TWENTY-ONE
Research (see “Vampire King” file) indicates most
vampires of Cade’s age would be much stronger, and faster, with a
range of abilities Cade does not possess. But unlike other
vampires, this subject sustains himself with animal blood. He
refuses to drink the blood of a human, even though human blood is
what his vampiric body is designed mainly to consume and
metabolize. (He refuses to drink even transfused human blood,
viewing it much the same way an alcoholic views liquor.) If there
were some way to overcome the subject’s squeamishness in this
regard, there is no telling how effective an agent he might
become.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODENAME: NIGHTMARE PET
Neon Hangul characters glowed above the
entrance of the place where the AA meeting was held, a run-down
auditorium near Koreatown. The lobby was plastered with posters for
get-rich-quick seminars, and the interior was filled with rows of
salvaged theater seats. Cade took one near the back.
He had been going to AA since shortly after World
War II. The war had not been easy for him. He was certain, at many
times, that he was on the losing side, that the darkness was
winning against the light. Even aside from the otherworldly evil
that Hitler’s occultists summoned up, the merely human brutality
was almost too much to bear: Auschwitz and Dachau, Bataan, even the
internment camps in the U.S. Many times, he was tempted to start
drinking from the fountains of blood that seemed to spring up all
around him.
The thirst didn’t go away after V-E Day. Coming
back to the States, he found his faith almost undone. Winning
hadn’t solved that. He thought they were lucky.
Everyone said they had saved the world. He didn’t
believe that. Worse, he was no longer sure it deserved to be
saved.
One night in 1947, he’d stumbled into a church in
New York. It hurt—any house of worship did, even more than the
cross he still wore around his neck. But it was better than the
thirst.
He was surprised to find people there. They were
telling stories—how they had struggled, and often failed, to
control their own need for a strong drink. And yet, they kept
struggling. Kept fighting.
He listened for as long as they talked and then
came back again the next night. Then he would find a meeting
whenever he could.
The people never asked him to say anything, or even
introduce himself. He was careful, over the years, to vary his
patterns, so no one would notice that alone, out of all the
drinkers, he never aged. Even so, the people at the meetings always
respected his privacy.
It wasn’t the same thirst. He knew that. But it
helped. He wasn’t sure exactly how, but it helped.
He needed to hear that right now. The taste of his
own blood was bitter in his mouth, and he didn’t like thinking how
much he had wanted to give in to Zach’s order—to drain the flask
and then keep drinking, to drown in oceans of blood if he
could.
Someone up front was talking about receiving his
one-year chip when a man sat down next to Cade in the back.
He was dressed in expensive but casual clothes,
munching one of the free doughnuts, a cup from Starbucks in the
other hand.
“What’s up?” he asked Cade, not bothering to lower
his voice. A few people turned in their seats and looked back, but
he didn’t notice.
Cade didn’t respond, which didn’t make a
difference. The man kept talking, without a pause for breath.
“You new? I’m new. I mean, to this place. I’ve been
to other meetings. But a friend of mine said this is where Robert
Downey, Jr., comes. You seen him?”
Cade gave the man a look, then pointed at the
speaker.
The man nodded, smiled and went a whole three
seconds before talking again. “See, confidentially, I don’t really
have a problem with alcohol. I mean, aside from when it’s last call
and they cut me off, know what I’m saying? It’s just, I hear this
is such a great place to network.”
The man didn’t smell of booze. Cade couldn’t
believe it, but he was drunk on nothing more than his own
fumes.
“Frankly, you don’t look like one of these other
losers. I mean, if you have a problem, I don’t mean to offend ya.
You look like you’ve got it under control. I’m Brad. Brad
Lawrence,” he said, polishing off his doughnut and offering his
hand in one move.
Cade stared back. For the first time, Brad seemed
to actually notice him. He gulped.
“So . . . uh . . . how long has it been for you?
Since your last drink, I mean.”
Cade decided to answer him. “Fifty-one thousand,
nine hundred and sixty-eight days,” he said quietly.
Brad did the math in his head. Then he gave Cade a
strange look and moved to another seat.
Cade felt something like amusement, or as close as
he got. His humanity was long gone, and he would never get it back.
He was beyond redemption. He knew that. But these meetings reminded
him what humanity was—both how small and how great.
It reminded him of what he’d lost, and that was
important. Aside from the cross around his neck, it was the closest
thing to an article of faith Cade had left.