Chapter 276 - Last Rites part 7

It is difficult, in even the best of circumstances, to conceal our true nature from mortals for very long. We can dull the luminescent quality of our flesh with cosmetics, hide our glinting eyes behind tinted glasses, warm our icy flesh by feeding to excess, but mortal intuition unerringly penetrates our guiles. Even if a mortal is not clever, even if they never consciously realize what we are, they grow anxious in our presence, restless and fearful. In an intimate setting, concealment is well nigh impossible, but Friar Justus was a little drunk, and his mind was muddled with drink and lusty thoughts.

His room was small but comfortably appointed, with a big bed and a fireplace, a couple chairs and several lamps. The lamps he lit as soon as he entered the room, saying that he had purchased a sweet Italian wine when he departed for the village of Getvar. "Would you like to share a cup with me?" he asked.

I had managed to keep the mead down. "A small cup," I said. "I am very tired."

"I, too," he said, going to his bags. He took out the wine and a small, lead cup.

"It's exciting to meet a fellow scholar, especially someone who shares my interest in the supernatural," he said as he poured. "I could tell by your questions that you are an expert in the profane."

"And you. I believe I may have read one of your treatises on ghosts and vampires."

"History of the Ghosts and Vampires of Europe?"

"Yes, that is the one, I think."

"And what did you think?"

He drank, passed me the cup.

"Of what, in particular?" I asked, sipping. My stomach cramped as the fluid slid down my throat, and I tensed my muscles to keep the Strix from rejecting it. "It was a large book."

He grinned, crossed the room to shut the door. "My theory concerning the true nature of vampirism," he said, turning the key in the lock. "That the monsters of antiquity, the lamia and strigae of the Old Testament, the strix of the Greeks, the masca and larva of the Lombards, are in actuality a singular species, despite the embellishments of the various cultures they are associated with."

"I would challenge your theory in only one respect," I said, after a moment of thought.

"And what is that?" the monk asked, unbelting his tunic. He took off his crucifix, kissed it, and placed it on a nearby table.

"That they are the source of many of the deities of the ancient world as well. That their race, like mankind, is composed of individuals both kind in nature, as well as wicked. The wicked were labeled monsters, while the benevolent were labeled gods."

Justus paused, struck by my suggestion, and the possibilities it set loose in his imagination.

"The gods, too?" he murmured. He pulled his tunic off over his head. He wore a hair shirt beneath, and simple hose. "It would certainly explain the tendency of Pagan deities to demand blood sacrifice of their worshippers. These creatures, whatever they are, are unerringly described as having an uncontrollable desire for the blood of living men. It is the one common denominator amid the numerous conflicting accounts of past scholars."

"Yes."

"Please," he said, "make yourself comfortable, Gyozo. Do you need to borrow a nightshirt? I see you have only the one bag. You could not have packed many garments in there."

"I ordinarily sleep in the nude," I replied. "But I will accept a nightshirt if that disturbs you."

"No," he replied quickly. "That doesn't disturb me in the least. It is how God created us. The human body is beautiful. It is only our shame and vanity which is ugly."

I heard his heart begin to gallop in his chest, and smiled a little as I propped my bag against the wall. How I wanted to taste the blood that heart was pumping so rapidly through his veins! For a moment, I could barely restrain myself.

And yet, somehow I managed.

"Do you mind if we turn the lights down?" I asked.

"Not at all."

I circled the room, lowering the flames of the lamps until the flickering orange light of the fireplace dominated.

Justus watched me move from lamp to lamp with an intensity that was almost unnerving. If I could have read his mind right then, I am certain I would have been quite thoroughly shocked by the fantasies swirling in his head. Despite my worldliness, I am at heart a modest man.

Not so the monk. He had been chastised for his excesses on numerous occasions, he confessed to me later. He had been threatened with censure, exile, even excommunication. His failings were only tolerated, he said, because his passion for the Church burned equally as hot.

At last he returned to himself. He shuddered as if with a chill and stripped off his hair shirt. The flesh beneath was pale and lightly freckled. And surprisingly muscular. Most monks were flabby, powdered things.

"In truth, I've never considered such a possibility," he said. "But now that you put it forth, it seems quite logical. I'm not sure why it never occurred to me before." He kicked off his shoes and peeled his hose down his thighs. He had muscular thighs, lightly furred with hair, and a startlingly large organ. "I believe it might be true," he said thoughtfully, fists resting on his hips, "though I'd never dare to publish such a thought! Not even a hint of it. And I would urge you to restrain yourself from publishing such fantastic musings yourself. A theory like that could easily be expanded to include our own theology. We would be branded heretics! Think on it, if you dare-- if I dare! The Christ as vampire! The accounts of all his miracles shoe in quite neatly to this theory of yours: his resurrection, his command to the Apostles at the last supper…"

"This wine is my blood," I replied.

I could see that my words, offered casually, had begun to worm their way inside his mind. I did not mean to suggest to him that his god was a vampire. I was nowhere near Galilee when Christ ministered to the Jews. I had only meant to make conversation, to entertain him with a controversial idea, but I had wounded his faith, and shame shot through my heart like an arrow.

The monk took a long draft of his wine, pulling directly from the bottle, then scrubbed his lips with his hand. His eyes twitched restlessly in their sockets as my words churned in his brilliant mind.

I felt helpless in my shame. I did not know how to stop the spread of my poison. Not without revealing my true nature to the mortal.

Distract him, I said to myself. Before his spirit is broken.

I began to undress, and his eyes quit their frantic jerking. He stood stock still as I removed every scrap of clothing from my body. I slipped into his bed and smiled at him, careful to conceal my eyeteeth. "Come to bed, Justus. Let not my idle musings disturb you any further. You are tired, and your thoughts befuddled with wine."

He grinned, though he still looked a little distracted. He took another swig of wine and set the bottle aside. He blew out the lamp beside the bed. "God forgive me," he murmured, his voice so low a mortal man could not have heard it. I'm not certain what exactly he was asking to be forgiven for, but he came to bed without bothering to don his nightshirt and slid under the covers beside me.

"You're so cold!" he exclaimed, when his thigh pressed up against mine.

I knew the ruse would be short-lived, but I tried to extend his ignorance a little longer. "Apologies," I replied. "I'm afraid I suffer from a medical condition that affects my circulation. It is not fatal, but it makes my flesh cold. I hope you can endure it for one night." And then I added, just to make the lie more credible: "Sometimes, when I overstretch myself, I fall into a terrible languor and have to rest for days at a time."

"That's unfortunate," he murmured. He was quiet a moment, his mortal heart thudding in his chest. I heard the click of his throat as he swallowed. "Perhaps I can warm you with a vigorous massage...?"

He said it as if it were a question.

Tell him no, I said to myself.

"If you'd like," I replied.

He rolled onto his side facing me, and began to knead my chest muscles with his fingers.

"How does that feel?"

"You're very warm," I said. His fingers dug into my chest, moving slowly around and down my sternum, then my stomach.

"Does all of your anatomy suffer from this… deficiency of circulation?" he inquired innocently, then, before I could answer: "Oops! I see that it does not!"