and it had been hard for me to let him leave. I could have been more persuasive and made him stay. Even though he would have thought it all his idea, I still did not want to put any undue pressure on his mind. I would be patient and let him come to me when the time was right.
I smiled as I brought a clear vision of his sweet face into focus in my mind. When I had first seen him in the bar the previous night, it was as if I recognised him from some bygone age. We had not met before, but there had been a connection when our eyes first had met. He had felt it too, I know, for in his thoughts I had sensed he knew our meeting had been preordained. Out of all the young men in LA who had offered themselves to me in one form or another, he was the first to truly touch my heart. From the others I accepted the gift of their blood, given willingly and taken with gratitude—and given a gift of my own – the memory of a moment of intense rapture, though with whom they would not recall.
Of course, I had been tempted by the scent of Micah’s blood, but the self-control I have willed upon myself over the years served me well while in his company. He had asked about the tattoo—not a tattoo really, but the cursed emblem of which I never can rid myself even after all the years that have passed since the night those monsters branded it into me. To this day, I am seized with a sense of outrage at the degradation they subjected me to—all for their own perverse satisfaction. The later realisation that, in fact, they could have induced in me a degree of pleasure during those vile moments, made me hate them all the more. Instead, my pain and humiliation added to their enjoyment.
Now, I fingered the blemish they had burned into my skin. The sign of the Master—
that’s what I had told Micah it was, a young boy’s fantasy. How could I ever have told him what it really represented? Not the sign of a Master but of a slave. A plaything for the vile creatures who had enslaved me, keeping me for their wicked purposes year after long year, locked away from everything I had once known, condemned to live in darkness and survive on the cup of blood they fed me now and then to keep me aware of how they had debased me.
DUET IN BLOOD
J.P. Bowie
39
After they had told me of Bernard’s death, I had fallen into despair. Apart from the desolation I felt at the thought that I would never see him again, any hope I had of ever leaving that wretched place had now been taken from me. He had been my one hope of salvation—and they had killed him. They had also lied to me, for with each passing day I felt a change within me. I grew weak and nauseous. Where was their magic they had claimed would keep me eternally young? My face in the mirror exposed their lies. I was aging—and with a rapidity that defied explanation.
The wizards were baffled. For the first time since I had been brought to that house of horrors, I saw them vexed and uncertain. Then one night, they brought another vampire to my cell. Under torture, he had told them what ailed me. To avoid his further torture, I confessed that I had drunk deeper from Bernard than I probably should have, and that we had indulged in a sexual union, during which he had climaxed inside me.
Because of that, the vampire said, Bernard’s powerful blood and semen had initiated the change in me and even the wizard’s magic could not stop it. I had to die and be reborn.
That was the only way now to save me, he told them. What had been begun must now be finished.
I would be a vampire.
They bade him to change me. He was not as gentle as Bernard, and this time, they did not leave us alone. When it was done, and I lay dying, I gazed into the vampire’s eyes and said, “Tell Marcus Verano how I died.”
“One day, you may tell him yourself,” he murmured, holding his bleeding wrist to my lips.
The vampire had told the truth. When I awoke from my death, my face and body were, once more, young, smooth and
I smiled as I brought a clear vision of his sweet face into focus in my mind. When I had first seen him in the bar the previous night, it was as if I recognised him from some bygone age. We had not met before, but there had been a connection when our eyes first had met. He had felt it too, I know, for in his thoughts I had sensed he knew our meeting had been preordained. Out of all the young men in LA who had offered themselves to me in one form or another, he was the first to truly touch my heart. From the others I accepted the gift of their blood, given willingly and taken with gratitude—and given a gift of my own – the memory of a moment of intense rapture, though with whom they would not recall.
Of course, I had been tempted by the scent of Micah’s blood, but the self-control I have willed upon myself over the years served me well while in his company. He had asked about the tattoo—not a tattoo really, but the cursed emblem of which I never can rid myself even after all the years that have passed since the night those monsters branded it into me. To this day, I am seized with a sense of outrage at the degradation they subjected me to—all for their own perverse satisfaction. The later realisation that, in fact, they could have induced in me a degree of pleasure during those vile moments, made me hate them all the more. Instead, my pain and humiliation added to their enjoyment.
Now, I fingered the blemish they had burned into my skin. The sign of the Master—
that’s what I had told Micah it was, a young boy’s fantasy. How could I ever have told him what it really represented? Not the sign of a Master but of a slave. A plaything for the vile creatures who had enslaved me, keeping me for their wicked purposes year after long year, locked away from everything I had once known, condemned to live in darkness and survive on the cup of blood they fed me now and then to keep me aware of how they had debased me.
DUET IN BLOOD
J.P. Bowie
39
After they had told me of Bernard’s death, I had fallen into despair. Apart from the desolation I felt at the thought that I would never see him again, any hope I had of ever leaving that wretched place had now been taken from me. He had been my one hope of salvation—and they had killed him. They had also lied to me, for with each passing day I felt a change within me. I grew weak and nauseous. Where was their magic they had claimed would keep me eternally young? My face in the mirror exposed their lies. I was aging—and with a rapidity that defied explanation.
The wizards were baffled. For the first time since I had been brought to that house of horrors, I saw them vexed and uncertain. Then one night, they brought another vampire to my cell. Under torture, he had told them what ailed me. To avoid his further torture, I confessed that I had drunk deeper from Bernard than I probably should have, and that we had indulged in a sexual union, during which he had climaxed inside me.
Because of that, the vampire said, Bernard’s powerful blood and semen had initiated the change in me and even the wizard’s magic could not stop it. I had to die and be reborn.
That was the only way now to save me, he told them. What had been begun must now be finished.
I would be a vampire.
They bade him to change me. He was not as gentle as Bernard, and this time, they did not leave us alone. When it was done, and I lay dying, I gazed into the vampire’s eyes and said, “Tell Marcus Verano how I died.”
“One day, you may tell him yourself,” he murmured, holding his bleeding wrist to my lips.
The vampire had told the truth. When I awoke from my death, my face and body were, once more, young, smooth and
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