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NOTE: These stories are
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Blood Money
A "Vorare" Story
By
Ivan Ewert
Start from the beginning of the Vorare Series

"First things first," said Gordon. "If I'm going back among civilized people, I'm going to have to get cleaned up. As it is, I look like ten kinds of trouble." He looked to the wound in his arm, considering his options a moment. "I think that's going to mean a bigger town, where I won't stand out so much."

The edges of the wound slid together, the sensation now oddly comforting - not unlike a deep massage along his forearm. "We will follow the web of lights, host of man, follow and learn? Where there is much desire, so too is there much flesh."

If the physical sensation provided by his wound had become familiar, the voice remained anything but. The sibilant consonants slipped through with a breathy quality, like an old man using a poorly connected telephone line; and the choice of words continually set the back of Gordon's neck to tingling.

"Many people," he corrected, "that was my thought, too."

"Then we shall away."

The silence stretched another moment before Gordon glanced down. "I don't suppose we have any simpler way of getting there than walking?"

"Alas, O my host, had you wished for speed you would open your calves or knees to the hungry and waiting world. No steed races through the tender portal of this, your arm."

He shuddered. "Walking's fine. This time, though, we're staying on the road. That forest is too full of memories." Rolling his shirt sleeve down to cover the open wound and buttoning the frayed cuff at his wrist, he set off along the blacktop road.

As the day wore on, he was passed now and again by cars along either side of the road. Despite the wound's insistence that he no longer needed to fear the Gentleman Ghouls, he found that being in the open made him as edgy as remaining within the forest. The crisp light of a grey-cast sun did little to set his mind at ease, and when a car would honk now and again he leapt to the side of the road like a startled rabbit, drawing further looks of commingled contempt and concern from the motorists.

"Christ," he muttered, "I must really look like a crackhead."

"You have journeyed far in an unknown land, O host of man." The voice was muffled but still clear.

"I was delirious."

"It matters not. You remain a traveler of the wastes, with but a single friendly voice to greet you upon the return. Should you therefore be held of less account than their smoke and haste, their dim lights which cannot pierce the twilight? You have shone within the darkness and do so even now. They will sense it though they do not see, and they will despise you for it as the hyena does the lion."

"It's a noble story, but I still look like a mental case. For that matter -" he stopped. "For that matter, why am I even bothering to try? It's not like I can pay for new clothes or a hot shower."

"It matters not," repeated the voice. "I am prepared."

Gordon stopped walking. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, child of man, my bright host, I shall provide for your comfort and needs. I am no chariot to carry you upon wheels of fire to your victory, but I am your strong right arm, your succor and comfort, upon whom you may always rely."

"We'll turn our hands to washing dishes, then?"

"If you like," crooned the voice. "I shall provide, never fear. Turn your legs to the march and allow me my space and time in which to plan and prepare."

They walked throughout the day and night alike. When it had occurred to Gordon to stop and rest, he realized he had no desire to do so. He was fresh and sound, and his goal lay ahead, so he saw no reason to lay his head upon the blankets of snow and pine which lined the road save only a lifelong habit - that of sleep.

Food, too, was again far from his mind. When he had fed on the forbidden flesh of man, before his mutilation and awakening, his lack of hunger had roared with the quality of the bonfire ? hot and fierce, a swirling void fed on sin. Now, however, the lack was a presence, a weighty warmth centered in his abdomen, keeping him from feeling mortal hunger without resorting to the unnatural habits of the Ghouls.

He had felt it on his return, and he felt it now - that curious solidity and weight in the center of his being. There was a tug, not strong yet eerily insistent, drawing him forward along the salt-pale road. Having set his mind on a larger town where he might pass with less comment, he felt himself drawn to the south and east. His desire set his path, and as he walked he considered everything that might mean to his coming days and months. He had wandered too long, either chased and hunted or fleeing without direction. If his desire led him forward, however, only one question remained: what was his desire?

It was this pull, rather than the intermittent signs of white-on-green, that led him to the outskirts of Duluth on the afternoon of his third day's travel. He had passed through some small towns along the way, but none in which he felt he could easily acquire both a place to clean up and the clothes he would need without attracting the attention of locals.

Hermantown, however, seemed an ideal place to start. Close enough to the larger city to make his appearance less noteworthy, yet still far from the brighter constellations of desire and hunger. The fact that he could see the souls of others had seemed a great gift when first he opened his eyes, but as he drew closer to the great swirling sea of lights it seemed to take on the appearance not as a comforting glow but an electric net, one in which a man could easily be caught and drowned.

"All right," said Gordon slowly, looking toward the edge of town. "We're here. Now tell me how we've prepared for this."

"Ahead, O my bright host, will you find lodgings humble but sufficient." He felt a slight tug downward, as though an invisible child had grabbed his hand on seeing some delicious new toy. "Brush aside the snow and take up the leaves of the ground."

Gordon did as he was told, and a sudden rush of heat centered in his wound.

"Unbind me," came the whisper. Holding the chill and sodden leaves in his right hand, he unbuttoned his sleeve with the left, stepping carefully some distance from the road to avoid drawing attention to himself. He pushed the sleeve up to his elbow and shook himself with sudden fear as the edges of his wound parted.

Blood began to bubble from the wound, the voice shrunk to a gurgling whisper as of one speaking beneath the dark waves of some hidden sea. It came in spurts of black and brown, turning a healthy red after the first few solid gouts were expelled. The blood ran hot and wet down his arm, pooling in his palm around the leaves he still held forth.

"What are you ...?"

"Hush," came the bubbling voice, and so terrible was the strangled nature of that word that Gordon turned his head to look back toward the town. The buildings seemed so solid against the chaotic and fluid nature of his past days and his current life, solid and unchanging. He knew the appearance to be a lie ? that this town, its brick and mortar, would one day crumble and fall. The blood pooling in his hand crooned a wordless hymn to that elemental sense of chaos and entropy, the meaninglessness of all which seemed to stand.

The heat in his arm began to fade, and with that came the horrible sensation of a thousand writhing worms crawling back up his forearm. He felt the edges of the wound expand, begin to tear slightly at the corners, widening their aperture; and he glanced back to see the blood being drawn back up into the wound, pumping itself in reverse back into the veins and arteries of his body, sucked back into his pale and bloodstained flesh.

The leaves were gone, replaced by several crumpled bills in various denominations.

Gordon took them and held them to the light, looking for some sign that all was not well. "Is this - is this what you meant by preparing for my needs?"

"Oh yes, child of man. It is a simple trick, and not at all the greatest of gifts which I shall share at your need or your desire."

He thought back to their conversation in the woods, several days ago, and was struck with a bitter sense of absurdity. "I asked you before what would serve me best as I returned to the world. You don't think that summoning money is going to be more useful to me than a lie detector?"

There was silence a moment, and then the wound spoke again. "Do I displease you? Shall I return the gold you carry to mulch and dross, coat it once more in the hot blood of your rebirth, and send it scattered to the side of the road?"

"No!" Gordon said, as a thin trickle of blood began to seep from the wound. The old feeling of tightness had replaced the comfortable, gentle massage of earlier, as if the tourniquet was once more beign drawn beneath his elbow. "No, I didn't mean offense. I was surprised, that's all. Not displeased."

"If you like," said the wound, and no more. The blood that had spilled was not withdrawn, however, and Gordon thrust the bills into his pocket before stooping to rub snow along the sticky trail along his forearm. Some part of him wanted to apologize further, to make his contrition known - yet somehow he distrusted that desire. It had been a power play, he saw, an attempt to punish him for refusing the gift, and that seemed a dangerous road to start down with an ally he knew so little about.

Ally? The word was wrong, he realized as he buttoned the sleeve around the now-silent wound. The stranger beneath his skin. When he thought of it in those terms the wound seemed less sinister but still bizarre, the kind of phrase a pop psychologist might use on his television appearances. He had thought of it only as 'the wound' to this point, but seeing this strange transformation - this magic, he realized - it was insufficient.

It was hardly the time to ask, and insofar as Gordon was aware of the thing's emotional capabilities and expressions it seemed disinclined to speak further. At the edges of civilization, Gordon realized that there was much he had accepted without comment since his return that deserved deeper investigation and answer. In the depth of the woods, after his long months of abuse and imprisonment, his shocked mind had begun to take the shape of the world around it, and now as he returned to the world of men he was becoming once again more inclined to seek out answers to the questions forming at the back of his mind.

A shower would do much more good, he decided, than further questioning. He would allow some hours to pass, clean himself up, and fully rejoin the world of men. Then he would turn his attention back to the best way to deal with that which seemed stranger than before.

Story and image by Ivan Ewert, Copyright 2007