Sacrifice

Limestone town house just off Fifth Avenue. I pulled to the curb. 'I'm going inside,' I told them. 'Clarence, when you drive, watch the gas, this thing'll pull stumps. The guy I'm going to see, he's about forty-five. Rail-thin, dark hair, going bald on top. Face makes kind of a triangle, wide across the top. Thin lips, long fingers. Name's on the door, brass plate right over the bell. Come back in about an hour. I'm not here, just park anywhere on the block, wait, okay?'

'Sure, mahn,' Clarence said, sliding over behind the wheel.

The Plymouth drove off. The Prof would tell the kid what to do if I didn't come out.

157

The teak door sat smugly behind a wrought-iron gate set flush in the frame. I pushed the pearl button. No sound from inside. Waited.

The door swung open. The vampire was wearing a quilted burgundy robe of heavy brocade, a black length of braid knotted at his waist. Hard to make out his features in the shadows, but I recognized the shape of his face, the hair dark at the sides. Saw the skull beneath the taut skin.

'You,' he said, a whisper-hiss of surprise.

'Can I talk with you?'

'We've already talked.'

'I need your help.'

'Surely you know better than that.'

'If you'll hear me out…it's something you'll want: to do. And I have something to trade.'

'You're alone?'

'Yes.'

He touched one finger to the tip of his nose, deciding. Then a twisting gesture with his other hand. I heard a heavy deadbolt slide back, tugged gently on the wrought iron, and the gate came toward me. I stepped inside.

'After you,' he said, gesturing toward the staircase.

The room hadn't changed. Old-money heavy, thick and dark. Only an amber computer screen marred the antique atmosphere. The screen had several rows of numbers across the top— it blinked into darkness as I glanced at it, defying my stare.

'Notice anything new?' he asked, pointing to the chair I'd used last time.

I sat down— swept the room, playing the game. In one corner, a rectangular fish tank, much longer than it was high. I got up to look closer, feeling him behind me. The fish were all some shade of red or orange, all with wide white stripes outlined in black.

'This is different,' I said. 'What are they?'

'Clowns. The family name is Pomacentridae. They come in many varieties. The dark orange ones are Perculas,' pointing at a fat little fish near the top. 'And we have Tomatoes, Maroons, even some Flame Clowns— my favorites.'

The Flames had red heads with a white band just behind the eyes— the bodies were jet black. They stayed toward the bottom of the tank.

'Saltwater fish?' I asked him.

'Oh yes. Quite delicate, actually.'

'They're beautiful. Are they rare?'

'More unusual than they are rare. Clowns get along wonderfully with other fish. That is, they never interact— they stay with their own kind, even in a tank.'

'They don't fight for territory?'

'No, they don't fight at all. Occasionally, a small spat among themselves, but never with other fish.'

I watched the aquarium. Each tribe of Clowns stayed in its own section, not swimming so much as hovering. I saw his reflection in the glass fade as he went over to a leather armchair and sat down. I took the chair he'd first indicated, faced him.

He regarded me with mild interest, well within himself, safe where he was.

'You said you had something…'

'Yeah. The last time we talked…when you told me your…philosophy. About kids…'

'I remember,' he said stiffly. 'Nothing has changed.'

'I know. I listened. You told me you loved little boys then. I came because I need to see how deep that goes.

'Which means…?'

'What you do, what others like you do, it's love, right?'

He nodded, wary.

'You don't force kids. Don't hurt them…anything like that.'

'As I told you. What is wrong with our behavior…all that is wrong with our behavior, is that it is against the law. We are hounded, persecuted. Some of us have been imprisoned, ruined by the witch-hunters. But we have always been here and we always will be. You didn't come here to engage in philosophical discourse…'