Thirsty - M. T. Anderson [33]
He lends me a hand to stand. I say, “So I’ve just saved the world?”
Chet chuckles and knocks me on the shoulder. “Listen to you!” he says. “Yes, you could put it that way.”
“Okay. Don’t knock me on the shoulder, please. I feel really, really sick.”
Chet glances up toward the double doors leading out of the sanctuary. “Then let’s get out of here. Vampires have no sympathy for the expulsion of food. They’re very ingestion oriented.”
As I stand there in that dank and grave-chilled sanctuary, I feel almost drunk with a sudden realization: In an hour, I figure, we’ll be well away from here and Chet will have cured me of my curse forever. Good-bye, vampires. Good-bye, midnight hour. Good-bye, Tch’muchgar, the Melancholy One, Vampire Lord.
We walk back down the aisle. Over in the side aisle, rolled up, lies a mildewed cloth banner with faceless felt figures in bright colors. A stack of songbooks leans up against a wall. Someone has poured a bucket of red paint all over them.
In the hallway, one of the men with the bleeding arms leans up against the window frame, smoking.
“Christopher has spoken with the Melancholy One,” Chet announces beatifically.
Several men walk over. They all look at me. I nod.
“Shit, great,” says the guy smoking the cigarette. “What . . . I mean, what did he say?”
Chet looks at me, scratching the corner of his mouth with his pinkie.
I squirm for a minute. Then I say, “He proclaims that he shall lead us all to Victory. With a capital V.”
Dr. Chasuble looks at the others. “Great!” he says.
“Yeah, great!”
Dr. Chasuble, Chet, and I go back into the parish hall. Everyone looks up at us. Dr. Chasuble and Chet smile at them to reassure them. Some of them smile back, and on so many faces, I see fangs.
What looks like a middle-aged lady dressed in cornflower blue rayon slacks is standing by the food table as we pass. “Go well?” she asks.
“Yes, indeed,” says Chet.
She gestures toward the two casseroles. “Would you like some of Jennifer or Dave?”
“No, thanks,” says Chet.
She looks at me and offers, “Jennifer Carreiras, fifteen, of Haverhill, or Dave Philips, fifty-three, of Springfield? Dave has a broccoli garnish, and Jenn has Doris Blum’s special cornflakes crust — lots of crunchy bits.”
“No, thanks,” says Chet. “We have someone waiting for us out in the car.”
“Oh! Bon appétit,” says the woman in cornflower blue.
The teenagers are staring at me from their corner. The kid with the tattoo has tilted back in his chair and is looking at me enviously and with a little bit of hate. I want to get the hell out of there.
Dr. Chasuble is talking quietly with Chet as we walk out. They talk about the technical aspects of spells and when spells are to be cast.
We are outside. A chill wind is blown in rags and tatters through the trees. One lone frog is belching in the swamp.
Suddenly, I say to Dr. Chasuble, “I thought you only sucked blood. Why are you eating flesh?”
He looks at me curiously for a second. “We,” he says softly. “Not ‘you.’”
I can tell Chet is angry about the slip.
The bullfrog calls through the trees.
Dr. Chasuble says, “Eating flesh is a disgusting habit. I agree. We do it mostly for the little ones, the kids, when they haven’t yet become vampiric. It’s important to accustom them to the idea of taking human life for food. Otherwise, they can prove very dangerous and difficult to the family when puberty hits.”
Chet nods. “The family that preys together, stays together.”
Dr. Chasuble laughs and puts his arm around my shoulder. “But look. Forget about eating. Drinking — that’s the thing. Exsanguination — draining blood — is a beautiful act, Christopher. At first, of course, it will be messy. Before you get the hang of it, you’ll gag, and lap, but after a while you’ll learn how to really use your fangs to your best advantage. When you’re a real pro, the pumping of the heart will