an altar boy, Ralphe, who lived with the priests. Twelve years old and possessed of an excep?tional wit, he was a favorite of Arturo's. Often the two would go for long hikes in the hills outside Florence. I was fond of Ralphe myself. The three of us had picnics in the woods and I would teach Ralphe the flute, for which he had a talent. The instrument had been a favorite of mine since the day I met Krishna. Arturo used to love to watch us play together. But sometimes I would get carried away and weave a melody of love, of romantic enchantment and lost dreams, which would always leave Arturo quiet and shaken. How long we could go on like this, chaste and virtuous, I didn't know. My alchemist stirred ancient longings inside me. I wondered about the energies his crystals invoked.
One day while I was helping Ralphe repair a hole in the church roof, the boy decided to amuse me by doing a silly dance on the edge of the stone tiles. I told him to be careful but he never listened. He was having too much fun. That is the mysterious thing about tragedy--it often strikes at the happiest moment.
Ralphe slipped and fell. It was over a hundred feet to the ground. He fell on the base of his spine, crushing it. When I reached him, he was writhing in agony. I was shaken to the core, I who had seen so much pain in my life. But centuries of time have not made me insensitive. One moment he had been a vibrant young man, and now he would be crippled for the rest of his days, and those would not be long.
I loved Ralphe very much. He was like a son to me.
I suppose that's why I did what I did.
I did not need to make him a vampire to help him.
I opened the veins on my right wrist and let the blood splash where his shattered spinal column had pierced his skin. The wound closed quickly, the bones mended. It seemed he would make a complete recov?ery. Best of all, he appeared unaware of why he had recovered so quickly. He thought he'd just been lucky.
But there is good luck and bad luck.
Arturo saw what I did for Ralphe. He saw every?thing.
He wanted to know who I was. What I was.
I find it hard to lie to those I love.
I told him everything. Even what Krishna had told me. The tale took an entire night. Arturo understood when I was through why I preferred to tell the story in the dark. But he didn't recoil in horror as I spoke. He was an enlightened priest, an alchemist who sought the answer to why God had created us in the first place. Indeed, he thought he knew the answer to that profound question. We were here to become like God. To live like his blessed son. We just needed a few pints of Christ's blood to do it
Arturo believed Krishna had let me live for a purpose.
So that my blood could save mankind from itself.
From the start, I worried about him mixing Christ and vampires.
"But I will make no more vampires," I protested.
He eagerly took my hands and stared into my eyes. A fever burned in his brain; I could feel the heat of it. on his fingertips, in his breath. Whose soul did I experience then? Mine or his? It seemed in that moment as if the two of us had merged. For that reason, his next words sounded inevitable to me.
"We will make no more vampires," he said. "I understand why Krishna made you take such a vow. What we will create with your blood is a new man. A hybrid of a human and a vampire. A being who can live forever, in the glory of light instead of the shadow of darkness." His eyes strayed to the wooden crucifix hung above his bed. "An immortal being."
He spoke with such power. And he was not insane.
I had to listen. To consider his words.
"Is it possible?" I whispered.
"Yes." He hugged me, "There is a secret I haven't told you. It is extraordinary. It is the secret to perma?nent transformation. If I have the right materials-- your blood, for example--I can transform anything. If you wish, you can become such a hybrid. I can even make you human again." He paused, perhaps think?ing of my ancient grief over the loss of Lalita, my daughter.