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Benji fixed Garekyn with his sharp black eyes, and then he climbed into the car and the car sped away, rushing northbound past Garekyn and on into the steady flow of cars that choked the avenue.
Garekyn cried out, begging Benji to wait.
But the car was gone, spurting away almost recklessly through the other cars, and turning off two blocks ahead.
Garekyn's heart sank. He ran his fingers back through his hair, and finding a handkerchief in one of his many pockets, he wiped angrily at his face.
He walked on, trying to think.
Perhaps this had happened for the best. Perhaps this thing, this Benji species of mutant, could have done him harm. If he were to go back now to Trinity Gate, perhaps a collection of these beings, alerted by the redoubtable Benji, could do him harm.
Only slowly did he come to realize this had been a great experience for him, a unique experience, and that he had now much to ponder, whereas he'd had almost nothing tangible at all to think about before.
But he was stung, stung to his soul. He'd encountered somebody, somebody vital in his search for the past, and that someone had fled from him, and so he would have to approach the entire matter in some new and more cautious way.
He found a cafe where he felt at home.
It was a restaurant actually, not open as yet for "dinner," as they called it, but it was fine with them if he took one of the smaller tables near the front window and drank a glass of the house wine.
The wine went to his head as it always did from the first mouthful, and he felt the relaxation move through him as if he'd sunk down in a warm bath.
He had never forgotten the warning of the Parents that during his mission on Earth, he must refrain from all spirits or fermented drinks, and all other intoxicants, that he would have little or no defense against them, that indeed human beings had little or no defense against them, but that they might cripple his cerebral circuits even more quickly than they worked on human beings.
But he liked wine. He liked being intoxicated. He liked having the pain and loneliness dulled by intoxication. He loved it, in fact, and he wept as he called for another glass and drank it down as if it were a shot of bourbon. Why not a bottle? The waitress nodded without a word, and filled the glass for him again when she returned, setting the corke
d bottle beside it.
Silently, Garekyn shed tears. People passed him on the other side of the glass. He wiped at his eyes crossly with his handkerchief, but it didn't make him feel better. He sat back in the comfortable little chair, and began to take a swift inventory of everything Benjamin Mahmoud had ever said about the "spirit Amel."
Then something utterly unforeseen happened.
Garekyn's eyes were closed. He had pressed two fingers of his right hand against the bridge of his nose as a mortal might who was experiencing a headache.
But he saw--. No, he was in another place. A vast room with walls of glass, but it wasn't glass, no, nothing like glass, a vast room and beyond were the towers of--. He had almost seized on the name of the city when the voice of Amel interrupted him, Amel rising from behind his desk, pale skinned, red haired, yes! Amel! Amel speaking in that rapid, emotional, classic mammalian voice with which they'd all been endowed: "Don't tell me you are the People of the Purpose when your purpose is to do just what they sent you to do! For the love of your souls, find for yourself a finer purpose! Just as I did."
In shock, Garekyn opened his eyes. It was gone, this fiery fragment from the past. And he felt both an overwhelming desire to recall it to himself, and a fear of doing so.
Suddenly the weight of his frustration crushed Garekyn, and the rejection of him by the silent Benji Mahmoud cut his heart. He could have spoken to me! What did he have to fear from me, this strange being, who was brave enough to hide in plain sight among humans in the busiest metropolis in the world?
Angrily, Garekyn rose from the chair and sought out the lavatory. He needed to slap water on his face, wake himself up, come to his senses. The waitress directed him to a small corridor behind the dining room that reeked of dust and disinfectant. He made his way to the "last door on the left."
Then he came to a halt. Danger.
There was no one in the little hallway but him. Beyond the kitchen wall to one side was the clatter and clang of pots and pans and the shrill cacophony of voices. He moved on, opened the door, and stepped into a large room containing a toilet and a fancy mirror and sink. As he turned to snap the lock, the door flew back, striking him on the forehead, and he found himself against the hard cold marble wall, stunned, as a blood drinker locked the door behind him.
Danger. Full alert. Massive danger.
Waxy, luminescent skin, a mass of dusty brown hair, and vicious eyes. A smile that was the baring of fangs and not a gesture of conciliation.
"You're coming with me, stranger," the male spoke in an ugly voice. "What do you mean stalkin' little Benji? I have friends who want to talk to you."
"And you are--?" asked Garekyn coldly. He did not move. He eyed the being as if he had all the time in the world to do so. Shorter than he; shorter arms; a massive head; old scars carved in the strange unnatural flesh as if painted on the face of a doll; and broken teeth between the glistering fangs; clothes that reeked of dust and mildew.
Laughter came from the other. "Killer's my name," he said. "And there's a reason for that. Now you're going to walk out of here with me, and back up to Trinity Gate, and don't attract the slightest attention. My friends have been alerted. I don't know who and what you are, but we'll get to all of that very soon."
As he spoke, the being's pale eyes appeared to narrow and glaze over. Something stirred in his battered face and it became as expressionless as the face of a giant cat. "Flesh and blood," he murmured. He took a deep breath and inhaled. He closed the gap between himself and Garekyn, driving his sharp vampiric teeth into Garekyn's neck before Garekyn could stop him.
A dizziness came over Garekyn. A great yawning darkness opened. He saw the immense circuitry of his own blood illuminated in a flash. No, not like this, no. He felt the pull on his veins and on centers of power within himself of which he knew nothing. A vision exploded in the darkness. Amel? Benji Mahmoud's face, the name Armand whispered. And then again Amel. Amel.
