The Art of Dying

The Art of Dying
by Lawrence Watt-Evans

The lights came up in a sudden blaze, driving the darkness away from the easel, back to the studio lofts furthest corners, confining the night's gloom to the shadowy spaces behind the sparse furnishings—and of course, to the world outside.

Bethany suppressed her displeasure and discomfort at this abrupt, unexpected brightness; she would have thought that Anton would have chosen softer. more romantic light, but apparently he was sincere in wanting her to see his work.

She glanced at the canvas, not expecting much— not expecting anything, in truth, but to not even look would have been rude, and she liked to think that she was never unintentionally rude. Anton seemed so very intense about his artistic efforts; she really had to at least pretend to take them seriously.

The casual glance lengthened, and turned into a stare. She took a step toward the painting, her gaze fixed on the bright image.

A moment ago Bethany had been concerned only with the dark burning of the Hunger and the delicious anticipation of feeding, with the almost painful teasing she had been subjecting herself to as she let Anton babble. She had been caught up in the perverse enjoyment of delaying the moment when she would taste Anton's blood, in increasing the tension between need and satisfaction so as to heighten the eventual pleasure.

Now, though, that tension had vanished; the Hunger itself was nothing but a minor distraction as she studied the intense colors, the textured surfaces of the painting.

It was a cityscape, San Francisco at dawn, knives of sunlight cutting between the gleaming towers and shattering to jeweled shards on the waters of the Pacific

It was utterly beautiful

She stared at it, drinking it in with her eyes, wanting to absorb every detail.

"Glare," she said, her eyes still fixed on the painting. "Too bright."

Instantly, Anton twisted a knob and the light dimmed. "I had the lights way up so I could work on it," he said "It was bright, but I didn't see any glare. I guess your eyes are more sensitive than mine."

Bethany smiled to herself "Yes," she said.

"You like it?" Anton asked.

Bethany struggled for a long moment, and at last managed to tear her gaze from the picture and look at the artist's intense bearded face, at his black hair and guileless eyes.

That man had created this beauty

She shouldn't have been so surprised, she told herself. After all, she had met Anton when that earthquake, earlier this evening, had startled them into bumping against one another at an artists' reception at the Palace of the Legion of Honors. Why should it come as a shock to learn that he, too, was an artist? Who else would she expect to meet at an artists' reception? She had gone mostly because it was a pleasant diversion on a quiet Friday evening, and what made it pleasant was the art, and the artists.

Of course, the surprise wasn't that he was one of the hundreds of kine in the Bay Area who put brush to canvas; the surprise was that he was a true artist—in Bethany's opinion, an artist of real genius

That opinion might not carry the weight of some, after a mere forty years of undeath, but Bethany was confident of her conclusion, If this painting was not a work of genius, Bethany told herself, then she was no true Toreador, she was as bad as those poseurs of Serata's.

No, even those fools with their fads and flash, even the youngest Childe in the Clan, would see Anton's brilliance in an instant.

"It's wonderful," she said, smiling at Anton.

He smiled back, a smile of pleased relief. "Would you like to see some others?" He gestured at a dozen other canvases, leaning face-in against the east wait of the studio.

"Very much,' she replied, thrusting away, for a moment more, the pulsing Hunger that drove her

One by one, he lifted the canvases and displayed them, while Bethany stared in wonder at street scenes, sunsets, still life, each with that distinctive hard-edged, brittle light, like nothing she had seen before. While none of the other paintings were quite as magnificent as his most recent work, it was clear that that new creation was merely a continuation of ongoing artistic development, not a wild, one-time fluke.

Anton was a genius, the most brilliant painter Bethany had ever met in the flesh.

"Why haven't I heard of you?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I haven't exhibited anywhere yet. Haven't tried. I have an inheritance to live on, and I wanted to build up a body of work, my family always said my work wasn't good enough ... do you really like them?"

"I love them—and I love you! Come here!" She meant it—she loved him, as he would love a fine wine. She threw out her arms to him.

She would have to be careful. She was very hungry, but she must not drink too deeply

Not yet.

This one must be saved, must be made one of the

Kindred, not given to useless, ungrateful death—but she could not do that without permission of the Prince. She was no anarch.

She would have to speak to Vannevar Thomas as soon as she could; she could not allow Anton to face the everyday risks of mortal existence a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Such talent must be saved for the ages.

As his arms went around her, as her lips neared his throat, she took one more glance at the painting.

Very careful.

"Bethany!" The voice was deep and penetrating.

Bethany paused, startled; she lowered her bulky parcel, then turned and peered through the dimness and smoke of the Alexandrian Club's main lounge

She saw a figure approaching, and recognized it. Stefan," she said in flat acknowledgment.

"I almost didn't see you," Stefan said as he squeezed his way through the crowd; the black leather of his tight pants brushed audibly against someone's clothing, and the silver pendants on his chest jingled.

Bethany had not particularly wanted to be seen, but she saw no reason to state the obvious; she simply waited.

"I didn't expect to see you tonight," Stefan said. "Weren't you going to some sort of event? Our host said you were.'

"Over hours ago," Bethany replied.

"Oh, but.   . surely you didn't leave alone!"

"Is there something you want, Stefan?" she asked, already tired of the pretense of friendship. Stefan was one of the trend-following foots in Serata's circle, and there was no love lost between that group and Bethany's own, more traditional faction of the vampiric Clan.

"No, no—not at all! ] was just surprised to see you." He smiled. "Pleasantly surprised," he hastened to add.

"I don't know why," Bethany said, I come here often, [f either of us should be surprised, Stefan, I would think it would be i. You are scarcely a regular here.'

"Ah, Bethany, you misjudge me. While I can scarcely tolerate the self-proclaimed artistes who run the place, [ must admit that this is a fine place to meet with others of our kind, and when I return to the City to pay my respects to my Sire I often stop in here afterward.'

Bethany bristled at the slighting description of the club's management—both Cainen, who ran the Alexandrian Club upstairs, and Melmoth, who ran the secret club beneath, were her own kind, and kindred spirits, as it were.

"You come here, even though you don't like the management, and yet you ask what I'm doing here?"

"No, no, sweet Bethany," Stefan protested. "I merely express my pleased surprise at my good fortune, that our visits should thus coincide! I had resigned myself to missing the pleasure of your countenance."

She turned away from this flattery, picked up her parcel, and took another step toward the alcove beneath the stairs.

"Oh, don't hurry off!" Stefan protested, stepping quickly beside her.

"Stefan, I have business elsewhere." She pushed past him and ducked into the alcove.

He followed her as she opened the heavy oaken door and hurried down the thirteen steps into the stagnant gloom of the Vampire Club.

At the bottom she paused in the tiny foyer, and Stefan joined her. The foyer was small enough that the two of them, and Bethany's package, made an uncomfortable crowd.

"Aren't you going to knock?" Stefan asked, reaching for the massive brass ring

Bethany brushed his hand aside

"Stefan," she said, "I am here on business, to see the Prince, who I'm told is visiting my Grandsire. You have no business here!"

Stefan smiled, his long, white teeth a flicker of light in the darkness. "All the Kindred are welcome here, Bethany, i would not dream of interfering with your business, whatever it is—but I'm as welcome here as you are."

She glared at him; untroubled, he reached past and lifted the heavy knocker, Three times he let it fall against the carved oak while Bethany simply stood, her gaze hostile.

As the door swung open, Stefan remarked, "Besides, I hardly see what the great secret is—it's obvious that that thing you're carrying is a painting, and I presume it's a gift for the Prince. Why should the presentation be private? Afraid he'll see just how poor your work is?"

Its not my work!"

"Ah. then your artistic judgment."

"At least I have some artistic judgment, you bloody poseur!' Bethany snapped, pushing past Stefan into the main lounge of the Vampire Club.

His laughter trailed after her as she descended through gloom and stale air to the lower deck,

In this place nothing lived, nothing breathed—bat the undead moved in their semblance of life, past paintings that mocked the living, glorying in their own darkness. Here, Bethany met with her Prince.

Twenty minutes later, the preliminary formalities out of the way and the situation explained, Bethany carried the painting into the library, where the light was best, and carefully unwrapped it A nude's oil-paint eyes looked on from one wall, while Vannevar Thomas, vampire prince of San Francisco, and Sebastian Melmoth, master of the Vampire Club, watched with interest.

The mission of the Toreador Clan is to preserve great art," Bethany said, talking to cover her nervousness, "and great artists, through the Embrace." She saw Melmoth's lips quirk with amusement at her presumption, and realized that she was telling her elders things they had known for longer than she had existed. "While of course I am still young by the standards of our kind, I have faith in my own opinions—I would never have been taken into the Clan myself, were I no judge of art. And in my opinion, Anton Prihar is truly a great artist." She pulled the last of the wrappings away, and held up the painting she had borrowed.

For a moment there was utter silence as Bethany's audience took in the painting—the towers cut by golden glory, the water spattered with diamonds of light. Then Stefan, standing in the doorway, began applauding. Bethany almost dropped the painting; she had been so intent on the two elders that she had not seen Stefan's arrival, "Superb!" Stefan called.

Thomas turned "And by what right, whelp, do you dare intrude on this discussion?' the Prince snapped.

Stefan's hands dropped, and he bowed respectfully. "Your pardon, sir; [ am here as the representative of Allanyan Serata, Primogen of the Toreador Clan in your city. It seems plain to me that this matter concerns her,"

"Ah," Thomas said. "And how is it that Mistress Serata was aware of this meeting?"

Stefan looked suddenly uncomfortable.

"She isn't!" Bethany shouted. 'Stefan just followed me! He's just trying to make trouble; he's hated me for decades!"

"Oh. Bethany, I don't hate you," Stefan protested. "I am simply drawn irresistibly to save you from your own fo—"

"Silence!" Thomas said

Stefan stopped in mid word,

"I asked you a question, Stefan," Thomas said quietly. "And I did not ask you, Bethany."

Bethany cast her eyes downward as Stefan admitted. "Bethany spoke the truth, O Prince: I met her upstairs by chance, and followed her here, t did so, however, because my Sire has charged atl of us who curry her favor to keep an eye on the actions of those who would deny her authority as the eldest Toreador in the city—this Melmoth, the one who calls himself Tex R. Cainen, and all their descendants, ail their followers in the , . . shall we say, the aesthetic disagreement that divides our Clan? You know they call us mere poseurs, that they're so caught up in past glories that they can't see.,."

"We can't see! You're so dazzled by flash and glitter that you throw away all aesthetic judgment . , ." Bethany began.

"I need no speeches," Thomas interrupted. "You may dispute art theory elsewhere, not in my presence."

"My apologies," Stefan said, smiling ingratiatingly. "But I truly am here as Seratas representative'

Thomas smiled back. "I see," he said. "And as Seratas representative, would you agree that this Anton Prihar should become one of the Kindred, that his skill might be preserved?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Stefan said. "Bethany's stumbled on a real gem this time, no question about it!"

"You are, of course, an irrefutable authority," Melmoth murmured quietly, Stefan ignored the sarcasm.

"And if I say that San Francisco is overpopulated, that there are to be no more Kindred created at this time?" Thomas asked.

"Then we would have no choice but to obey." Stefan said with a cruel smile.

"Yes, sir," Bethany said, ignoring Stefan's obvious pleasure in her discomfiture. "But please, don't say that."

"The work is quite remarkable,' Melmoth said, to no one in particular,

Thomas threw a quick glance at Melmoth, then at Bethany. "You all agree, then, that this painter should be Embraced?" The three Toreadors all indicated silent assent

"Very well," Thomas said. "I will permit it,"

"Oh, thank you!" Bethany said.

Stefan bowed. "I will inform Serata at once," he said, "I have no doubt that she will wish to Embrace this artist herself."

Bethany turned, shocked.

"But I found him!" she said. "His blood is mine!"

"And if Serata says he is hers?" Stefan asked, smiling Bethany, wordless with fury, turned to the Prince.

Stefan quickly said, "Surely, the Prince will not deny the rights and privileges of the Primogen, to favor this foolish young creature? Allanyan Serata is an elder of the Fifth Generation; Bethany is what, Ninth?"

"Eighth," she said coldly."I found him!"

"And would you refuse him a chance at greater power than your own?" Stefan asked her. "Is it, perhaps, your own power, your own ambition, that interests you, rather than this human's art?"

Bethany's hands came up, curved into claws.

"And pray, sir," Melmoth interjected, "What is your interest in denying this young lady her treasure?"

"Spite," Bethany snarled. "It's just spite"

Melmoth cast an expressive glance at the ceiling, then at the Prince.

Thomas gazed contemplatively back.

"Sebastian," he said, "you see my predicament. These two have pitted the authority of the Primogen and the natural respect for one's elders against proprietary rights. I feet like Solomon confronted by the two mothers disputing over a child; how to resolve this, save by refusing this man the Embrace, and thereby letting his talent die in a few short years?" He started to turn back to the others, not expecting a reply.

Melmoth surprised him by murmuring, "I always wondered why Solomon didn't ask the child which was its true mother. Surely even an infant knows that much—and this Anton Prihar is no infant, as his painting makes plain."

Startled, Thomas paused. A slow, thoughtful smile spread across his face.

"Indeed," he said. "Indeed!"

The two vampires stood side by side before Anton Prihar, their dark clothing and black hair islands of night's darkness in the brightly lie studio, their pale faces colorless blanks against the vivid hues Anton had chosen for the walls To the artist they appeared an intrusion from some hostile, washed-out other world.

As, of course, they were—they belonged to the world of eternal night, the world of the Kindred, a world he had never known existed until meeting Bethany the night before, a world whose intrusion he had tried to stave off.

"Choose!" Stefan demanded. "We bring you eternal life, centuries in which to create beauty; you need merely tell us which you would prefer to escort you into immortality, little Bethany, or the great Serata."

"What does it matter?" Anton asked despairingly, the useless silver cross dangling from his hand. "Why should I care?"

"Your power would be greater as Serata's Childe," Bethany explained. I can't deny that; it's a fact of our existence. But she and her followers have no true understanding of art, Anton; they're mere poseurs, dabblers, prone to trends and fashions, with no appreciation of lasting greatness."

Ha!" Stefan said. "We aren't afraid of change, if that's what you mean—we appreciate innovation and originality, we aren't caught in the outmoded patterns of the past."

Anton paid no attention to Stefan; he looked at Bethany, then down at the cross, then back at the vampire.

"When we met at the museum,' he said, "I thought it was fate- J thought the earthquake was destiny at work, throwing us together that way. But I thought you were a woman, not a bloodsucking monster."

"I am a woman," Bethany protested. "But I'm mare than that, And you can be, too."

"You drank my blood last night," he accused her.

"Yes," Bethany said

"You're a vampire."

"Yes."

"But the cross doesn't affect you " He jingled the silver chain.

When Bethany and Stefan had arrived at the studio door, returning the borrowed painting. Anton had confronted them with the talisman, thrusting it in their faces; they had ignored it as Bethany asked. "May we come in?"

Anton had admitted them, and listened as they explained the choice the Prince had set before him. Now the artist was asking questions, and Bethany did her best to answer—she did not want to deceive him. She wanted him to know what Say before him, to understand that he need never die.

"No," she said, "crosses and silver don't affect us. Nor garlic, nor the rest of it. All myths."

"And you don't sleep in coffins all day, and come out at night?"

Stefan smiled sardonically as Bethany admitted, "We don't necessarily use coffins, but that part is basically true. Sunlight burns us, can destroy us."

Anton glanced at the painting, at the knives of sunlight cutting through the city streets.

"You give up something, yes," Bethany said, "but you'll be free of age and death forever."

"And you drink blood. You prey on other people," Anton put a hand to the bandage on his throat.

"But you don't need to hurt them" Bethany insisted. "It can be pleasurable. You saw that."

Anton nodded. "In the stories, vampires can hypnotize their victims," he said.

"Yes," Bethany said.

"So I couldn't resist if you just came in here and attacked me again."

"No, you couldn't, not for long," Bethany agreed. But the Prince has ordered us to offer you a choice between Serata and myself"

Stefan, bored by this, growled, "Choose, mortal. Bethany or Serata?"

"I need time," Anton said. "I need time to think about it."

"What is there to think about?" Stefan demanded. "We offer you eternity, and you have a choice between more power or less—choose now!"

"I need time," Anton said, "to put my affairs in order.'

"No one needs to know you've crossed over," Bethany pointed out.

"Still, I need time" Anton insisted. "You're asking me to choose between a total stranger and a woman who is nearly so, between power and something that might be love—or might not. You two claim to be eternal—what does one day matter?"

Bethany smiled wryly. "It doesn't," she agreed "Tomorrow night, then?"

"Serata will not be pleased," Stefan warned "Come on," Bethany told him. She took Stefan arm and pulled him toward the door; he shook her off and marched out, Bethany close on his heels.

The fog was thick the following night, spilling through the streets in opaque billows, cutting off all vision and blurring all light; perhaps, Bethany thought, that was why Stefan was late, why she had arrived alone and found the door of the studio standing open.

When she saw the door open, for a moment she feared that someone had broken in, that Anton had fallen prey to human avarice—or Serata's.

There had been no robbery, and Serata had not disobeyed the Prince; a dozen paintings were set out on display, untouched. The one that Bethany had borrowed had a place of honor in the center. The note was pinned to that last finished canvas, and addressed to her—not to Stefan, only to her.

"Dear Bethany," she read, "I have made my choice."

She looked up for a moment, then continued reading.

"I had thought that you understood and appreciated my work," the note said. You certainly praised it highly, and in your own way, I suppose you did appreciate it—but it's plain that you didn't understand it, nor did that other person, Stefan, who you brought here."

Bethany glanced at the painting, momentarily puzzled, "Perhaps I could have explained it to you," Anton's words continued, "but I don't think that Stefan or the creature he serves could ever have accepted it. All my life, other people have made my decisions for me—sent me to the best schools, found me the right jobs, always acting for my own good— until I inherited my grandmother's money and could finally do what I pleased.

"And now, I've succeeded too well, and Stefan's mistress would act for my own good, and destroy what she seeks to control I can never be what you are. what you want me to be, any more than I could be what my parents wanted me to be.

"Goodbye, Bethany I know you meant well."

Bethany dropped the note and looked up again, at Anton's body dangling from the noose, turning slowly, limbs stiff—he had obviously died hours before, perhaps just minutes after she had last seen him alive, and there was no hope of revival to either life or a vampiric approximation of life.

Even had revival been possible, Bethany thought, she would have respected this final artistic decision— or at least, she hoped she would have. Her gaze fell back from Anton's remains to his works.

His body hung below the broad studio window, below the row of too-bright Eights, and the corpse's black shadow twisted across a dozen paintings, paintings that, one and all, showed bright sunlight slanting across the sky, illuminating fields, forests, streets, and spires, sunlight gleaming from whitewashed walls, sunlight scattered by dancing water, sunrises, sunsets—everywhere, on all sides, in every painting, the sun that Bethany had not seen with her own eyes for more than forty years, the sun she had asked Anton to give up forever, the sun he could not live without.