"DEATH AND MIRACLES"
EDITED BY:
Miriam Belle
CREATIVE CONSULTANT:
Simply_Cyn
AUTHORS NOTE:
"It would really help if you read the previous chapters before reading this one for the sake of clarity."
***
Michael slowly opened his eyes to an unfocused world.
His head ached under a dull, forceful throb. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, working the blur out of his field of vision. It was morning, he knew that much as the bright yellow warmth of the sun flooded his bedroom and illuminated everything to a glow. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and then all of sudden looked down.
He remembered the gashes on his chest and stomach. That thing in the alley had ripped into him the night before, cutting deep and almost pulling his guts out. As he ran his fingers over his torso, he saw that the gashes were gone as though part of a bad dream. Still, looking below his navel he saw the stitches there, sewn uselessly and without a purpose into his unbroken skin.
"What the fuck?" he whispered, and then he remembered. He turned quickly, calling out, "Lydia?"
Not bothering with clothes or giving the slightest thought about who might see him through a window, he walked naked through his apartment, looking for his mysterious rescuer. She was nowhere to be seen, not a single sign of her ever even having being there save for the stitches and the miraculous healing of his wounds. Michael sat down on his couch, the sunlight warming the back of neck and shoulders. It was after nine-thirty in the morning, and he was late for work.
Rushing to get showered and dressed, his mind was fixated on Lydia. He could remember now that she had somehow brought him home from the alley, that she had entered his apartment with apparently the greatest of ease. He also remembered that she had somehow healed him.
He remembered her silky skin against him, the feeling of her breasts pressed to him and the strange yet undeniable connection they had formed. As his thoughts cleared, he could see images, memories that were not his own. Flashes of a life he had never been a part of, the feelings attached to them disjointed and frantic. Lydia had passed her feelings of fear and anger to him, her bitterness at the past. But most of all, he felt her loneliness, the emptiness inside her.
Michael stood up and made his way to the bathroom.
"What the hell happened?" he asked his reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair and put on his deodorant.
As he grabbed his gun and holster, which someone had conveniently put on the nightstand, he was jolted again by a sudden remembrance.
"Rossetti," he whispered. Rossetti was supposed to meet him back at the alley that night. And if had he went back there last night, with that thing still in the alley...
Michael grabbed his leather jacket, forsaking his blazer and tie, running out the door.
***
"What was it?" Maricel asked.
Lydia shook her head, "I'm not sure yet."
Maricel frowned. "Yes you are. I can feel it."
Lydia paused her hurried morning routine in the middle of the room as she put her day suit on. Her fingers tightened slightly in frustration around the fabric of her blouse as she buttoned it up. "I told you," she glared at Maricel, "I don't know."
"Whatever it was," she said, "It hates you."
"I got that impression."
"But it loves you too," Maricel sat down at Lydia's desk. Her eyes looked tired, her face as pale as her blonde hair. She looked at Lydia and said, "It loved the man you were talking with too."
"Detective Wolverton," she corrected, "And as far as I am concerned, it could have easily been an undead or some fucked up lycanthrope looking for a thrill."
"It was a vampire," she said flatly, "At least part of it was. I don't know how I know that."
"Listen," Lydia said, ignoring Maricel's persistence in talking about it, "We don't have time to do this. It's not safe here anymore. We're going to have to leave tonight or the next."
"It will come back," she told Lydia, not so much agreeing with her, but warning her. Why was Lydia lying? What was she hiding?
"It's not the creature I'm worried about," she said, putting on her shoes. Her shoulders ached from being tossed around by the thing, the creature that had once been Steve Wolverton. She grimaced a little as she fixed the straps on the shoes and continued, "I am worried about slayers. Someone will have been monitoring the news looking for leads, and it's only a matter of time before some hotshot slayer puts two and two together. It will kill again, and it has shown no fear of doing it publicly. We gotta skip town before someone shows up with a stake, crossbow and bolt."
"You're afraid of it," Maricel said, her eyes squinted at Lydia in deep concentration. Before Lydia could stop her, she had looked into her mind again. Maricel cocked her eyebrow knowingly and asked, "Who is Steve?"
Lydia spun and stared at her, her eyes starting to glow blue with their angry fire. Maricel slunk back in the chair, suddenly afraid of her. The anger and rage, and more importantly the guilt surrounded Lydia like a dark cloud, both powerful and ugly. Maricel could almost see it, but was blocked by its viscous nature. It was almost as though it were tangible and possessed of a life of its own.
Lydia glared at her, "You listen to me. You've inherited some of my telepathy, and that's fine. But if you go poking around in my head anymore, even just once, I'll kill you. I saved your life, and I don't regret it. But you're crossing a line with me. If you can't live with that, then get out."
Maricel felt tears stinging her eyes. "I'm sorry."
Lydia breathed deep, and the blue radiance abating and revealing her dark, kind eyes again. "I'm sorry too. But there's more, and for you it's going to be a doubly rough night. Tonight, you'll have to feed. I'm not lying to you when I say it will be difficult. And make no mistake that tonight will change your life more than anything."
Maricel sat quietly, listening.
"Don't go anywhere, do you understand? You'll need me to help guide you on this. Try to rest and conserve your strength today," Lydia said.
"I will," she nodded, and caught herself looking Lydia's figure over again. Her body reacted to her curves, to her gestures, to her power. Maricel could not understand the need she had for Lydia. She had never been a lesbian in her life as human, never once even considering it. There had been women who had wanted her, the most tenacious of which had been a fellow hooker named Tiffany. She had tried to seduce Maricel on more than one occassion, but she had just never had the urge to respond. But as a vampire, in the context of her new existence, it was sexual yearning to be sure, and there was shame lining every provocative thought she had about other women since the bite. Especially Lydia...
Running even deeper still, like a strong stream of deep, pure underground water was gratitude; a feeling of debt to Lydia for saving her from the AIDS virus Larry Crispin had infected her with. That debt had led to feelings of strong loyalty and protectiveness.
When Lydia had spoken so angrily to her, it had cut her deeply.
"I will," she repeated, "I promise."
"Thank you," Lydia smiled, but Maricel saw that the smile never reached her eyes. Whatever was happening to Lydia, it was tearing her apart inside. And Maricel didn't know if there was anything she could do to help. Maybe there was no one who could help her. She considered the reality that her fate was destined to be similar to Lydia's, immortal and lonely, a long journey from everything she had ever known to a destination with no end.
Maricel leaned back in the chair and watched Lydia leave.
"Have a good day," she said whispered.
***
Michael arrived at the station a little after ten, and the place was a mad house. It was busier than he had ever seen it before as the officers, detectives and secretaries moved about their business hurriedly. He had just walked into his office, hoping to find Rossetti there waiting for him, as he always had been before, and instead found Chief Hollins sitting behind his desk, looking solemn and as expressionless as a statue.
"Chief?" Michael asked as he closed his door, "What's going on?"
"Michael," Hollins leaned forward, his hands clasped together on the desk and trademark stogie clamped between his teeth, "Where have you been?"
"I overslept," Michael said. His gut told him something was really wrong here, and as he sat down in the chair in front of his own desk, he felt sick anxiety grip him.
"Detective Rossetti is dead, Mike."
"What?" Michael asked, the blood draining from his face as his body went cold. The whole world went so quiet it actually hurt his ears.
"He was found in the alley beside the Art Museum," Hollins told him, "What was left of him was scattered all the place."
"Oh my God," Michael closed his eyes, remembering the thing that had attacked him and Lydia, it's claws and those razor sharp teeth. He could see the glowing red eyes in his mind, two bulging windows into the heart of Hell.
"Rossetti's wife said he was heading out with you last night. Any explanation?"
Michael shifted in his chair. "Are you implying something, sir?"
"I am implying that you have fucking disobeyed my orders for the last goddamn time, you irresponsible prick!" Hollins shouted, spittle flying across his desk. "Now what the fuck were you two doing last night?"
Michael held the Chief's glare, steeling himself not to back down. "We were following up on a lead."
"On which case?" Hollins growled.
