Masters of Midnight: Erotic Tales of the Vampire

  The dates on the stone were 1812-1832, and below these was written NO MORE TO ROAM. The name was more difficult to decipher. Ben could make out some of the letters—an A, a C, some Es. These were followed by a P, what looked like an L, and a pair of Os. The rest was covered in moss. With his fingers, Ben pulled at it, removing the bits of green from the letters. It flaked away easily, revealing the name little by little.

  “Wallace Pyle Blackwood,” Ben read when he was finished. He stared at it. “Wallace Pyle Blackwood,” he repeated as what he was seeing began to sink in.

  Chapter Ten

  “Why did you send me there?”

  Ben stood in the backyard of Titus’s house. He’d come there directly from the old cemetery. Titus was standing by his hives, preparing to remove the top from one of them.

  “Let’s go inside,” Titus said. “This isn’t the place.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on,” Ben demanded. “Why did you send me to that funeral? And why is Wallace Blackwood’s name on that gravestone?”

  “Please,” said Titus. “Inside.”

  Ben hesitated. He was angry, and afraid, and he did not want to be alone with Titus inside his house. He didn’t know what to think, or what to believe.

  Ignoring Ben’s hesitation, Titus walked toward the door. After a moment, Ben followed him. They entered the house’s kitchen, where Titus sat down at the table. Ben remained standing.

  “I didn’t want any of this to happen,” said Titus.

  “Any of what?” asked Ben. “Sleeping with me? What?”

  Titus looked at him. His eyes looked tired. “What do you know of vampires?” he asked.

  Ben shrugged. “They suck blood. Who the fuck cares?”

  “Wallace Blackwood was a vampire,” said Titus.

  Ben stared at him. “A vampire,” he repeated.

  Titus nodded. “That was his grave that you saw. His first grave. His most recent one is not marked.”

  “I saw his name on that stone,” Ben said. “But that wasn’t the same Wallace Blackwood. That’s not possible.”

  “It is possible,” replied Titus. “And yes, that was the very Wallace Blackwood who formerly occupied your position.”

  Ben laughed. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be leaving now. Because you are nuts. I don’t know what happened here the other night, but it’s over now. So let’s just both forget about it, okay? I’ll be seeing you.”

  He turned to leave, one hand on the handle of the door.

  “He’s come back,” Titus said. “That’s who you saw swimming in the pond the other night, not me.”

  Ben froze.

  “Wallace Blackwood. He’s come back. Not in the same form, but he’s back. He killed that boy. He’ll come for you.”

  Ben turned. “What kind of sick game is this?” he asked, growing angry. He walked toward the table. “Do you get off on this? Is that it? You like seducing guys and then playing with their heads?”

  “I wish I were playing,” said Titus. “But this is no game. It’s very real. Wallace Blackwood killed that boy.”

  “How do you know that?” Ben asked.

  “Because he killed me once,” Titus answered.

  Ben said nothing, looking at Titus’s face. The man seemed perfectly ordinary. Not at all like a crazy person, Ben thought. But what he was saying was completely unbelievable. Surely he must be mad.

  “In 1832, Wallace Blackwood died for the first time,” said Titus. “He rose again several nights later when the virus in his blood grew strong enough to revive him. Half mad, he lived in the hills, feeding on whatever came his way. The Creaverton Demon they called him, and they weren’t much mistaken. No one but his victims ever saw him, but he claimed many lives. These deaths were blamed on many things: bears, Indians, accidents, even witchcraft. Yet no witch could do what Wallace Blackwood did. Nor could any demon. Only the living dead could kill like that, draining his catch of their blood and casting them aside like empty husks for the earth to reclaim.”

  Titus’s voice had taken on a weary quality to it, as if he were telling a story he had long ago tired of. Although Ben still thought he was delusional, or worse, he sat in the chair opposite him and listened as Titus continued.

  “After a time, he came again to reside among the living. He made his home among them, and none of them knew what he really was. He’d learned to fill their heads with memories, with remembrances of things that had never happened, people who had never lived. They believed he’d always been among them. And when he took from them, they looked elsewhere for explanations.”

  Titus looked at Ben. “You asked Martha Abraham about him, didn’t you?”

  Ben nodded.

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said Wally came here during the Depression,” he said.

  Titus nodded. “Still he clouds their minds,” he said. “His power is very strong. No doubt they remember little of the events of that summer.”

  “1932?” Ben asked.

  “Yes,” answered Titus. “That summer, Blackwood grew hungry. The sickness in him had grown stronger, and he sought to quench it with the blood of children.”

  “Blackwood?” said Ben. “What about John Rullins?”

  Titus gave a small laugh. “John Rullins knew nothing of it,” he said. “Blackwood made them all think it was the tinker who did his work.”

  “How do you know all of this?” Ben asked.

  “Because I helped him,” said Titus softly. “I helped him kill.”

  “You couldn’t have,” said Ben. “You weren’t even alive then.”

  “No,” Titus said. “I wasn’t alive. Blackwood killed me seven years before. Nonetheless, I was walking the earth, and I helped him murder those children.”

  Ben rubbed his eyes with his hands. “Maybe I’m the one going crazy,” he said. “I need to get out of here.”

  He started to rise, but Titus caught his wrist. His grip was stronger than Ben remembered it, and no matter how hard he tried to pull away, Titus’s grip remained firm.

  “Let me go,” Ben said, growing fearful.

  “It won’t matter,” Titus told him. “You can’t run now. All you can do is listen.”

  Ben struggled for another moment. Then, realizing that he would never be able to pull away, he sat. Titus released his wrist and Ben rubbed it, soothing the burning skin.

  “There is much about the world that you don’t know,” said Titus. “The sickness that keeps Blackwood and myself alive is one of them. I pray that you never know it.”

  “What is this sickness you keep talking about?” Ben asked. “You said Blackwood was a vampire.”

  “Yes,” said Titus. “He is. As am I.”

  “You?” repeated Ben. “You’re a vampire?”

  “Yes,” Titus said. “I have the sickness.”

  “Then why can you walk around in the sunshine?” Ben asked. “Vampires can’t do that.”

  Titus smiled. “Neither can we tolerate the touch of holy water or the sign of the cross, right?”

  “Right,” Ben said decisively.

  “Superstitions,” said Titus. “Lies, most of them created by the old ones to make their prey think they could protect themselves. But none of it is true.”

  “Of course not,” Ben said. “Just like none of this bullshit you’re feeding me is.”

  “What would you have me do to prove myself to you?” asked Titus. “Drain your blood and make you like me? Would that satisfy you?”

  Ben looked at him nervously. He didn’t know how to reply. Every ounce of common sense he had was telling him that Titus was lying. Yet another part of him believed, or at least wanted to believe, that he was speaking the truth.

  “I had my chance to infect you,” said Titus. “Last night. I could have done it then.”

  “Last night?” Ben said. “What, when you were fucking me?”

  Titus nodded. “I was tempted,” he said. “It would have allowed us to be together, much as Wallace wa
nted me to be with him forever.”

  “You and Wallace were lovers?” Ben asked him.

  “Why do you think I helped him kill?” answered Titus. “I loved him. I believed his lies. But I was young. I didn’t understand then what the sickness could do. When I saw what he was truly made of, I destroyed him.”

  “You killed him? But Martha said he died of—” He paused. He couldn’t remember what Martha had said was the cause of Wally’s death.

  “She didn’t say how he died, did she?” asked Titus.

  Ben searched his memory, trying to recall any explanation Martha might have given him. Finally, he shook his head in defeat. “No,” he said. “She didn’t. She just said he died after his book came out.”

  “Yes, the book,” Titus said. “His masterpiece. If only I’d known about it beforehand, I might have stopped him.”

  “Stopped him?” said Ben. “From what? Publishing it?”

  “Reviving the lies,” Titus said. “Planting the seed of doubt in the minds of the town once more.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ben.

  “He was planning on trying again,” said Titus. “He thought enough time had passed. The book was meant to rekindle the sparks of fear, so that when the killings began again people would remember John Rullins and once again find someone to blame.”

  “But the book claimed that Rullins was innocent,” Ben said. “Blackwood blamed his death on mob hysteria.”

  “That was Wallace’s vanity,” said Titus. “He could never stand that Rullins got the credit for the killings, even though it spared him. Still, he knew that people would be looking for a human explanation for what he had planned, and that the memory of Rullins would lead them to another monster.”

  “They’d think that someone read the book and decided to recreate the crimes,” said Ben, understanding.

  “Yes,” Titus replied. “It was a good plan.”

  “But you stopped him?” said Ben. “How?”

  “There are ways of killing the undead,” Titus explained. “I used one of them. But my work was not complete, because now he’s returned.”

  “How do you know that?” asked Ben.

  “I can sense him in the world,” Titus said. “And I know his hand when I see it.”

  “Paul Mickerley,” Ben said. “Why did he leave his body where it could be found?”

  “Again, vanity,” said Titus. “To announce his return. To stir up fear. He feeds on that as much as on the blood of those he takes.”

  Ben hesitated before speaking. “Let’s assume I believe any of this,” he said finally. “Let’s assume I actually believe that you and Wallace Blackwood are both vampires. If he killed so many people, why should I believe you haven’t?”

  “I have,” answered Titus. “Before I understood what I am, I killed too. But not in many years.”

  “How is that possible?” Ben asked. “Don’t you need blood to live?”

  “Only to stay young,” said Titus. “I no longer wish to be young at that price. I have found a way to fight the sickness.”

  “How?” Ben asked, curious despite his skepticism.

  Titus stood up. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” Titus asked. “Her name is Apis mellifera ligustica. The Italian honey bee.”

  He held up the jar so that Ben could see the bee inside. It clung to the glass, its antennae in constant motion. Its golden abdomen was ringed with five bands of darker brown. When Titus set the jar down, the bee buzzed angrily.

  “She’s a worker,” Titus told Ben. “Her lifespan is only about two to three weeks in the summer. She works tirelessly, flying out in search of food to bring back to the hive for her queen. Then she dies.”

  Ben looked around the room Titus had brought him to. It was in a small barn-like structure behind the house, past the collection of hives. The walls were lined with shelves, which in turn were lined with row upon row of tiny glass bottles. In each one a bee waited.

  “Do you know anything about bees?” asked Titus.

  Ben shook his head. “Only that they make honey,” he replied, eyeing the collection of bottles nervously.

  “That is the least interesting thing about them,” said Titus.

  “I’m sure it is,” Ben said. “Can I ask what you’re doing with them?”

  Titus smiled. “I don’t blame you for being afraid of them,” he said. “Most people are.”

  He picked up a pair of tweezers from the workbench and unscrewed the lid to the jar he’d been looking at. Reaching inside, he deftly pinned the bee between the blades of the tweezers and lifted it out. The bee buzzed loudly, its trapped legs flailing.

  “What are you doing?” Ben asked.

  “The bee’s sting is generally incorrectly referred to as its stinger,” Titus said, ignoring the question. “But the instrument and its action are more rightly called by the same name. It does what it is.”

  Rolling up the sleeve of his shirt, he placed the bee against his skin near his wrist. Ben watched, horrified, as he pressed the insect down. Its abdomen tapped against Titus’s skin several times, then stayed in one position. Titus closed his eyes.

  “The sting is barbed,” he said. “Edged like a saw blade. It tears through the flesh, and because of its teeth it sticks in the body of its victim.”

  The bee was struggling. Titus released it from the tweezers’ hold and it walked away, crawling up his arm for a space of several inches before suddenly falling to the workbench.

  “When either the bee or the victim pulls away, the sting is torn from the bee’s body, taking with it the poison sac,” said Titus, his eyes still closed. “The sac remains attached to the sting, pumping poison into the wound for a minute or longer. The design is perfect, except for one thing.” He opened his eyes and looked at Ben. “The bee that gives up its sting must die as a result.”

  Ben glanced at the bee that had fallen onto the workbench. It was still, neither its antennae nor its legs moving. Titus picked it up and looked at it, an expression of sadness on his face.

  “She gives up her life,” he said softly, “in order that I might live.”

  “I don’t understand,” Ben said. “What do these bees have to do with you being a . . . with you being sick?”

  “Do you know what a vampire is?” Titus asked him.

  Ben shrugged. “A creature that drinks blood in order to live forever,” he said.

  “In part that’s true,” said Titus. “But it’s not the whole story. I’m afraid we can thank the storytellers for turning the sickness into something more romantic than it really is.”

  “Then what is it exactly?” Ben asked him.

  Titus leaned against the workbench. “A virus,” he said. “A virus very much like any other that causes sickness. Only in this case, the end effect is eternal life.”

  “That sounds more like a cure to me,” remarked Ben.

  “A cure that comes with a great price,” Titus said. “The virus keeps the organs alive, but to do so it destroys the red blood cells at an alarming rate. In order to replenish them, the vampire must drink the blood of its victims.”

  “And if it doesn’t drink?” asked Ben.

  “It dies,” said Titus. “Or, more accurately, it begins the process of decaying. But even this takes many years to complete. In the meantime, the vampire exists as a kind of animated corpse.”

  “The living dead,” Ben said.

  Titus nodded. “Yes, the living dead.”

  “And the people who are bitten?” Ben said. “Do they become vampires too?”

  “Not if they are completely drained,” said Titus. “If there is no blood in them, the virus has nothing to live off of and it dies along with its new host. But if the body is not drained, then the virus takes hold and multiplies quickly. That’s what happened to me. It’s why Blackwood drained all the others.”

  “I still don’t understand what the bees have to do with
it,” said Ben.

  Titus rubbed the spot on his wrist where the bee had stung him. A red welt had appeared. “When a bee stings and its venom enters the body, the body responds by attacking the foreign antigens. It’s a kind of war, pitting the body’s defenses against the invaders. The same virus that causes the sickness and keeps the organs alive also attacks the venom. As long as it’s busy battling the antigens, it can’t destroy the red blood cells.”

  “Whatever happened to vampires just being dead bodies inhabited by evil?” Ben asked. “You make it sound like a medical condition.”

  “It is,” answered Titus. “It’s not magic. I used to think it was. Wallace wanted me to think it was. But it’s not, although it does eventually provide the vampire with certain powers as a result of its work.”

  “How did you think of doing this?” Ben asked.

  “I read an article,” replied Titus.

  “An article,” Ben repeated.

  “Again, it wasn’t magic,” said Titus. “I didn’t find some ancient book of spells or a gypsy herbal remedy for the affliction. I read an article about people with MS being treated with bee stings. In the bodies of people with MS, the cells that are supposed to defend the body actually attack it, interrupting the pathways that send messages from the brain to the muscles. When stung, the body reacts by fighting the bee venom instead. While it’s doing that, the communication pathways function more or less normally, allowing the patient a brief period of relief from pain.”

  “This is completely insane,” said Ben after a moment. “First you want me to believe that you’re a vampire, and that Wallace Blackwood was a vampire too. Now you want me to believe that somehow stinging yourself with bees keeps you from needing to drink blood?”

  “I know how it must sound,” Titus said.

  “How it must sound?” Ben exclaimed. “I’ll tell you how it sounds. It sounds totally fucking ridiculous.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?” Titus asked. “Do you want me to tell you that we all live in coffins? Do you want me to tell you that we’re poor tortured souls who can never find rest? Do you want me to tell you that my life is like an Anne Rice novel? Would you believe me then?”