himself.
But life has its mundane annoyances. Such as running out of money. I was forced to take my precious bees on the road, to the almond orchards of California. Almonds can only be pollinated by bees, and the state produces the majority of the nation's crop. With honeybees dying of Colony Collapse, the desperate farmers solicited the services of private apiarists. I would have refused, but even I must eat sometimes.
It was a long journey from Pennsylvania to New Mexico, and then on to California. Upon our arrival in the foggy valley, my exhaustion led to a lapse in judgment. I called upon my supernatural speed to finish moving the hives more quickly.
And I was noticed.
"Hi. Dad said you have orchard bees, too."
Thus I met Libby Stockton--pretty, charming, and dying. When she shook my hand, the corruption inside her made me want to retch. I do not sicken easily, understand. I lost the capacity for empathy many years ago.
But Libby surprised me. Even with her blood full of death, her bright questions nearly brought a smile to my face. Here was a fighter who had endured much suffering.
"You are ill," I observed.
"Yeah, Valley Fever. It's not contagious."
Indeed not. I had to turn away for a moment and fumble with my gloves. The blackness swarmed about her skin like ants on a dead bird, and my draw tugged at it.
She read my horror correctly, for she added, "I don't know which is worse--having my lungs full of spores, or the gruesome meds." She paused, and gave me a sidelong look--half suspicious, half mischievous. "How did you know? Can you smell my blood?"
I smelled many odors, if smell it could be called. One of them was the devilishly familiar stench of my brother's breath. His foulness permeated her. She obviously knew the pop culture version of vampires and thus could not identify the real thing.
I explained that I had merely overheard her father, and that she looked obviously unhealthy. As I spoke, I watched the black motes creep up her neck and into one ear. She had no idea it was happening.
Robert had inflicted this on her.
Even as we made a few jokes, words entered my head-- For to him who has shown no mercy the judgment will be merciless, but mercy exults victoriously over judgment.
With it came hope--hope such as I had not had in decades. Could I be free of this curse if I but showed mercy to this girl? Serve many ... It did not violate my creed.
But even as I considered this, my draw pulled a little more life from her. She sensed it, retreated to her golf cart to rest.
Blast it all. I had not fed in two days, and my draw upon nearby life was getting out of hand.
She sat there far too long, watching me. Her breathing rasped in her chest, and the black motes swirled from her mouth with every breath. I approached her and bade her depart, then utilized my proximity to draw on the life of the nearby weeds. Sparkling golden life motes flowed through me and into her. The black motes thinned and their swarming slowed. In a day, the weeds would mysteriously die in a six-foot circle around the spot where I had stood. It would make her marginally better--but a few plants lack the amount of concentrated life required to cure such an entrenched infection.
After she was safely away from me, I opened my trunk. It had been deposited among the hives, and none had noticed it because of the virtue I poured into its paint. It resembled another hive, until one touched it. Then it subtly shifted into a lidded box.
Among the many useful things I had packed, there were three half-pint jars of honey from my bees. I opened one, scooped out a pale, waxy honeycomb, and chewed it slowly. Light and life streamed into my corrupted body. It reduced my draw to nothing, and instead of pulling, the tide within me began pushing outward. Not too strongly, mind you. Too much light and I would set myself afire. But it was enough to strengthen my weary muscles.
I ran the words through my mind again. F or to him who has shown no mercy
But life has its mundane annoyances. Such as running out of money. I was forced to take my precious bees on the road, to the almond orchards of California. Almonds can only be pollinated by bees, and the state produces the majority of the nation's crop. With honeybees dying of Colony Collapse, the desperate farmers solicited the services of private apiarists. I would have refused, but even I must eat sometimes.
It was a long journey from Pennsylvania to New Mexico, and then on to California. Upon our arrival in the foggy valley, my exhaustion led to a lapse in judgment. I called upon my supernatural speed to finish moving the hives more quickly.
And I was noticed.
"Hi. Dad said you have orchard bees, too."
Thus I met Libby Stockton--pretty, charming, and dying. When she shook my hand, the corruption inside her made me want to retch. I do not sicken easily, understand. I lost the capacity for empathy many years ago.
But Libby surprised me. Even with her blood full of death, her bright questions nearly brought a smile to my face. Here was a fighter who had endured much suffering.
"You are ill," I observed.
"Yeah, Valley Fever. It's not contagious."
Indeed not. I had to turn away for a moment and fumble with my gloves. The blackness swarmed about her skin like ants on a dead bird, and my draw tugged at it.
She read my horror correctly, for she added, "I don't know which is worse--having my lungs full of spores, or the gruesome meds." She paused, and gave me a sidelong look--half suspicious, half mischievous. "How did you know? Can you smell my blood?"
I smelled many odors, if smell it could be called. One of them was the devilishly familiar stench of my brother's breath. His foulness permeated her. She obviously knew the pop culture version of vampires and thus could not identify the real thing.
I explained that I had merely overheard her father, and that she looked obviously unhealthy. As I spoke, I watched the black motes creep up her neck and into one ear. She had no idea it was happening.
Robert had inflicted this on her.
Even as we made a few jokes, words entered my head-- For to him who has shown no mercy the judgment will be merciless, but mercy exults victoriously over judgment.
With it came hope--hope such as I had not had in decades. Could I be free of this curse if I but showed mercy to this girl? Serve many ... It did not violate my creed.
But even as I considered this, my draw pulled a little more life from her. She sensed it, retreated to her golf cart to rest.
Blast it all. I had not fed in two days, and my draw upon nearby life was getting out of hand.
She sat there far too long, watching me. Her breathing rasped in her chest, and the black motes swirled from her mouth with every breath. I approached her and bade her depart, then utilized my proximity to draw on the life of the nearby weeds. Sparkling golden life motes flowed through me and into her. The black motes thinned and their swarming slowed. In a day, the weeds would mysteriously die in a six-foot circle around the spot where I had stood. It would make her marginally better--but a few plants lack the amount of concentrated life required to cure such an entrenched infection.
After she was safely away from me, I opened my trunk. It had been deposited among the hives, and none had noticed it because of the virtue I poured into its paint. It resembled another hive, until one touched it. Then it subtly shifted into a lidded box.
Among the many useful things I had packed, there were three half-pint jars of honey from my bees. I opened one, scooped out a pale, waxy honeycomb, and chewed it slowly. Light and life streamed into my corrupted body. It reduced my draw to nothing, and instead of pulling, the tide within me began pushing outward. Not too strongly, mind you. Too much light and I would set myself afire. But it was enough to strengthen my weary muscles.
I ran the words through my mind again. F or to him who has shown no mercy