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Don't make me do this, God. Don't make me…
Like the laughter of God, light flushed up into the gray sky, turning all the icebergs to silver, the water to sapphire of incredible hardness and depth. At the same time my frozen flesh was suffused with unbearable heat, my skin itching, writhing… my flesh readying to burst into flame.
Hiding in a boiler on the wreck, curled in some corner of the grand staircase or the Palm Court Lounge, I would have only to wait for the treasure-hunters to come.
The cold and darkness would only
seem eternal.
Would hope in those circumstances be more cruel than the comfort of despair?
I closed my eyes, tipped myself backward over the side.
I was about to find out.
Hit by Bruce McAllister
Bruce McAllister is the author of the novels Dream Baby and Humanity Prime and more than fifty short stories. His short work has been collected in The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories, and has appeared in numerous anthologies, including the prestigious Best American Short Stories series. His stories have also been nominated for both the Hugo and Nebula awards. He's currently working on two "quiet fantasy" novels, both of which incorporate vampire elements.
McAllister says that he suspects vampire stories are Christianity flipped to its dark alter-self. "In communion we do drink blood, and we're promised immortality, so in one sense vampirism is communion and immortality but without God's grace," he said. "So that plays a role in the attraction, as does the neo-Romantic gothic feel of it."
This story, which first appeared in the online magazine Aeon, is inspired by classic and contemporary hard-boiled fiction. But while the characters of Dashiell Hammett and Robert Parker may have found themselves in similar situations, none of them ever had a client or a mark quite like this…
I'm given the assignment by an angel-I mean that, an angel-one wearing a high-end Armani suit with an Ermenegildo Zegna tie. A loud red one. Why red? To project confidence? Hell, I don't know. I'm having lunch at Parlami's, a mediocre bistro on Melrose where I met my first ex, when in he walks with what looks like a musical instrument case-French horn or tiny tuba, I'm thinking-and sits down. We do the usual disbelief dialogue from the movies: He a
He reaches for the case, opens it right there (no one's watching-not even the two undercover narcs-the angel makes sure of that) and hands it to me. It's got a brand-new crossbow in it. Then he tells me what I need to do to be forgiven.
"God wants you to kill the oldest vampire."
"Why?" I ask and can see him fight to keep those pupilless eyes from rolling. Even angels feel boredom, contempt, things like that, I'm thinking, and that makes it all that more convincing.
"Because
He can't do it."
"And why is that?" I'm getting braver. Maybe they
do need me. I'm good-one of the three best repairmen west of Vegas, just like my sainted dad was-and maybe guys who say yes to things like this aren't all that common.
"Because the fellow-the oldest bloodsucker-is the son of…well, you know…"
"No, I don't."
"Does 'The Prince of Lies' ring a bell?"
"Oh." I'm quiet for a second. Then I get it. It's like the mob and the police back in my uncle's day in Jersey. You don't take out the don because then maybe they take out your chief.
I ask him if this is the reasoning.
The contempt drops a notch, but holds. "No, but close enough."
"And where do I do it?"
"The Vatican."
"The Holy City?"
"Yes."
"Big place, but doesn't have to be tricky." I'd killed men with a wide range of appliance-the angel knew that-and suddenly this wasn't sounding any trickier. Crossbow. Composite frame, wooden arrows-darts-whatever they're called. One to the heart. I'd seen enough movies and TV.
"Well," he says, "maybe. But most of the Jesuits there are vampires too."
"Oh."
"That's the bad news. The good news is they're pissed at him-the oldest vampire, I mean. They think he wants to turn mortal. He's taken up with some twenty-eight-year-old
bambina who knows almost as many languages as he does-a Vatican interpreter-and they've got this place in Siena-Tuscany, no less-and he hasn't bitten her, and it's been making the Brothers, his great-great-great-grandchildren, nervous for about a month now. Handle it right and she just might help you even if they don't."
"You serious?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because she wants to be one, too-she's very Euro-goth-you know the type-and he just won't bite her."
No, I don't know the type, but I say, "She's that vindictive?"
"What woman isn't?"
This sounds awfully sexist for an angel, but I don't argue. Maybe angels get dumped too.
"Does he really?" I ask.
"Does he really what?"
"Want to be mortal again."
"He never was mortal."
"He was born that way?"
The eyes-which suddenly have pupils now, majorly dark blue ones-are starting to roll again. "What do
you think? Son of You Know Who-who's not exactly happy with the traditional wine and wafer thing, but likes the idea of blood and immortality."
"Makes sense," I say, eyeing the narcs, who are eyeing two Fairfax High girls, "but why does God need someone to kill him if he wants to flip?
He takes a breath.
What an idiot, the pupils say. "Remember when China tried to give Taiwan a pair of pandas?"
I'm impressed. This guy's up on earthly news. "No."
"Taiwan couldn't take them."
"Why not?"
He takes another breath and I hear him counting to ten.
"Okay, okay," I say. "I get it. If they took the pandas, they were in bed with China. They'd have to make nice with them. You accept cute cuddly creatures from someone and it looks like love, right?"
"Basically."
"If You Know Who's son flips-goes mortal-God has to accept him."
"Right."
"And that throws everything off. No balance. No order. Chaos and eventually, well, Hell?"
The angel nods, grateful, I can tell, that I'm no stupider than I am.
I think for a moment.
"How many arrows do I get?"
I think he'll laugh, but he doesn't.
"Three"
"Three?" I don't like the feeling suddenly. It's like some Bible story where the guy gets screwed so that God can make some point about fatherly love or other form of sacrifice. Nice for God's message. Bad for the guy.
"It's a holy number," he adds.
"I get that," I say, "but I don't think so. Not three."
"That's all you get."
"What makes you think three will do it-even if they're all heart shots?"
"You only need one."
The bad feeling jumps a notch.
"Why?"
He looks at me and blinks. Then nods. "Well, each has a point made from a piece of the Cross, Mr. Pagano. We were lucky to get even that much. It's hidden under three floors and four tons of tile in Jerusalem, you know."
"What is?"
"The Cross. You know which one."
I blink. "Right. That's the last thing he needs in the heart."
"Right."
"So all I've got to do is hit the right spot."