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Vampire and refuse to treat you—they can, you know, they
have a ‘moral’”—and here he made quotes in the air with his curled
fingers—“right to refuse treatment to any Vampire or suspected
Vampire. Or worse they would restrain you and subject you to a
silver enema—you don’t want to know what that does to a Vampire’s
insides.”
    Barnabas nodded, but said nothing, waiting
instead for Gatsby to continue.
    “I—I—I turned you.”
    “You turned me?”
    “Into a Vampire.”
    Barnabas touched his neck and felt the two
tiny puncture wounds. “But, why? You said you would never turn
anyone again—least of all me.”
    “I had no choice. You were badly hurt. You
were dying in my arms. And I couldn’t bear the thought of you—and
all your artistry and heart—passing out of this world. I couldn’t
bear the thought of losing you. Do you—do you hate me?”
    When Barnabas started to answer, Gatsby put
up his hand. “I don’t care if you hate me for you are here and
alive and well. If you hate me and walk out that door, just knowing
that you are alive and well in the world will gladden my heart and
make me happy to have curried your hatred.”
    Barnabas touched Gatsby’s hand and it was
then he noticed his newly straightened fingers. “Look,” he said to
Gatsby, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers.
    “Yes. It’s one of the side effects of the
Vampire virus—physical deformities brought on by disease are
corrected as the disease is wiped away. You’ll notice your vision
improving as well.”
    Barnabas started, unexpectedly, to cry. “Oh
what a gift for an artist such as me—to be able to hold a brush and
see!” Barnabas threw his arms around Gatsby and began kissing his
face.
    Gatsby carefully unwound his arms from
around his neck. “Yes, but soon you will no longer be able to paint
in daylight.”
    “Oh! Why not?”
    “You’re a Vampire now. Daylight will become
anathema and dangerous.”
    “I don’t care,” Barnabas said after a
moment, “I’ll learn to paint in the dark by candlelight.” Then
remembering at last, he asked, “What of Malcolm V?”
    “He is dead. The sword severed head from
body, but the silver slowed any healing that might have occurred.
In the ensuing chaos and battle, the head was lost. When it was
found it was too late to join the two.”
    Barnabas closed his eyes. When he opened
them sometime later, Gatsby asked again, “How do you feel?”
    “Tired. Achy. Everything hurts.”
    Gatsby adjusted the pillows under his head.
“That’s the virus at work. Remember every cell in your body is
changing.”
    “How long does the pain last?”
    “It depends. Usually just a couple of weeks
but you’re young, so your immune system is very strong, and
fighting the virus.”
    Barnabas smiled weakly, nodding his
head.
    “You should rest now. I’m going to take a
shower.” Gatsby kissed his forehead.
    Needing to relieve himself, Barnabas
followed Gatsby into the bathroom. As he stood at toilet willing
the water to flow, he watched Gatsby behind the frosted glass of
their shower. Behind the glass Gatsby was an impression of damp
pearlescent flesh, ochre at the groin and the crack of his ass when
he turned.
    Barnabas returned to bed. Tired, but anxious
to learn what had happened at the rally, he turned on the news.
Though it had been more than a week since the riot, it was still a
top news story. Hundreds had been killed and dozens more injured.
The smart ones, the ones who were able to keep their wits about
them despite the chaos and confusion of massacre, survived, taking
shelter in hotel lobbies and open shops knowing the Vampires
couldn’t follow without being invited in.
    The anchorman abruptly switched to a video
clip from a militant Christian group’s campaign called “Light
Wins.” In the clip, an unidentified man in a clerical collar
declared, "If Vampire activists get everything they want, it will
result in nothing less than the criminalization