8. Immortality And the Inevitable Ennui
8
Immortality And the Inevitable Ennui
Rory
R ory can see the rapid movements beneath her eyelids and wonders what she’s seeing, what she’s dreaming.
She shouldn’t be dreaming at all , he thinks. She shouldn’t even be unconscious. She looks so fragile, lying on the tufted cushion, head lolling to the side awkwardly. Exposed.
Her hips are twisted to the side, shoulders turned just slightly. He presses a hand to her forehead, cursing softly under his breath as her temperature seems to be rising still. He considers covering her with a blanket but worries it will only make the fever worse. He’s glad he had been standing so close to her, as it meant he was able to catch her before she fell out of the chair. Much like he did the night before, he gathered her up in his arms. But instead of carrying down the stairs to the basement, he made his way up to the room the house has so graciously gifted to her.
He kneels and angles his head to listen for her heartbeat, ear hovering just above her chest. There is nothing there, no beating of organs and no pulse. Blood rushes through her, but her heart does not push it. It means that the curse of his blood worked. She is a vampire.
He sniffs. The scent hovering about her delicately pale skin is all wrong though. Something floral and velvety, with a sweet, lithe layer of dew-drenched white flowers and the soft skin of fruit.
He shakes the image away, looking at Kane who is perched on the arm of the couch. “What did I do wrong?”
“She just needs rest,” insists Kane.
“She shouldn’t need to rest.”
Kane snaps his beak at Rory. “The Turn is complicated. Even with your years of existence, surely you know that there are things beyond what we understand. Not everyone reacts the same.”
He stands, still frowning at Calliope’s sleeping figure. “But—”
“Just let her rest.”
There is a moment of silence as Rory considers Kane with a furrowed brow, lips quirked to the side in thought .
Kane clicks his beak. “I’ll do some research, if it will ease your mind.”
Rory nods, as he glances at a clock ticking away on the wall. Time has gotten away from him, it seems, and he sighs deeply, a habit picked up after traveling among humans for the past three decades. “I need to stop by Clayton’s and put in an order. I’ll probably head to work right after. Can you keep an eye on her?”
Kane gives a short, throaty squawk. “Of course.”
“If she wakes up before I get back,” He points a finger at the bird, “you need to get her to drink.”
“I’ll do my best,” he says, dismissively. “Just get out of here. I’ll keep watch. Don’t worry.”
Rory nods again, shoving aside the dark, forbidding shadow of doubt that is growing inside of him. It’ll be fine , he tells himself as he leaves the room. Still, he can’t help pausing to look at Calliope one last time. She shifts slightly in her sleep, turning her head toward the back of the couch and away from the sunlight.
Kane squawks again, chest puffed out. “Get along. You don’t want to be late.”
* * *
The tires of Rory’s rusty car crunch against the dirt road as he turns onto the paved road, heading north toward the center of town. Soon, tall pine trees give way to open fields and squat houses in the distance and in a few minutes more, he knows those wide-open spaces will turn to blocks of storefronts as the road makes its way through the town square.
He will turn off before it gets there, but he remembers when many of those buildings went up, constructed with the hope that the town would soon be bustling with residents and tourists alike. They christened the town with the vaguely arcane name of Morphic, which always made Rory think of changelings and shapeshifters even though the nearest magical community was hours away.
Still is, thankfully.
As the town expanded, new roads were paved, buildings were built, torn down, then built again. The name was changed to Willow Lake though Rory isn’t sure why, beyond the fact that it’s a more pedestrian moniker. There are a few lakes in Willow Lake, but none of them are called Willow. Rory isn’t even sure if willow trees grow in the area.
The biggest change, Rory noted when he moved back three years ago, is the addition of a freshly paved highway that skirts the edges of the wetlands and links up with the interstate on the opposite side. What had once been a promising town, growth and development sprawling out from the center like a flower unfurling its petals, has faded, as more and more tourists skip over the town entirely and well-established families move to cities in search of fortune and opportunity.
And yet, despite the ebb and flow of life in Willow Lake, some things never change—a fact that Rory is eternally grateful for as he turns onto the long dirt drive that leads to the Clayton Farm. Although the original owner of the farm, Warren Clayton, passed away in the late 1970s, his great-granddaughter, Martha took up the reins. When Rory first knocked hesitantly on the door to the farm, in search of a sustainable food-source, he was grateful that she remembered him and his previous arrangement with her long-deceased great-grandfather.
He parks his car just off to the side, next to a fenced area where cows graze contentedly. The air is dusty and hot. The sun beats down on his shoulders, and he regrets the long-sleeve shirt he changed into, sleeves buttoned firmly at his wrists. Reluctantly, he rolls them up to his elbows before retrieving the crate of empty, cleaned bottles from the backseat and closes the door with his elbow. Rory is making his way up the front steps when the door opens, and he can just make out the curvy form of Martha through the screened door. She holds the door open, and Rory enters the cool darkness of the farmhouse.
Martha smiles. “Just in time. I just took some brownies out of the oven.”
“I couldn’t,” he says, hand on his stomach. “I had a big lunch.”
It’s a well-practiced interaction, almost scripted at this point, and she shakes her head with a laugh, her golden hair bouncing around her face. “I’ll get you to stay for a meal one of these days,” she says, motioning for him to follow her into the kitchen. “You’re too skinny,” she adds over her shoulder with a smirk.
The first time Martha said this to him, he found himself folding his arms across his chest in a vain effort to hide his bulk. His height and his breadth were both sore points for him as a child and continued to be so even after he was Turned. He’s well aware that he is not as slim and attractive as most of his kind, and while he’s since come to terms with his own physical failings, he is still aware of his body and the space he takes up.
Martha’s comments bordered on farce, however, and with the slight twinkle of amusement in her eyes, he quickly learned that Martha’s worry is closer to genuine affection, though tempered with a surprisingly wry sense of humor. So, he indulges in the scripted performance, taking mild comfort in the motherly undertone of her concern. The brownies do smell wonderful though and if he could consume anything other than blood, he would happily sit down at the kitchen table and let her mother him into a meal.
Martha leads him down a narrow hallway, floral wallpaper dotted with family photos, to the kitchen, where the brownies sit enticingly on the stove, rapidly cooling in the air conditioning.
Martha’s husband, Bill, stands off to the side, phone handset cradled between ear and shoulder as he makes notes on a roll of paper affixed to the wall. Bill, of course, isn’t a Clayton. He married into the family two decades ago and although Martha took his last name of Danes, everyone still thinks of Martha as a Clayton, Rory included. It helps, too, that the name of the farm has become too iconic to change. The Danes Farm just doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
Bill is as tall as Rory, though they are opposites in almost every other aspect of their appearances. Whereas Rory is brawny and heavy, Bill is long-limbed and slim. His hair is russet colored, cut short on the sides and slicked back with Brylcreem. He’s older than Martha, with fine wrinkles lining his smooth, shaven face and his closet seems to only hold plaid shirts and dark wash jeans, as Rory has never seen him wear anything else.
Martha moves around Bill, slipping under the tangled phone cord with ease so that she can stir something simmering on the stove. Bill’s mouth quirks up in a tender smirk, his hand absentmindedly pressing against the small of her back as she passes him.
Rory watches the interaction with a faint pang in his chest, an almost-jealousy that’s lingered in his heart for centuries. He hasn’t felt that comfortable with another person in a very long time and while he would never begrudge anyone their happiness, he aches for companionship again.
Then again, the last time he was in a romantic relationship, several people died.
So, he averts his gaze, waiting patiently while Bill talks into the phone. Beyond the kitchen window, he sees the youngest Danes, Elijah, leaning over the hood of a tractor. Rory’s only spoken to Elijah once since he started coming to the Clayton Farm; every other time he’s seen him, his head has been bent over an engine.
Bill hangs up the phone and turns to Rory with a smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting. The usual?” He grabs an invoice from the stack on the counter and a pencil and begins to write.
Rory nods. “I was hoping I could have a little more this time. If it’s not too much trouble.”
He doesn’t miss the shared look between Martha and Bill. This is a mistake , he thinks. The Claytons may be willing to accommodate one vampire, but two? What if they find out that he Turned her himself? What if they start asking questions? Would they report him to the police?
“Might take a day or two to draw that much without hurting the calves,” says Bill, filling in the invoice with well-practiced strokes. He glances up at Rory. “Do you mind some goat?”
The clenched feeling of panic lessens its hold on his chest. “Whatever you got. I have—a friend—visiting. Just for a week or two.”
Bill smiles amiably as he erases the quantity and updates the total. “How’s the fish biting these days?”
It takes Rory a second to realize that Bill is referring to Graeme Lake; he has the vaguest recollection that they once talked about fishing when Rory first moved back. “Alright, I guess. I don’t fish much these days,” he says blandly.
“Elijah was out at Baldwin Lake the other day.” Bill looks up from the invoice. “Said there were no fish. Gotta be this heat. Nothing can live in it.”
“Yeah, must be it,” he agrees, but he can’t help but think about the dark shadow at the bottom of Graeme Lake and Kane saying, “ It’s eating all the fish. ”
Bill completes the invoice and rips off the top copy to hand to Rory, keeping the yellow copy underneath for his records. “I can get Elijah to deliver it when it’s ready. Maybe the day after tomorrow?”
Rory is counting out the cash, but freezes at the thought of young Elijah, with his lanky body and thin, fragile neck knocking on the door, only to have Calliope answer. “Ah, that’s alright, don’t want to be a bother.” He hands the payment to Bill. “Especially since it’s already a large order. Just give me a call and I can come grab it.”
Bill shrugs, but agrees, slipping the cash in his back pocket. “Can do.”
Rory nods goodbye, returning Martha’s smile as best as he can, and begins to make his way back down the hall. Before he leaves, he sees Bill’s efforts to procure a brownie thwarted by a damp kitchen towel against the back of his hand. Martha scowls at her husband but he just presses a kiss to the top of her head with a light huff. That pang twinges again, like a stake is lodged in his chest .
Much like a vampire’s immortality, utility bills are unceasing. The unprepossessing slips of paper began to arrive a month after he moved back to Willow Lake. Cut off from his familial wealth and having spent the last of what little money he had on the house, when that first envelope showed up, he ignored it.
He ignored the second one, too. And then the third. It wasn’t until he was plunged in darkness, the ceiling fan slowly spinning to a stop, that he admitted he might need to pay attention to the bills marked Willow Lake Energy – Past Due .
The job at the Go-Go Gas Station was listed in the local newspaper and he accepted the night shift readily. The owner of the convenience store didn’t question his willingness to take the shift that no one ever wanted to work, for which Rory was grateful. No need to explain that he prefers the night shift because it doesn’t bring him into contact with too many people. No need to justify that he wants a paycheck but without any substantial amount of responsibility.
The Go-Go is a concrete box, plopped down unceremoniously on the side of the road, almost alarming with its bland modernism compared to the twisted, wild trees that sit on either side of the roadway. The bramble bush encroaching upon the concrete does somewhat soften the man-made aura of the building though, turning the cool steel gray into a wild thing itself, particularly in the descending darkness, a skulking beast waiting to gobble up unsuspecting travelers.
Not that many people pass through these days, which, again, is why Rory likes it. He prefers the mundanity of it all, his nights broken only by the soft punctuation of the bell over the door as the occasional truck driver stops in for a pack of cigarettes. Even more rarely, though not unheard of, a group of kids will stop in for a six pack before they head to an illegal party in the woods. He wonders if Kid had ever stopped in. Did he sell him a pack of cigarettes once? An extra-large blue raspberry slushie and a pack of gummy worms would be more likely.
The lights buzz in the silence, and the smell of Calliope’s blood lingers annoyingly in the air. He tries to distract himself by doing inventory, counting boxes of cigarettes and trying not to remember the pool of blood that graced the floor the night before. He cleaned it up well enough, but he can almost see it still, a red tinge to the yellowed linoleum. It means his thoughts keep circling back to Calliope, no matter how many cigarette boxes he counts.
Rory has never been overly concerned with the biological inner-working of his kind, but even he is aware that not all vampires are the same; the magic does create small variations that account for attributes such as fang variation or increased sun-tolerance. He knows that’s what Kane was hinting at when he said that the Turn is complicated and that not everyone reacts the same to the magic.
But what Rory had been unable to voice earlier, in response to Kane’s disinterested assertion, is that there are still some fundamental truths— absolutes —that make a vampire a vampire .
Like turning off a light in an empty room, internal organs are deactivated, heartbeats are silenced, breathing is halted. The body only derives nutrition from blood, be it human or otherwise. His brother once told him that vampires are alchemized humans—that the thirst for gold has been replaced with blood—and their vampiric nature should be celebrated. Indulged .
He even went as far as to say vampires represent the most efficient form of existence. On the surface, it’s a reasonable assumption. In many ways, vampires don’t suffer the same physical limitations as humans. They are fast, heal quickly, see in the dark. They can slip into the mind of another and compel them to do their bidding.
Rory once agreed, before he saw it for what it is: thievery. They survive off stolen life. The magic that created them plagiarizes traits from creatures Nature has already sought to encourage like speed and heightened senses. He supposes that the magic did do one thing right: accelerated healing, which has saved him many times over.
But for every benefit, there is, of course, a downside. With accelerated healing, for instance, comes the inability to grow and change. To age. Frozen forever in time. Immortal. A little overweight? Too bad. You forgot to shave that morning. Oh well.
And of course, the ennui is inevitable. It’s true that nothing is permanent, but when eternity is within reach, things seem to move agonizingly slow in comparison. Boredom sets in every few centuries or so. Some vampires even have a name for it: the Unlust .
Calliope seems to contradict so many vampire traits already and it’s only been twenty-four hours. The more he thinks about it, he doesn’t agree with Kane. She should be much further along in her transformation than this. She shouldn’t be sleeping. She shouldn’t have a fever. And she should be thirsty, so overwhelmed with bloodlust that she becomes a snarling mess of fangs and violence. She awoke, alert and able to form full sentences, and he isn’t sure if that’s a good thing yet. She even challenged him on the use of the cuffs. He must admit, she had been convincing. Just not enough to actually convince him, of course.
Maybe he’s consigned her to a fate worse than death. Not quite a vampire, not quite a mortal, with nothing but the downsides of both. But if that is the case, and Calliope’s transition went awry, what else may she be lacking when it comes to the vampiric side of her? And what mortal parts have stuck around instead? She healed from the gunshot, so he supposes he can put a tick in the healing column, at least.
The bell over the door dings and a customer walks into the Go-Go. Rory barely looks up from the clipboard, hearing the slurred request for “ten on pump two” and absentmindedly taking the proffered cash.
“Oh,” says the voice, “and I can get one of those papers, too?”
Rory hands him the day’s issue of the local paper, along with his change, and begins to turn back to his clipboard when his mind registers, belatedly, that he recognizes the picture on the front page. As the door swings shut, he ignores the puff of hot, petrol-laced air that hits his face and reaches for a copy of the paper. A sinking feeling swoops through his gut as Calliope’s face smiles back at him in grainy black-and-white, ink already bleeding through the thin paper. It sits innocently under the headline: Missing Woman Wanted for Questioning after the Death of Her Husband .
“Fuck.”