For starters I untangle my limbs and climb to my feet. The usual discomfort runs its quick course through my muscles. I really should consider a different sitting position.
Once I’m back on my feet, my eyes involuntarily travel towards my watch. As if any time of the day would justify the inconceivable scenario of me having company.
A quarter to one. Having received an external validation, my stomach proclaims lunch time. My mind, in turn, produces a vivid image of my empty fridge. Good luck with that.
The doorbell rings again.
“Fine, I’m coming,” I hiss under my breath.
I proceed on tiptoe, keeping the option to feign absence wide open- in case I don’t like what I see through the peephole.
A moment later, I’m ready to kiss my past self in gratitude. I most definitely do not like what I see through the peephole.
I’d feel more comfortable entertaining a dozen of Jehovah's most zealous Witnesses followed by the entire sales personnel of every cable company nationwide. Because the only thing worse than a neighborly visit, is a neighborly visit from your next door vampire freak. Especially when they catch you in mid-research for anti-vampire solutions.
Mr. Cringe McCreepsky coughs awkwardly, moving the flat cardboard box he’s carrying from one hand to the other. A light whiff of fresh dough and grilled pepperoni seeps in through the crack beneath the door. I’m forced to swallow the sudden gush of gathering saliva. Soundlessly, I hope.
He raises his free hand to the doorbell, only to lower it again. Too early for a third ring? Next, he pulls at the collar of his t-shirt, fixing a knot on an imaginary tie. The plain dark jeans and t-shirt combo- along with the complete lack of makeup- makes him look devastatingly young and disarmingly bashful.
He nervously passes his hand over his face, all the way from the hairline to the tip of his clean-shaven chin. The hand pauses shortly to rub the edges of his jawline, as if checking for hidden stubble.
Having performed the entire ritual twice, he issues another cough. It’s that kind of exasperatingly clumsy we-need-to-talk cough fathers make when it’s time to discuss birds and bees.
What is there that the two of us can possibly need to talk about? And what’s with the goddamned pizza?
Worse yet, judging by the degree of debilitating embarrassment suffusing his expression, it feels like he can actually see me. His awareness of my presence- bare inches from his unmade-up face- appears as strong as if there were no door standing between us whatsoever.
As if in response to my thoughts, he finally speaks.
“I… I know you’re in there.”
Strike out the “as if.”
I freeze. The tension in my muscles is the only thing standing between me and a puddle of piss on the floor.
“I mean… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you…” His voice trails off into the hallway’s densening air. Even if I had a response, my throat is too tight to utter it.
He looks down at the box, begging it for some new argument. Some way out of this plight. When he raises his eyes again, they hold more despair than 1993 Sarajevo and 2013 Aleppo combined.
“I brought pizza,” he tries nonetheless. “It’s getting cold.”
“Why?” I manage to squeeze out.
“Wh… why? Because it’s kinda chilly out here. The pizza is losing heat… into the air…”
“No, I mean why the pizza?”
“You seemed to want it. Look, could you open the door, please? It’s getting kinda weird.”
He’s neither smiling nor wrong.
“You need to hear me out. I promise it won’t take long. It’s about um… your little problem… with… you know…” he leans in closer to the door, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. “With vampires.”
Shit. I guess this is where suspension of disbelief can happily retire, leaving the seat for good old you-better-believe-it. I was hoping for another day or two before it all got real. Well, too bad for me.
“How much do you know?” I try to sound relatively composed- failing miserably. I’ve never stepped on a rat, but if I did I’m pretty sure that’s the tone it would use to tell me go fuck myself.
“Listen, I can’t do it this way. It’s not safe to talk like this- without at least a threshold to protect us. Against… eavesdroppers.”
I’d love to blame it on some mind control mumbo jumbo, but my reserves of self-preservation and healthy criticism seem to be dwindling by the second.
I guess it can all be simmered down to a simple mixture of one part curiosity and two parts weariness.
I’m tired of doubt and suspicion, of secrets and uncertainties. Tired of stewing in my own juices, limited to a single tunnel-vision perspective. Shit, I’m tired of plain loneliness, no matter how much denial I pile over the spot where I’ve buried this pestering truth.
Plus, I’m hungry. And the pizza smells mindbogglingly scrumptious.
Call it temporary insanity. Call it permanent idiocy, for all I care. I open the door.
For a second I half expect him to ask me for a direct invitation before he can enter. He doesn’t. He merely steps right in, engulfed in a cloud of garlicky aroma.
If my unexpected change of mind is any surprise to him, he doesn’t show it. While not entirely at ease, he manages to shed most of his former discomfort as he walks into my living room.
“So, what is it that you need to tell me?” I don’t always let potential psycho murderers into my apartment, but when I do I make sure to maintain some semblance of control over the situation.
“Right,” he fiddles with the box some more, openly surveying the room for a proper surface on which he could land it. I nod towards the coffee table with all the authoritative impatience I can muster.
He returns the gesture with a mild- albeit perceivable- air of submission.
Good, I think as he lowers the steaming container next to my laptop. I may be brutally murdered within the following hour; but if I go, I go as a motherfucking alpha corpse.
He straightens up and gives me a careful glance- awaiting some sign of approval, or maybe the next command.
“OK, spill it out,” I provide the latter, not without relish.
“Yeah, so the things I’m about to tell you… It’s all gonna be kinda hard to believe, you see?”
“Try me.” His stuttering manner is gnawing at whatever patience I still have left in me. The growling in my stomach isn’t helping much, either.
“Naturally, with everything that happened last year,” he stops abruptly and raises his palms in a somewhat appeasing manner. “Tell you what. Why don’t we sit down first? Discuss it over lunch. You mind? We’ll both feel a lot more at ease, with some food in our stomachs. Right?”
The smell of melted cheese is stronger than my need to maintain a no-nonsense facade. Even my dismay at learning that he knows about last year caves in to its charms.
If he wanted to kill me, I’d probably be dead by now. The worst he can do at this point is prove to be bluffing, which will come as zero surprise to me anyway.
He’s probably hacked my computer through bluetooth or wifi connection to get some intel from my writing segments and browser history. Well, good luck to him. Whatever his end goal may be, I doubt he could have caused me much damage.
My senile dinosaur of a laptop will survive any malware sturdy enough to survive its malfunctions. Identity theft is not an option- who’d want it? No credit card or bank account details have ever been saved on any browser, so my miserly savings are safe as well. As for me, I’ve listened to worse lies over less appetizing free meals.
“I’ll fetch some plates.”
I grab a pair of paper plates from the cupboard, along with an unopened pack of napkins. As I turn to leave the kitchen, the fridge catches my attention with a sly little hum. I get the hint, gladly accepting its offer to throw a couple of beers into the bargain. Just to get the chit-chat flowing.
In the meantime, my guest has taken off his shoes- a simple pair of dark grey Converse All Stars- and parked them neatly under the coat rack by the door.
I find him sitting cross-legged on the carpet, facing the recently opened pizza box. The damn thing looks almost as good as it smells. I didn’t catch the logo on the box, but it doesn’t look like anything recognizable from anywhere near this neighborhood.
“It’s from this little Italian place, around the corner from my old apartment. Usually they don’t deliver this far, but they make an exception here and there. I helped them with some haunting business in the past, you see. So I get the VIP treatment ever since, so to speak.”
He halts unexpectedly, cutting the last syllable peculiarly short, so the “k” dissipates in mid-utterance.
“But what an idiot I am!” He exclaims in frustration, clambering back to his feet. “I haven’t even introduced myself! What a damned doofus! Devin. My name is Devin, that is.”
He extends his hand for a shake. I’m quite tempted to put one of the beers in it instead, just to spite him. Handshakes are for losers and corporate tycoons. And I’d be surprised if either of us has ever come anywhere near tycoonhood outside of a Monopoly game.
But noblesse oblige and whatnot, so I put down the plates and bottles and accept the shake. Firmer than I would have imagined. And much warmer. Not at all unpleasant.
“Amber,” I hope he hasn’t noticed the delay. Or the urgency with which I attempt to counteract it. I still haven’t let go of his hand.
Smooth, moron. Now go full on YA rom com and kiss him, why don’t you. This is the kind of crap that makes me avoid human interaction in the first place.
When at last I do drop his hand I do it like someone told me they saw the poor sod groping patients in a Rwandan STD clinic.
I make a firm decision against any further physical contact. Instead, I use my newly freed hand to snatch an opener out of a dozen or so sprawled on various surfaces throughout the room.
My beer opening talent embodies every bit of the mastery my social skills lack. Both bottles are open in less than ten seconds. I shove one into Devin’s still slightly raised palm without bothering to ask if he’s interested. I toss down half of my own beer before his fingers close all the way around the bottle.
Luckily for both of us, he does not protest. Having drowned a sufficient fraction of my disgrace, I’m ready to re-focus my attention on what truly matters.
My heart skips a joyful beat at the sight of the crust’s thickness. The uppity asswhipes in Rome can keep their cheese crackers to themselves. When I bite into my pizza, I want substance. I want grilled cheese on a motherbanging doughnut. I want garlic bread smothered in marinara with a whole block of mozzarella on top.
At this moment, though, I mostly want to stop producing drool faster than I can swallow it.
They didn’t skimp on the pepperoni, either. A mouthful in every bite and then some. Not to mention diced bacon as far as the eye can see. There is almost as much meat as there is cheese. And boy, is there cheese on this pizza.
“... kinda worried, at first. Because the first pizza you had in mind was deep dish Chicago style, and these guys don’t make it. But then the vibe went towards the plainer thick crust variety, which is more up their alley.”
I haven’t even noticed that he’s been talking all this time. All I can think about is getting this goodness into my mouth as soon as I possibly can. It takes tremendous effort to even hold on for the time it takes to separate a slice and pick up a plate.
The first bite is beyond divine. It is the very idea God has ventured to imitate when he created heaven. He hasn’t failed this bitterly ever since that notorious stone incident- the one too heavy for Him to lift.
I’d gladly forgo any hope of entering paradise in exchange for this synesthetic extravaganza of worldly pleasures.
No heavenly raptures could rival the gentle slide of cheese over a thin layer of sauce, barely touching the succulent crust across a slippery film of fatty delight. The crispy crunch of the puffy golden edges can be matched only by the savory kick of bacon and pepperoni. How could a mere celestial garden with a bunch of fruit trees and a couple of naked imbeciles compare to such euphoric elation?
Devin’s voice remains a muffled murmur tickling the air outside my personal bubble of gastronomic ecstasy. An occasional polite nod is all I can do to thank my benefactor for this sublime offering. Only with the second slice does some semblance of meaning drift back into his monologue.
“... so, as I was saying, your craving made it much easier for me to approach you. Glad to see you enjoy the pizza, of course. But you really need to be more careful with the way you project mental emanations. Thoughts, emotions, things you wish for…”
I stop chewing in mid-bite. A massive semi-masticated chunk of cured meat remains balanced at the edge of my throat, oscillating inconclusively between my windpipe and my esophagus. All capacity to help it make the right choice has been knocked out of my brain. As hopelessly gone and irrevocably forgotten as the location of my body’s motion and speech mechanism controls.
Devin shakes his head in a frenzied Control-Z motion. He puts his plate down- pizza slice untouched- to reinforce his negation with a two-handed penitent wave.
“Poor choice of words on my part… Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bring up what happened last year. I mean, it’s clearly related. In terms of marking you as easy prey. No victim blaming or anything, really. Just stating facts… characteristics. In the neutral not-at-all-accusatory sense…”
The clump of pepperoni finds its way down, one way or the other. Judging by the lack of asphyxiation, I assume it chose wisely.
It takes me another minute or so to notice the drying sauce stain that escaped in all the commotion to land on the table by my plate. I scratch it away absentmindedly, leaving the use of napkins to those who haven’t just been nonchalantly reminded of the most terrifying week of their life.
Verbal capacity makes a point of being the last to return. The stuck up bitch. Even when back, she refuses to properly get to work right away. I can almost see her taking her sweet time to refresh her makeup, yawning luxuriously over a cup of almond milk chai latte.
“How… you can’t possibly know… Shit! OK, screw this. What kind of goat-deflowering mother-hopping charlatanry is this?!”
Surprisingly, my baffled anger doesn’t seem to make much of an impression on him. Rather, it lands some peculiar confidence to his manner- a note of smugness, even.
“Well, as I said, you’re radiating psyche-data harder than an exposed nuclear reactor core. Any half competent psychic can read your signal from miles away. I myself am not much of a virtuoso- quite decent, if I say so myself, but no uber-whiz by any means- and I haven’t slept a wink since I moved here. Your brain is so loud I can’t even drown it out with every device in the house running and the music blasting on full volume.”
He pauses to congratulate himself on his acumen with a deep swig of beer. When he finally lowers the bottle, it reveals the remnants of a self-pleased smirk smeared across his lips.
“One question, though, if I may.” I try to keep my tone calm enough to hold all the arrogance I intend to convey. “If Sir Bragsalot here is as gifted a clairvoyant as His Asselency claims, how come the good sir has chosen an abode so poorly suited to cater to his needs?”
It’s nice to be angry again. Anger is not by a long shot a state of emotional control, but it’s as good an imitation as one can hope for under the circumstances. Not to mention a refreshing alternative to my habitual anxiety.
I finish my beer in a violent gulp, deliberately using the gesture as a punctuation mark. I even make a point of producing a loud thud as I lay the bottle down to await his answer with my arms crossed in disdain.
“That would be a bit counterproductive. Fact is, you were the very reason I was sent here. And as I said, I am most definitely not that gifted a clairvoyant. Which is why I could take on the endeavor without risking my sanity in the process. You are currently listed among the country’s top fifty psychic projectors. And to think that if it weren’t for last year’s massac… um… shit, sorry. Events. If it weren’t for last year’s events, you’d have never come to our attention.”
“And this would be the right time to expand on the identity of these ‘we’ you keep mentioning. I assume we’re not talking the royal we, right? Who are these mysterious individuals so intrigued by last year’s massacre?”
I won’t say that I take an unhealthy pleasure in the opportunity to rub it in. But I will not deny it, either.
To my dismay, the bastard refuses to betray any further discomposure. I recompense myself for the satisfaction denied me with a big bite of pizza and a firm decision to go get another beer once he’s answered my question. He’s not getting a second beer, though. It’s unhealthy for him- makes him too conceited for my taste.
“I’d love to claim that we are some ancient clandestine order of sorcerers, established back in the day by direct descendants of Merlin and Morgan le Fay. The actual origins of the Brotherhood of the Oracle are much humbler, though. Just a bunch of intellectuals from the fields of psychology, parapsychology and theosophical studies. Barely a century in existence. Our founding fathers did, however, branch off from the Order of the Golden Dawn. They were later joined by a dissenting faction of Thelema practitioners. Some of the latter have been closely acquainted with Crowly himself, including a handful of former Abbey of Thelema residents. They introduced the brotherhood to some fresh concepts that proved crucial to its further spiritual and scholastic development.”
“Like orgies and consuming the blood of sanctified goats?”
“Yeah… no. Practices of this kind are generally frowned upon among the members of the Brotherhood. We draw the line at naked moon dances.”
“And what is it that your so-called scholars study? I assume bare-assed frolicking in the moonlight is not your sole raison d'etre.”
“Please, it’s not even in the top ten. Our main focus is practical occultism. Among other endeavors, we look for alternative solutions to common emotional infirmities, potentially caused by paranormal disturbances. The particular section I belong to studies the flow of psychic energy, including locating and analyzing subjects prone to abnormal drainage or emission. Which is approximately fifty percent of the reason I was sent here.”
“So it’s not all about me after all. Shocking. Hold that thought,” I raise a dismissive hand to indicate that it isn’t all about him, either.
Now he’s definitely not getting another beer. If only to reinforce the point of his insignificance.
Pettiness may not be the best coping mechanism, but it can do wonders when sarcasm alone is not enough. I take a single beer from the fridge and walk back to my spot by the coffee table. I feel all kinds of guilty when I go back to munching on my second pizza slice. His pizza.
Well, fuck him. I didn’t ask him over, with or without neighborly gestures. Plus, second beers tend to make guests feel far more welcome than they actually are.
I have to remind myself that he's probably reading these very thoughts as I think them. All the better, then. Less room for misunderstanding.
His expression, at any rate, remains straight. Too straight, in fact. As if it takes him effort not to smile at my asinine petulance. Double fuck him.
“So you located yourself an astral energy power plant. Congratu-fucking-lations…”
“More like a transmitter, really…”
“Excuse me while I squirt sparkles at the prospect of learning the difference. Meanwhile, feel free to enlighten me as to the second half of your perilous quest’s objective. Plus, I’d be delighted were the maestro so kind as to point out where exactly ‘profit’ comes into the [transmitter + pizza = (achievement unlocked)/2] equation. Provided it is not too much of a bother for the revered sage, of course.”
“This is actually an excellent question- convoluted phrasing notwithstanding. Two excellent questions, to be precise, though they are closely interconnected. As it happens, another aspect of the Brotherhood’s work is identification, containment, and- should it prove necessary- elimination of psychic threats. One such threat, as you have recently learned for yourself, is certain individuals’ tendency to feed on the energy of their peers. Vampirism, if you like.”
He pauses for dramatic emphasis, studying my face for signs of shock. I withhold this pleasure from him. He doesn’t deserve it any more than he deserves his second beverage.
“Emotional vampirism,” he continues with a barely perceptible shrug, “is by far more prevalent than most people care to admit. However, the majority of documented cases are relatively mild. Furthermore, the presence of such individuals is paramount for the functioning of a healthy society. Benign energophages are prevalent among lawyers, psychologists, finance and industry moguls, corporate leaders, diplomats and even doctors. These people are often characterized by some degree of personality disorder, usually narcissistic, paranoid or histrionic. Though not full fledged vampires themselves, many of them are descendants of such on at least one side of the family. The genetic aspect of the matter has never been fully explored, but its presence is widespread enough to rule out pure coincidence. One thing that the overwhelming majority of semi-vamps do have in common without a doubt, though, is the entirely internal nature of the phenomenon. Demonic spirits, earthbound-ghosts and other forms of otherworldly interference associated with full-blooded vampirism are rarely involved.”
I stifle a wry smirk around a mouthful of cheese. How much crypto-crap does one need to experience before suspension of disbelief becomes the default response to such discourse?
But something about his lecture bothers me on a much deeper level, and it has nothing to do with ghosts or demons.
“Yes, you got that right. Deidre is a prime example of a constructively-oriented semi-va…”
“Out!” I'm on my feet before I know it. I’m not sure who barked the command, but it seems to have come out of my throat.
Snickerdoodle, who has only just snuck out of my bedroom to examine the intruder for smell and pepperoni-sharing proclivity, barely manages to keep the newly obtained piece of sausage in her mouth as she rushes to seek sanctuary in the kitchen. The tip of Hamster’s tail disappears under the sofa. Unlike his sister, he’s managed to scrounge neither any of the stranger’s food nor a taste of his affections.
“Get out. That does it, I’ve heard enough!” At this point, the frantic posessee formerly known as yours truly is actively pushing the bewildered visitor towards the door.
“Let me explain…” he beseeches, desperately reaching for his shoes. In my present state, I would have otherwise kicked him out in his socks alone. Only to learn later on that I’ve mysteriously obtained a pair of moderately-used size 10 All Stars.
This said, a tiny part of my brain somehow manages to remain detached from the situation, anesthetized. A distant observer- mildly curious at most. What in the godfucked world? It muses on a frequency of its own, entirely removed from the bloodred shitstorm that is the rest of me.
What has gotten into me? God knows I’ve called Deidre worse things than a vampire, semi- or otherwise. Sure, we all cut ourselves more name-calling slack when it comes to our family than we would cut a stranger. But losing control over a term that is not only TV-friendly, but hardly even derogatory- that’s looney toons on steroids.
No, this batshittery has nothing to do with mere injured familial pride. It goes deeper. Much deeper.
Because here’s the thing: Family means “safe.” It’s often uncomfortable. Tedious. Obnoxious at times. But first and foremost- safe.
All of a sudden, this stranger boldly dashes into my life and marks my own sister as the enemy. And just like that, the pittance of security I’ve managed to retain over a lifetime of mental fuckuppery is cut in half in a single moment.
I hate epiphanies. Not only do they tend to get in the way of a decent shit-fit, they make one’s brain short-circuit altogether. This leaves the revealee temporarily paralyzed and feeling, paradoxically, even dumber than before.
To wit: my current state- epiphanized to the point of staring at Devin’s crouching form as if he were the one screaming bloody murder a minute earlier.
Once I let go of his hand, he’s made a sleek acrobatic dive for the floor. At present he is stuffing his feet into the sneakers, determined to act before I change my mind and decide to keep them after all. His fingers pull at the laces with frantic dexterity, double-tying each shoe to perfection in half an eyeblink.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” I gasp. This time, speech decides to be that annoying needy friend who always shows up at a party twenty minutes early. Thought, on the other hand, is the air-headed astro-bitch who never leaves the other party it double booked for that evening in time to get to yours before the rest of the guests start heading for the door.
“Um… putting on my shoes? So I can leave, as you requested…”
“Oh, the hell you are. You don’t get to come into my house, accuse my family of god knows what, and then just go on living your life as if nothing has happened. If you insist Deidre is a vampire, you damn well stay here and provide an explanation. And it better be a good one. With a solution included- action items and all. Oh, and by the way- I’m not helping you eliminate my sister or any such thing. Hurting her in any way shape or form is out of the fucking question, you hear me?”
“Wait, what?” He remains crouched down. With his shoes already tied, the rest of him is left indecisive as to what he should do next. “What do you mean ‘eliminate’? Why in the world should we even consider eliminating your sister?”
“You said you locate and eliminate psychic threats. You’ve located Deidre. Good on you. You want to eliminate her? You’ll have to go through me. I may not be confused with Floyd Mayweather any time soon, but this bitch can hold her own, thank you very much. At least long enough to make sure Deidre knows who killed me. And then, good luck facing her as her little sister’s killer. We’ll see who gets eliminated first.”
The only thing more ridiculous than Devin's expression in that moment is his attempt to stand up while simultaneously shaking his head in dismay. Not a recommended course of action when one hopes to be taken seriously.
“OK now, hold it, goddammit. Nobody’s getting eliminated. Well, at least your sister isn’t. And hopefully neither am I. Man, you really should review your definition of the words ‘benign’ and ‘constructive.’”
“I don’t get it. So you’ve located your culprit, identified them as benign, now what? A seal of approval from the Brotherhood? A surveillance chip? Anal probing?”
“It’s not my place to stop you, if that’s the kind of relationship you have with your sister. But I assure you that the Brotherhood of the Oracle condones anal probing for leisure purposes only. As for your sister, she has nothing whatsoever to do with our current objective.”
“But you’ve just said that…”
“I said nothing of the kind. I have only brought her up as an example. Of an individual that does not require any involvement on our part. What you choose to assume based on your own interpretation…”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Will you come in and sit down already? Standing here like a bunch of idiots makes me nervous.”
He makes a move to untie his shoes again. For some reason it pisses me off even more.
“Goddammit, leave them on. Who gives a shit?! Jesus, why do you have to be so difficult?”
He knows better than to argue. Which finally wins him a second beer. I sit down opposite him with my third.
“Shoot. What is it all about, then?”
“Well,” he takes a careful sip of his beer, as if he were scared I might take it away once I realize he’s actually going to drink it. “You must have noticed our little neighbor across the road.”
“Holly shit! Are we going to kill a little girl?!” I try not to sound too excited.
He takes in a deep breath, following it with a fresh slice of pizza.
“No,” he finally answers, having placed a small piece of bacon in Hamster’s mewling mouth. The resulting silence is a welcome relief, no matter how oblivious I was to the nagging squeaks that have broken it in the first place. “At least not so long as we can help it. In fact, we should do everything in our power to avoid it.”
I pick up my plate only to learn that some little beast has gobbled up all the meat toppings. If the slice weren’t cold and gross by now anyway, I might have gone for the water sprayer, and every cat whisperer claiming pets don’t understand delayed retribution be damned. As it is, I simply hit the box for a new slice. It’s even relatively warm still.
“So we just exorcise, right? Bind the spirit, or demon or what not and hold on until the little brat stops cursing us in Latin? Spray some holy water for good measure, maybe. Or is it just overdramatized superstitious rot? How about crucifixes? Is the Brotherhood even Christian? I think I may be part Jewish. Does it make a difference?”
The third beer has struck a hidden stash of untouched dopamine somewhere in the back of my brain. I’m getting genuinely enthusiastic, if not outright elated. Not only has the problem been identified, there is a feasible solution in view. And an ally to face the music with me. The windmills look a lot less intimidating when someone besides you sees them for the giants they are.
Devin is shaking his head again. I have a feeling that I won’t like what he says next, but let him speak nonetheless. The ingrate makes me regret my magnanimity right away.
“Woah, hold your horses. First of all, as much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, I’m not sure the pronoun ‘we’ applies here.”
“OK, now you’re pissing me off again, Mr. Swellhead McSnooty-Pants. Look here. I don’t care how high and mighty you think your Fellowship of the Ring or whatnot, or how powerful it actually is. I fought some weird shit in my day. Nasty shit. You saw it yourself, in that crystal ball head of yours. Sure, I had no idea what I was doing. But let’s face it: I’m here. They’re not. Looks like a perfect record against Team Paracreepy to me.”
“Listen, we were all impressed with your performance last year. Immensely so. And you were of great help to us in terms of locating the current threat. But this is different. The task at hand is not a matter of luck and intuition. Exorcisms are among the most difficult feats faced by any adept, not to mention the most complex and by far the most dangerous. The fuckup potential is vast and its consequences are beyond disastrous.”
“Well, I refuse to be a human security alarm sensor for you and your frat buddies if I can’t take part in the action. I’m no freaking truffle hog, bitch. You use my services, I get a fair cut of the action. Capisce? Now, I know that you still need me. Otherwise neither you nor your pizza were here to start with. So guess what? If a bunch of virgin fratties is gonna use me as vampire bait, I better learn some psychic Krav Maga in the process. Otherwise, I’m out.”
I finish the monologue with a hearty bite of pizza. The effect is ruined by an unexpected pull of partially congealed cheese. The miscreant stretches away from the dough, reaches the limit of its impaired elasticity and hits me square on the tip of the nose.
Luckily for both of us, Devin doesn’t laugh. It would take a complete idiot to do so, and I don’t need any more idiocy in my corner. My own folly fills the quota to overflowing.
He contemplates his beer’s label for a long moment.
“Fair enough,” he concedes at last, immediately delving into the matter of practicalities. “I’m not entirely sure yet as to which type of banishing will have to be performed. As it happens, at least two dozen different spells, bindings and rituals are commonly, and rather ignorantly, clustered under the umbrella term ‘Exorcism.’ None of them are either pleasant or simple. In fact, most border on the impossible. So there won’t be much practical hands-on learning involved. Ah-ah,” he raises a didactic finger at my newly furrowing brow. “This is not open to discussion. I am entirely willing to provide you with some basic survival tools, even obligated to do so. Not only is it your right to demand this, it is an outrage on my part not to have offered teaching you some helpful defensive skills from the get go. Getting you killed, on the other hand, would be entirely counterproductive. So we do the research together. We go over all the theoretical minutia, address each hypothetical scenario and every element involved. I’ll even teach you some simple moves helpful against common threats. But whatever entity inhabits the little menace across the street- I face it alone. Capisce?”
It is now his turn to take a triumphant pizza bite. He even manages to keep his dignity uncathed by degrading dairy attacks. Asshole.
I pick his moment of victory to voice a new question. Not because I have an urge to stick it to him, or at least not only for the sake of sticking it to him, but out of genuine concern for the mission at hand.
“Sorcery aside, though, how do we get away with child abduction? I’m pretty sure ‘she was possessed by a vampire spirit’ won’t go very far in court.”
“Easy. We make sure to be invited, willingly. Then, once the deed is done, we use The Brotherhood’s resources to cover up the aftermath.”
“And her parents are supposed to do what? Just stand there and watch?”
“Date night,” he shrugs, casually proceeding to polish off the rest of his beer.
“Care to elaborate?” I wonder if forcing me to milk him for every bit of information turns him on or something.
Twice as predictable as election results in Turkmenistan, my inner voice momentarily acquires a hackneyed pseudo-Romanian accent:Yesss yesssss, beg for it, little vone. I know how much you vant it. I smell your sirst.
“They haven’t been on a date in over a year.” Having confirmed that his audience is properly intrigued, he momentarily assumes the air of a mischievous tattler. “Their relationship is crumbling. It has been dwindling for a while now, with fights making up to 80% of their daily communication. Needless to say, the girl’s declining mental state contributes little to the marriage’s stability. So their therapist suggested they make some time for themselves. To rekindle the spark, and other such cliches. Hence: date night.”
“And they’ll just leave their child unattended?”
“Don’t be silly. They’ll hire a babysitter.”
“... whom we temporarily paralyze, and then hypnotize into selective amnesia once we’re done?”
I start feeling like the hyenas in ‘The Lion King’.
“Not a good idea.” I’m about to protest, but he will not be interrupted this time. “You are the babysitter.”
“I’m the what now? No no no, I did not sign up for this shit. Ghost banishing and vampire slaying? Sure, I’m all in, where’s my Mr. Pointy. But babysitting? Hell to the fuck no.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll join you the minute they’re out of the door. Wouldn’t dream of leaving you with this creature a second longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“Appreciate the gallantry. But who said they will hire me? I’m a complete stranger with zero childcare experience and absolutely nothing about my person even hinting at either wholesomeness or reliability.”
“Correct. Which is where we put into play a neat little trick called networking. As it happens, their therapist is a close ally of The Brotherhood. A partial energophage himself, of course. His line of work does not permit him to give his patients any advice that might prove deleterious. On this point his resistance is almost impenetrable, as behooves a good therapist. This said, there is no harm in offering a married couple to spend some quality time together. Neither is there anything immoral about giving said therapist a minor push in this direction, especially when he is inclined to do so in the first place. The harder part was convincing him to drop the contact details of another patient as a recommended babysitter. Especially a patient whose emotional stability is questionable at best…”
“You… you son of a bitch! You couldn’t… How could you…? Shit!” This is a whole new fucking low. No amount of eloquence could possibly grasp even a fraction of my startled disgust. “Shit. shit shit shit…”
I’m too stunned for another attempt to kick him out. I’ve never felt this helpless, this paralyzingly furious, in my whole life. This is an entirely unfamiliar kind of anger. It’s nothing like the hot frenzy I know and respect as a lifelong companion, faults and merits alike.
If anything, this new strain is ice-cold. Laced with neurotoxic anxiety, pulsating with all-engulfing paranoia. My world isn’t shaken. It’s shattered to smithereens.
“I swear it’s not like this. Bernie has never disclosed any information. He’s a good guy and a good therapist. Would never violate patient confidentiality. He doesn’t even know he was being manipulated. Some mild form energy soakers are easy like that. They’re susceptible to soaking in suggestions as readily as they do energy. But we’d never even dream of using this susceptibility to make him do anything unethical. Even if we wanted to- the man’s moral compass is too strong.”
I want to say something, but I know I’ll scream if I try. And what is there to say, anyway.
“I need another beer,” I mutter at last. “And some time alone. To think.”
The last is a lie. Thinking is the last thing I want to do.
Devin’s second walk towards the door is quiet and uneventful. I make no effort to rush him, but show no intent of stopping him, either. He doesn’t take the leftover pizza and I don’t ask him to. Forcing him to take it seems more awkward than keeping it, bear silent witness to my squalor as it may.
He leaves in his wake a silence so deep it presses on my eardrums. It echoes from every surface in the apartment. Even the carpeted floor seems to give out a dull non-echo of quietude. My head fills up with whispered litanies of irreparable ruination, subsonic screams imbibed with the throbbing venom of treachery.
I turn on the TV. Loud. Louder. As earbustingly mega-fucking-loud as the damn thing will go. As far as the voices inside are concerned, it’s all the same. I could just as well leave it on mute. If anything, the whispers grow shriller with every push of the volume button.
It’s kind of funny, to mourn something you barely even knew you had in the first place. Furthermore, whatever trust I did have for my therapist had nothing to do with either fondness, friendship, or even remote comradery. But it was all the trust I had- everything I’ve managed to gather over the years, one crumb at a time. I didn’t get very far, but I’ve bled for every inch. Plus, when you hit absolute zero, it no longer matters how low you were hanging at the onset of the fall. Some kinds of pain are absolute, not relative.
The icing on the cake? Judas’ silver pieces have been coming out of my own pocket all along. I would have laughed if I could afford the subsequent crying.
The entire time I can feel the little face across the street. At this point I no longer need to draw the curtains. I just know it’s there.
At long last I turn off the TV and drag myself off to bed. Before long I am joined by two cats and zero sleep.
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