The Unicorn (Challenge #138) -- PG-13
Posted: Sun Apr 15, 2012 4:29 am
Another response to Challenge #138, “Still Human…So Human.” No infringement is intended….
The Unicorn
I should have known something was wrong, as soon as I opened the door. But I must not have been paying attention.—at least not to the human scent that stained the loft. Sadly, Mick had enough humans in and out of his place that one more vaguely familiar human odor didn’t really make a difference. I’d lectured him often enough about separating his place of business from his residence, but he followed a long tradition of not paying attention to me. Stubborn bastard.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering how I get into his place at will, let’s just say it involved dropping a load of cash in the right places. Someday Mick’s going to figure out that I have override codes for all his fancy electronic security systems, and we’ll fall back on Plan B. But until then…
Anyway, so I took enough of a smell, and a listen, to know I was the only thing moving in the place. Contrary to what you’ve seen in the movies, animals—mammals, particularly—don’t like us. In over 400 years I’ve never had to set a rat trap in my domicile, and you know what? Doesn’t bother me one bit. Not but what I’ve taken out a few rats in my time. Just happened that they had two legs instead of four.
Maybe, if I’d stopped to look more closely at that crumpled brown blanket on the sofa, given it a whiff, what I found in Mick’s hidden fridge wouldn’t have startled me so much. But it did.
In amid the neatly bagged units of whole blood, stood a frosted pitcher of orange juice.
What. The. Hell.
I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d opened the door on a chorus line of singing leprechauns.
Okay, I thought, falling back on logic. Hear hoofbeats, expect horses. Not zebras. Probably, he expected Beth to be staying over—perhaps tonight—and laid in a few supplies to make her feel welcome.
I rejected that immediately. Mick has a lot of charm, on occasion, and I had no doubt he’d eventually tempt Beth into enjoying the delights of vampire sex, but he’d mentioned he'd be going to her mortal boyfriend’s funeral today, and even I am not quite that charming.
Not that I haven’t consoled a few widows in my time. Comforting the bereaved…it’s always easier when both sides have a reason to keep things discreet. And there are no jealous husbands to pop up unexpectedly. Although there was that one time…Madeleine neglected to mention to me that her husband’s exaggerated demise had been due to the attentions of another member of the tribe. It all worked out, though. Robert and I sat down about 20 years later over a nice goblet of blood and Cabernet Sauvignon and had a good laugh over the whole thing.
But I was getting distracted with reminiscences, not focusing on the problem at hand. Which was the presence of that alien substance in an open pitcher in a fridge meant only for chastely packaged blood. I couldn’t repress a delicate shudder.
I grabbed a bag of A pos—Mick has no appreciation for the finer blood types, despite my civilizing influence—and shut the door on that offensive vessel.
Possibly the scent of oranges still filled my nostrils, fooled my nose for a moment. Because I heard the door lock click, and the door open, right enough, but I was already turning to meet him before I heard the lump lump of a heartbeat, and the scent of warm blood moving through long-disused veins.
I thought for a second that L.A. was having a major tremor. “What—have—you—done?” I asked slowly. It wasn’t a horse, or even a zebra. More like a unicorn.
Mick gave me this face-splitting grin. I’d never seen him look like that, in all the years I’d known him. It was a genuine joy, and I felt a brief flash of jealousy. Not for his evident return to mortality; I had no use for that. But the joy, the joy was a different matter. That, I could covet.
“I –I found a way back,” he stammered.
Clearly.
“You—found—a cure?” Even as I asked, I thought how much I despised the term. “Cure” denotes disease, and I had long ago discarded the notion of my vampirism as a disease, or a curse. I prefer to think of it as an evolution. If, as some have speculated, vampirism is a virus, some sort of blood borne organism, maybe it’s a vaccination against mortality.
Anyway, Mick, still with that silly grin on his battered face, nodded. Sometime since he’d been re-mortalized, someone had beaten the crap out of him, and the marks were there for the world to see.
“Coraline brought it to me.”
“Ah, Coraline. The source of all good in your life.” My tone was maybe a little sharper than I’d intended. Mick winced.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“What’s her angle, Mick? What does she stand to gain by giving you back your—” disgusting “—humanity?”
He shrugged, with another grin, and I reflected that human Mick was going to get irritating, quickly. “She didn’t say, exactly.”
“Jesus, Mick. You’re telling me your ex-wife—the one you tried to kill—showed up on your doorstep with some unknown drug, and you didn’t ask questions, you just took it?”
“Somehow it sounds different, when you put it like that,” he replied. “But look at me! I’m alive again. You said there was no cure, and here I am. Human.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, not bothering to hide my contempt. “She poisoned you.”
“I’m alive.”
“You’re dying. Forty, fifty years, and it’ll kill you.”
“Everyone dies, Joz’f. Even you, someday.” Now, that sounded more like the Mick I knew.
“I can count that ‘someday’ in centuries. Can you, now?”
The grin slipped a little. “The cure,” Mick said, “it’s not—permanent. Sooner or later, I’ll revert.”
I shook my head. “What are we going to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. You think this is going to be popular with the vampire community? The ones that don’t hate you for having what they can’t, will hate you for having what they don’t want. And for now, you’re vulnerable. Human. Anyone could take you out like a cheap date.”
“I can take care of myself,” Mick said. It’s been awhile since I dealt with a sullen adolescent, but he was doing a reasonable facsimile of the species. I reflected that if I clouted him the way I wanted to, he’d likely sustain undue damage.
So I fiddled with my cufflinks instead, and said, “Right. Call me when you figure out how wrong you are.”
I heard him protest as I walked out, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that sometimes when you walk away, you have to keep going.
He’s going to figure it out. Whether it’s six months from now, or six days. And yes, maybe I’m angry that by rejecting what I’ve always seen as my salvation, he’s rejecting fifty years of my friendship by implication. But I’ll—live—with it, until he works it out.
I’ve got time.
The Unicorn
I should have known something was wrong, as soon as I opened the door. But I must not have been paying attention.—at least not to the human scent that stained the loft. Sadly, Mick had enough humans in and out of his place that one more vaguely familiar human odor didn’t really make a difference. I’d lectured him often enough about separating his place of business from his residence, but he followed a long tradition of not paying attention to me. Stubborn bastard.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering how I get into his place at will, let’s just say it involved dropping a load of cash in the right places. Someday Mick’s going to figure out that I have override codes for all his fancy electronic security systems, and we’ll fall back on Plan B. But until then…
Anyway, so I took enough of a smell, and a listen, to know I was the only thing moving in the place. Contrary to what you’ve seen in the movies, animals—mammals, particularly—don’t like us. In over 400 years I’ve never had to set a rat trap in my domicile, and you know what? Doesn’t bother me one bit. Not but what I’ve taken out a few rats in my time. Just happened that they had two legs instead of four.
Maybe, if I’d stopped to look more closely at that crumpled brown blanket on the sofa, given it a whiff, what I found in Mick’s hidden fridge wouldn’t have startled me so much. But it did.
In amid the neatly bagged units of whole blood, stood a frosted pitcher of orange juice.
What. The. Hell.
I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d opened the door on a chorus line of singing leprechauns.
Okay, I thought, falling back on logic. Hear hoofbeats, expect horses. Not zebras. Probably, he expected Beth to be staying over—perhaps tonight—and laid in a few supplies to make her feel welcome.
I rejected that immediately. Mick has a lot of charm, on occasion, and I had no doubt he’d eventually tempt Beth into enjoying the delights of vampire sex, but he’d mentioned he'd be going to her mortal boyfriend’s funeral today, and even I am not quite that charming.
Not that I haven’t consoled a few widows in my time. Comforting the bereaved…it’s always easier when both sides have a reason to keep things discreet. And there are no jealous husbands to pop up unexpectedly. Although there was that one time…Madeleine neglected to mention to me that her husband’s exaggerated demise had been due to the attentions of another member of the tribe. It all worked out, though. Robert and I sat down about 20 years later over a nice goblet of blood and Cabernet Sauvignon and had a good laugh over the whole thing.
But I was getting distracted with reminiscences, not focusing on the problem at hand. Which was the presence of that alien substance in an open pitcher in a fridge meant only for chastely packaged blood. I couldn’t repress a delicate shudder.
I grabbed a bag of A pos—Mick has no appreciation for the finer blood types, despite my civilizing influence—and shut the door on that offensive vessel.
Possibly the scent of oranges still filled my nostrils, fooled my nose for a moment. Because I heard the door lock click, and the door open, right enough, but I was already turning to meet him before I heard the lump lump of a heartbeat, and the scent of warm blood moving through long-disused veins.
I thought for a second that L.A. was having a major tremor. “What—have—you—done?” I asked slowly. It wasn’t a horse, or even a zebra. More like a unicorn.
Mick gave me this face-splitting grin. I’d never seen him look like that, in all the years I’d known him. It was a genuine joy, and I felt a brief flash of jealousy. Not for his evident return to mortality; I had no use for that. But the joy, the joy was a different matter. That, I could covet.
“I –I found a way back,” he stammered.
Clearly.
“You—found—a cure?” Even as I asked, I thought how much I despised the term. “Cure” denotes disease, and I had long ago discarded the notion of my vampirism as a disease, or a curse. I prefer to think of it as an evolution. If, as some have speculated, vampirism is a virus, some sort of blood borne organism, maybe it’s a vaccination against mortality.
Anyway, Mick, still with that silly grin on his battered face, nodded. Sometime since he’d been re-mortalized, someone had beaten the crap out of him, and the marks were there for the world to see.
“Coraline brought it to me.”
“Ah, Coraline. The source of all good in your life.” My tone was maybe a little sharper than I’d intended. Mick winced.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“What’s her angle, Mick? What does she stand to gain by giving you back your—” disgusting “—humanity?”
He shrugged, with another grin, and I reflected that human Mick was going to get irritating, quickly. “She didn’t say, exactly.”
“Jesus, Mick. You’re telling me your ex-wife—the one you tried to kill—showed up on your doorstep with some unknown drug, and you didn’t ask questions, you just took it?”
“Somehow it sounds different, when you put it like that,” he replied. “But look at me! I’m alive again. You said there was no cure, and here I am. Human.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, not bothering to hide my contempt. “She poisoned you.”
“I’m alive.”
“You’re dying. Forty, fifty years, and it’ll kill you.”
“Everyone dies, Joz’f. Even you, someday.” Now, that sounded more like the Mick I knew.
“I can count that ‘someday’ in centuries. Can you, now?”
The grin slipped a little. “The cure,” Mick said, “it’s not—permanent. Sooner or later, I’ll revert.”
I shook my head. “What are we going to do with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. You think this is going to be popular with the vampire community? The ones that don’t hate you for having what they can’t, will hate you for having what they don’t want. And for now, you’re vulnerable. Human. Anyone could take you out like a cheap date.”
“I can take care of myself,” Mick said. It’s been awhile since I dealt with a sullen adolescent, but he was doing a reasonable facsimile of the species. I reflected that if I clouted him the way I wanted to, he’d likely sustain undue damage.
So I fiddled with my cufflinks instead, and said, “Right. Call me when you figure out how wrong you are.”
I heard him protest as I walked out, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in 400 years, it’s that sometimes when you walk away, you have to keep going.
He’s going to figure it out. Whether it’s six months from now, or six days. And yes, maybe I’m angry that by rejecting what I’ve always seen as my salvation, he’s rejecting fifty years of my friendship by implication. But I’ll—live—with it, until he works it out.
I’ve got time.