Till it's gone- (Jesse Fforde)

[Balthazar]

Balthazar could hear a voice that was quickly becoming known for giving him the worst case scenarios while his body kept providing reasons he should believe what he was being told. A tome was what took the wind out of his last sail and gave him an epic case of the headspins. An inferno of searing heat took up the space of Zar’s gut and had his struggling weak frame folding partially. It did nothing for relief. It only had his bowels and everything else closer together which was no damn good so he popped back up to stand as straight as he could. Gas erupted and sounds that were anything but natural under normal conditions announced he was more and more on the losing end of whatever happened in their first meeting.

Not that Zar would be permitted to call it right there. Jesse took to pushing him to continue moving like they were on an active battlefield and danger was imminent. How the **** did he ever get this far deep in the mess Christopher Fforde created?

How much worse could it really get? Reborn? Was he dying or wasn’t he?

Balthazar shook his head as if that would have the younger Fforde pick one or the other. The catch of the toe of his boot on the lip of the elevator floor must have caught more than the worn leather covering his foot. It jostled the unspoken option, the eternal loop hole, beneath the prophecy his brother was delivering. He wanted to tell the one Christopher left bitter and behind that he had a seriously fucked up sales pitch if that was all he was offering up. There was a reverse for narcotics, for snake venom and even the creepy crawlies that would infest your meat if you stuck it where the wild things were. Balthazar had a hard time believing done and dusted mortal death or an hellacious overbite are his only two options.

“I am on my feet.” Balthazar groaned as the fire spread and made the contact of Jesse’s physical lead all the more obvious. His prognosis was grave and getting worse with every step. “But probably not going to make it to work.” He hissed out when the elevator doors closed them inside the snug four walls. “So if you are looking for a few rounds you just may have picked the right asshole to bite. Just going to have to wait a bit.”

He gripped the only thing that seemed promising inside the elevator besides the one responsible for why he was in a metal cage moving to begin with. He eyed the confessing killer and searched for all the signs he missed the first time around. What, if anything at all, stood out that could have had him seeing what was coming before it actually hit or bit him. Nothing really except for the early case of the creeps.

Paranormal **** never got Balthazar to buy tickets to the show. Hugh Jass was into that ****. In fact his buddy liked it a lot. Darker the better. It just never really appealed to Zar. It was like being sold on the idea that anyone including the bookish Clark Kent could save the world. All they had to do was tear open their business shirt and race into the eye of danger and all would be good. The world wasn’t really operating under those gears as far as Balthazar Fforde knew. Not in Seattle anyways. The news of vampiric existence only came fairly recent with the shitstorm of everyone suddenly either being one, knew someone or lost someone to the cause. It shaped out to be a kind of a mess he didn’t know enough about to stumble into or look to be apart of...until now.

Now it would seem he was being drafted and given the choice to suit up and march to an entirely different beat or start digging his own early grave. General Jesse had done this before, by his own admission. He flipped his **** and lost it. Because of that it was up to Zar what happened next. Did he have it in him to step up or was this where he was supposed to lay down and die? His shoulders stretched a little wider and he felt the ache in the joints supporting them.

The blur of color bleeding into distorted lines and ever changing shapes left him missing out on the inviting selling points of the decor around him while they stayed in motion. If it was to be disturbing that would be lost on him as well. Maybe it was for the best. Zar was left with most of his chips on the table and his cards face up to read. Jesse was collecting and Balthazar was about to pay up in blood.

“You better fix this…” A sudden sharp pain in his chest and his head had him freeze. The coppery scent filled his nose and mouth followed by the taste of blood. His own. “****.” Warm and fresh the flow of what his body was releasing appeared over the bristle ledge of his mustache and down to the floor beneath him. "Now."

[Jesse Fforde]

Cerberus, as Jesse had dubbed the second floor of the lair, was a colourful place. To make up for its lack of windows, perhaps; the floor was cement, the pillars cement, too. It was an industrial space and, unlike Limbo that they had just left behind, it was mostly unfurnished. Jesse hadn’t got around to figuring out what he wanted to do with it, yet, and he was considering letting the plants from the green room take over. Already, vines had started to creep out of the door way; to vampiric senses, it was almost as if a fresh breeze flowed through from the green room. Of course, there was no breeze. They were underground. The freshness was definitely there, however. But, if he allowed the vines to have their way, the walls would be harder to get to. And it was the walls that were what brought so much colour to the place.

It was the artistic space, where Jesse came when he wanted to get away from the masses, when he wanted to think. In one corner was spread a tarpaulin, on top of which were numerous cans of paint. The walls themselves were ever shifting, pieces of graffiti overwritten and re-done, or made brighter and more prominent. There was fire and scales, the world snake seeming to move and fluctuate in the dim light. There was nature, too – trees and flowers, roses blooming from skulls.

It was past all the murals that Jesse dragged Balthazar, however, a sigh parting his lips as the guy demanded Jesse fix it. He was physically falling apart in Jesse’s grasp. Had he just soiled himself? It was all to be expected. The body was expunging everything that it no longer required. And though this was the worst of the grossness, his body would suffer for another week, at least.

”I’m going to try, okay?” he said. Jesse softened, somewhat. This wasn’t Balthazar’s fault and his volatility was also to be expected.

”You’re going to have to drink my blood. Every night. If you refuse, if you don’t, you’ll die. The only way I can fix you is to make you like me. And you can hate me all you like, but it’s not all that bad,” he said. He pushed open the door (that looked like a book case). Behind it was a room, not small but not large. Cosy, with a bed that was made and a fireplace, an armchair, a dresser. And the bookshelf, of course.

”There’s a bathroom. You can clean up. There’s a bucket,” he said, nodding to the bedside. Indeed, Jesse Fforde had done this numerous times. He was well prepared. He knew exactly what to expect. ”You want to crawl into that bed before we get started, or you want to clean up first?” he asked. Seriously, being this close to the guy, he really didn’t smell that great.

[Balthazar]

Balthazar was pretty sure this was it. His sweat soaked head bobbed around while the last shade of healthy pink faded from his lips. This was the last place he would be seeing, right? He tried to take in what was around him while he caught his breath. So much for focus. It just so happened when he parted his lips it proved to be sour enough it offended him as much as anyone else within smelling distance. Dying was not fun. It was a dismal, painfully slow process at best. When his soul, or whatever was involved, finally left the proverbial skid mark of life on Jesse’s April fresh sheets he would be left with a blur for the visual of where he been.

“I will only hate you if I come back and feel even worse.” Yeah, something really wasn’t right from his toes to his head. His brain tried to grab pieces of what Jesse said and hang on to them like mental post it notes. Drink his blood? He wasn’t a fan of the metal-sweet after taste several bloody noses had left him with growing up. “Wait, what about your blood?”

He was slow on the uptake. Super slow in fact. Vampires drank the blood and so did the humans? Hell if he knew what was supposed to happen next. It just didn’t seem like that was part of anything he could remember seeing or reading. Not that he was in any position to debate the process. Jesse was a vampire so obviously he had been through the ringer. He should know what he was talking about. As for cleaning up ahead of time. He felt like it was a self-service offer of the ritualistic process where people washed up their dead or dying. As if wherever they go next expects them presentable and pleasing to the nose. He stared at Jesse until some of the blur of his form clarified.

“I will clean up.”

The bucket that was pointed out was in his grip as he headed for the place that appeared to be the most likely spot for a bathroom. Once he arrived he set down the bucket. As soon as he turned on the water and placed his palms on each side of the small sink he felt the overheating of his body while it was effectively cooking on the inside. With the limited strength he had left he went about peeling his clothes from his body. Layer by layer each came off until the cool air found his bare skin. It was a minor relief. The cool water flowing from the faucet was put to good use. Soon his pits were tap water fresh and the sweat caked on his face and chest was rinsed away. The man bits and crack were taken care of as much as seemed appropriate with his brother in the distance free to view it all going down the drain thanks to the open door policy in effect. Once all was done and dried with whatever felt close enough to a towel for use, he dropped it and allowed his supersized firehose to swing and hang free. Bouncing off one thigh to the other and back again left nothing for the imagination to come up with. Without a shred of decency left to call upon he walked his cursed, naked and well hung body towards the flat smear of color that he took for granted was the bed that was offered.

“I am not sure how this rolls from here but a few things I won’t have you doing.” As if he had any real say in the matter. “No shaving my head, the ‘stache or sacrificing my nut sack to feed or appease the demonic squirrels you have running around here.”

He slid into the bed feeling about as unprepared and awkward as he ever had in whole his whole ******* life. Bad sex with a stranger awkward. The only thing that made it seem reasonable he was doing it was that he felt pain in his toes every time he inhaled deep.

“Try to take it easy and be gentle.” He asked as his leg got a cramp that left his foot turned inward and not letting up when he tried to shake it out. Figuring the floor show wasn't what Jesse had planned on he compensated for the imposition by giving it a draining swing over the top of the mattress until it was beneath the sheets.Once his body was safely in he looked up. “This is my first time.”

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse Fforde wasn’t a pervert or a creeper, nor was he any kind of caring, gentle male nurse. While Balthazar cleaned up, there was no way Jesse was going anywhere near the bathroom, nor was he going to peer through the door that had been left open. While he waited, his phone was fished from his pocket, a vague message sent to Clover along the lines of you won’t believe it. He would have to fill her in on all the details later. For now, he paced the space beyond the bedroom, assessing the work on the walls. It had been a while since he’d updated the murals; maybe while he was hanging around taking care of Balthazar he could spruce it all up a bit.

Although he didn’t go near the bathroom he did keep an ear out. In the distance he could hear the flow of the water, could hear the way it slapped and splashed the walls and tub – evidence that there was someone moving in it, that Balthazar was still standing and conscious. If it there was a thud or crack, if there was resulting silence, only then would he go and drag his brother from the bathroom.

Brother. It was still such a strange word on his tongue, in his mind. A word that had only ever caused him pain, but which now needed to be amended – or so it would seem. If this lasted. If Balthazar survived.

Eventually the water was turned off. He wandered back toward the room, walking through the door just in time to be presented with a fully naked, glistening Balthazar – who then took it upon himself to set boundaries and rules, as if he were the one in charge. Maybe Jesse was far too morose and serious when Balthazar wanted to try to joke around, make light of a bad situation. But Jesse wore only a frown – not even a twitch of amusement.

”You’re in no position to dictate how this is going to go. Why you think I have any reason to shave your head or cut off your balls, I don’t know, but I have no interest in going there,” he said. ”I’m going to do what I need to do to help you to survive, and if you have issues then it’s on your head if you die. It’s not going to be easy, nor is the sickness going to be gentle. It’s not going to be gone overnight,” he said. He turned and approached the fireplace; it was cold, but he would soon light the fire. On top of the fireplace was a switchblade, used in the past. Jesse retrieved it now, pulling the blade from its sheath. He tugged the armchair closer to the bed and, with barely a blink, he sliced a generous gash across his own wrist. Blood surged to the surface, though without a beating heart it didn’t spurt or erupt.

”Drink this before it heals. It’s the only way you’re going to have a hope of survival,” he said, holding the wrist within graspable distance.

[Balthazar]

Details. Sure enough it all comes down to the goddamned mother ******* details. The depends on and what if’s found his ears and randomly his brain. Balthazar was back on the receiving end of an internal uprising that left him ready for anything. He was on his back looking at his last hope. That is how it sounded, what he was hearing. It didn't escape him that it just so happened to be Christopher Fforde’s lost boy that put him in the damned predicament to begin with. More rules, regulations and clauses came out. If it required him to sign on a dotted line he wouldn’t be able to see it let alone coordinate the use of a writing tool and his hand. He palmed his sweaty face with a shaking set of paws that seemed anything but his own and delivered weak massage. All of the energy it tapped from him offered no relief at all for the effort.

The sound of Jesse’s voice stuck with him. From the way it was explained it was going to be one hell of a trip if he made it through to the other side. He let the haze of Jesse reading him his rights and risks flow over him like the cool room air that hardly moved as much as he would have liked. It did very little to temper the continuous wave of what-the-**** clawing what was left of him from the inside. Not to mention that the mattress beneath him could use a serious upgrade or his bones were giving up on holding together. Chances were increasing that Balthazar wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to suggest it. As brother Fforde pointed out Zar was in no position to be looking the gift horse in the mouth that went about seating himself at the bedside.

Last thoughts found him, summations of what had came and went over his brief life. Nothing stood out for long. It quickly became about the bite. From the shock of it all to the run for his life. At every point he couldn’t imagine that it couldn’t get any worse. It should pass like the seven day flu or he should drop dead. No body hangs on past a certain point. It shuts down and gives some measure of peace. He soon became a believer in how wrong he had been.

Hour by hour. Day to night. It did the opposite of what he expected. He would feel almost like he was kicking it back in the *** and on his way to victory. Then it would come on stronger than ever and blindside him to his very core. Even the last ditch whole hearted effort of getting **** faced didn’t help. Zar was on his borrowed death bed and he was done as done could be. And it was to get worse?

Now he knew it was only a matter of time. Jesse was right. Fangs or bust. No regrets were left. He wasn’t pleased as punch over how things turned out but he knew he would do what he had in his thirty some years all over again just as he did the first time. It was nothing to write novels about or win fans over but he lived it. Tagging ‘The End’ on to it courtesy of a vampiric brother he never knew he had seemed to make it far more interesting than ‘Happily ever after’.

If Jesse’s intervention didn’t take he was prepared for the final check out. Especially when the guy sliced his own wrist open and said to make a move before it healed. **** was getting crazier by the seconds that dragged on. The eye watering grip of pain claiming his stomach overrode any last questions or protests. The scent of the blood that was being offered for consumption became a more reasonable choice when there was no doubt he was actively dying. How much worse could it be to choke down some of his brother in turn?

“I can’t believe I am doing this.” Balthazar shared the last of his half *** thoughts as he found Jesse’s wrist. “Till it’s gone?”

Zar didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled the limb in his uneven grip closer and as soon as it got where it was within biting distance he put it to his lips. As soon as his mouth opened and received the first contact with the fluid he knew it was only going to get worse. A hell of a lot worse. He felt it. Like he stepped of a curb and into the path of a moving bus worse. Even the impact couldn’t stop his lips from forming a tight seal and sucking in what had to be the answer to finally finishing him off.

[Jesse Fforde]

Sometimes Jesse wished that his own turning was the same as what he now had to inflict on others. He wished that he knew exactly what they were going through so that he could tell them to either suck it up and stop being so dramatic, or to console them about how it would soon be better. He could only go by the experience of others, could only see how each individual person dealt with the week of horrific, life-draining pain and go from there. Except everyone was different.

It crossed the vampire’s mind that he could keep a journal. Every time he turned someone, every night, list their symptoms. Rate their seeming pain on a scale of one to ten, taking note of how much better or worse they were after each feeding. Make sure he came back to visit them, to give them more ‘medicine’ at the exact same time every single night. If it were consistent, if he could figure out how each different body dealt with it (and perhaps the path they entered after it was done) he might better figure out how to comfort them.

Was it worth the effort? Did he plan on siring that much? He didn’t think so. But if he had eternity stretching out in front of him, and there was no change…

As Balthazar clung to his arm and took what he needed, Jesse wondered. He’d gone cold turkey and he’d died to vanquish the depression that took hold whenever he didn’t sire. He’d remained in that cold, dark place until he’d been yanked back out again, convinced and coerced and talked back into the prospect of life. He’d reclaimed what he thought he hadn’t wanted, and now he no longer suffered when he went without siring. His mood had settled and, though he could still lash out every now and again it was nothing as bad as it had been. He didn’t push people away. He welcomed them, as much as he always would have.

If that ‘curse’ could be vanquished, couldn’t this one be fixed, too? Couldn’t he somehow figure out a way to sire normally, like every other damned vampire did? Like he used to? A single night, nay, a few hours of excruciating pain and that was that. Done and dusted. Did he want to fix it, or did he enjoy watching them struggle and claw through the challenge? If they made it to the other side, it meant that they were strong. It meant that they would and could survive this life. Had they been any better, since?

He'd lost himself in his thoughts, head bowed and eyes staring, unseeing, as Balthazar took what he needed. Til it’s gone, he had asked, and Jesse suddenly realised he was getting woozy. It probably wouldn’t do to let Balthazar drain him dry, not on the first night.

”Enough,” he said, whipping his hand from Balthazar’s grip. ”I know it’s delicious and all, but you’ll get some more tomorrow night…” he said, pressing the wound up against his t-shirt while he waited for the skin to knit itself back together again.

[Balthazar]

And the pull of the flesh between his lips had the hair on his scalp standing on end. The source of the relief that was coursing through his body had countless layers of him rising in protest. The act itself felt criminal when he needed it so damn bad. It was harsh, unwelcome and altogether enough to spark a fire within him to rage against what was attempting to deny him what he required more than the warm air that was filling the void of his open mouth.

How quickly things were turning. The quality of improved vision tweaked through the grainy surface of the lids that framed each orb. Depths to which he had never seen revealed things with a clarity that gave him reason to override the impulse to blink. A charge went through him, each vein becoming a line of recognition that stood out while the surface of each eye ball cooled under the room temperature from exposure.

“Wait…” His single word of protest was left hanging while he slid his tongue over his lips like a kitten claiming the last drops of sweet, nutrient rich milk from it’s drenched chin. “What if that wasn’t enough?” He was sounding desperate and he heard it in his own words. The questioning was a guise over a plea for more. The reprieve from the pain, the physical curse riding him, was the most he had been delivered thus far. “I am getting better.”

He inched up to rest on his elbow while the opposite hand went through the silken field of long layers of hair resting on the top of his head. A glide down to the back of his neck allowed the travel to end there with the lock of his fingers around the bare nape above his shoulders. The material resting over his otherwise bare body went with his movements as he adjusted himself to rely on the heel of the palm he planted behind him for support.

“Wouldn’t more make a difference?” The stale, iron-like corroded after taste lining the walls of his mouth had his mind spinning faster than his lips could keep up with. “Obviously you can always get more.”

What was coming out of his mouth was certainly fueled by his weakness and obvious need more than was reasonable. When he was in the shape he was currently in he gave no fucks to whatever would be the cost of what he was proposing, Life, limb, injury, resources, risk. He was done shitting his pants, puking his brains out and feeling the pucker up of death sucking his insides out. He was no super hero. He could only handle so much more. Or so he thought. It was then that window of feeling better than good slammed down so hard on him that he felt it in every joint, fiber and cell of his entire being. The ***** was back and packing one hell of a punch.

“Oh ****!”

He managed to blurt out as all hell broke loose within his insides. It was coming back stronger than before. He dropped a hand to reach for the bucket offered up earlier. He neglected to make contact and instead rolled over the edge of the mattress wrapping up further in the bedding as he landed on the floor positioned on his hands and knees. Miraculously beneath his bulging vein lined neck and face was the empty container. He dropped his chin down to assume the position just in time to surrender the sour and scant fluid left to offer up for the cause. Sweat surfaced over his bare skin adding a shimmer to the permanent ink canvas that was visible. Muscles shivered, spasmed as he choked and gagged with a series of sounds that would never be appealing to any set of damaged ears. If Jesse stayed in the room of left he would be unaware. Once again he was tugged back into the dance with death that held onto him tighter than ever.

[Jesse Fforde]

Jesse wondered if Balthazar was about to beg for the blood that Jesse had just taken away from him. He considered the question and soon dismissed it; no, more would not help. He’d tried that in the beginning, when he’d first started having issues with those he sired. Once he figured out that it was no longer instant, he’d practiced until he knew for certain that it didn’t matter how much blood was given, the fledge still had to suffer. It helped Jesse to argue away the idea that his blood was somehow less potent. Maybe it had nothing to do with the blood at all, but the magic that resided within it. Maybe that was less potent, given how many he had sired and how many rituals he had done in order to be able to sire more. There was a limit, and Jesse had reached that limit how many times over? This was the punishment. As more of his blood died or disappeared, maybe it would one day become easier.

Today was no that day. Not for Balthazar.

Before Jesse could reach for the bucket and hand it to the groping man, he’d fallen out of bed. Jesse stepped back, allowing it to happen, not making the effort to help his brother back up again; not until he’d stopped retching. Eventually he’d run out of things to throw up. He’d dry reach. There’d be nothing left of his human excrement and his suffering would reside only in fevers and general fatigue. At least, that’s how it had happened with most all the others.

”Whether you survive this is up to you,” Jesse said as soon as the retching had stopped, and the room was quiet again. ”It depends on how much you want to survive, how strong your willpower is,” he said. There’d been a few that hadn’t survived. A few who Jesse would leave alone only to come back the next night to see them laying there, eyes wide and sightless, mouth hanging open with no hint of breath issued from lungs. Zero heartbeat. No magic. Dead, dead. Bodies he’d then had to dispose of.

Sometimes he did feel pity when they suffered. Sometimes he wished it were not the case; it was part of the reason why he didn’t sire as much as he used to. This one was different, however. This one was his brother. He was still a nobody that Jesse did not know, but there was significance attached to that title.

So each night that Jesse returned he was relieved when he found Balthazar still breathing. And when it got bad, when it was at its peak, when it was the worst that it was going to get Jesse stayed. He cleaned. He never went very far; and if he did it was only downstairs to the fridge where the blood bags were kept so that he could replenish himself, so that he could give Balthazar what he needed. On the sixth day leading into the seventh night, Jesse slept in the armchair in the same room, legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging over the sides.

Sometimes, he wore a mask that clearly read I don’t give a **** about you.

Sometimes, the mask slipped and he remained unaware.

[Balthazar]

“So this is it?”

It was one hell of a question to ask at a moment like that but Hugh Jass wasn’t one to ever hold back in all his short years. Balthazar still could remember the fire that set in when the words floated through his best friend’s dry, feverish lips. His eyes burned. Worse than the warm water used to flush out the sand kicked in his face. It burned like hell. As soon as he put his fingers on their damp lash lined lids he was reminded there was the remanents of jalapeno cheddar still on the surface of his fingertips. ******* chips. Hugh was leaving him a case of his favorite in the compact closet no more than five feet from the death bed he was feeling a more a part of than life in general. He had not left its side except to use the adjoining bathroom that Lunchbox quit using weeks before. His own weight was disolving on his frame along with that of Hughs.

“Don’t say that.”

Balthazar hated to be lied to but at that moment he would welcome anything that could be tangible towards things shifting to offer hope in the final hours. A return of the bright pink in the cheeks that were once so plump with life. Big, jovial balloons that puffed up bigger than Dizzy Gillespie’s. Now the flesh was pale and deflated clinging loosely to the frame work of skull and bones that Zar never would have know was there unless the leukemia had revealed it.

A miracle perhaps. Was that too much to ask? There were cases where they happened. If anyone deserved one it was his buddy beside him. The bargaining still went on in Balthazar’s juvenile, healthy head. He would give up twenty years to give Hugh that much more to live and breathe. In the sleepless night hours he asked to go in his place too many times to count. Hugh told him that his level of acceptance he had reached was peaceful, that Zar should give it a try. It was too much to grasp for Balthazar. All it left him with was the conclusion that the dying never know how it feels to be the wounded, torn soul left behind. And he was thankful for that. Hugh shouldered enough in his short life. Balthazar would take that baggage with him and carry it everywhere his remaining years would lead him.

“Don’t stick around.” The door behind his back opened but his eyes stayed with Hugh while he managed to say what was on his mind. “You promised.” A gradual weak appearance of teeth that were as dry as the walls surrounding them spoke volumes. There was very little time left. Hospice was right. He wouldn’t see the next sunrise. “You go do what we were going to.”

The oral syringe appearing between them was rejected with the turn of his head that removed their eye contact causing even more pain to Balthazar. His steeled gaze fixed on the nurse holding the disposable plastic in her hand loaded with the pain freeing narcotic. It would have no use. She disappeared without being told to and as soon as she did a warm hand reached out and took hold of the cooling blue tipped fingers nearly liefless on the sheet draped over Hugh’s frail body.

“I will.” His free hand rubbed at his eyes as he gave up trying to hold back the sounds of sniffing inward to keep his nose from dripping. There was no shame left to be had. Not when it all came down to this. The only eyes left in the room met once again and for the last time. “I promise.”

It was a fight but somehow Balthazar managed to reach the other side of whatever had been holding him back. It was as if he had been in limbo far longer than a weeks worth of time. If there could be a door that he had wrapped his hand around at the knob and turned it would make more sense as to how he felt at the moment his eyes opened. He felt ready for anything, strong enough to take the world in hand that he had been trapped in and send it flying.

First sight was of the ceiling which offered little stimulation for his current needs. The pain and any discomfort was gone. He sat up with ease and every muscle he used to do it felt like an individual and unstoppable universe of power. Nothing he had ever known before felt this good. Now that he was at the vantage point of being upright and not curled into a withering ball of misery he could appreciate the presence of who was in the chair apparently catching a few z’s. His hand went to his ink adorned chest and gave a soothing caress to the serpents that crowned the daughter of Phorkys and Keto. No rhythm of life was felt under his skin. Awareness set in. He made it through. And Jesse was there waiting...well, sleeping. Minutes went by adjusting to the changes in his vision, his ability to hear what had been impossible to pick up before. That was only the tip of the iceberg of his immortality he was now king of. So much was stirring within and with it was a world of caution at what he should do next. The grip of his hand closed around the pillow that had served its purpose behind his head. A sudden toss had it flying and ultimately landing on Jesse.

[Jesse Fforde]

Sometimes, Jesse dreamed. Sometimes he didn’t. It depended on his state of mind. Once upon a time he’d never dreamed. And then, when he slept, his head was filled with nightmares from which he could not escape; and so he’d tried to evade the sun’s capture, and every day that he forced his eyes to stay open, the better he got at it. Until, eventually, he was able to stay awake whenever he liked. He couldn’t go out in the sun, but at least he could move around while others couldn’t resist the urge to sleep.

As he lay there dozing in the chair beside Balthazar’s sick bed, he didn’t dream. Or, if he did, he didn’t remember it. To remember one’s dreams, one has to wake up slowly and on their own. If woken up by an alarm or, say, a pillow to the face, the dreams vanish and skitter like timid cats from a loud noise.

The vampire snatched at the pillow at the exact second it touched skin. It was as if his subconscious was aware even while the body dozed; the subtle shift of atmosphere, perhaps even the sound of the pillow as it soared through the air, had him catching the pillow before it had even properly landed. The violent blue of Jesse’s eyes was sharp and predatory as the shifted from the pillow to the thrower; it took a good two seconds for him to gather his wits, and for the predator within to understand that there was no danger. The pillow was not a weapon.

Jesse cleared his throat and tossed the pillow aside, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze swept Balthazar head to toe and back again. He looked well. He looked… better.

”You’ve made it over the first hurdle, I see,” he said with a smirk. He couldn’t help himself. He was happy. [collor=#BF8000]”You’ll be glad to know that was the worst of it. Everything from here on out should be smooth sailing. How’re you feeling?”[/color] he asked, peering at Balthazar with curiosity and a genuine hint of real concern.