Suck It Up and Die (22 page)

The man nodded and gestured. “Come.”

In a daze of confusion, Morning moved to the bench. A year before Birnam had been hearty and looked no more than middle-aged. Now he was as wizened as a hundred-year-old. “What happened?”

“It’s called aging.”

Morning’s stomach flopped. “But how?”

Birnam’s cracked lips crinkled into a smile. “That answer is more complicated.” His eyes shifted to a glass case nearby. “And it begins there. Help me up.”

Morning helped him stand and they moved to the case. A medieval manuscript was open inside it. The pages were filled with gothic-looking writing, and one page featured an illustration of a crowned king leading armored knights.

Birnam stared at the colorful illumination for a moment. “In the thirteenth century, what we now call the Middle East was embroiled in the Crusades.” His crooked finger lifted to the illumination of the king and knights. “This was the eighth and final crusade, in 1270. When I was still a mortal, I rode with these knights.” His finger wavered over the king. “That’s Louis the Ninth. He was my king and I was his knight. In August of 1270, Louis and most of his knights died in Egypt from dysentery. Sometimes I wish I had died with them.”

Birnam took a labored breath and moved away from the case. “But I didn’t. And, as a Knight Templar, I went
back to protecting the Christian city-states my fellow crusaders had conquered.”

Morning followed until Birnam stopped at a painting. It showed a walled city, filled with knights being attacked by men on horseback wearing broad hats and colorful tunics.

“I don’t need eyes to see this one,” Birnam said. “I was there. I remember it like it was”—he couldn’t stop a smile—“well, maybe not yesterday, more like the day before yesterday. This is the Siege of Tripoli. But I’m getting ahead of myself. By the early 1280s, the Knights Templar cared less about protecting Tripoli from Muslim forces than they did about fighting other Christians for control of Tripoli. When I saw Christian knights siding with our Muslim enemies so they could fight and kill my Christian brothers, God appeared to me in a dream. He told me the Crusades were no longer a holy war; they had become, like all wars, an unholy one over land, wealth, and power. God told me to lay down my sword and become a prophet of peace. So I did. I became, to use the modern term, a pacifist. I campaigned for peace between all the warring parties, whether they were Christian or Muslim. In 1282, when the Knights Templar plotted to attack Tripoli from within, I went with them, without a sword, in hopes of stopping the bloodbath. The Templars—including myself—were betrayed, captured, and condemned to die.”

“But you were there as a peacemaker.”

“The victorious Count Bohemond didn’t think so. The night before my execution I was visited by a vampire disguised as a guard. The vampire didn’t believe in taking innocent lives, and survived by feeding on men and women about to be executed or burned at the stake. Having heard
of my peacemaking efforts, the vampire gave me a choice: to die as his victim or be turned. I chose the latter.”

“That’s how you became a vampire?”

“Yes. And my blood sire probably planted in me the seeds of mercy that took so long to grow.”

“But Mr. Birnam, what does it have to do with you getting old?”

Birnam turned from the painting and fixed on Morning with rheumy eyes. “Everything. Before I was turned, my mortal dream was to make peace between ancient enemies: Christians and Muslims. Centuries later, in the early twentieth century, I returned to a similar dream: to make peace between vampires and mortals.”

“I don’t get it. What’s the connection?”

“I didn’t know until a few months ago when I began to age, rapidly.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of caramel corn and popped it in his mouth.

Morning stared in disbelief. “You’re eating, too?”

Birnam crunched with pleasure. “It comes with the territory. When you kick-start mortality, you regain your appetite for all sorts of glorious things.” He took Morning’s arm. “My legs are tired. Let’s sit down and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Portia was stuffing books in her locker. She was late joining Cody in the editing room, where he was working on the footage from Washington Square. A figure appeared beside her making her jump. It was Zoë. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“And please”—Portia wedged a last book in the locker—“got no time for your latest blood-obligate impression.”

Zoë flashed a smile. “Got something better.” She lifted her invitation to the Tasting Room and displayed it like it was a Golden Ticket from Willy Wonka.

Portia’s eyes bugged. “Ohmigod! Where’d you get that?”

“Shhh,” Zoë shushed as a couple of students walked by. She stuffed the invitation back in her bag and lied. “It came in the mail. They must’ve sent it before Vampower.com got shut down.”

“Is the invite for
this
Friday?”

Zoë jiggled like a bobblehead. “Tomorrow night!”

Portia blanched. “You’re not going, are you?”

“Of course I am.”

“Zoë, you can’t!”

It was Zoë’s turn to look shocked. “Why not?”

As another student passed, Portia grabbed Zoë and pulled her across the hall, through a classroom door. The room was empty. She gestured at Zoë’s bag holding the invitation. “ ‘Your date will find you.’ For all you know it could be some skeevy Nosferatu with rotten breath, yellow fangs, and flesh peeling off his head.”

Zoë frowned dismissively. “You’re thinkin’ outta-the-grave zombie. I’m thinkin’ hot Leaguer looking for a little sip.”

“ ‘A little sip’? How do you know that’s all it’ll be?” She gripped Zoë by the shoulders. “I’m tellin’ you, ZZ, you don’t want to do this. I’ve been there. I know what happens when a guy gets his fangs into you. They go crazy, they can’t stop themselves.”

Zoë shook her off. “Just ’cause you almost got date-sapped doesn’t mean I will. I mean, when Morning almost drained you, he was jealous and pissed off. But this is gonna be with other people around, no enraged boyfriend, just a nice Leaguer who liked my profile and is lookin’ for a little meet ’n’ greet ’n’ neck nibble.”

Portia’s heart filled with a black cloud of dread. “Zoë, of all the online hookups with total strangers that you could stumble into, I’m begging you as my best friend, don’t fall into this one.”

Zoë’s lips bent into a smile. “Thanks for caring, but you can’t stop me. There’s just one thing you can do.”

“What?” Portia scowled. “Tell your parents, and get you grounded till Saturday?”

Zoë laughed, knowing Portia was incapable of such betrayal. “No, you can come with.” She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the two other invitations.

“Holy sh—!” Portia grabbed the cards, her eyes racing over them. “These came in the mail too?”

“Yeah, they were stuck together. And if you and Cody can figure out how to shoot it, you can get my date with destiny on tape. You’ve been squawking about how your movie has inside access—well, now you’ve got
underground
access.”

With her eyes still riveted on the two invitations, Portia’s insides coiled with fear and temptation.

“What’s it gonna be?” Zoë asked. “Judgmental best friend, or filmmaker ready for combat?”

Morning and Birnam sat on a bench in the gallery.

Birnam took a raspy breath. “I once told you that a vampire craves mortal blood for two reasons. One is nutrition, of course. Do you remember the second reason we lust for human blood?”

“Envy,” Morning answered.

“Very good. Envy of what?”

“Human ambition.”

Birnam patted Morning’s knee. “You were always a good student. Yes, even though vampires harbor ambitions and aspirations, they’re not as intense for a reason. We have so much time to achieve them; we have no deadlines. We are clocks without hands. But the mortal clock comes with hands, spinning away, giving each mortal a short time to achieve their dream. This ticking clock embedded in mortal cells infuses the blood of Lifers with what I once called the ‘ambrosia of human aspiration.’ I’ve discovered
that this ambrosia is more than a bewitching essence we crave in their blood. I don’t know the chemistry of it—whether it’s a hormone, a peptide, or something else—I’m no scientist. But it’s real, and I’ve given it a name.”

“What?”

“
Pneumabrotus
. It’s Greek for ‘the spirit of death.’ This
pneumabrotus
that once coursed through our mortal blood disappears when we get turned. When we are reconfigured into a pillar of regenerating stem cells, our vampire DNA turns off the production of
pneumabrotus
like a faucet. But we haven’t lost it entirely. It’s still there, dormant, sleeping in our cells, waiting to be woken.”

Goose bumps chilled Morning’s skin. His attention darted to a sensation prickling his chest; it felt like three tiny darts quivered in his flesh. Is that what’s happening to me? Am I aging too? But he swallowed his questions along with a breath. “What retriggers this … 
pneumabrotus
?”

Birnam shook his head. “I’m not sure, but when I look at what has happened to me, I have a theory.”

“What?” Morning asked, trying not to sound impatient with the labored slowness of Birnam’s speech.

The old man’s brow furrowed, pulling his wrinkles even deeper. “Before I was turned, I had a powerful Lifer ambition: to be a peacemaker. A century ago, I took up a similar dream: to be the peacemaker between vampires and mortals. In the past year, my dream began to bear fruit. If a vampire can return to the essence of what was once his Lifer dream and see it start to bloom, maybe it reawakens the
pneumabrotus
sleeping in his cells. It resurrects the spirit of death and cures his immortality.”

Morning blinked with excitement and confusion. “But it took a hundred years for your mortality to kick back in. Why did it take so long?”

“Maybe because only in the past year my dream began to materialize. I don’t know for sure. It’s all new to me. And maybe vampires like me, who have been immortal for centuries, have some kind of buildup in the DNA, so when
pneumabrotus
does return it breaks like a dam, overwhelming the body with aging.”

The bands of tension constricting Morning’s chest eased a bit. He had been a vampire for less than two years. Maybe he would be spared the hyper-aging thing.

“If my theory is right,” Birnam whispered, “I’ve stumbled on the cure for vampirism.”

Morning was suddenly struck by a hole in his theory. “But Mr. Birnam, over all the centuries, this must have happened before. You couldn’t have been the first vampire to start re-aging. Why don’t vampires know about this?”

The old man nodded. “A good question, to which I have no answer.”

“What if you had to guess?”

He pulled another kernel of caramel corn from his pocket and chewed it pensively. “Knowing Loner vampires, and the depths of their evil, my guess would be that a select few have done everything in their power to keep this a secret. After all, a cure for vampirism is vampire slaying from
within
. Maybe there are vampires, with powers even I don’t know about, who have, over the centuries, destroyed anyone who stumbled on this cure.”

Morning swallowed hard, feeling like he’d just been given a death sentence. “If that’s true, that they destroy those who know about it, why did you tell me?”

Birnam gave him a weak smile. “I think you’re smart enough to figure that out. Also, I wanted to tell you before I left.”

Morning was taken aback. “Where are you going?”

Birnam jutted his head at the painting on the wall. “Tripoli. If I can make it.” He planted his cane and struggled to his feet. “Which reminds me, I have a flight to catch.” They started out of the museum as Birnam explained. “It’s one of the little surprises that comes with finally growing old. You have this overwhelming urge to return to the last place you were mortal.”

Morning wasn’t reeling from such a tumble of thoughts and feelings that he wasn’t able to add another:
Oh, great. If I’m really aging again and growing old, someday I’m gonna wanna go breathe my last on Staten Island
.