious. Will knocked her out when she bit me, but God, even after she was unconscious, she wouldn’t let go. She kept, like gnawing, and sucking, even though her eyes were rolled up into her head; she was, oh, Christ, I just wanted her off of me. We had to pry her jaws open with the brass end of her cane. Once the suction was broken, she went limp.

“When we got her in that box, cape and all, and that lid down and locked, and my arm wrapped in my shirt, I started to shake. I couldn’t believe we really had her. I sat there, and Will and I hugged each other and we both cried. We cried because it was over, but it wasn’t quite over yet. Will still had to deal with his sister’s death and throwing Angelina on top of her poor little body, and I still had to deal with my torn-up arm, and . . . and . . . and the fact that when she was sucking on me, I thought for a moment my heart would explode, it hurt so bad and felt so good all at the same time. All I could think about was how I’d screwed up my life, how much I’d hated—my dad, my brother, myself—how life was the shits and it hurt all the time, life hurt, and how ashamed I was that it had turned out that way, but I really didn’t care enough to change. And now, Angelina . . . God, it hurt, but it was good. I didn’t want her to stop. She was punishing me because she loved me.

“And I deserved both—both the pain and her love.”