I laughed and told him about my Greek friend, Cleo, failing to mention how many centuries ago he had died. Arturo was impressed. It was only then he began to talk about his crystals and magnets and copper sheets—the secret elements of alchemy that have now passed from human understanding. That very day Arturo confessed his mission in life to me. To discover the elixirs of holiness and immortality—as if searching for the secret to one of these conditions was not enough. Arturo always thought big. He was determined to recreate nothing less than the blood of Jesus Christ.
“What makes you think you can do it?” I asked, shocked.
His eyes shone as he explained. Not with a mad light, but with a brilliance I had never seen before or since in a mortal man.
“Because I have found the spirit of man,” he said. “I have proven that it exists. I can show you how to experience it, how to remove the veil of darkness that covers it.”
Sounded interesting to me. Arturo took me to a secret chamber beneath the church where he lived. Apparently the elderly friar whose life I had saved knew of Arturo’s hobby and looked the other way. He was the only one who knew of the master alchemist, besides the gypsy. I asked Arturo about her. Apparently she had nursed him back to health when he had fallen from a horse while riding in the countryside. They had shared many intimate conversations over late-night fires. Arturo was surprised, and a bit angry, that she had told me about him.
“Don’t blame her,” I said. “I can be most persuasive.” It was true that I had used the power of my eyes on her, when I saw she was hiding something important.
Arturo took me down into his secret room and lit many candles. He asked me to lie on a huge copper sheet, as thin as modern paper. On adjacent shelves, I noted his collection of quartz crystals, amethysts, and precious stones—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires. He also had several powerful magnets, each cut into the shape of a cross. I had never seen a magnetic cross before.
“What are you going to do?” I asked as I lay down on the copper.
“You have heard of the human aura?” he asked.
“Yes. It is the energy field that surrounds the body.”
“Very good. It is spoken of in ancient mythology and is present in art. We see the halos in paintings above the heads of members of the holy family, and in drawings of saints. Still, most people don’t believe in the aura because they don’t experience it. They are only conscious of their physical bodies. What I am going to do to you now is draw out your aura, allow your consciousness to expand into it, so that your spiritual body becomes the focus of your attention, and not the physical body.”
“Do you not like my physical body?” I asked. I often flirted with him.
He paused and stared down at me. “It’s very lovely,” he whispered.
He told me to close my eyes. He didn’t want me to see how he set up the crystals and magnets. I peeked, of course, and saw that crystals were placed above my head and magnets below my body, at angles. He was creating a grid of some kind, one that transmitted unseen energies. He prayed as he worked, Hail Marys and Our Fathers. I have always enjoyed those prayers. But for me, of course, they reminded me of Radha and Krishna.
When Arturo was done, he told me to keep my eyes closed and breathe naturally through my nose. The breath was important, he said. It was one of the secrets of experiencing the soul.
For the first few minutes not much happened. But then, slowly, I felt an energy rise from my body, from the base of my spine to the top of my head. Simultaneously, I felt my mind expand. I became as big as the secret chamber. A curious floating sensation enveloped me, a warm peacefulness. My breath went in and out, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. I had no control over it and wanted none. Time passed. I wasn’t entirely awake, but I wasn’t asleep either. It was a mystical experience.
When Arturo spoke next, he sounded many miles away. He wanted me to sit up, to come out of the state. I resisted—I liked where I was. But he took my arm and forced me to sit up, breaking the spell. I opened my eyes and gazed at him.
“Why did you stop it?” I asked.
He was perspiring. “You can get too much energy at once.” He stared at me; he seemed out of breath. “You have an amazing aura.”
I smiled. “What is special about it?”
He shook his head. “It is so powerful.”
The experiment in consciousness raising was interesting, but I failed to see how his technique would allow him to transform human blood into Christ’s blood. I quizzed him about it at length but he would divulge no more secrets. The power of my aura continued to puzzle him. As we said good night, I saw fear in his eyes, and deep fascination. He knew I was no ordinary woman. That was all right, I thought. No harm done. He would learn no more about my special qualities.
But that was not to be.
He was to learn everything about me.
Perhaps even more than I knew myself.
There was an altar boy, Ralphe, who lived with the priests. Twelve years old and possessed of an exceptional wit, he was a favorite of Arturo’s. Often the two would go for long hikes in the hills outside Florence. I was fond of Ralphe myself. The three of us had picnics in the woods and I would teach Ralphe the flute, for which he had a talent. The instrument had been a favorite of mine since the day I met Krishna. Arturo used to love to watch us play together. But sometimes I would get carried away and weave a melody of love, of romantic enchantment and lost dreams, which would always leave Arturo quiet and shaken. How long we could go on like this, chaste and virtuous, I didn’t know. My alchemist stirred ancient longings inside me. I wondered about the energies his crystals invoked.
One day while I was helping Ralphe repair a hole in the church roof, the boy decided to amuse me by doing a silly dance on the edge of the stone tiles. I told him to be careful but he never listened. He was having too much fun. That is the mysterious thing about tragedy—it often strikes at the happiest moment.
Ralphe slipped and fell. It was over a hundred feet to the ground. He fell on the base of his spine, crushing it. When I reached him, he was writhing in agony. I was shaken to the core, I who had seen so much pain in my life. But centuries of time have not made me insensitive. One moment he had been a vibrant young man, and now he would be crippled for the rest of his days, and those would not be long.
I loved Ralphe very much. He was like a son to me.
I suppose that’s why I did what I did.
I did not need to make him a vampire to help him.
I opened the veins on my right wrist and let the blood splash where his shattered spinal column had pierced his skin. The wound closed quickly, the bones mended. It seemed he would make a complete recovery. Best of all, he appeared unaware of why he had recovered so quickly. He thought he’d just been lucky.
But there is good luck and bad luck.
Arturo saw what I did for Ralphe. He saw everything.
He wanted to know who I was. What I was.
I find it hard to lie to those I love.
I told him everything. Even what Krishna had told me. The tale took an entire night. Arturo understood when I was through why I preferred to tell the story in the dark. But he didn’t recoil in horror as I spoke. He was an enlightened priest, an alchemist who sought the answer to why God had created us in the first place. Indeed, he thought he knew the answer to that profound question. We were here to become like God. To live like his blessed son. We just needed a few pints of Christ’s blood to do it.
Arturo believed Krishna had let me live for a purpose.
So that my blood could save mankind from itself.
From the start, I worried about him mixing Christ and vampires.
“But I will make no more vampires,” I protested.
He eagerly took my hands and stared into my eyes. A fever burned in his brain; I could feel the heat of it on his fingertips, in his breath. Whose soul did I experience then? Mine or his? It seemed in that moment as if the two of us had merged. For that reason, his next words sounded inev
itable to me.
“We will make no more vampires,” he said. “I understand why Krishna made you take such a vow. What we will create with your blood is a new man. A hybrid of a human and a vampire. A being who can live forever, in the glory of light instead of the shadow of darkness.” His eyes strayed to the wooden crucifix hung above his bed. “An immortal being.”
He spoke with such power. And he was not insane.
I had to listen. To consider his words.
“Is it possible?” I whispered.
“Yes.” He hugged me. “There is a secret I haven’t told you. It is extraordinary. It is the secret to permanent transformation. If I have the right materials—your blood, for example—I can transform anything. If you wish, you can become such a hybrid. I can even make you human again.” He paused, perhaps thinking of my ancient grief over the loss of Lalita, my daughter. He knew my sterile condition was the curse of my unending life. He must have known, since he added, “You could have a child, Sita.”
FIVE
Around midnight I return to the compound, determined to learn its layout from the outside. Dressed totally in black, I have an Uzi strung over my back, a high-powered pair of binoculars in one hand, a Geiger counter in the other. The momentary phenomenon of my glowing skin continues to haunt me. I wonder if they are doing something weird to Joel—using radiation on him.
I have decided the ideal vantage point from which to study the compound is the top of the hill in which the base is dug. To get to it I have to take a long walk. Here the terrain is even too rough for my new Jeep. I move swiftly, my head down, like the mystical serpent I embody. A deep desire to plant my teeth in that general I saw the past night stays with me. He reminds me of Eddie—not of the psycho’s warped nature but of his delusions of grandeur. I can tell a lot by a man’s face. Perhaps I read his mind a little as well. The general wants to use Joel to get ahead in the world, maybe take it over. I don’t know where the Pentagon gets these people.
At the top of the hill I scan each square foot of the compound. Once again I am stunned by the level of security. It is as if they are set up to ward off an attack from an alien race. While I watch, a sleek jet with the lines of a rocket lands on the runway. It is like no jet I have ever seen before, and I suspect it can do Mach 10—ten times the speed of sound—and that Congress has never heard of it.
My Geiger counter indicates the radiation here is three times what is normal, but still well within safety limits. I’m puzzled. Radiation couldn’t have been responsible for my luminous skin. Yet the fact that the level is high confirms that there are nuclear warheads in the vicinity. I suspect I am sitting above them, that they are stored in the caves the military has dug into this hill. The caves are now an established fact. I watch as men and equipment ride a miniature railroad beneath me into and out of the hill. This is how the human race gets into trouble. The danger of renegade vampires is nothing compared to the folly of handing unlimited sums of money over to people who like to keep “secrets.” Who have on their payroll physicists and chemists and genetic engineers who, as children, rooted for Pandora to open her box of evils.
How Andrew Kane has partially managed to duplicate Arturo Evola’s work continues to preoccupy me. I cannot imagine an explanation.
A black cart rides beneath me into the hill. Soldiers sit on it, smoking cigarettes and talking about babes. My Geiger counter momentarily jumps. The level is not high enough to harm the human body, but it does confirm that the boys in uniform are sitting next to a thermonuclear device. I know the famed fail-safe system is a joke, as do most people in the government. The President of the United States is not the only one who can order an American-made nuclear device to explode. In West Germany, before the Wall came down, the authority to fire a miniature neutron bomb was often in the hands of a lieutenant. Currently, all the nuclear submarine captains in the U.S. Navy have the authority to launch their missiles without the required presidential black box and secret codes. It is argued that the captains must have this authority because if the country is attacked the President would most likely be one of the first to die.
Still, it makes me nervous.
The general must have the authority to trigger these bombs if he wishes.
It is good to know.
I have finished my study of the compound and am walking back to my Jeep when I notice that my legs are glowing again, as are my hands and arms. Once more, every square inch of my exposed skin is faintly shining with the whiteness of the moon—not good here at a top-secret camp. It makes me that much more visible. I hurry to my Jeep, climb inside, and drive away.
But long before I reach Las Vegas, I pull over, far off the road.
A bizarre idea has occurred to me.
The problem is not radiation. It is not man-made.
Climbing out of the Jeep, I remove all my clothing and stand naked with my arms outstretched to the moon, as if I were worshipping the astronomical satellite, bowing to it, drinking up her rays. Slowly the skin on my chest and thighs begins to take on the milky radiance. And it seems the more I invite the moonlight onto my skin, into my heart, the brighter it becomes. Because if I will it to stop, my skin returns to normal.
“What does it mean, Yaksha?” I whisper to my dead creator.
My right arm, as the moonlight floods in, shines particularly bright. Holding it close to my eyes, I can see through it! I can actually see the ground through my flesh!
I put my clothes back on.
I can’t look like a Christmas light when I try to seduce Andrew Kane.
SIX
I am Lara Adams as I enter the casino later that night and stand beside Andrew Kane at the dice table. I’m still a redhead, with a soft Southern accent and a prim and proper smile. The name is not new to me. I used it to enroll at Mayfair High in Oregon, where I met Ray and Seymour. It’s hard to believe that was less than two months ago. How life can change when you’re a vampire on the run.
Andy glances over at me and smiles. He has the dice in his hands. He has been in the casino five minutes but already he’s had a couple of drinks.
“Do you want to place a bet?” he asks.
I smile. “Do you feel hot?”
He shakes the dice in his palm. “I am hot.”
I remove a stack of black hundred-dollar chips from my bag and place one on the pass line, his favorite bet—seven or eleven. Andy rolls the dice. They dance over the green felt. Coming to a halt, the numbers four and three smile up at us.
“Lucky seven,” the croupier says and pays off our bets. Andy flashes me another smile.
“You must be good luck,” he says.
I double my bet. “I have a feeling this is my night,” I say.
By the time the dice come to me, Andy and I have lost a combined total of eight hundred dollars. That is about to change. With my supernatural balance and reflexes, with practice, I can roll any number I desire. I have been practicing in my suite since I returned from the compound. Carefully I set the dice upright in my left palm in the configuration: five and six. In a blur, I toss them out. They bounce happily, seemingly randomly to human eyes. But they come to a halt in the same position they started out. Andy and I each win a hundred dollars on the number eleven. Since I threw a pass, I am invited to throw another—which I do. The people at the table like me. Most bet on the pass line.
I throw ten passes in a row before I let the dice go. We mustn’t get greedy. Andy appreciates my style.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Lara Adams. What’s yours?”
“Andrew Kane. Are you here alone?”
I pout. “I did come with a friend. But it seems I’ll be going home alone.”
Andy chuckles. “Not necessarily. The night’s still young.”
“It’s five in the morning,” I remind him.
He nods at the glass of water I sip. “Can I get you something stronger?”
I lean against the table. “I think I need something stronger.”
&
nbsp; We continue to play craps, winning better than honest wages when I am throwing the dice. The people at the table don’t want me to surrender the designated high roller position, but I am careful not to appear superhuman, just damn lucky. Andy bets heavily and wins back all the money he lost the night before, and then some. We both drink too much. I have four margaritas, Andy five Scotches and water, on top of what he had drunk before I entered. The alcohol has no effect on me. My liver neutralizes it almost the instant it enters my system. I can take in all kinds of poisons and remain undisturbed. Andy, however, is now drunk, just the way the casinos like people. He is betting five hundred dollars a roll when I pull him away from the table.
“What’s the matter?” he protests. “We’re winning.”
“You can be winning and courting disaster at the same time. Come on, let’s have some coffee. I’m buying.”
He stumbles as he walks beside me. “I’ve been at work all night. I’d like a steak.”
“You shall have whatever you want.”
The Mirage coffee shop is open twenty-four hours a day. The menu is flexible—Andy is able to get his steak. He orders it medium rare with a baked potato. He wants a beer, but I insist he have a glass of milk.
“You’re going to destroy your stomach,” I say as we wait for our food. I do have favorite foods, besides blood. I have ordered roast chicken with rice and vegetable. Surprisingly, for a vampire, I eat plenty of vegetables. Nothing is as good for the body as those fresh greens, except, perhaps, those dripping reds. Sitting with Andy, I become thirsty for blood as well. Before I rest, I will grab some male tourist off the streets, show him a good time. That is, if I don’t spend the night—the day—sleeping beside Andy. His eyes shine as he looks me over.
“I can always have it removed,” he replies.
“Why not just drink less?”
“I’m on vacation.”