Desperate Measures

They came, as Marivel knew they would, as all her human friends -- except perhaps Anastasia -- would, when they realized Dan Dairam was herding them right to Ge Ramtos.  Not that she blamed them.  That was one reason Marivel tried not to befriend humans; it was too hard to watch them die, or see the weight of years crush them if she intervened. 

If only she weren't the last of her kind. If only were sad and bitter words for Crimson Noble and human alike.  Life in the grim dark forbidding castle would be unbearable if it weren't for Scott and Tony's antics, their gaiety and rambunctiousness.  She was grateful for their presence, even if they sometimes broke things.

Besides, they made tolerable servants.  Right now they were scurrying around in the kitchen, preparing tea for her soon-to-be guests.  No one could sneak up on Crimson Castle, and these visitors knew better than to try.  The alarm had gone off awhile ago and dutifully reported two humans and a dog en route to the castle.  Some might call that paranoid, but some had obviously never had to deal with vampyre hunters.  People believed all kinds of bizarre vile things about Crimson Nobles, mostly untrue, and this made them stake first and ask questions later.  At least these humans had had the sense to contact her before they left Guild Galad to tell her they were coming.  

Marivel arranged her cape around her shoulders, fluffed up her long blonde hair, and told Hob and Nob to take up stations by the huge front doors.  The rightful ruler of Filgaia should make a grand entrance, after all, and she wouldn't have long to wait.  She'd been able to hear the truck's engine for awhile now.

She heard it pull up into the courtyard and die.  Someone's keys jingled.  One door slam, long pause, another.  Scott and Tony had better have the tea ready.  This would be good practice for them.

Odd, only one set of human footfalls.  She could figure that out later.  Ah, there were the knocks on the oversize doors and the creaking as Hob and Nob opened them.  That creaking was a subtle safety feature; Marivel could hear it from anywhere in the castle and monitor all comings and goings in her domain.  Not that it wasn't still a bit irritating to her sensitive ears.

Hob and Nob beeped, for their sensors showed a human they recognized.  Marivel's guests stepped into the parlor -- or rather, one stepped and pushed his companion, who was in a wheelchair.  At least they'd had the sense to leave the dog outside.  She waited until she heard the doors close -- it was broad daylight, and there was no sense in risking being exposed to it -- before she swept into the room to welcome them.

"Brad," she smiled.  "You're looking well."

"So are you," Brad retorted, for Marivel still looked exactly the same as when he'd last seen her three years ago.  "This is Billy.  Billy, Marivel."

"Pretty . . ." Billy sighed, and Marivel blushed, just a little.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, beckoning Scott and Tony into the room with an imperious gesture.  Tony was pushing the tea cart, so Scott would have to pour.

"Scott! Tony!  How you've grown!"  Indeed they had; both were gangly adolescents now.  Lots of chatter and catching-up followed, and between breaths Brad somehow managed to introduce Billy and drink three cups of tea.  Tim?  Still in Baskar and engaged to Colette.  Of course he'll invite you to the wedding!  Lilka's ditzy as ever and about to graduate from the magic academy.  Kanon's hunting monsters, as usual.  I saw Ashley last week, when I borrowed the truck.  He and Marina are doing great, and the twins are a real handful.  They're walking and talking now.  Me?  I settled in T'bok.  I've been looking after Billy. What have you two been up to?  Don't let Marivel work you too hard!

Outside, shadows lengthened into evening.  Crimson Castle hadn't been so lively in ages.  At last Marivel invited Brad and Billy to stay the night and ordered her henchmen to get supper ready -- something they did with alacrity, since it was their supper, too.  Humans were always so surprised when they found out Crimson Nobles could, and did, eat normal food.  Scott was shaping up into a pretty good cook.

She dreaded their leaving, dreaded their staying.  She enjoyed the company, but every moment brought them closer to the the inevitable petition, the litany that repeated itself every time human and Crimson Noble met:

Make me immortal, and I will serve you always.

Wasn't that what Scott and Tony were doing, trying to earn immortality by serving her?  She could refuse, lose the friendship and later the friend, or acquiesce and lose the friendship anyway as the years became too much.  Humans were never meant to live so long; they couldn't handle it.  If only there were still some Elws on Filgaia.  Maybe they could've been fitting companions.

She continued small talk with Brad -- evidently Billy wasn't much of a conversationalist -- while Scott and Tony made dinner, did the tea dishes, and prepared the big formal dining room.  Like everything else in Crimson Castle, the dining room was dark and gaudy, a tribute to gilt-and-red-velvet mahogany gothic-baroque excess, and the china?  Horrid overwrought stuff that would've been tawdry if it hadn't been first quality. 

Brad was too polite to mention the decor, or to ask what the red stuff in Marivel's goblet was, as he watched her pick at the baked chicken and green beans.  He and Billy dug in with good appetites and kept Scott and Tony scrambling to bring them refills on the food and drink.  "Compliments to the hostess . . . and the chef," Brad quipped, winking at Marivel.  "This is far better than my own cooking.  Or the rations I'm used to."  Actually, Billy needed so much care that Brad took whatever shortcuts he could find when it came to eating,  and sometimes he was so tired he'd just wolf down a chunk of hardtack and call it a day.  "I should come visit you more often.  Or move in.  I could chop your firewood, move your furniture.  Carry your suitcase?"

"I have machines to do all that."  She dismissed Scott and Tony with a gesture, and they knew better than to protest, though they noticed her sad eyes.  They cleared the table as they went.

"Ah, nobody needs me," Brad teased.  "Except him."  And the story came pouring out, how he'd tried everything he knew to heal Billy's legs and brain, taken him to every healer on Filgaia, even Kanon's "shady doctor" in Guild Galad,  and none of them could do anything.  How Tim fruitlessly petitioned all the Guardians he knew.  How Lilka'd promised to research healing magic in the big Sielje library.  How the staff at Valeria Chateau tried to help, they really did, but they hadn't been able to heal Irving, and Billy's injuries were much worse.  How a Crimson Noble's bite was rumored to cure any illness, any injury.  "Please, Marivel, I'm begging you.  I won't ask you for another thing, ever."  And Brad actually jumped out of his chair and slid down to his knees to plead with her.

Ah, so it was Make my friend immortal.  Unmoved, Marivel's only response was to take Billy's chin in her pallid right hand and bring his eyes up to meet hers.  His eyes were vacant.  "Brad!  Where are you?  Brad!" he shouted, as he always did whenever Brad was out of view.  Serious brain damage.  "It'd be more merciful to kill him," she hissed.  "Even if I agreed, he can't consent, and you don't know what you're asking."

"Then teach me," Brad implored.  "I'll do anything you say."  He reached up to caress GIAS in an unconscious nervous gesture.

Now THAT gave Marivel a twinge of guilt, since she'd built GIAS in the first place.  It had been Irving's idea, but Marivel was the only one on Filgaia with skill enough to build and implant it.  Brad,  though a brave man, still felt apprehensive every time he was reminded of it.  No wonder he was nervous.

"Anything," he repeated.

"Even kill him if he changes his mind?"  She let go of Billy's face, and he swiveled back towards Brad.  "It won't be easy.  For him or for you.  It might kill him regardless."  

"I'll take that chance."  Long moments of uneasy silence.

"Hold him down."  Marivel could have done this herself quite easily, of course, but Brad might as well make himself useful since he'd offered to obey her.  Besides, a Crimson Noble should always present herself with dignity.

Brad obliged, scooting the wheelchair out where she could reach it, then moving around front and pinning the confused Billy firmly.  "You're good to go, boss."

Billy tensed and resisted when she drove her fangs into his neck, but Brad kept his word and held him down.  "Brad!  Brad!  BRAD!" Billy cried incessantly, knowing only that the pretty pale blonde lady was hurting him and the person he trusted most was helping her.  His cries grew weaker and weaker as Marivel drank.  "Brad . . . why?"  he whimpered as he slumped over at last.  Brad propped him up.  

Marivel made some adjustments to her Electel and seared the wounds.  Brad winced but didn't dare protest.  He checked for a pulse and found one, though it didn't feel quite normal.
"We have to get him upstairs," she murmured, and Brad followed her mutely to the elevator, then to a guestroom on the second floor, where he tucked Billy under the --no surprise, red! -- coverlet and arranged his pillows.  "When he comes to, don't give him anything but blood," she ordered.  "Human blood, animal blood, monster blood, it doesn't matter." 

"Where do I find some?"

"Oh, you'll have to raid my larder.  Ask Scott and Tony."  And with that she turned to leave.  "And no healing magic, either."

"Thank you," Brad breathed.  "Thank you for everything." 

Marivel nodded and breezed out, stationing Hob just inside the door.  Brad checked Billy and found him unconscious and feverish.  He settled into a black leather wingback chair for the night, still fully dressed, and clicked the bedside lamp off.  At least he wouldn't have to look at the decor in the dark; he wouldn't've been a bit surprised if the bat-and-gargoyle motif had been chosen to creep out visitors.

Electric lights were something he'd missed in T'bok; so was indoor plumbing.

Brad was sound asleep before he could even put that thought to words.

Hours later Billy woke confused and staring at the ceiling.  The last thing he remembered was diving for cover as the Angel Halo detonated, miles away from a comfortable bed.  This one was suitable enough, even if it did have a headboard carved into a giant, fanged bat that loomed over him like a fiend.

Could he have died and gone to hell?  No,  that didn't make much sense.  Wouldn't the beds in hell be made of snakes or stinging nettles or mounds of rock salt peppered with jagged glass?  And the torments would be worse, he was sure, than a sore neck and achy weakness and an unpleasant musty-fever smell to ignore.

His military training kicked in, and he swiftly surveyed the room.  One door, guarded by an odd hovering machine.  One window, heavily shuttered.  One lamp, one nightstand, one rickety old wheelchair...

And one very familiar figure sleeping in an awkward position in a black armchair.  Billy was overjoyed to see Brad, but shocked at how he'd aged.  And he had two strange lumps on his neck that looked kind of like bloated metallic ticks.

He'd worry about that later.  Brad was obviously alive, so that meant he was, too.  He wondered why Brad had chosen the chair instead of the far-more-comfortable bed.

Of course, Billy groaned to himself,  Whatever I've got must be contagious.  Well, that explained why he felt so ill.  Maybe he'd been sick since the Angel Halo -- there had always been rumors of strange side effects with Angel Weapons.  Had he been bedridden for -- he glanced over at Brad again, noting the crows' feet -- decades?  Not that he could do anything about it now.  Maybe Justine had heard his prayer and shielded him from the shockwave.  Even if he'd lost years, maybe it was the best the Guardian could do.  They weren't omnipotent, after all.

Had Brad been by his side all these years, looking after him?  No wonder he looked exhausted.  He wasn't going to get good sleep sprawled out in the chair that way, either.  Billy slipped out of bed and poked Brad's shoulder tentatively.  "Brad?"

Brad jumped awake, flailing blindly.  He fumbled for the lamp, and Billy was totally unprepared for the painful blast of light.   "Unnh!  Warn me before you do that!"  He threw his left arm across his face, shielding his eyes, which was just as well, since the decor looked even more garish in the light.  Billy stumbled backwards and landed heavily on the bed, sitting up.  Couldn't Brad see without that irritating lamp?

"Sorry," mumbled Brad.  "You're all right?"  He sounded incredulous.

"I'm ... better.  How long have I been sick?"

"You don't want to know."

"Well, we've got the rest of the night to catch up."  And they did, since Brad was too jubilant to sleep, and Billy wasn't the least bit sleepy, only thirsty.  Brad had some bad news, that Slayheim had fallen and mostly been destroyed; good news, that he'd gotten revenge on Vinsfeld; bad news, he had this bomb in his neck; great news, that Filgaia had been saved from Lord Blazer once again; awful news, that Billy had been crippled in mind and body for quite some time (until tonight); and some unbelievable news.

Billy's jaw dropped.  "I'm a WHAT??!?  You've GOT to be kidding!"

"Nope."  And after that nothing would do but for Billy to stagger down the hall on fever-addled legs to look at himself in the bathroom mirror.  He was relieved he still had a reflection, surprised to see some gray hairs, and disappointed at how normal he still looked.  No fangs, no unnatural pallor, just a haggard ill-looking older version of himself looking back at him skeptically.  So Brad was joking around.  Well, Brad would find out that Billy gave as good as he got. 

"So," he drawled on returning to the guestroom, "when's breakfast?  I could really GO for a nice tall glass of blood right now."

Brad tucked him back into bed, and to Billy's surprise, disappeared for a little while, and came back with what looked like fresh blood in a bowl.   He didn't tell Billy what he'd just found out -- that Scott and Tony were Marivel's "larder" and none too happy about it.  Tony needed some persuading to offer a vein to Brad's knife, but Scott proffered his arm groggily and mumbled "So, dude's a bloodsucker now?"

Brad was pulling out all the stops this time, Billy thought.  He'd probably scoured secondhand shops for all this tacky furniture and that worn-out old wheelchair.  Well, whatever was in the bowl was the color of blood, and the consistency of blood, but it certainly didn't have the flat metallic smell of blood.  It smelled tantalizing.  Probably a nice rich broth with dried, powdered Vermillion scales added.  Brad had always been a decent cook.

The first taste sent pleasure-tingles all the way down to his toes.  "Whatever that is, I hope you made a vat."  Brad smiled wanly and tried to pretend the warm red liquid he was spooning into Billy's eager mouth was a particularly rich bouillabaisse, but he couldn't help thinking about the sources.  He'd have to do something nice for them later.

At length Brad placed the empty bowl on the nightstand and pressed a hand against Billy's forehead.  Still feverish.  It couldn't be helped.  He curled up next to the other man and held him contentedly.  He had Billy back, and that was the most important thing.  Chappapanga and Raftina had smiled on them tonight, and all was well on Filgaia.  Brad drifted off into peaceful sleep for the first time in a long, long time, thinking back to normal, back to normal, back to normal, back to normal; and Billy snuggled and eventually slept, thinking I've got to have more of that soup tomorrow.

Sure enough, Billy awoke the next morning with an appetite.  "Bring breakfast?" he nudged Brad.

Brad struggled awake.  "What's the magic word?"

"Bring me some breakfast, dammit!" Billy growled irritably.  He was cranky and achy and had a toothache starting  -- no, it was two toothaches, one on each side.

"You make a terrible patient, you know that?"  Brad rolled out of bed.  "I'm going to turn the light on."

"Grmphlyglhrm," Billy retorted, probing around his newly-sore upper jaw.  "Wha' th--?!?"
He stared aghast at the two canine teeth in his fingers that had slipped out roots and all and glared accusingly at Brad.  "They FELL OUT!"

Brad just chuckled at Billy's indignation.  

"They're not supposed to DO that!"

Brad laughed even harder.  "Let's have a look, then.  Does it hurt?"

"No, not like it did before.  Tingles a little."

"Looks like your fangs are trying to grow in."

"Fangs!  I don't have fangs!"  And Billy marched down to the hall bathroom to check the mirror for the second time in twelve hours.  Sure enough, there were tiny ivory points poking through his irritated gums.

He staggered back.  So Brad was serious.

Brad had brought him here...

To make him a monster?  One that had to kill?  Billy was no stranger to killing, but combat was one thing, predation another.

He trembled.  "Brad...?   I  ... don't ... want to ... be a ... monster."

"You won't," Brad reassured him.  He helped a shaken Billy back into bed.  "I think it's time you met Marivel -- again.  Let's get you presentable."  And with that Billy was cajoled into a sponge bath and a change of clothes.  "Much better.  Now it's my turn."  And Brad headed down the hall to the showers.

He returned with Marivel in tow and knocked at the door to alert Billy.  He had calmed down and stared at the vampyre in wonder as Brad introduced them again.  "I'm so happy you're feeling better," Marivel said as she settled gracefully into the bedside chair.  

"Thank you, ma'am."  Now that surprised Brad, for Billy was never one for social niceties -- or ladies.  "No offense, but you're nothing like what I expected."

Marivel laughed.  "I imagine so.  Are you hungry?"

"Famished."

"Don't worry, in a week or so you'll be able to have normal food again.  But for now..." 

"Real food?  I thought..."

Marivel shushed him.  "Most of what you've heard about us is wrong."

"I can see that.  Could I have some regular food right now?"

"Not yet -- you're a neophyte.  You'll have to stick with blood for awhile or become human again."

"Does it have to be ... human?"

"No, any kind will do.  I often prey on monsters."

Billy collapsed in relief -- or he would have, if he hadn't already been lying down.  He wouldn't have to kill.  He wouldn't have to murder.  This might not be so bad after all.
Draining monsters, now that was almost a public service, right?