Chapter 5

The God and the Monster

March 7, 2005, Miami - 6:45 PM

It happened right after I took the girl, the same girl whom my vigilante tried unsuccessfully to save.

I was flying over the sea, falling in love with the night all over again when the voice talked to me; but this time, the message was different, very familiar and personal. It made me suspend my body in midair for a moment, so I could digest it. It called me in a way that I hadn't heard in more than a lifetime, a way that only the few who knew me well used to do; but they were long gone now, dead, all of them.

I kept looking, waiting, but then it kept its silence.

I was not imagining things. I knew what I heard was true. That voice, no longer a whisper, clearly called me "the thief of all thieves."

In my disappointment, I ended up at an empty highway bridge near the sea.

Feeling dizzy and mad, I screamed for the voice to show itself but got no reply. Finally, I had had enough.

I need to see the old man, I said to myself.

It had been years since we last saw each other, not because of lack of time—if there's something I have, it's time—but for lack of interest. I don't like the old man. I can't quite say what it is about him that I can't tolerate, there are so many awful things; but I guess it's because I believe he's a monster of the worst kind.

The kind who never realizes that he is a monster.

I had stopped for over a decade in the West Coast, visiting. I thought he had died, until a couple of years back when I picked up his scent. Somehow, he had followed me to Florida, and even bought a property in Miami-Dade County.

There's almost an obvious unwritten rule about those we choose to turn. They need to have certain qualities; experiences; and, above all else, the stamina and courage for immortality.

The old man didn't want to admit it, but I knew he was seeking the opportunity to become immortal. Our "friendship" has always been one-sided. He always waits for my call, and I would seek him out only as a last resort. That's fine with him, but it bothers me. I will admit that beyond all the things we have disagreed on throughout the decades, he has proven himself by assisting me on more than one occasion. Still, I can't forget the things he has done. There are minds that I should never get inside, because the dark secrets they keep are too horrible, even for someone like me.

I will also never forget that he once saved my life. I don't owe him anything. We are not friends. We are two dark forces that use each other from time to time. At that moment, though, I needed him. I needed his uncanny skills as a spirit master, or as people nowadays call his kind, a necromancer.

I found him in the semidarkness of his living room. How appropriate, I thought. He almost had a heart attack when I emerged from the shadows of his modest living space. Beethoven was playing, Sonate Für Klavier und Violine N .3 Es-Dur Op .12, the melody was king inside the room. For all his flaws, the old man has exquisite taste when it comes down to the arts.

My ears picked a marked missed palpitation in his cardiac rhythm. I smiled, knowing that his end was finally near. He stared at me in silence for a while. I felt him trying to get inside my mind. For the longest time, that had been his life's mission; and every time, I rejected him.

In this game called life, there are individuals born with certain abilities. These same skills can be developed in all of us. When I was turned, parts of my brain were awakened, parts that most people never get to use. The ability to control people's will, to move matter from point A to point B, or to read minds is not beyond us if only we learn to use the part of our brain that controls and manages our core energy. That same core energy is what some call the soul.

We are all flesh-and-blood batteries, and like any other energy source, it can be transformed, manipulated, and redirected, if only we had easy access to the knowledge of how to do so.

The old man was above most. He had trained himself over the years in how to control his core energy using his brain; but for all his efforts, he was not a match for my abilities.

One thing he can do better than pretty much anyone else is contacting that invisible force around us. The one we all share and move through—some people call it gods, spirits, ghosts, and even angels. He is open to this force and knows how to translate the different types of changes in energy. Then his brain would perceive whether it was a positive or negative source. The old man can only interpret this information as far his capacity allows him. In most cases, it ends up with just a hunch, a premonition of either danger or fortune; and that is more than enough.

We started to speak in Spanish.

"Basta, no puedes leer mi mente," I warned him. (Stop it. You can't read my mind.)

He was sitting in front of a big table, writing down something that he had just read in a book. There was a half-empty bottle of scotch whiskey next to a half-full glass.

"Hace tiempo que no os veo Viejo," I continued. (Long time no see, old man.)

I quickly recognized the Bible among the books.

It is funny how the wicked always turn to "god" when their youth and strength are gone and death is near.

I read his mind easily and saw his doubts. I also found something unexpected: The old man, the assassin of children, was hungry for peace.

I'd be dammed if I was going to let him get away with it that easily!

"I believe you're on a foolish quest," I added.

Frank wanted to speak. I could feel he was about to voice out his thoughts, so I hurried with mine.

"Just now you were thinking that God had no choice but to let the devil loose, so there could be a balance in the world," I said.

Frank dispensed with all intentions to speak.

"If you look closer you may find that the devil is just an extension of god," I smiled at his drunken expression. "That's if you believe that sort of fiction," I added.

"Three years," he said. "Not a word, not a letter, not an e-mail. And just like that, you show up."

His abnormal heartbeat was starting to annoy me.

"You should check that up," I said with a wicked expression. "That heart of yours is sick. I'll say you won't last more than six months."

I watched as the old man reached for the glass of scotch and drank.

"Maybe I'm being overoptimistic," I observed.

The old man put the glass back on the table and poured more whiskey.

"¿Me acompaña?" he said in Spanish, chuckling. (Would you care to join me?)

The music was beautiful. I decided to listen to it rather than to the old man. I hid my body deep in the darkness of the room. The old man tried to track my movements with his tired eyes. I stood in silence, concealed by the shadows, and looked at him. He had aged badly, and that notion made me smile again.

"¿Estoy hablando solo?" he asked. (Am I talking to myself?)

Suddenly, I approached him, maybe way too fast for his own good. I just felt like toying with him for a bit. With a bit of luck, he could delight me by suffering a heart attack. I grabbed his head violently and opened my mouth. Instinctively, my fangs went for his neck. Then I stopped. I could smell the red liquid under his old skin, and I wanted it all.

"Yes, do it, please!" He said.

His voice distracted me from my murderous intentions. No, it won't be this easy, I said to myself."¿Te gustaría eso no?" The Spaniard in me whispered in his ear. (You would like that, wouldn't you?)

The old man closed his eyes. "Yes." He quickly replied.

"What if I'm here to take instead of give?" I whispered again.

The old man re-opened his eyes. "¿No es así siempre?" he replied with another question. (Isn't that always the case?)

That was the old bastard I knew. Deep behind those tired eyes, the killer still existed. Somewhere under that costume of wrinkles and dry skin, the purest evil was waiting for the right purpose to awaken. As much as I loathed him, I also needed him.

For now.

I stood near one of the house's columns, using the shadows as a cover, putting a considerable distance between the old man and me, trying to regain control of my thirst.

"Please don't leave!" The old man said.

I looked at him from a distance, debating with myself whether to leave or stay.

"You said it yourself. I don't have much time left," he continued.

"Why that should be of my concern?" I asked.

He tried to locate me inside the shadows, but his old eyes failed him.