Timothy S. Kroecker
“Hello Mosk,” the voice said from beside the poolside bar.
I froze. It had been forty years since I had spoken to Mother, but I’d have recognized that nails-on-chalk-board rasp if it had been a millennium. What was she doing at a remote resort in Punta Cana?
“Wow! That’s Glo!” the young bride whispered to her husband, pointing up at Mother.
I focused on the honeymoon couple, placed my palms on their arms and locked their attention on me. My mother’s laugh made me tighten my grip harder than I’d intended. I eased the pressure and drew a small amount of their life-energy into me. Even if they were only small-time marks, I did like them both and this way, Mother would never take from them. She wasn’t the sort to settle for sloppy seconds.
“So should I book you for the sailing trip tomorrow?” I wanted the fat commission from the yacht’s Captain and smiled at their vague nods. “Excellent!” Still refusing to acknowledge my mother’s presence, I sent a last pulse of pleasure through the couple. “Judging from how happy Brad is, we probably won’t see you until tomorrow.”
Brad, a professional football player, wasn’t embarrassed by his obvious excitement. He guffawed and drew his plastic-surgery perfect wife close. She giggled and they walked up the beach and the pristine pathway that wound among the manicured trees back to their suite. They would make frantic love and fall into an exhausted sleep that would last until the morning, due more to my feeding than their frenetic activities. I’d have to remember to have the front desk wake them up in time for the trip.
Steeling my expression, I faced the woman who had so reluctantly given birth to me nearly ninety years ago. I stayed my ground and let her come to me. I wanted to watch her and assess where she was in her cycle.
She looked different than I remembered, but that didn’t surprise me—in between her fall and rise, her appearance always changed. Before me stood a woman in her early twenties. Her white bikini set off her mocha-toned skin perfectly. She had a curvaceous body with full, rounded breasts. Beautifully coiffed brown hair wrapped around her head like a crown. Designer sunglasses hid her eyes. Her measured pace reminded me of a lioness stalking its prey. She might still be in ascent, when she was at her most attractive, talented, and still toying with her entourage.
“You didn’t need to send your precious tidbits away, Mosk. I’ve brought my buffet with me,” she said and looked back up the pathway to the pool. There were two large, muscular men carefully watching over her. If I made a wrong move, two handguns would be pointed at me in a split second. It would take more than that to kill me, but it certainly wouldn’t be a pleasant experience.
“They’re newlyweds. They were just on their way back to their room,” I told her.
The way she looked up the pathway after the couple made me uncomfortable. Just because she said she wouldn’t feed off them didn’t mean she wouldn’t hurt them out of spite. She reached up to touch the white ball on the tip of my Santa cap but I jerked away from her.
“What are you doing here, Moth?” I asked, deliberately using the nickname she hated. When she emerged from wherever she hid herself after her falls, she flitted back toward fame like a moth to a flame and always with the same result. Her smile faded and she took her sunglasses off.
“I am Glo now,” she said proudly. “My videos are viral and seen around the world. I have more money and power from this single incarnation than your measly gifts could accrue over centuries,” she said, again moving closer, trying to provoke me. If I struck her, the guards would riddle me with bullets.
I smiled at her. She could never understand how much control I had over my instincts because she had none. As she approached I looked at her eyes. The red streaks around her pupils, the fine lines in the corners of her eyes, and the way her gaze darted around meant she was just past her zenith. Her slide down wasn’t far off.
I glanced up at her guards, this time feeling sympathy rather than fear. The casual and minor incidents of violence that surrounded Mother would soon turn deadly for all of her inner circle and their families. While ascending, she took care of them and fattened them like livestock. In descent, she fed.
“How did you find me and what do you want?” I asked.
“One of my cattle was here on vacation some time ago. She told me about a cheerful, ebony-skinned man who made people happy with his singing, smiles, and hugs. I knew it had to be you,” she said, and then added as an afterthought, “Can’t a mother want to see her son?”
“Not you, Moth. Never you,” I said.
“I’ll kill you if you call me that again,” she snarled, leaning forward. I bared my teeth right back at her but said nothing, trying to avoid provoking either of us any further. Her guards moved down the pathway but she waved them off.
“You can have the hotel if that’s what you want. I’ll move on. I’ve been here too long anyway,” I told her, willing to cede it to her rather than risk drawing attention. My gifts weren’t like hers; I couldn’t survive an intense level of scrutiny. I turned away from her and the hotel.
“Wait.” She paused a long moment. “Please.” Her tone slowed my step. I heard a sincere plea in her voice.
“What?” I asked.
“I need your help.”
What could I do for her that she couldn’t do more efficiently and ruthlessly herself? Now I turned to her, my hand resting on the back of a wooden lounge chair.
“Your gift,” she answered my unspoken question. “I want to let one of my cattle go more easily. Without the usual pain and insanity.” Her tone was soft, uncomfortable. An image of Abuela, my grandmother, came to mind. In it, her eyes were pleading rather than stern. I pushed the memory away, not wanting to be vulnerable in front of Mother.
There was a loud crack. I looked down, realizing I had broken the wooden plank at the top of the lounge chair.
“Never, Mother. And don’t try to find me again. I’ve had years to plan how to disappear when I need to. You won’t be able to find me. Especially while you’re in descent.”
I had enough cash to get out of the Dominican Republic and establish a new identity in Jamaica or one of the other islands within days. I turned away from her again and made it half way up the pathway the newlyweds had taken before she spoke again.
“Abuela would want you to do this,” she said quietly, knowing I could hear her. I stopped. Mother and I had nothing in common except our love for Abuela. I was no saint. I had killed to protect my secret when an unsavory nun had found me out. But I did try to use my gifts in secret to ease pain and suffering when I could. Mother loved no one, not me, not even herself at her nadir. She did nothing that didn’t benefit her. Abuela was the only exception I knew of in all of Mother’s long series of lives.
“I hate you, Moth,” I said.
“No less than I hate you, Mosquito,” she replied.
“Meet me here at dawn tomorrow. If I have to stay another moment this close to you, I will kill you.”
I could hear her laughing at me as I walked up the pathway towards the hotel lobby.
What did Mother really want? I couldn’t believe she sought me out to help one of her flock. Especially now, so close to the height of her cycle. They still loved her. They still wanted to be with her. She was still basking in their attention and affection.
*
Mother remained in her private cottages with her entourage during the festivities held that and each night at the hotel. I didn’t see any of them and they would be easy for me to spot. They would be beautiful. “Great chefs care about presentation,” Mother used to say, referring to her “food.” Her people’s partying would be desperate and intense. They didn’t know Mother had her hooks into them, siphoning their energy and emotions and slowly pushing them to extremes of drugs and violence, squeezing their life forces out of them.
I left the other workers to clean up after the evening limbo contest and said one last lingering lucrative goodbye to the wealthier guests before making my way to the employee parking lot. Besides the hotel’s manager, I was the only employee with my own transportation. He had an old Honda Civic. While I could afford any luxury car I wanted, I kept a low profile by owning a pasola, a small motorbike. Unlike Mother, I didn’t crave material things for attention or status nor did my finances spike high or crash low. They grew at a steady pace in a variety of banks, investment accounts, and safety deposit boxes in the Caribbean, and in Central and South America.
The drive to my latest apartment helped to soothe the nerves Mother had frazzled. There were few other people on the road that late. For the first five minutes I drove along manicured entrances to other high-end resorts along the beach, passing only the occasional taxi, returning early from the nightclubs. After the resorts came the vacation mansions belonging to rich Americans, Canadians, or Dominicans from Santo Domingo. If I was more like Mother, I would live in one of them but Abuela had taught me better. “Live quietly, stay hidden, blend in when you can,” she’d said.
As I got closer to the town, the number of homes along the roadside increased. Many had windows lit with Christmas lights. I passed several local bars that had drinking, laughing people at the tables. One of the things I loved most about Dominicans—they were always happy and ready to party.
I drove the motorbike up to my side street and killed the engine. In the distance I could hear music from the discos and nightclubs. The tourist bars would be full of rich people. Since I was probably leaving town, I decided I would go out again a little later. I could use the extra cash and energy.
Walking the bike made me feel vulnerable but it was late and I knew the neighbors would not appreciate the noise. Most of them were educated professionals with day jobs that started early. As I pulled up to the steps leading to my second-story apartment, I saw a woman sitting there. For a split second I thought it was Mother again but then I recognized her as the woman from the first floor apartment. It was very late for her to be up and out.
The woman, dressed in a t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms, looked up at me as I approached. Her apartment door, next to the stairway, was ajar. The light from the Christmas tree inside let me see that she was crying.
“Señora, is everything okay? It’s late,” I asked, knowing it would be expected of me. Abuela’s lessons had, over the long years, become habit.
“Buenas noches, Señor. I’m sorry. Let me get out of your way,” she said, ignoring my question and standing. I had to bring the motorbike inside my apartment or it wouldn’t be there in the morning. As I manhandled it up the steps I could hear a child moaning. I didn’t have any children—I couldn’t sire them—but I’d lived long enough to know she was crying in pain.
“Señora, what’s wrong?”
She brushed the hair from in front of her red and swollen eyes. Taking a hitched breath, she said, “It’s my niña, Ana. She went for a treatment today. The pain won’t let her sleep or rest. I don’t know what to do!” She started crying again.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she was ill,” I said. It wasn’t true, but it sounded more sympathetic than the truth. “Have you tried warm milk?” I could feel Abuela’s disapproving eyes on me like old times. We both knew I could help the situation.
“No! I should have thought of that! Ana likes milk. Maybe that will help! Thank you!” she said smiling faintly.
She wiped her eyes and hugged the building’s wall to let me pass. I shrunk as far from her as I could. I didn’t want to feed off the neighbors, even by accident. It would lead to problems.
She was about to say more but Ana’s cries started up again. She looked at me quickly and then went into her apartment, closing the door behind her. I unlocked the door to my apartment and brought the motorbike inside. After I closed the door, I was still able to hear Ana crying.
I leaned the bike against the wall and flipped on the living room light. Cool and detached as a hotel room, there were no decorations or personal items inside, only beige and neutral-toned furniture. I went into my bedroom, turned on the light, and slid a suitcase from beneath the bed. There was little to pack but I put my favorite shirts and pants into the case along with some toiletries. Lastly, I picked up the old and battered frame sitting on the dresser. In it, a middle-aged, dark-skinned woman dressed in her Sunday best looked out at me from a sepia-toned photograph.
Abuela wasn’t Mother’s mother, she was at least a century younger than Mother. Abuela had taken her in after finding her wondering the street, filthy, deranged, pregnant with me, and at the bottom of one of her worst cycles. Abuela had a big heart, had been a strict Catholic, and was the only person other than me immune to Mother’s poisonous charisma. Abuela helped Mother give birth to me, accepted her physical changes at the beginning of her cycle, and drove her out when it was clear I wasn’t safe with Mother around. Abuela never judged either one of us despite our parasitic natures—she left that up to God—but did discourage the worst of our impulses.
Abuela’s smile seemed more strained than I remembered. Ana’s cries grew louder—she must be in the room right below me. Abuela’s eyes behind the smile reprimanded me. I sighed.
“Are you haunting me now as well as Mother?” I asked. I turned away from her and left my apartment, slamming the front door behind me, resenting the conscience she had given me.
I stomped down the stairs and knocked on the first floor apartment door. I waited a few moments and knocked again, louder. The woman answered the door, her eyes red and puffy.
“I’m sorry about the noise, Señor. I’m trying to get Ana to sleep.
“Oh no, Señora. Ana’s cries break my heart. I am sometimes able to help my nieces and nephews get to sleep when I sing to them.” She looked at me dubiously. “Is she still in pain?”
I reached out to her. She took my hand without thinking and I drew some energy from her despite my rule against doing so. I gave her a quick pulse of pleasure. “It can’t hurt,” I said. “I’m not that bad a singer!”
I laughed and gave her another pulse. I didn’t want to waste too much of my time here.
“Well, I guess it can’t. Come in.” She relented and stepped aside. Her husband was sitting on the couch. A young girl, about ten years old sat on his lap, crying and squirming feebly. She looked wan and pale. The man looked exhausted but was trying to distract his daughter by pointing and talking about the Christmas tree. He looked a question at his wife.
“It’s the man from upstairs. He says he might be able to sing Ana to sleep.”
“I’m an entertainer at the resorts,” I explained to his puzzled frown. He looked at his daughter and again at his wife and shrugged.
“Anything is worth a try at this point. Come in,” he said wearily, leaning back into the couch. Across from the couch was a coffee table. I sat carefully on it and leaned toward Ana. She hadn’t opened her eyes since the door opened.
“Hello, Dulcita,” I said and brushed her forehead with the palm of my hand. I drew a small trickle of energy from her. It told me she was very ill and not likely to live many more weeks. I gave her a pulse of pleasure. She opened eyes that were sunken and shadowed.
“Can I sing you a song? It may help you go to sleep,” I said.
“Can I go to bed? Pappy isn’t as comfortable as the bed. And he’s too hot. Sorry, Pappy,” she said with an apologetic, thin, smile. He laughed quietly and stood with her in his arms.
“Let’s go, niña. It’s good to see you smile.” He smiled gratefully at me and gestured with his head to follow him; his wife right behind me. My steps slowed as we entered Ana’s room. There were two posters on the wall; both were of Glo.
“Ana loves Glo, don’t you niña?” her mother asked from behind me. I tried, with only marginal success, to turn my grimace into a smile when I saw Ana’s father looking at me. He leaned down and put Ana in her bed as his wife moved to lower the sheets and fuss with the pillows. Ana smiled and nodded wearily but looked at the posters with adoration in her eyes.
Ana looked at me expectantly. I looked at them all with a wide, disarming smile and sat on the edge of her bed. I took the girl’s hand in mine and saw a Glo doll on the little table next to her bed. Still smiling, I turned my body so I couldn’t see the doll or either of the posters. I sang two songs and drew as little energy from her as possible while sending slow waves of pleasure through her, blocking her pain. By the end of the second song her breathing had deepened and she was asleep.
“Thank you!” Ana’s mother whispered.
I stood up and moved quickly to the front door, anxious to be away but my thoughts lingered on Ana and Mother.
“Thank you,” she said again. Before I could avoid it, she had me in a tight hug. For a split second I resisted but then hugged her back, touching my cheek to hers. Next to my hands, my face and lips were the best for drawing energy and transmitting the pleasure that I could offer in payment. With Abuela on my mind, I sent a pulse of pleasure into the woman, hoping she would be able to rest. I did the same to her husband when he pumped my hand. I bid them good night and made empty promises when they insisted I stop by on Christmas day.
I ran back to my apartment, quickly showered, and changed my clothes. In less than ten minutes, I was ready to hit the bars to suck more energy and money from hapless tourists.
*
As Christmas Eve day arrived, I went back to my apartment and showered, getting ready for my job and my meeting at dawn with Mother. It had been a great night. I was gifted a great deal more money and several gold chains. I’d have to make another trip to one of my safe deposit boxes soon. Or perhaps I could use the gold to bribe a new identity from a minor official in another country. It would be an option if Mother made the hotel her home for the next few months.
I jumped on my motorbike and drove back to the resort. The roads were more crowded now with buses full of returning hotel employees. As I drove up the winding driveway to the resort, I passed two of the buses chugging their way up the hill. The day was already hot and the buses were packed. Two young men eyed me jealously from the back of one bus. I grinned at them then laughed when they made a rude gesture.
“You’re late,” Mother said from a beach chair, hidden behind a large umbrella. Her voice was gravelly and raspy—not a good sign.
“It’s dawn. I’m on the beach. What do you want?” I asked, ignoring her barb.
“Your gift, I told you.”
“I have many gifts. I can sing. I can dance. I’ve been told I play the piano very well. Do you want me to play while you sing?”
“Stop being an idiot. I need the one gift you have that could be of any use to anyone. The one you used to kill Abuela.”
I answered her quietly; looking around to make sure no one else was near. “She was dying. I made it painless for her.” I defended myself from her and an old guilt.
“You still took her life force,” she answered me, in a loud tone, deliberately ignoring my hint not to draw attention to us.
“That’s the way it works. If I could have given her some of my life force, or better yet, yours, I would have.” I knew I should walk away, but I had to know what her game was this time.
“Who do you need it for?” I walked around the umbrella to see her face when she answered. I took satisfaction that she looked awful—her eyes were even more bloodshot and sunken. The wrinkles around her lips were more pronounced. This descent and crash were likely to be spectacular.
“His name is Charlie. He’s like Abuela. My gifts don’t affect him. He’s been with me a long time.” I looked at her incredulously. ”He has colon cancer. He asked me to bring him here to die.”
I blinked. I hadn’t thought Mother was capable of caring for anything—even herself—especially after she began her descent. I paused and thought about her request. I had killed with my gift only twice in my life—one was Abuela, the other a woman in the prime of her life who hid her greed, ambition, and sadism behind a religious habit. Both times I felt the pull of death, a tug on my own life force that awoke in me a morbid curiosity about what lay on the other side of the veil. That fascination frightened me more than anything else, even Mother.
“He’ll have to tell me that’s what he wants. I’m not a cold-blooded killer,” I told her, hoping he had no idea about my gifts or the ability to voice his wishes. But I knew I would help him if he asked, if he could resist Mother’s gifts and still love her, he earned an easier passing. She snorted at my words.
“He will,” she assured me. Then she narrowed her eyes, surprised I agreed so easily. “What do you want?” I thought about the answer for a moment, considered telling her I wanted to meet someone as special as Abuela again, get a glimpse of that time when I felt less alone, less damned, but I shook my head, knowing she would only use it against me.
I smiled. “A signed copy of your latest CD, and autographed photo—made out to Ana, and one of your dolls in the original boxes, also signed.”
“That’s it?” she asked, frowning. I nodded but another idea began to take shape.
“Wait. There’s more.”
She smiled, more comfortable with a response she could understand. “What do you want?”
“Only a few moments of your time,” I said, not willing to say more. “Come to my apartment building tomorrow and be as charming and beguiling as you were at your apex.”
Her eyes turned feral. “I am not one of my dolls. Don’t tell me what to do. No one does—ever.”
“There’s a little girl. She’s dying. Charlie will want you to do what I ask of you.” I enjoyed turning the ploy she used on me against her.
The mention of Charlie brought sanity back to her eyes.
“When do you want me to talk to Charlie?”
“The drugs aren’t helping anymore no matter how much we give him,” Mother said, telling me more than she realized. One of her cattle could kill the man but it would be brutal and painful. That was the way she normally liked it. “I’ve said my good-byes already. I’ll have one of my cattle bring your payment.”
She walked quickly past me but not so fast that I didn’t spot the tears running down her cheeks.
I took another path to the suite of rooms she had booked and knocked softly on Charlie’s door, entering when a barely audible voice answered. On the bed, half under the covers lay a cadaverously thin white man. He peered at me through blue, filmy, sunken eyes.
“You Mosquito?” he asked, speaking was obviously difficult and painful. I nodded. He coughed softly, grimacing. Only days or hours remained of his life and it would only bring agony as his body corroded.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come closer,” he said.
I sat next to him on the chair by the bed. He reached out and grabbed my hand, surprising me.
“You’re so much like her, and yet so different” he said, staring at my eyes. I looked away.
My thoughts paralleled his—he was so much like her—like Abuela, yet different. His touch made me feel calm, centered. Just like hers had. I wished Mother had called me sooner so that I could have known more of him.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked
“Help me die in peace. Please.” The last word was a whisper, trailing off as a wave of pain crossed his face. I waited until it passed and he could look at me again.
“Now?” He nodded. I sat down next to him on the bed, saying nothing as I placed my hand on his forehead. Immediately I could feel his illness, his life force tainted by the cancer. I sent a strong pulse of pleasure coursing down my hand. Within seconds the worst of the tension eased from his body and his face relaxed. He flashed a hopeful look at me. “The feeling won’t last very long. I’m sorry.” The glow faded. “I can make it painless and quick. Do you want me to continue?” He took a deep breath which I kept free of coughing and looked at me again.
“She has good in her,” he said quietly, speaking of Mother. “I wasn’t strong enough to make her see it. But, you could.”
I pulled my hand back. He didn’t know the horrors that had been done because of her. That she had done. She could never change.
“Please,” he said, “Your Abuela knew the truth. I can tell you know it too. Show her for me. I love her.” I cringed at another request in Abuela’s name.
He took my hand and placed it on his forehead again. “Now.” he said. “Please.” I nodded again and put my other hand on his skeletal shoulder. With one hand I sent another wave of pleasure through his system and drew his pitiful life force out with the other. As it trailed off, I felt that odd feeling as if there was someone on the other side who in turn began pulling my life force toward them. Fearfully, I resisted the strange impulse to let my draining happen and finished taking Charlie’s. It was over within seconds. After I closed his eyes, I left the room as quietly as I had entered.
*
The next morning, at exactly 9:00am, Mother pulled up in a limousine and stepped out onto the sidewalk in all her Glo-glory. Ana was sitting on the steps with me and her parents. Her eyes sparkled and a smile lit her face. “Glo!”
She stood weakly and hugged Mother before I could think to stop her.
Mother looked at me over the tops of her sunglasses. She gave a wide, false smile to Ana’s parents but I could see the anger and insanity simmering behind it. I had no idea what she would do next.
“Preciosa,” she said, “do not exert yourself so.” She carefully pried Ana away and set her on the steps and covered the moment by tenderly pushing Ana’s hair from her face. Ana beamed.
Mother walked to stand in front of me and gave me a Hollywood-style air kiss.
“I came,” she whispered.
I stood and whispered in her ear. “This is Ana. She loves you. Give her the doll.” I pointed to where I had put them on the stairway above us. “Tell her you love her and you hope she gets well soon. That’s it.”
She smirked, thinking me foolish for wasting her favor. I could see the wheels in her mind spinning, planning some way to turn this against me.
“Do it for Charlie, not me,” I coaxed her quietly, remembering his request to show Mother another way. Perhaps this would be the first step.
That night I unpacked my bag, ignoring the hint of a smile I saw on Abuela’s picture, and readied myself to go out and replenish my energy from the seasonal tourists.
***
Timothy S. Kroecker is a psychologist working for the U.S. Air Force. He grew up reading fantasy and science fiction and worked in a library while going through college. Tim enjoys writing urban fantasy and young adult fiction. Tim and his wife share their home with three miniature schnauzers and more than eight hundred frogs they’ve collected over the years.