Vigil

Jesse’s hollow, haunted eyes never left Walter’s face.

He lay on their bed. The broken glass had been swept to the floor but cold air flowed in from the broken window at the head of the bed and all the lamps had been smashed.

The light outside grew a little brighter.

Jesse had gagged and choked his way to the start of his vampire life but he was calm now, almost numb.

It was funny: five years ago he had run into the night to save Walter. Five weeks ago he had gone to the plaza and risked being killed. But when Jeremy started beating on him, he’d collapsed like a whimpering swish. He was no Penelope Pitstop; why hadn’t he defended himself?

But the answer was too painful to look at. Five years ago, he had known Walter was the love of his life; five weeks ago, he’d still trusted Walter with his heart and his life. His beloved had been by his side, something he could fight for and believe in.

That was gone.

He had coughed and gasped and struggled up through gashing pain, razors tearing at his windpipe, cold air dragging like knives into his lungs. His eyes had not wanted to work; he’d thrashed sluggish arms and legs. He tried to talk but his tongue was mushy and gelatinous.

At last he’d come awake enough to realize that he wasn’t breathing through his mouth. Air gushed in and out through the awful hole in his throat. His jaw slid to odd angles and his tongue wanted to slither down the back of his throat. Gagging, he forced it between his teeth.

A voice which once had meant the world sobbed and called him Buttercup

and Dearest Dearest Love

but he could not relax into the sweet comfort that voice held.

Jeremy stood at the foot of the bed, still in his bloodstained windbreaker. His arms were tightly crossed but a little smile played on his bloodless lips.

Jesse should have been chilled to look on the one who’d murdered him but he had the strangest sensation of comfort. When their eyes met, some kind of understanding seemed to pass between them. Jesse felt that stern justice was present. If he couldn’t depend on Walter anymore, at least he could depend on this.

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Then Walter sobbed out his confession about his second time as a Bad Boy. “I still can’t believe I did it, that I could let myself go like that and do something so terrible.”

He swung around to Jeremy. “I’m so sorry, young man, I can’t ever apologize, I’m sorry.” At that moment, if he had thought to say, whether it was true or not, “I made you think you killed your brother but you didn’t, I saw him fall out the door on his own,” Jeremy might have received from him the absolution which he hadn’t accepted from Sister Amanda or anyone else.

But Walter finished his apology with, “I made you kill your brother, and I’m so sorry.”

Jesse understood Walter well enough to see that he honestly didn’t know either way. But the unintentional arrow went through Jeremy’s heart, his eyes no longer met Jesse’s, and Jesse did shiver then.

And now it was nearly dawn. Walter rhapsodized how sunlight would heal his wounds and they would fly together holding hands. Jesse listened numbly.

It was funny, if he wanted to laugh: he had forgiven Walter ten years ago when he came back possibly infected with HIV and God knows what. It had only been himself that Walter had hurt.

But he couldn’t forgive Walter his second Bad Boy rampage because Walter had hurt others. He could forgive hurt to himself but not hurt to others.

He supposed that made him a good, if pathetic, person.

But you don’t forgive murder like you forgive cheating. Walter was a murderer

and it didn’t matter that he was sorry now with all his heart.

To think of something else, he worried at what Walter had told him about the carnage outside. The street, he realized, was probably clean by now. Vampires would get grit and even broken glass on their tongues to lick away the bloodstains. Charla had been miraculously pulled from the carnage by a Deus ex machina

helicopter. But poor, gentle Tomás was gone without a trace. Gone like Jeremy’s brother.

There was no getting away from that thought. Jesse looked at Jeremy, whose lean face like a lonely wolf watched at him intently, as if he were wondering whether to say something. There was no understanding between them now, whatever it had been: Jeremy watched Jesse like he was a roach.

Jesse craved his blood ravenously.

For a last rational moment he was sick to think of drinking blood with his throat torn open but the fog claimed him. He’d go for Jeremy first, Jeremy was the greater danger. There’d be no worry about his throat: he’d be a movie vampire as he buried fangs in rich, warm…

“Talk to him, Walter

,” Jeremy snapped, saying Walter’s name like a curse.

Walter jerked back to Jesse, poured out endearments again and Jesse came back.

It was much lighter now and he sat up. Jeremy crouched and whipped a stake from his holster. Walter poured out Oh Buttercups.

Jesse tried to say, “I’m just fucking sitting up,” but he could only move his lips and puff air from his torn throat. He gritted his teeth in disgust and frustration.

Walter pushed him back down, murmuring, “Just lie still, love, it’ll be all better soon.”

“Yes, it will,” said Jeremy.