how he thought of himself. A testament, a claiming of an allegiance. In the past, he’d tried Loki, Lucifer, Ra, Charon. All manner of gatekeepers—those who would shuttle mortals on to eternity.
As Gabriel, though, he felt fairly certain he’d found the key. Now… the waiting, the preparing of this mortal vessel.
The handsome man on the curb outside the airport smiled in the sun, hefted his carry-on delicately, so he wouldn’t disturb the precious contents, and then entered the cabin of the vehicle.
A short ride. Sonoma County. But he couldn’t leave the taxi fast enough. Already, he could feel his stomach bubbling—could feel the magic slipping from his chest. The sustaining, directing source of an eternal identity. Gabriel winced against the discomfort.
Still, despite the settling discomfort, after the drive, he had the wherewithal to thank the taxi driver and tip well, before turning to enter his home. It was good to be back. He typed in the security code impatiently, his teeth now straining.
Did any of the true witnesses care?
“I’m hurrying!” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’m hurrying, damn you!”
Then, a flood of guilt. He froze on his doorstep and immediately dropped to a knee, tears suddenly welling in his eyes. “Please… No. I don’t mean to use that word. Save me from my foolishness… Please.”
Then, without even shutting the front door, he grabbed his carry-on, dragging it along as he stumbled down his hall, flicking a light and then approaching the basement door. He pulled it, listening to the quiet croak of hinges and then, still sniffling, tears on his cheeks, he tottered down the steps. Already, he was pulling the small thermos from his carry-on. Within the limit. Not much—not much at all.
A pity to leave so much pure blood back in France, but he didn’t need it all. Only a taste. Only a bit to guide his path, to yield true enlightenment. Wine, like Dionysus drank, like the grapes in Eden… Wine had a god-making property. But too strong, too rich for mere mortals. Blood, similarly, was simply another type of wine. The mixture of the two caused the divine and the mortal to collide. A beautiful concoction.
But it had been so long. Even now, though, he could feel his vision clouding, the scales falling over his eyes.
Gabriel cursed at the ceiling. “Hang on,” he snapped. “I’m going as fast as I can!”
The prayers were offered to no one in particular. Or, perhaps, to everyone who might listen. Anyone who might give him access to what lay beyond. He glance down at the small bottle of “cherry juice.” Easy enough to smuggle—had worked before. He’d harvested abroad as well—Germany, then France. The unenlightened would never find him. This was the way of things—the way they should be.
He stumbled a bit toward the bottles against the back wall. His eyes scanned the white labels with yellow sharpie. Each of them depicting a date.
He frowned, recollecting. “How old was she again?” he murmured.
Then he lifted the small bottle of cherry juice. On the bottom, stenciled, the number “1994.” His eyes flicked back toward the glinting bottoms of the wine bottles displayed against the back wall. The circular glass dots seemed like many eyes watching him, studying his movements.
With trembling fingers, he withdrew a vintage from the same year: 1994. Crucial they matched. Imperative, even.
Gabriel popped the cork with practiced ease, simply using his thumb and forefinger and a strong twist. Very few could uncork a bottle this way. But he’d practiced.
He poured the contents into a small tumbler sitting on the top of the wine case. Then, his fingers still shaking, he took the cherry juice and opened it. The ironlike smell of blood met his nostrils. Exhaling shakily, in a sort of orgasmic puff of breath, he poured the contents of the small container into the tumbler. Wine mixed with blood. He used his finger to swirl the contents around and around, red against red against deep red.
He smiled now. So close… so near…
He could feel the spasm wracking his body—could feel the need cloying through him desperate, searching, screaming.
“All right,” he muttered. “All right. Guide me to light, accept me through the gates. Drink of my blood… I will enter!” He shouted this last part at the gray stone ceiling above. Eyes narrowed, he gripped the tumbler and then poured it into his mouth, gulping slowly at first, then faster, faster.
The taste pungent against his tongue, smooth in his throat and warm in his belly.
Some of the tremblings