Chapter1
Illinois Electric Carving Knife Catastrophe,
Or,
Four Corpses for Sister Stacey,
Or,
How Brother Al Got His Groove Back
Dearest Elzabeta,
I hope this message greets you well and that my handwriting has not aged as disgracefully as my physical form yet has.Of late, I have developed a sickness which has greatly impacted my mobility and motor skills.I suspect some of it is my natural life-span, and I suspect that I am now facing my own natural end as much as we take our curse for a given.The truth is that existence wearies me anymore.One can only survive their loved ones for so long before the infinite darkness of eternity reveals itself to one’s heart.I find myself incapable of forming close attachments any longer, not without some bitterness infecting my heart.And of late, there is a yearning, more and more, to sleep the sleep eternal—to glide to my coffin and rest, beneath the dirt, for however many centuries will satisfy my fatigue.
Yet my duty to Hartshome is continuous, and my duty to Chicago and that which I have built here is the sole flickering flame keeping this old corpse upright.I am in decline, however much I wish myself not to be—and I fear, to an extent, that when I pass from this world, those left behind will not yet understand the importance of what I have attempted to do.
Some of the others on the city council have requested I get a blood analysis.This was drawn and sent away for; I strongly suspect that some recent exposure to a blood source filled with high-grade etheric power may have caused a reaction with my cellular structure.(I am speaking, of course, of the reporter I have previously spoken to you of, who shared her charmed vitae with me.I lost myself in it then, and perhaps it has unleashed and begun the slow process of losing the rest of myself.)
I feel as if I am rapidly aging; that the darkness that has sustained me for so long is draining out of my system.For the first time in my life, in centuries, I am incapable of feeding myself.Most days, I find myself incapable of my usual pastoral concerns and sermons, and instead, I am satisfied by sitting and staring at the flickering of a candle flame.
Is this death, dear Elzabeta?This creeping exhaustion heavily laying itself upon one’s heart?Is this what I look forward to?Perhaps—I know this is not the case—I know more than most—I will be rewarded when this body gives out with an eternity of solitude and silence.A man’s worries and concerns in his mortal life are enough to drag him under.Imagine centuries of this!It would be enough to drag the highest of deities to madness.Perhaps this is why we immortals are blessed only to remember that which has occurred recently.I remember some things, of course—flickering through my hand-written records as I go—and what little I retain weighs on my conscience like the heaviest of sins.
Perhaps it is my time.I have lived greatly.Tasted of the finest of ambrosia.Sampled of the greatest of spreads.Time and again, I weighed my life over others I viewed as lesser, to sustain that which I thought my noble birthright.And my great punishment—my redemption—is my work here.To show the others, those who dwell in darkness, that we can exist together with the living, instead of existing off of them.
My work is yet undone.My redemption alone is what keeps me, eyes open, staring at the magnificent fresco on the roof of this chapel, and pondering the nature of God, and power, and what it means to have both.
If things improve, I will write further.If you do not hear from me again.Do not overly mourn me.I have not had a good life—I have had a full life.
Your dearest cousin,
Aleister Tzigany
1.
Brother Al was not doing good, and anyone who knew him knew it.The veiled women at the chapel arrived more and more each day as weeks went by.His color had faded; his hair’s iron-gray part had gone pale and white, and his hands grew ever-more knobbled and calloused.His limbs and joints began to disgorge and change as his flesh sank lower and lower beneath his skin.The ever-burning flame I saw in his eyes—the conviction, the passion, the blazing weight of divine knowledge—had all but blown out.
Now he was a shell of a vampire, limbs naught but straw, blanket over his lap in a wheelchair.He looked like someone’s grandfather, or their great-grandfather, or their great great great great great grandfather fifteen times removed if I was being honest.Unflattering liver spots and other moles and freckles had come up and bloomed on him as if his flesh itself were growing and aging… and there was nothing any of us could do for him.
“If ever there was a time for human blood, this is it,” Eddie said to him.
He moved forward, rasping, his rusty wheels whining: “I’ll pass.”
He spent days and weeks falling inward, and I wasn’t sure what to do.So I talked to my best friend Tamara about it.She was a nurse and dating a dead guy, so really, she was the best sort of person to ask for advice from.
“It sounds like he’s dying,” she said.
“He’s a vampire, though,” I said.
“Yeah, but he’s also pretty old.Realistically, they have to have a shelf life, Stace.There’s no such thing as Immortality, not really.I mean.A good blast of ultraviolet light or fire would do the trick, right?”
“You have a point,” I said.“I’m just not sure whether it’s physical or mental.”
“Sometimes it’s both,” Tamara said.“Look.When patients get sick, and their time is coming, they start refusing food.They start being wistful about the past.Talking to people only they can see.If he’s refusing food…”
We both shuddered at the idea.Food, in this case, meant human blood.I mean.I’d shared some with Brother Al before.I guess it was different, though, this bald honesty about it.I kept thinking about all the vampires I knew thinking of humans in general as food.It was horrifying, especially compared to what I had actually given myself—offering up some of my blood in a soft drink cup.
All of the vampires I was in a relationship with were ethical hunters.They only went after bad guys.Or people destined to die.Or willing donors.I mean.It helped me sort it out in my heart—but there was still that little uneasy part of me.Maybe it would always be there.
