"I’ve always wanted to be the world’s
greatest painter," she whispered, and slipped the brush into the
cleaning jar. She turned from the easel and came toward
me--extended a thin hand and lay it against my chest.
"You’re one of them," she said. "One of
us."
"Yes."
Her eyes widened, spilling more tears.
"I can’t paint." Her voice was cold.
"It’s--gone."
"Humans are of passion," I said. "We
are--the next level. Reason. Power."
"Power." Her gaze wandered over my shoulder,
to the self-portrait I had re-hung. "Right." She looked back.
"What do you live on? Not... blood..."
"A little blood. I live on--human passion.
But I am--old. At first, the blood is--necessary."
"It’s horrible," she whispered. "Like
getting drunk and high at the same time. Jon. Poor Jon--he was gone
so quickly..."
Her eyes were back on my face. "I’m so
stupid, I don’t even know--I guess I’m ...invincible, right? I
mean, nothing kills the undead."
"Some things do," I told her. "The old ways:
a stake through the heart; molten silver poured into the head.
Sunlight."
She blinked. "Sunlight?"
"You must be very wary, especially at first.
Sunlight will annihilate you, young as you are. When you are as old
as I, you may risk a few moments in full sun. We are not of the
light."
"Humans are of the light," Nikita said and
her eyes moved again, seeking the painting beyond my shoulder.
"Painting is of light and shadow... No wonder you never caught on,
as hard as we tried to teach you..."
"Nikita, who made you?"
She frowned. "Made--Oh. A guy I met at one
of the clubs. He said he was eighty years old. He looked
seventeen--like you, no lines in his face. Said he was on a ...
mission ... All I had to do was trust him." She shook her head. "I
don’t remember too much about it--he kissed me, I think. I went
back the next night. And the next. The fourth night he told me he
was going to make me immortal, so I’d always be just like I am
now..." Her voice broke.
"He should have trained you more fully," I
said. "My own maker trained me carefully, so I would not make a
foolish mistake, like going out into the sunlight or attempting to
cross running water..." Nikita wasn’t listening. She was staring at
the makeshift curtain she had drawn across her window.
"I put that up because the sun-- made me
sick..."
She looked back to me.
"You’re old, you said. How old?"
"Two hundred forty-seven years."
"That’s old," she said. "And you still can’t
paint."
"I will never paint," I told her. "Humans
paint. And even among humans a true artist is rare."
She nodded then, very slowly, took my arm
and turned me toward the wall. She pointed at the portrait of the
human girl, poised before her easel.
"That’s yours," she said. "Send the rest of
them to my mother, OK? Her name’s Sandra Elmwick--she’s in my
address book. She always said I’d kill myself."
She dropped my arm and went toward the door,
her stride firm, her thin back straight.
"Nikita..."
She opened the door; looked at me over her
shoulder.
"I’m going for a walk," she said. "It’s
going to be a beautiful morning."
She went, and there was nothing I might do
to stop her, who was impervious now to my Speaking of her name.
From the threshold of her room, I heard the front door open and
close.
Four seconds later, I heard her scream.
First published in Variations Three,
2003
About the Author
Sharon Lee's first fiction sale was to
Amazing Stories in 1980. She has since published 21 novels -- many
of them co-written with Steve Miller and set in the award-winning
Liaden Universe®. Sharon has occasionally been an advertising
copywriter, a reporter, photographer, book reviewer, and secretary.
She was for three years Executive Director of the Science Fiction
and Fantasy Writers of America, Inc., and was subsequently elected
vice president and then president of that organization.
Find Sharon on:
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/rolanni
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/#!/ClanKorval
LiveJournal:
http://rolanni.livejournal.com/
. . .or visit her website at:
http://www.sharonleewriter.com