I once thought I controlled time, could make it move and flow according to the caprices of my will. Now, time has become an enemy, more cold and brutal and implacable than any I have faced in my long existence.

My limbs feel like iron, cold morning iron that has endured a chilly alpine night complete with frost and snow. Face down, bobbing along in the waves like the jettison I have become, disoriented and imprisoned by the running waters of the ocean. The days are the worst, of course; the unrelenting sun searing through the remnants of my once-fine clothing, crisping the dead skin underneath. The onset of night brings with it some minor relief, but my body weakens and slowly rots with each pa.s.sing day that I do not feed. My hair has fallen out. The few brief glimpses I catch of my hands and forearms reveal a body reduced to little more than an emaciated patchwork of burnt, leathery skin. Gulls and other carrion feeders have gathered in the waters around me, pecking away small pieces of flesh from my neck and back, while fish nibble away at my stomach from underneath.

I try to scream, but have no breath. Rank seawater fills my mouth, invades my throat and lungs. I attempt to swim, but have no strength. I fancy myself one of the d.a.m.ned in Dante's ninth circle, frozen solid and unmoving in a lake. I can vaguely recall a time when others labeled me d.a.m.ned as well, people I then considered foolish and beneath my notice. Now, as I am tossed about on the waves, I wonder who was the fool really was?

Consciousness ebbs and flows during the day like the tides. An old, familiar hunger not fed in days accompanies the cold. It fills my every waking moment and haunts my dreams ...

I lie back in the bed as she leans over me, her skin so white it glows, absorbing light, an aura of darkness surrounding her. She mounts me with cat-like grace, her tight stomach brushing mine. Her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s hang down and rest on my chest, the softness of her touch exciting me. I breathe rapidly, inhaling her scent, almost panting. Her face floats toward me with blue eyes both cold and hungry, her black hair streaming behind. I reach up to satisfy my l.u.s.t, but she brushes my hands away with casual ease. She is in charge of this moment, my life in her hands.

I hold my breath as she caresses my neck, stroking my fevered pulse with the lightest touch. I feel her kiss, intimate and deep and deadly, on the same place she has been caressing. My eyes flare open and for a brief moment the world becomes more intense, all my senses more heightened than they had been through my whole life of living with them. A final, all-consuming sensory overload. My body is slowly dying, drained of life and blood, and this intensity represents my mind's way of clinging to life's memories. I let it wash over me. Her lips are so cold; not smooth as I expect but more scaly like a fish. They grate on my skin and pull away. I feel it again and jerk away, startled by swarms of silver flashes spinning all around me, diving in again to pick, pick, pick at my flesh. Not my maker, but my reality ...

The gulls scatter as I feebly heave my body about, the blood reveries of a dead man temporarily interrupted. The birds return to their feast as soon as my energy gives out and my struggles cease. My mind wanders, lulled as the sun's heat inexorably cooks my brain. Reality and recollection, substance and dream mix and become one.

Images flash before me. Some are rapid and easily dismissed. Others I choose to draw out and explore further, turning over and over, looking for new angles of incite, like rereading a familiar book on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I am transformed, physically and emotionally, no longer a discarded, emaciated skeleton bobbing hopelessly on the water. Fine clothing adorns me, indicative of cla.s.s and breeding. Long, chestnut brown hair flows down over the wide shoulders of a muscular physique. My skin is pale, but neither sallow nor thin, my lips full and red. And my eyes ... they burn with a fierce red intensity, a sureness of power no living man could ever duplicate.

She is there as well, of course. She becomes my dark mother, bringing me across the plane of death with care and precision, my heart stilled, lungs empty, my lifeblood coating her lips. She returns the blood to me, mixed with her own, revitalizing a corpse sh.e.l.l, her willpower grasping my departing soul and refusing to let it go.

Her eyes fill my vision as I rise from the bed that has become a grave and embrace her with unnatural fervor, our first blood kiss, a clash of lip and fang and tongue. She pledges between moans to school me in the ways of her night world. I moan in return. My sharp nails tear into the skin of her back as I feel truly alive for the first time.

Time becomes a vast whirlpool, images of unlife tossed about and jumbled together without chronology. I see myself accepting my new form of existence, coping with and reveling in it. Altering my body, taking to the sky with wings as dark as the night, soaring underneath the moon's brilliance. Chasing the slow human prey she finds, more deadly than any African lion, knocking them to the ground with frightening ease and feasting on them. Engaging witch hunters and churchmen in battles of wit and intrigue and mortal p.a.w.ns spanning decades. Sparring with wolfmen for supremacy of the woods, engaging the fierce beasts in combat, tooth to tooth, talon to talon. Noting her look of approval and pride as I raise high the head of a loup-garou, his animal blood coating my proud fang teeth.

Some of the memories exhilarate me and are welcomed. Others come unsolicited, like a tax collector or a spurned lover at the front door, causing uncertainty and angst.

We are back in the same room, her room, where she sired me. I see her move away from me, rage and disappointment vying for control of her features, her face turning away.

"I'm sorry," I say, but b.l.o.o.d.y tears have already appeared in her eyes.

"How could you?" she accuses. "I made you to be with me always." She looks at the bed that stands between us, the same bed where we made love for the first time all those years ago. The bed where I gave up my humanity to become something both more and less than a man.

"I no longer need you. I've outgrown you. You limit me." The words come out harshly, but the thing I've become has no compa.s.sion, has no care save for his own needs. I feel neither grat.i.tude nor hate toward her. "I'm leaving."

My words enrage her further. She reacts uncharacteristically, striking out, smashing the nightstand like so much kindling. I ignore her outburst.

"I've booked pa.s.sage on a ship leaving tomorrow. I've made arrangements for my belongings to be delivered prior to my departure. There's no need for any involvement on your part. And you don't need to know where I'm going."

She laughs, her fang teeth unsheathed, the blood tears streaking down her face. "Have you learned nothing in your time with me? You share my blood. I'll always know where you are. The sea is our enemy. We cross it only when we must, and only after taking the necessary precautions. Storms are at their worst at this time of year, and you cannot feed. The shipping companies keep very accurate manifests. Missing pa.s.sengers will be noticed and cause unrest."

"And still I will leave," I say matter-of-factly.

"And without me you will die. Again," she warns. I laugh and leave.

I never knew what caused the ship to sink. I was awakened in my daytime slumber by a thunderous crash, the movement of the ship smashing my coffin and heaving me out onto the cargo deck floor. I struggled to consciousness underneath a rising mountain of water, being pushed and pulled about by inexorable icy currents. I fought back with all the unnatural strength at my command, but soon found myself exhausted by the elemental purity of the ocean waters. After a short period of time I floated to the surface, weak and spent and unmoving, just another of the hundreds of other carca.s.ses scattered amongst the ship's wreckage, littering the silent sea.

I wait now for the bliss of final obliteration. A dead d.a.m.ned thing, I cannot drown, nor can I burn entirely while half submerged in water. The gulls and fish consume my flesh at an agonizingly slow pace. Only the complete destruction of my remains will free what little remains of my soul.

There was a time when I sought to avoid death at all costs, when I found the concept of my own mortality alarming. I eventually went to the extent of making love to a dead creature in order to avoid that mortality, allowing her to drink my blood and ensnare my soul. Now I would welcome the finality of true death. Perhaps, if there indeed is a deity, it has chosen to extract recompense from me for all the lives of its creations I have snuffed out over these many years. If so, I can only begin to imagine how long this unliving h.e.l.l will continue.

At first I do not notice the tugging on my boots, caught up as I am in my dazed reveries. A stronger pull wakes me from my languor. I note briefly that the sun has set, the night's coolness slightly invigorating my tired frame. A small measure of comfort, a familiar affinity with the darkness sets in.

A powerful grip attaches to my legs just below the calves and pulls me with astonishing force below the waves. I both feel and hear the bones break. The grip takes me downward for a short period of time, then releases. A sense of the utter, terrifying depth of the ocean below envelops me. I see the colossal form of a shark as it swims out from underneath, its black body large enough to eclipse the moonlight. It rounds with extraordinary swiftness for such a large creature. I see its clown eyes set just above an enormous mouth lined with row after row of deadly teeth. The leviathan's jaws encircle my torso with unerring precision, shattering ribs and puncturing skin. It begins to dive. I feel the crushing pressure of the ocean increase as the beast swims deeper and deeper.

I feel no fear at this point, having died once before already. A portion of the man that remains buried deep within this undead corpse wishes to be consumed, to finally end this nightmare existence. The shark's penetrating teeth remind me of my human death beneath the teeth of my maker. A trail of black ichor seeps from my torso wounds, trailing upward behind the shark's tail. The creature's eyes are closed as it begins to shake me in its immense jaws.

Ancient survival instincts come to the fore, strengthened by a fevered desire to prevent my maker's dire predictions from coming true. Despite my weakness, despite the suffocating weight of the water, I summon the strength to dig my hands, now adorned with black claws, into the fleshy area around the shark's gills. I begin to methodically tear chunks of red flesh from the huge creature.

The shark reacts predictably to the pain, opening wide its ma.s.sive maw. The wake pushes me out of the beast's jaws. I manage to hang on by one hand to an open wound I have inflicted as the shark dives deeper, attempting to escape. I plant both hands into the wound and pull. The tough hide and muscle give way with frightening ease. Blood fills the water, blinding me. My lips pull back in a mirthless smile, teeth exposed.

I bury my face in the wound, gulping down seawater and the shark's gamy life fluids. My tongue digs deep into the meat and gristle, my throat swallows, greedy for more. The ice that has invaded my body dissipates some as strength returns. I am overcome by a steadily increasing sense of invigoration and repletion as I continue to vacuum out the beast's lifeblood. I fail to notice as the shark eventually slows its dive, stops, then begins to float upside down.

The shark's life energy has become my own. My burnt, emaciated skin has healed and become whole, hair now covering my head. Strength and power flood now muscular limbs and torso. I now am no longer a corpse, but a man. A man with a name.

Zecheriah. My name is Zecheriah.

The knowledge does me little good, for despite my newfound strength the sea still imprisons me. The shark has floated to the surface, now belly up. I manage to push my head out of the water and attempt scramble up onto the top of the corpse, but find little purchase.

Boundless rage fills my heart. Still unable to escape this torment. To have the raw power to tear apart a giant killing machine, but at the same time be unable to pull myself a short distance out of water? Alive, but not truly alive. Such were the inexplicable contradictions of the "life" I had chosen. Still unable to put the lie to my maker's words of warning. I scream again. This time air fills my dead lungs, and my cries travel unanswered into the night.

I begin to wonder if I can truly can die. Perhaps at some point I will sink to the bottom, paralyzed by cold and disoriented, but conscious ... forever. The strength of the shark's blood is short-lived, sucked out by the icy running water. Confusion settles in, periods of lucidity become shorter and shorter, intertwined with memories of an undying woman.

I am aroused from my stupors by the thunderous echo of a gunshot. A bloodless wound opens up on the shark's white belly. I hear male voices speaking behind me and attempt to twist my head to see their source. More gunshots. This time my body bucks under the impact, shots tearing through my waterlogged torso. I feel sharp metal slam through my back and push out from my chest. I am hauled unceremoniously away from the dead shark, out of the water and onto the deck of as ship.

I find myself on an antiquated wooden vessel, the planks and railings caked in grime and sea salt. A gibbous moon shines over masts outfitted with flat sails, as there are no drafts in the early evening. Dark, malodorous forms surround me. Their dress and mannerisms suggest they are brigands of some sort. Drawn to carnage like vultures to carrion, they have begun looting the corpses left in the wake of my ship's disaster. Perhaps they were the cause of the wreck. I make out at least ten of them, armed with an array of knives, swords, clubs, and firearms. A large hook attached to a long wooden pole pierces my torso. I have been gaffed like a common fish.

A ma.s.sive African with a scarred, heavily muscled physique approaches me. He pins my head to the deck, a boot thrust into my neck, and extracts the gaff with a wet sucking sound. Two of his colleagues approach. Thinking me dead, they rifle through the remains of my clothing.

The fire inside me is rekindled. Anger about my condition. Hatred for my maker. Rage against the recent indignities I'd been forced to endure. These and other frustrations explode at once as I retaliate with inhuman ferocity. Within the span of a heartbeat the throats of the pickpockets are ruptured in a spray of blood and sundered windpipe. The other brigands attack. I feel the impact of blows from fists and clubs, ignore cuts and thrusts from knives and swords. I become a virtual hurricane, sweeping through the pirates in an orgy of shattered skulls, broken necks, and torn-out hearts. One brave soul points a pistol at my head and fires. White-hot pain floods my vision as the shot shatters my skull, sending a mist of black ichor into the air. I stumble but quickly recover as the wound heals almost instantaneously, bones knitting, flesh reforming. Her blood has made me strong, unG.o.dly resilient. I grab the man by the front of his oily shirt, lifting him effortlessly into the air with but a single hand, and sling him over the rail. He screams as he is torn apart by a horde of smaller sharks, newly arrived and feeding on the remains of the one I had killed.

A fearsome cry a.s.saults my ears. I feel the wooden deck shake under the impact of ma.s.sive booted feet. The giant African slams into me, causing me to stagger back. I almost lose my footing on the slick deck. The pirate's huge, meaty hands encircle my neck and lift me into the air. His hands exert incredible pressure, pressure that would easily have broken the neck of a normal man. I laugh, a full-throated laugh that almost brings tears to my eyes. I relish the challenge this man offers, and respond in kind. His eyes betray disbelief as my own blaze crimson in the night. My clawed hands sweep down and pulp the African's ma.s.sive forearms. A mixed cry of agony and terror shoots from his lips. We fall to the deck. I bury my mouth into his neck. Rich, powerful, hot blood pulses down my throat, flooding me with energy, dispelling the iciness that had permeated my dead body. Its thickness flows like fire in my veins, and something in me rises up and sings in delight at its flavor. The cold ichor of the shark seems like gruel in comparison. I feed until the man's heart is stilled, the blood run out.

I discard the corpse, casually fingering a remaining b.u.t.ton on a once-fine shirt. I survey the carnage. Though still d.a.m.ned, I am imprisoned no more. At least, not physically. I feel the strength of her blood call out to me, across land and sea, offering understanding and forgiveness. I take flight, seeking some form of resolution.

She waits for me on the bed, her white nightgown open in the front, her pale skin beckoning me.

"Denn die Todten reiten schnell," she comments. For the dead travel fast.

"I did not die, as you predicted," I state matter-of-factly.

She rises on her knees and encircles my shoulders with her thin arms. She looks on me, her dark eyes filling my vision.

"I'm glad." She brushes her lips on mine, not kissing, just arousing.

"I have a memento," I say, and dig my fingers through recently healed tissue, deep into my ribcage. I retrieve a serrated shark tooth and place it in her hand. She kisses it and licks my pale blood from it, leaning back to expose her chest. She trails the tooth just below the areola of her right breast, black blood slowly seeping out from the small incision. She guides my head to the cut. I let her. My lips take hold as her head falls back, her back arched in pa.s.sion. I drink, her cold blood more powerful and delicious than I remember it.

In the end, I realize, blood is stronger. Stronger than will, stronger than hate, stronger than destiny, stronger than time itself. I embrace that knowledge which has cost me so dearly to obtain, and join with her, accepting my eternity and the comfort she offers.

Moving Lines.

STEVE VERNON.

What can I tell you? I'm a gypsy, or at least the sign outside my shop said so.

GYPSY FORTUNE TELLING.

BY WALK-IN OR APPOINTMENT ONLY.

ASK US ABOUT OUR RAINY DAY SPECIAL!.

That was one sign. There was another on the lamppost outside my shop window. It told anyone who cared to read that: JESUS CHRIST SAVES FROM ALL SINS.

PRAY TO JESUS NOW.

OBEY THE BIBLE.

Lines delivered as directly as a marine drill instructor. They didn't call it the Salvation Army for nothing. A Cosa Nostra strong-arm paissano, with biceps the size of bowling b.a.l.l.s and tattoos on each arm that read MUDDER and MURDER could not be half so explicit.

There was a basketful of tracts sprouting from beneath the sign. The basket was refilled every couple of weeks. I don't know who refilled it. I've never seen anyone even go near the basket. Maybe it was refilled by night. Maybe the tracts spontaneously procreated. Maybe there was a miniaturized printing press installed inside the lamppost.

Stranger things have happened.

I never see anyone reading any of the tracts. I think a few discerning winos use the tracts to blow their noses on when the weather was cold.

Underneath the basket the motif continued with a few more linesaaDEATH, JUDGMENT, ETERNITY, HEAVEN OR h.e.l.l, YOU DECIDEaawhich kind of reminded me of those guilt-riddled warnings that the government printed on cigarette packages.

Remember, only you can prevent lung cancer.

I've got another sign hung on the wall beside my table that was printed on a sheet of cardboard as neatly as my penmanship allowed, in bright red magic marker; and covered with a thin layer of plastic sandwich wrap.

It almost looked professional.

"The moving finger writes and having writ moves on, nor all your wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it."

Omar Khayam.

Now there was a fellow who truly knew his lines.

I'm a palmist. I flip the tarot. I've got a knack for seeing what people want to see in their dreams. I can fake a teacup if the price is right.

Some folks call me Gypsy Jack.

Ha!

The truth is, I don't know jack.

Is it a con? Sure, what isn't? We live in concrete tombs built out of cons and promises and lies. We fill our ears with radio waves and television signals stuffed full of larcenous fantasies. We play bingo and invest in the stock market, and figure its all the way things ought to be.

I'm an honest to Cheiro palmist. One of those crazy guys who actually believes in what he's doing. That was rare, these days.

The believing.

Not the palmistry.

My granny taught me how, much to the undying shame of my poppa. Poppa thinks I should leave the teacups and cards for the women and take up a trade as an honest thief. What can I tell you? Fathers are never happy with their sons. I think it's some kind of immortal law, you know?

G.o.d forbid, if I ever have a son I promise to be happy with him.

Unless he disappoints me.

So here I am in my rented storefront with my cot out back. The building code tells me I'm not supposed to sleep here, but I read palms, not codes. What the slumlord doesn't know isn't going to hurt me.

I've been here for six whole months. In six more months this block is scheduled for urban renewalaaanother sacrifice to the power of progress and the gluttonous juggernaut of endless gentrification. Call it what you will, it's all means the same d.a.m.n thing. Me and the tattooist upstairs and the lady in the bas.e.m.e.nt who takes in homeless sailors are going to be out on the street.

What can I tell you? Nothing lasted forever. Six months before I was somewhere else. In six months from now I'll just move on. The cheapest buildings were always the ones about to die.

It isn't that vicious of a cycle.

I like what I'm doing most of the time, except every now and then I get to feeling like a priest who's heard one too many lousy confessions.

Like today, for instance.

Today came down like a rain of endless thunder.

I should have seen it coming. The signs were everywhere. A cat moaned under my window. A dog howled under the streetlight even though the moon had its eye poked out for the next three days. I woke up this morning with a mouthful of cobweb and a dead rat at my doorway.

Oh can I hear an omen, please?

I should have seen it coming when she first walked in. I should have seen it in the way she looked at me like a lonely moonlit cave. I should have turned her away. It was nearly night time; I was thinking about frying a couple of sausages with some peppers and onions and garlic and that bottle of plonk I'd saved since Sat.u.r.day. Then she walked in and all I saw was a customer, and a chance to feed the bills.

"I want to know my future," she said. "Palm or cards, I don't care, just tell me what you see."

"What I tell you depends on what you want to know. The palm tells everything. Birth to death, cradle to grave. Only general, you know? The cards are specific, but short sighted. Two or three months at best. The cards don't see far, but they do see straight."

"I don't know about two or three months," she said. "I just know I'm here, for now, so maybe it better be the palm."