Was this what happened, then, when we didn’t hold up our end of the bargain? An increasing lethargy that would lead to death? I shook it off. I had no intention of exploring the phenomenon further. Come sunset, I would end this foolishness and take a life.
As I entered my living room that morning, I heard a dull slapping from the open patio doors. Aaron was in the yard, building a new retaining wall for my garden.
When he’d been here in the spring, he’d commented on the crumbling wall and said, “I could fix that for you.” I’d nodded and said, “Yes, I suppose you could.” Three more intervening visits. Three more hints about the wall. Yet I refused to ask for his help. I had lost that right when I betrayed him. So yesterday, he’d shown up on my doorstep, masonry tools in one hand, suitcase in the other, and announced he was building a new wall for my rebirth day.
That meant he had a reason to stay until he’d finished it. Had he simply decided my rebirth day made a good excuse? Or was there more than that? When I’d spoken to him this week, had something in my voice told him I had yet to take my annual victim? I watched Aaron through the patio doors. The breeze was chilly, but the sun beat down and he had his shirt off as he worked, oblivious to all around him. This was what he did for a living—masonry, the latest in a string of “careers.” I chided him that, after two hundred years, one should have a healthy retirement savings plan. He only pointed the finger back at me, declaring that I too worked when I didn’t need to. But I was self-employed, and selling art and antiques was certainly not in the same category as the physically demanding jobs he undertook. Yet another matter on which we disagreed—with vigor and enthusiasm.
I watched him for another minute, then headed for the kitchen to make him an iced tea.
I went out later to check a new shipment at an antique shop. When I got home, Aaron was sitting on the couch, a pile of newspapers on the table and one spread in his hands.
“I hope you didn’t take those from my trash.”
“I wouldn’t have had to if you’d recycle.” He peered around the side of the paper. “That blue box in the garage? That’s what it’s for, not holding garden tools.”
I waved him off. “Three hundred and fifty years and I have never been deprived of a newspaper or book by want of paper. I’m not going to start recycling now. I’m too old.”
“Too stubborn.” He gave a sly grin. “Or too lazy.”
He earned a glare for that one. I walked over and snatched up a stray paper from the carpet before it stained.
“If you’re that desperate for reading material, just tell me, and I’ll walk to the store and buy you a magazine.”
He folded the paper and laid it on the coffee table, then patted the spot next to him. I hesitated, sensing trouble, and took a place at the opposite end, perched on the edge. He reached over, his hand going around my waist, and dragged me until I was sitting against him.
“Remember when we met, Cass?”
“Vaguely.”
He laughed. “Your memory isn’t that bad. Remember what you did for me? My first rebirth day was coming, and I’d decided I wasn’t doing it. You found me a victim, a choice I could live with.” With his free hand, he picked up a paper separated from the rest and dropped it onto my lap. “Found you a victim.”
I sighed. “Aaron, I don’t need you to—”
“Too late.” He poked a calloused finger at the top article. “Right there.”
The week-old story told of a terminally ill patient fighting for the right to die. When I looked over at Aaron, he was grinning, pleased with himself.
“Perfect, isn’t it?” he said. “Exactly what you look for. She wants to die. She’s in pain.”
“She’s in a palliative-care ward. How would I even get in there, let alone kill her?”
“Is that a challenge?” His arm tightened around my waist. “Because if it is, I’m up for it. You know I am.”
He was still smiling, but behind it lurked a shadow of desperation. Again, his worry ignited mine. Perhaps this added incentive was exactly what I needed. It wouldn’t be easy, but it could be interesting, particularly with Aaron’s help.
Any other time, I’d have pounced on the idea, but now, even as I envisioned it, I felt only a spark of interest, buried under an inexplicable layer of lethargy, even antipathy, and all I could think was “Oh, but it would just be so much work.”
My hackles rose at such indolence, but I squelched my indignation. I was determined to take a life tonight. I would allow nothing to stand in the way of that. Therefore, I could not enter into a plan that might prove too difficult. Better to keep this simple, so I would have no excuse for failure.
I set the paper aside. “Are you hungry?”
A faint frown.
“Last night, you said you were hungry,” I continued. “If you were telling the truth, then I presume you still need to feed, unless you slipped out last night.”
“I thought we’d be hunting together later. So I waited.”
“Then we’ll hunt tonight. But not—” A wave at the paper. “—in a hospital.”
We strolled along the sidewalk. It was almost dark now, the sun only a red-tinged memory along the horizon. As I watched a flower seller clear her outdoor stock for the night, Aaron snapped his fingers.
“Flowers. That’s what’s missing in your house. You always have flowers.”
“The last arrangement wilted early. I was going to pick up more when I was out today, but I didn’t get the chance.”
He seemed to cheer at that, as if reading some hidden message in my words.
“Here then,” he said. “I’ll get some for you now.”
I arched my brows. “And carry bouquets on a hunt?”
“Think I can’t? Sounds like a challenge.”
I laughed and laid my fingers on his forearm. “We’ll get some tomorrow.”
He took my hand and looped it through his arm as we resumed walking.
“We’re going to Paris this spring,” he said after a moment.
“Are we? Dare I ask what prompted that?”
“Flowers. Spring. Paris.”
“Ah. A thoughtful gesture, but Paris in the spring is highly overrated. And overpriced.”
“Too bad. I’m taking you. I’ll book the time off when I get home and call you with the dates.”
When I didn’t argue, he glanced over at me, then grinned and quickened his pace, launching into a “remember when” story of our last spring in Paris.
We bickered over the choice of victim. Aaron wanted to find one to suit my preference, but I insisted we select his type. Finally, he capitulated.
The fight dampened the evening’s mood, but only temporarily. Once Aaron found a target, he forgot everything else.
In the early years, Aaron had struggled with vampiric life. He’d died rescuing a stranger from a petty thug. And his reward? After a life spent thinking of others, he’d been reborn as one who fed off them. Ironic and cruel.
Yet we’d found a way for him to justify—even relish—the harder facts of our survival. He fed from the dregs of society, punks and criminals like those youths in the park. For his annual kill, he condemned those whose crimes he deemed worthy of the harshest punishment. And so he could feel he did some good in this parasitic life.
As he said, I’d found his first victim. Now, two hundred years later, he no longer scoured newspapers or tracked down rumors but seemed able to locate victims by intuition alone, as I could find the dying. The predatory instinct will adapt to anything that ensures the survival of the host.
Tonight’s choice was a drug dealer with feral eyes and a quick switchblade. We watched from the shadows as the man threatened a young runner. Aaron rocked on the balls at his feet, his gaze fixed on that waving knife, but I laid my hand on his arm. As the runner loped toward the street, Aaron’s lips curved, happy to see him go, but even happier with what the boy’s safe departure portended—not a quick intervention but a true hunt.