Blood Ties

Chapter 17

He could see only red as it dragged him under.

His chest was a mass of seething fire, fierce and heavy and irrevocable. A weight, pressing down on him. Far away, he heard the click, click, click, of his throat as he gasped for breath. It was his lungs, he realized. He was drowning.

So, thought Lazaro, as the red slipped into black. This is death, huh.

Then voices. Distant, but familiar. Carlo. Cousin Ettore. A few others; Carlo's younger students.

More power to the tertiary point of the circle. I've nearly got him.

Good! Keep the focus. We'll bind him.

Get me blood.

There!

Pain. That was the first thing Lazaro noticed. For the first moment in weeks. No. Months? Years? For the first time in forever, he was gloriously, blissfully free of pain. No more aches in his bones, no more crushing pressure in his chest.

Come to think of it, his chest was oddly still. Ah, yes. Lazaro blinked stupidly, looking down at his bare chest. Dead.

Lazaro coughed, curling over onto his side.

"Stop that." Carlo's voice, annoyed, echoed from behind him. "It's an affectation."

Lazaro coughed again, more to spite the old man than anything else, bloody phlegm dripping into his hand. "My lungs are still clogged," he said. He glanced down at his hand, the skin withered and tight around the bone. "Christ, I look like a corpse! How long was I out?"

Carlo was silent, only the scratching of his pen giving any indication that he was still there.

"I want coauthor credit," said Lazaro. It had been his death, after all.

That, at least, got Carlo's attention. "Absolutely not."

With a sigh, Lazaro rolled himself from the table. What had Carlo done to him? He was down, as he had expected, in Carlo's lab, specimens in formalin-filled jars staring down at him. His skin was oddly dry, pulled tight around his joints. He coughed again. "Coauthor credit," he said. "And I get to write the foreword."

"What," said Carlo, archly. "Makes you think you're in any position to make these demands?"

Lazaro grinned, his lips stinging as the skin cracked. His upper teeth rested awkwardly against the lower. Were those fangs?  "You brought me back," he said. "It means you couldn't interrogate my ghost."

"Maybe," Carlo allowed. "Maybe I simply felt pity for you, having spent your life in abject misery."

Lazaro barked with laughter, clutching at the edge of the table. "A likely story," he said, and was gratified to see Carlo smile in return. "You still need my experiences to finish your thesis. And-" Lazaro paused, extending his arm out in front of him. It was strange, to be able to stretch like this, without pain. The deformation of skin at the femur showed that his bone lesions were still there, still present, but they didn't hurt like they had. "You're not getting it without giving me credit."

"I could force you," said Carlo.

Lazaro shook his head. "No," he said. "There's nothing you could do to me. Not to this body."

Carlo looked at him, his thin lips curled downwards, and Lazaro met his eyes, defiant. A moment passed, and Carlo looked away, his shoulders giving the miniscule slump indicative of defeat. "I knew I should've sewn your mouth shut. You can produce work of sufficient quality?"

"I can," said Lazaro. "Master?" He paused, unsure how to address his great uncle in this new form.

"Sire," said Carlo. "Will suffice." He got to his feet, his grey robes gathering about his slender body. "The conference is in one week."

"And my body?" Lazaro asked, painfully aware of the plaintiveness in his voice.

Carlo shrugged. "There was some administrative delay. Be thankful that I was able to retrieve you from the other side at all."

"It won't heal?"

Carlo laughed, his fangs bared. "That's your body, child. Your eternity. Better get used to it."