The Passing

“Will it hurt?”

Barlow turned from the window where he’d been watching the moon rise. The vampire sitting in the throne-like chair was young—painfully young, Barlow thought, wincing. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old, maybe less. A pity the one who turned him hadn’t chosen a more mature victim.

“Some,” he said, and the vampire shuddered.

“I don’t want it to hurt.” He shifted in the chair, ran his fingers through his auburn hair. He was dressed like a dandy, all ruffles and velvet, a beautiful young man in the first flush of youth. Closer inspection revealed dark circles beneath the blue eyes, a down-turning to the merry red lips, slumping shoulders.

“You won’t suffer,” Barlow assured the vampire. “I’ll prepare the draught.” It only took a moment to combine the herbs with the holy water. Opening a leather pouch, he withdrew a round wafer, clenching his teeth at the burning in his fingertips. Working quickly but carefully, he dropped the wafer into a goblet and heated the herbs and water on a small brazier. When it was hot, he poured the mixture into the goblet and stirred it with a tin spoon.

The vampire watched all with an expression of curiosity mixed with fear.

“I want to tell you why I’m doing this,” he said, voice shaking. Barlow turned to him, an expression of mild interest on his unlined face.

“That isn’t necessary,” Barlow replied, setting the goblet down on the table. "That you desire peace is all I need to know."

“Someone told me you write names down, for….for later.”

“Yes. I’ll fetch the Book now.” Barlow hurried into his sleeping chamber, chiding himself. It wasn’t like him to forget the Book. He opened a worn chest at the foot of his pallet and lifted out the Book, purposely averting his eyes from the other things inside.

When he returned to the main room, the young vampire was standing beside the table, gazing into the goblet. He snatched back his hand when Barlow bustled in.

“I’m supposed to drink that?”

Barlow narrowed his eyes. “You came here seeking solace. I am prepared to give it. You must be prepared to receive it. Are you?”

The vampire shrugged. “I just want to know what I’m going to drink,” he persisted. Barlow resisted the urge to rip the vampire’s head off and counted to ten instead.

“Please have a seat,” he said soothingly. The vampire was agitated, which was no good. If he drank the draught now, his passing would be even more painful. “I will of course explain all to you.”

Dubiously, the vampire sat back in the chair. Barlow caressed the leather cover a moment, relishing the smoothness against his skin. He opened it slowly, turning each delicate page with care, until he reached the passage he sought. As usual the irony of the situation was not lost on him. To think he’d spent his mortal life cursing this Book and its followers, only to realize the truth when that life ended.

“ ‘For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ; that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.’”

Barlow looked up into the puzzled face of the vampire. “Do you realize there’s a punishment awaiting those who die in their sins?”

The vampire bowed his head, gripping the armrests with white fingers.

“Even for us, the so-called damned…tell me your name so I may write it here in the Book.” Barlow turned to the blank pages in back. So many, so many names, he mused, running his fingers down the elegant script. Who will write my name?

“I am Lucius,” he murmured in a trembling voice. “Am I truly damned? Is there no forgiveness for even one such as I who longs to repent?”

Barlow nodded. “Yes, Lucius, there is forgiveness; the Book says that whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be given eternal life.”

The boy shook his head. “Eternal life I have, old man! I want eternal peace. I want to be free from the bloodlust. It calls to me, even whilst I sleep. I dream of it, the crimson flow, the tearing of flesh, the sweet goodness—” He made a strangled noise, eyes flaring red.

“How long, Lucius, since you last fed?” Barlow watched the young vampire struggle for composure. His torment was great—why else had he come to Barlow for solace?

“A full day. Please,” he begged, falling to his knees beside Barlow’s chair. “Please, end my torment lest I go mad.”

“Of course, my son,” Barlow said, laying his hand on Lucius’s head. “ ‘Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.’”

“Can it be true? Can there be peace, even forgiveness for me? I—” He faltered. “I’ve done such terrible things. Surely God has turned His face away from me.”

“Never, Lucius. God holds us all in the palm of His hand.” Barlow reached for the goblet. “Surely as a child you were taught the dogma of Christ, that He turns no one away.”

“I…it’s been so long. I’m not sure…” Lucius’s face twisted and he shook his fist at the ceiling. “God in Heaven! Why do You torture me so? Give me relief, give me peace.”

Barlow gripped the vampire’s thin shoulders. “It is not God who tortures you, Lucius, but another who stalks about as a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.” He held out the warm goblet. “Drink, Lucius. Drink and enter the joy of the Lord.”

Hesitantly, Lucius took the offered cup in both hands, eyes wide with hope. “Truly? When again I open my eyes I will be in Paradise?”

Barlow gazed into the vampire’s face. “Truly, my son. I wouldn’t lie to you.” He could see the indecision and fear in the boy’s face. “Do you fear death so very much?” he asked softly.

Lucius blanched. “I am unworthy. My faith is weak.”

“Then drink, Lucius. In order to have faith, you must first embrace it.”

Lucius raised the cup to his lips and began to drink. After the first swallow his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Smoke curled from between his lips and he clawed at his throat, stretching out a beseeching hand toward the older vampire.

“I am sorry,” Barlow murmured, turning away. Behind him the vampire’s agonies continued, guttural screams and thumping he couldn’t bear to watch. Barlow’s nostrils flared as the odor of burning flesh and hair permeated the air and the sudden silence made his shoulders slump.

Always, always it was like this. If only there was some way to ease the passing, to make that last journey easier. Guilt pricked when he recalled the hope on the boy’s face when assured there would be no pain.

The sounds stopped abruptly. Barlow fetched a whisk broom and tin dustpan, steeled himself, and walked over to the remains of Lucius. Such a waste.

“Bravo, Master Barlow,” a low voice said from behind him. Barlow whirled and saw a black-cloaked figure standing in the shadows. “You nearly had me convinced.”

The figure gave a dry chuckle. “Until the poor sod burst into flames, that is.” The cloak was flung back, revealing a tall, thin man dressed in somber clothes. Although well-cut and of fine cloth, the shirt and trousers said the man wasn’t one of the nobility, but rather a well-off peasant.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” Barlow demanded. “And how is it you know my name?” He peered at the man, trying to discern features. He took the candelabra from the table and held it up.

“Who I am is of no importance, Master Barlow, although I am certain you know of me.” The candle glow illuminated an aquiline nose and sharp cheekbones.

“Vlad,” Barlow murmured, nearly choking. The Impaler. What did he want?

“As for how I know your name, why, do not the very walls whisper of the solace offered by Master Barlow and his draught of peace?” Vlad chuckled again. “Although the reality is somewhat different, no?”

“I…I mean no harm,” Barlow stammered, nearly dropping the candelabra.

“Of course not. You merely offer what solace you can to the tormented fools who actually believe they are not damned.” Vlad’s lips parted, revealing shiny white fangs. “I have been frequently amused, I admit, at the stories that reach me during my travels. Did you know, Master Barlow, that even in the far Orient your service is known?” He walked over to the table and fingered the herbs lying there. His hand paused above the leather bag.

“This, though…this is most disturbing.” He turned pupil-less black eyes upon Barlow. “The Host is not meant for our kind. And yet…I can sense it on you. In you.” Disgust cured the vampire’s lip. He let his hand drop to his side. “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I,” Barlow admitted. “I tried many things before this. Things that left those who trusted me howling in pain, or worse.” He shuddered. “Despite what you saw, the passing is relatively painless. And I am only honoring their desire.”

“Relatively painless compared to what? A wooden stake to the heart?” Vlad sneered. “You need not justify yourself to me, Master Barlow. I know what you are, and you are a sham.” He swept his hand across the table, sending herbs, the leather bag and various bottles crashing to the stone floor.

“You offer what you cannot deliver, as that pile of ashes learned to his everlasting sorrow. Think you he is singing with the angels? You are a fool. He is screaming with the demons, and you sent him there.”

“I—I did not—”

“Better had you taught him to control the bloodlust.” Vlad pointed a black-tipped finger at the cowering vampire. “How many, Master Barlow? How many have you sent to the abyss in the name of God?”

Barlow sagged to the floor amongst his herbs, sick at heart. The truth stabbed like a wooden stake. His faith disintegrated like Lucius’s ashes.

“There is no god of the Bible for our kind,” Vlad said quietly. “There is only the god of blood, who lives inside every one of us. To serve him is to live.”

Long after Vlad had left as silently as he had arrived, Barlow lay on the floor, trying in vain to recapture his belief.

Gone. All gone. His eyes fell upon the leather bag. Stretching out his fingers, he pulled it close and undid the drawstring. Only two Hosts remained. Barlow reached inside and withdrew a pale disc.

His skin began to smoke as it began burning through his skin. Grimacing, he raised it to his mouth and placed it on his tongue.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.