By Blood We Live

"I see," I say. I'm staring at him and he beats me to it.

"You want to know what we eat if we can't drink blood."

"Yes, I do."

"We eat what you eat. We don't need blood since we came over."

"Which means you don't-how to put it?-you don't perpetuate the species."

"Right."

"Which can't make the elders very happy."

"No, it can't."

By the end of the sixth day my heart-shot rate is 80% and the kid's nodding, doing a dance move or two in his tight black jeans, and saying, "You're the man, Anthony. You're the man." I shouldn't admit it, but what he thinks does matter.

When I get there, courtesy of Alitalia (the angel won't pay for Lufthansa), the city of Siena, in lovely Tuscany, country of my forefathers, is a mess. It's just after the horserace, the one where a dozen riders-each of them repping a neighborhood known for an animal (snail, dolphin, goose-you get the picture)-beat each other silly with little riding crops to impress their local Mado

Fodor's must be this neighborhood's emblem for the race. He gets up crying, gives me the va-funcu with his arm and fist, and screams something in native Sienese-which isn't at all the Italian I grew up with but which I'm sure means, "I'm going to tell my dad and brothers, you asshole!"

The apartment is not in the Neighborhood of the Scallop, but in the Neighborhood of the Salmon, and the girl who answers the door is stu

This is Euro-goth? I don't think so.

"So you're the one," she says. Her English is perfect, just enough accent to make it sexy.

"Yeah. Anthony Pagano." I stick out my hand. She doesn't take it.

"Giova

"Yeah."

"Please don't do it," she says suddenly.

I don't know what to say.

"You're supposed to want him dead."

She looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Why would I want him dead?"

"Because you want him to bite you-because you want to be one too-and he-he won't oblige."

"Who told you that?"

"The-the angel who hired me."

"I know that angel. He was here. He interviewed me."

"You don't want him dead?"

"Of course not. I love him."

I sit down on the sofa. They've got a nice place. Maybe they enjoy the horseraces. Even if they don't, the tourists aren't so bad off-season according to

Fodor's. And maybe when you're the oldest vampire, you don't have to obey the no-daylight rule. Maybe you get to walk around in the day-in a nice, clean, modern medieval city-maybe one you knew when you were only a thousand years old and it was being built and a lot trashier-and feel pretty mortal and normal. Who knows?

"Why did my employer get it wrong?"

She's got the same look the angel did. "The angel didn't get it wrong, Mr. Pagano. He

lied."

"Why?" I'm thinking:

Angels are allowed to do that? Lie? Sure, if God wants them to.

"Why?" I ask again.

"I don't know. That's one of the things I love about Frank-"

"Your man's name is Frank?"

"It is now. That's what he's gone by for the last hundred years, he says, and I believe him. That's one of the things I love."

"What?"

"That he doesn't lie. That he doesn't need to. He's seen it all. He's had all the power you could want and he doesn't want it anymore. He's bitten so many people he lost count after a century, and he doesn't want to do it anymore. He's tired of living the lie any vampire has to live. He's very human in his heart, Mr. Pagano-in his soul-so human you wouldn't believe it-and he's tired of doing his father's bidding, the darkness, the blasphemy, all of that. I don't think he was ever really into it, but he had to do it. He was his father's son, so he had to do it. Carry on the tradition-the business. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yes. I do."

I'm starting to like her, of course-really like her. She's great eye candy, but it isn't just that. The more she talks, the more I like what's inside. She understands-she understands the mortal human heart.

"But I'm supposed to kill him," I say.

"Why?"

"Because of-because of 'balance.'"

"What?"

"That's what my employer said. Even though Frank wants to flip, and you'd think that would be a plus, it wouldn't be. It would throw things off."

"You really believe that, Anthony?"

Now we're on first-name basis, and I don't mind.

I don't say a thing for a second.

"I don't know."

"It sounds wrong, doesn't it."

"Yeah, it does."

We sit silent for a while. I'm looking at her hard, too interested, so I make myself look away.

"Do I make you self-conscious?" she asks gently.

That turns me red. "It's not you. It's me. You look awfully good. It's just me."

"That's sweet." Now she's doing the looking away, cheeks a little red, and when she looks backs, she says, "Any idea why God would

really want him killed?"

"None whatsoever."

"But you've still got to do it."

"There was this promise."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Sure. If you do it, He'll forgive everything. They offered me that too if I helped you."

"And you said no?"

"Yes."

She loves this guy-this vampire-this son of You Know Who-so much she'll turn down an offer like that? Now I'm

really looking at her. She's not just beautiful, she's got coglioni. She'll stand up to God for love.

I'm thinking these things and also wondering whether the angel lied about her because maybe she stiffed him. Because

he's the vindictive one.

"There's nothing I can say to stop you?" she's asking. She doesn't say "nothing I can

do." She says "nothing I can say," and that's all the difference in the world.

"Wish there were, but there isn't. Where is he?"

"You know."

"Yeah, I guess I do. He's in the Vatican somewhere trying to convince those Jesuit vampires that it's okay if he turns."

"That's where he said he was going when he left a week ago, so I'm sure it's true. Like I said, he-"

"Never lies. I know."

I get up.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

I'm depressed when I get to Rome and not because the city is big and noisy and feels like LA. (My dad's people were from Calabria and they never had a good thing to say about

Romani, so I'm biased.) It's because-well, just because. But when I reach the Vatican, I feel a lot better. Now this-this is beautiful. St. Peter's. The church, the square, marble everywhere, sunlight blinding you like the flashlight of God. Even the silly little Fiats going round and round the circle like they're trapped and can't get off are nice.

He's not going to be in the basilica, I know. That's where the Pope is-that new strict guy, Benedict-and it's visiting day, dispensations, blessings, the rest. I don't even try to go through the main Vatican doorway on the opposite side. Too many tourists there too. Instead I go to a side entrance, Via Gerini, where there's no one. Construction cones, sidewalk repair, a big door with carvings on it. Why this entrance, I don't know. Just a hunch.

I know God can open any door for me that He wants to, so if my hunch is right why isn't the door opening? Maybe there'll be a mark on the right door-you know, a shadow that looks like the face of Our Lady, or the number 333, something-but before I can check the door for a sign, something starts flapping above my head and scares the shit out of me. I think it's a bat at first-that would make sense-but it's just a pigeon. No, a dove. Doves are smaller and pigeons aren't this white.