Stories: All-New Tales - By Neil Gaiman & Al Sarrantonio Page 0,61

from the Brooklyn Bridge; it is why I had never come across a being like myself. We are very rare. Our love is truly a hunger, and we, like our human forebears, are our own best prey.

“WHAT’S YOUR REAL NAME, Juvenal Nyx?” she asked in the early hours of the morning after we’d made love for hours.

I had to think for a few moments before saying, haltingly, “James Tremont of Baltimore.”

“You don’t sound sure,” she said before kissing my naval.

“It’s been so long.”

“You’re not that old.”

“I’m older than I look.”

Her nostrils flared and the gland under my jaw swelled with venom. I pressed against it and kissed her left nipple.

“Bite it,” she whispered.

“A little later,” I said.

“I want it now.”

“How will I ever get you to come back if I don’t make you wait?”

She sat up in the bed, in the empty underground room.

“I’ve never met a man like you,” she said.

“Then we’re even,” I replied, thinking that I hadn’t talked so much in decades.

“You really don’t need music or books or even paintings on the wall?”

“For a long time I thought that the only things I needed were food and sleep.”

“And now?”

“So much more that I can’t even begin to articulate it.”

“I’ll have to tell Tarver about tonight,” she said softly.

“Yeah.”

“I won’t leave him.”

I wanted to tell her that the love wrenching my chest could never live with her—my hunger for her soul was too great.

“Will we see each other again?” I asked.

“I won’t leave you either,” she said with certainty.

“Why not? You hardly know me.”

“I know you better than I’ve known any man,” she said. “You saved my life. And I think that’s what you were made for—saving lives.”

3.

I TOOK AN OFFICE on the top floor of the Antwerp Building and put up a sign that read: JUVENAL NYX: PROBLEM SOLVER.

I fastened little business cards to phone booths and bulletin boards around the city, had Iridia’s brother, Montrose, make me a small Web site, and took out an ad in two free papers. I borrowed the money for these investments from some of my wealthier victims. I plan to pay them back and so have chosen to overlook the undue influence I had over them.

I decided on the path of self-employment because this is against the nature of my being. Creatures like me are supposed to be hidden in the night, secreted away from the world in general. We’re supposed to live off humanity, not aid people with their real and imagined plights.

It was time for me to go against the tide of my fate.

My business hours are from sunset to dawn, and I will listen to any problem, any problem at all—from severe acne to the threat of death or imprisonment. I accept and reject jobs, collect fees based on the client’s ability to pay, and spend every weekend with Iridia.

I find missing persons, cure a variety of minor illnesses, and even save a life now and then.

Tarver Lamone hates me, but I don’t worry about him. I can usually sense danger when it’s near and it’s pretty hard to do me harm. I worry about Iridia sometimes, but she is so certain about right and wrong, and her own indecipherable path, that I have not figured out how to say no to her.

And I am addicted to her nearness. Once, when she had to go home to California for three weeks, I fell into a state of near catatonia that lasted for almost a month. It took Iridia and Montrose breaking into my subterranean condo and her sitting with me for hours to bring me back to consciousness.

IT DOESN’T SOUND LIKE the good life, I know, but it has its bright sides. Every day I get calls from people who need someone like me. I’ve helped children with their homework and ladies shake their stalkers. I cured one man of acrophobia and permanently paralyzed a serial killer who wanted to stop his trade.

Everything was going fine until one early morning, at six minutes past twelve, when a woman walked into my office.

I’m six feet and one half inch in height. She was quite a bit taller than I, with skin whiter than maggots’ flesh. Her hair was luxurious, long and black. She might have been beautiful if it hadn’t been for the intensity of her laser green eyes. The gown she wore was either black or green, maybe both, and her high-heeled shoes seemed to be made from red glass.

“Mr. Nyx?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, feeling