Creatures of Forever (The Last Vampire #6)(35)
Author: Christopher Pike

I feel I have no recourse. We can argue all night, and get nowhere, and I believe it is possible that he could die this very night. From the burning and the other abuse, his sores are even more inflamed. Half his body is infected tissue, and I feel without even touching him the fever that cooks his blood. The effort it took him to reach me has drained what reserves he had left. His breathing is a perpetual wheeze. If I do not give him my blood soon, I will not be able to return to the future with a clear conscience.

"Dante," I say, meeting his gaze again. "Look at me."

He blinks rapidly. "My lady?"

"Look only at me, my friend. Listen only to me. You do not need to be afraid of my blood. It is a gift from God. Just a few drops of it will make you feel better, and God wants you to feel better after all that you have struggled do in his name."

He is suddenly dreamy. "Yes, my lady."

"Now close your eyes and imagine how nice it will to have your sores healed. How good it will be not to have people run away when they see you because they see you only as a leper. Dante, my dear, I promise you the leprosy will be gone in a few minutes."

"It will be gone," he whispers to himself with his eyes closed.

"Good." I stretch out my hand. "Now keep your eyes closed but give me your hand. I will lead you to the pond and we will first wash your sores and then I will sprinkle something on them and they will be all better."

"All better," he mumbles. But he stiffens when I try to lead him toward the pond even though his eyes remain closed. He is still under my spell, at least I think he is. "No," he says.

I have to speak carefully. "What is the matter?"

"I cannot go in the pond."

"You will not go in the pond, only beside it. I need to wash you off."

"I can drown in the pond," he says.

Now that I think of it, I have never seen Dante wash beside a pond. It is probably one of the reasons he smells.

"I will not let you drown. There is no way you can fall in."

"No," he says.

He appears to be under my spell, but he is resisting me as well. I am reminded of an earlier time when I pressed him for information he knew and yet he managed to evade me—even while in the midst of a powerful hypnotic trance. There is still something in his mind, a psychic aberration of some type, that makes it impossible for me to read him clearly. Even with all my powers now at my disposal, I cannot read what he is thinking exactly.

And I should be able to read his mind completely.

"What if you rest on the rock you were sitting on a moment ago," I suggest. "And I bring you water to clean you. Would that be all right?"

He nods with his eyes closed. "I'll rest on the rock and be all right."

I lead him back to the stone where he initially rested. As he sits, I stroke his head. "I will moisten my shirt," I say. "Then I will touch your sores gently, to clean them. There will be no pain. You will feel nothing but relief. You understand, Dante?"

"I understand," he whispers.

I let go of him. "I will be gone a few seconds. Remain at peace."

He sighs. "Peace."

At the pond the water is very still, more so than ever. Like the pond in the desert, it is a perfect mirror of the heavens. There are so many stars on its delicate surface, so many constellations that it seems almost a sin to disturb the cool liquid. Yet I have stood here before. Last time I also gave Dante my blood and sent him on his way healed of his horrible disease. Like now, and then, I felt moved by love to give him what I could. Certainly he has earned my blood and my trust.

I bend to dampen my shirt and then pause.

I cannot stop staring in the water at the sky. There is the familiar constellation, Andromeda, and I can't remember it ever looking so clear. Why, I can almost imagine that I see Perseus' wife, chained to the rocks as the Titan slowly approaches, bound as a human sacrifice to appease an evil monster. Much asL andulf chained and sacrificed young women to appease his own wickedness. It is incredible, as I look closer, to see Perseus creeping closer to her side, to rescue her, with the Medusa's head hidden in his bag, out of sight. He will only show it at the last moment, when the Titan has exposed himself. Perseus was wise to keep his weapon hidden. It was Dante who suggested that Perseus would have been a fool to part with such power.

Medusa. Perseus. Dante.

"My lady," Dante whispers at my back.

"Coming," I say.

I kneel to wet my shirt.

But once again I pause.

Richard Wagner's opera returns to me on the si­lence of the night air. The music echoes in my mind with rhythms older than man. Again it is as if I am watching the opera, Parsival, being staged against the majestic background of the constellations. Each of the principal characters could be a mythological being. King Arthur could be King Polydectes, who sent Perseus after the Gorgon. Parsival could be Perseus, who slew the Medusa. But who wouldKl ingsor be? Why, of course, the Medusa itself. The one who appears fair from the outside, but whose hair—whose aura—i s filled with hissing snakes. I understand in that moment that the serpents are symbolically placed above the Medusa's head. They are there so her true identity cannot be mistaken.

"Hurry, my lady," Dante whispers.

I will," I say. But I cannot move, or breathe.

Klingsor and the Medusa. Klingsor and Landulf.

They had so much in common.

Except for one little thing. The play spoke of this "thing."

Wolfram von Eschenbach's Parsival told of this "thing."

Klingsor had a special mark.

He was smooth—in a delicate spot.

I remember now. Everything.

And I am sick because the truth is horrible beyond belief.

I am turned to stone. Tears cannot help me. They will not come. Not before a pain beyond all measure comes. Because even though I know the truth, I refuse to accept it. My faith may be stronger than stone, but in time all stones are worn away by water. Or tears—it doesn't matter. All I can do now is force my stone body to face what waits behind me.

Wetting my shirt, I stand and spy a lizard that slithers near the side of the pond. In a moment he is in my hand, in my pocket, and I casually walk back to Dante, who sits expectantly on the rock where I left him. A smile springs to his face as I approach even though his eyes remain closed. Leaning over, I begin to gently wipe at his burnt and diseased hand and arm. My touch pleases him.