Bram Stoker's HANNIBAL

Chapter 27: In His Perjured Heart Shall Be Stormy Weather

Will Graham lives.

He lives and he is still a mortal man. This was my dearest hope in the sorrowed-hollow days following Antony's death and Will's brain catching fire.

Will asked me, in one of his lucid moments during the ordeal, if I would fight the Grim Reaper for him. I told him that Death and I were old friends, and we are. For all the souls I've sent plunging into darkness, Death has paid back the favor. He drew his skeletal hand away from Will's neck. Knowing, perhaps, that I would never let him have my beloved.

I had not considered exactly when I would make Will a vampire. I know that moment has to come within the next decade or two at the most. I suppose I thought that slowly, over time, after he'd fallen in love with me, I would reveal my nature. Then, when he was ready, I would transform him and we would be together forever. I didn't want his changing to be painful or traumatic, born of desperate need. I wanted him to choose me, and by extension, monstrousness; I still do.

That moment was nearly lost. If Will's heart or breathing had stopped, I would have had to change him right then, lest he die. Waiting another 400 years for Iliya to be reborn again is not an option. The year 2293? I shudder to think what the world will be like and how another stretch of cursed, lonely years would affect me. For the sake of morale, Will's death had to be avoided at all costs.

But if he rose as a vampire, what would he think of me? Would he hate what he'd become, hate me for saving him from death's grasp in this way? Would I be doomed to spend the rest of eternity chasing him around the world, trying to make him love me once more?

And at the core of all of these veins of thought; I saw Iliya's body, I held it in my arms. But I could not watch it burn. And I did not see him die. If I watched Will expire, even to rise again, I would break open.

No, the best possible events have come to pass. Will lives.

Well, nearly the best. The force of mesmerism I had to use to erase his memory of what happened in our old apartments not only nearly killed him, but was also faulty. He has pieces of memory, mixed with hallucinations and dreams and memories and knowledge that I suspect have somehow come through time directly from Iliya's consciousness. I don't know what he will remember or when, or what kind of credence he will give those memories. I am sure to remind him as often as I can that this has happened, to some extent, before — in the wake of solving the Ripper murder. If I want my secrets kept, it is vital that he doesn't trust his mind again for some time.

It's unreasonable, but what I dread him remembering the most is compelling him to tell me he loves me. A desperate act. Ill advised, the whole encounter, but that moment specifically makes me want to snarl. Such weakness. Pathetic. Of course he's going to love me — he is Iliya, and we're meant to be together. Fate and circumstance demand it. The teacup is coming back together.

But I wanted to hear him say it, even if he wasn't ready. Even if he doesn't love me yet. The power he has over me is frightening — he is fragile and mortal, and the keeper of all meaning in the world. I must take care.

I must have him say it again, of his own volition.

A few days have passed since I pleasured him in the bathtub and again in his chamber after he let me use him. I've done my best to keep our interactions chaste since then — as much as I want him, think about it nearly every moment we're together, he needs to recover his health. Despite these wise and prudent thoughts my first instinct upon waking in my crypt is to imagine him riding my cock. Here, just like this, enclosed in my tomb, surrounded by the earth of my homeland from whence I draw my power, the two of us fucking in the dirt amongst the grubs and worms and bone fragments of dead Lecters.