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Her fingers twined and untwined anxiously. "This is not a… state that can be borne alone; it is far too lonely. So this is how it is handled. An imperative of nature."
"No!" I cried. "No no no! What you're telling me is impossible. It's madness!"
"It is life, and life only."
"Your life! Not mine!"
I stood up, stumbled, but I could not escape the gaze of her lambent eyes. I stared at her in mounting horror. "Liar!" I cried. "Where is Morodor's mate if this is true?"
"Away," she said calmly. "Feeding."
"My God!" I whirled away. "My God!" And slammed into the prickly wall of a hedge.
"Can love hold so much terror for you?" she asked. "You have a responsibility. To yourself as well as to me. Isn't that what love is?"
But I could no longer think clearly. I only knew that I must get away from them both.
The change has already begun, she had said. I did not think that I wanted to see the fruits of that terrible metamorphosis. Not after having known her and loved her like this, all air and sunlight.
Two sides of the coin. Wasn't that what I had said to Morodor? How he must have laughed at that. Yes. Two sides. But of the same coin.
"Don't you see?" I heard her voice but could no longer see her. "You have nothing to fear. It is your destiny-
our destiny, together."
Howling, I clawed my way from her, staggering, tripping as I ran through the labyrinth. My only coherent thought was to somehow get to the sea and then to hurl myself into its rocking embrace.
To swim. To swim. And if I were lucky I would at last be thrown up onto the soft sand of some beach far, far away.
But the night had come alive with shadows drenched in my own terror. And, like a mirror, they threw up to me the ugly writhing apparitions from the very bottom of my soul, thrusting them rudely into the light for me to view.
And above me the sound of…
Wings.
Even through the horrendous tattoo of the storm I can make out that sound. It's the same sound that reached down into my heavy slumber that night in Fuego del Aire and wrenched me awake. I did not know it then but I know it now.
But I know many things now that I did not then. I have had time to think. To think and to write. Sometimes they are one and the same. Like tonight.
Coming to terms. I have never been able to do that. I have never
wanted to do that. My writing kept me fluid, moving in and out as the spirit took me. New York today, Capri the next. The world was my oyster.
But what of
me?
The sound is louder now: that high keening whistle like the wind through the pines. It buzzes through my brain like a downed bottle of vintage champagne. I feel lightheaded but more than that. Light-bodied. Because I know.
I know.
There is nothing but excitement inside me now. All the fear and the horror I felt in the labyrinth leached away from me. I have had six months to contemplate my destiny. Morodor was right: For each one, it is different. The doorway metamorphoses to suit the nature of the individual.
For me it is love. I denied that when Marissa confronted me with the process of her transmogrification. Such beauty! How could I lose that? I thought. It took me all of this time to understand that it was not her I feared losing but myself. Marissa will always be Marissa.
But what of me? Change is what we fear above all else and I am no different.
Was no different. I have already forgotten the golden creature of Fuego del Aire: she haunts my dreams still but I remember only her i
All around me the city sleeps on, safe and secure, wrapped in the arms of the myths of its own creation. Shhh! Don't bother to disturb it. No one would listen anyway.
The beating of the wings is very loud now, drowning out even the heavy pulsing of the rain. It reverberates in my mind like a heartbeat, dimming sight, taste, touch, smell. It dominates me in a way I thought only my writing could.
My shutters are open wide. I am drenched by the rain, buffeted by the chill wind. I am buoyed up by them both. I tremble at the thought. I love.
I love. Those words a river of silver turning my bones hollow.
And now I lift my head to the place where last night the full moon rode calm and clear, a ghostly ideogram written upon the air, telling me that it is time for me to let go of all I know, to plunge inward toward the center of my heart. Six months have passed and it is time.
I know. For now the enormous thrumming emanates from that spot. Beat-beat. Beat-beat. Beat-beat.
The heart-sound.
At last. There in the night, I see her face as she comes for me.
SUNRISE ON RUNNING WATER by Barbara Hambly
Barbara Hambly is the bestselling author of dozens of books, including the vampire novels Those Who Hunt the Night, Traveling with the Dead, and Renfield. She has written many other novels as well, such as the popular Dragonsbane and its sequels, as well as media tie-in projects for Star Trek and Star Wars, and original non-genre novels of historical fiction, mystery, and romance. She is also the editor of the vampire anthology Sisters of the Night.
This story is about a vampire who is unfortunate enough to be on the Titanic on that ship's maiden and only voyage. "The genesis of the story was simple logistics: the Titanic loaded in dusk at Cherbourg, sank in darkness, and the rescue-boats made their appearance only minutes after full dawn," Hambly said. "If a vampire had been in one of the boats, he'd have been totally without powers-being upon ru
The damn ship was supposed to be unsinkable.
Do you think I'd have set foot on the wretched tub if it weren't?
I embarked at Cherbourg for a number of reasons, chief among them being that the
Titanic entered port from Southampton at sunset, and loaded in the dusk. I've never liked the thought of shipping myself in my coffin like a parcel, with the attendant risks of inquisitive customs-inspectors, moronic baggage-handlers, and all the tedious beforehand wrangling with a living accomplice who might or might not take the trouble to make sure one's coffin (or trunk-most of us prefer extra-large double trunks for travel) hasn't been installed in the hold lid-down under several thousand pounds of some imbecilic American dowager's frocks. Half the time one has to kill the accomplice anyway. Usually it's a pleasure.
"Are you sure you wish to do this, Napier?" inquired Simon, who had come down to the docks in a closed car to see me off. Being a century and a half older among the UnDead than I-one of the oldest in Europe, in fact-he is able to tolerate even more twilight, waking slightly earlier and, if need presses, can prolong his wakefulness for a short time into the morning hours, though of course only with adequate protection from the sun's destructive light. "You won't be able to hunt once you're on board, you know. The White Star Line keeps very accurate manifests of its passengers, even in third class. It isn't like the old days."
"Simon," I joked, and laid my hand on his gloved wrist, "you've been vampire too long. You're turning into a cautious old spook-what do they call them these days? A
fuddy-duddy." I knew all about the passenger manifests. I'd studied them closely.