Dead Man's Song

Mike Sweeney got home just before seven, well before his curfew. He walked his bike around back and chained it up by the garage door, then went inside.

“That you, Mikey? You’re home early. Want some dinner?” Her voice floated from the living room, which was dark except for the blue flicker of the TV. There was already a gin slur to her speech.

Mike stood in the hallway, not wanting to go into the living room, not wanting to see his mother drunk, though nowadays she almost always was. He turned toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna go study.”

“It’s Friday!”

“Big test on Monday.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sounded more relieved than disappointed that he didn’t want her to cook anything. “If you want something later, we can order. I have some coupons for Pizza Palace.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” He pounded up the stairs and into his room, where he locked his door. He was no longer sweating, but his clothes were damp; his skin still felt feverish and strange, so he stripped the clothes off and headed into the bathroom. He was in the shower for a long time, first just standing under the spray, eyes closed, running and rerunning what had just happened out on the road. It was all so weird, so unreal.

Tow-Truck Eddie tried to kill me

, he thought. Twice now. And tonight he had caused the guy to crash his wrecker in a ditch. As the water pounded him he replayed each moment—the way the truck was lying in wait for him, the way the big driver had let him get just far enough ahead so that it would be a good chase. The way the bastard had nearly caught him when Mike had gone back to look. The way he had howled after his truck had been wrecked. It was all so unreal. He took the soap and washed himself and shampooed his hair and used a nailbrush to scrub his fingers. He wanted to be clean, needed to be clean, as if by washing so hard he could sponge away the unreality of what had happened. Of nearly dying. The water was as hot as he could stand it and he lingered under it, loving the feel of the thousands of tiny impacts, feeling his muscles become gradually looser, feeling the tension go, letting his mind drift…

Fugue.

The water rained down on him but Mike Sweeney no longer felt it. He stood there, eyes closed, his skin red from the heat.

Inside the chrysalis the pupa undergoes slow change.

On his face the last of the bruises faded to green and then to yellow and then vanished as if the water had washed them away. The cartilage in his knees that had suffered microtears while he raced uphill away from the wrecker mended itself. Internal bruises from cramps deep within his calf muscles relaxed and the tissues mended.

Transformation continues along predetermined pathways following a biological imperative.

The water pounds down on him, but Mike Sweeney has stepped out. No trace of him exists within the chrysalis of young flesh.

Transformation is inevitable now.

When he opens his eyelids Mike Sweeney does not look out through those blue eyes, and indeed those eyes are not quite blue. Not pure blue. They are blue flecked with red and the irises are rimmed with gold. Mike Sweeney does not see the water, or the steam, or the shower walls through those eyes. They are not his eyes. Mike Sweeney, as he has been, is almost completely gone now.

It is the dhampyr who sees through those eyes.

(4)