American Vampire (Page 33)

In and out, in and out.

Breathe, breathe.

My hand twitched.

I kept reminding myself to breathe, and as I breathed I imagined the air currents tinged with gold, and the golden air flowing into my mouth and filling me with golden light.

My hand twitched again, followed by a full-blown spasm.

The pen gripped in my fingers moved back and forth.

It’s coming, I thought. Whatever it is.

Keep breathing. Breathing. In and out. Golden light.

Jesus, my hand is moving.

Don’t think about it. Good, good.

But now I couldn’t deny that something seemed to have settled in me. I actually felt another presence. A warm and loving presence.

And then my hand moved again, and again, and I realized it was writing. I looked down at my clipboard as two words appeared:

Hello, Samantha.

Chapter Forty-five

"Hello," I said quietly, feeling slightly silly, but also feeling like something very important, and very exciting, was happening. "Um, how are you?" I added lamely.

My hand twitched again and again, and it kept on twitching until it wrote out a reply. I could only watch in stunned silence. My hand, in these moments, did not feel like my own.

I’m doing very well, it wrote. It’s a great day to be alive, is it not?

"Am I alive?" I whispered, my voice barely audible to myself. "There’s some who think that beings such as myself are dead."

More twitching and tingling. More writing. Do you feel dead?

"No, but I feel very…different."

Twitch, write. You should feel different. We are all different.

"Am I dead?" I asked. "And don’t ask: Do I feel dead?"

Your body went through a massive transformation, or metamorphoses, Samantha, but it did not die.

"Then why don’t I breathe? Why can’t I eat?"

That’s the metamorphoses of which I speak. Or write. Your body, quite literally, is not the same, and thus does not have the same requirements.

"Like food or air."

Exactly. Yes.

"But I still need blood."

Of course. This is your new body’s requirements.

"And so my new body is a killer, if it must feast on blood."

Does all blood need to come from that which is dead?

"No," I said, and my voice trailed off. I thought about something Kingsley had said earlier, about blood donors. Those who donated willingly…and those who most certainly did not. Blood debt perhaps.

Yes, Samantha, you are a far more powerful being than you were before, but what you make of your new physical form is up to you.

"I could choose to kill. Or not to kill."

Exactly. Yes. Just like everyone else.

"So I have a new body…but I still have the same moral code."

You are still you, sweet child, no matter what shape you take.

"Don’t call me sweet child. It makes me want to cry."

Why?

"Because it sounds like you care about me. That you love me. But I don’t know who you are or what you are."

Understood. But remember, all you have to do is ask.

"I have asked, but you’ve avoided the question."

I did not avoid. I simply gave you the answer you were ready for. Are you ready for the answer now?

I thought about that. I looked at my son sleeping on his back. My God, had the black halo actually grown in just a few minutes?

"No. Not now. Wait. Perhaps just a name."

You want my name?

"Yes."

My hand and pen paused, and then together they wrote: I am called by many names, through many lives, but I’m most commonly called Saint Germain.

"I’ve heard of the name."

I’d heard of the name. Saint Germain was a European mystic. An alchemist of the highest order. He supposedly lived for centuries. And, from most accounts, he never died. They say he ascended; that is, turned to light. A heavenly being who was just as comfortable in the spirit world as the physical world, often alternating between the two. And helping those in need.

And no, Samantha, I’m not a vampire, either.

"Then what are you?"

A seeker of truth.

"And did you find the truth?"

I found what I was looking for, yes. But there are always bigger questions, with bigger answers.

"So you eternally seek answers."

"Forever and ever."

"So why are you here with me now?"

You have called out for answers, Samantha Moon. I’m here to help you find them.

"But why you?"

Why not?

"Fine," I said and rubbed my head. I looked at my sick boy. "I want to talk about my son."

What would you like to know?

"Is he going to die?"

There was a slight pause and the tingly sensation briefly abated, but then it returned. I realized that maybe I didn’t want to know the answer. My hand moved across the page, and the gel ink flowed freely.

Your son has his own path, Samantha.

"What does that mean?"

We all follow our own paths, generally agreed on and known before our births.

"Who agrees on this?"

You. And many others.

"Which others?"

Those who care about you deeply. And those who care about your son deeply.

"And what’s his path?" My voice was shaking now.

You know his path, Sam. You have foreseen it.

"Just tell me."

There was a short, agonizing pause, and then: Your son’s path will come to an end in this physical plane soon, as it has been decided upon, as he has decided, as well.

"He’s only a little boy, goddammit. What the hell does he know about anything?"

A little boy now, in the flesh, certainly. But a very wise old soul eternally.

I covered my eyes with my free hand. Tears poured between my fingers. It was all I could do to not throw the clipboard across the room.

"Why, why would he decide to end his life now? Who would decide such a thing? Why take him from me?"

There are many, many reasons, Sam. And most of those involve the growth of his own soul, and the growth of the souls around him. Adapting to loss is a big step toward growth.

It’s a horrible, cruel step toward growth. How could you take my boy?"

I’m not taking him, Sam. No one can take. Leaving this world is his choice and his choice alone.

"But he’s just a boy. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and don’t give me that crap that he’s an old soul. He’s not. He’s just a little boy. A little, sick boy."

A little, sick boy with a highly evolved soul, Samantha. He understands his purpose here at the soul level, even if not at the physical level.

"Fuck you."

I’m sorry, Samantha.

I wept hard for a few minutes, barely able to control myself. Finally, when I could speak again, I said, "Are you there?"