Chapter 10: Butterflies Complicate Things

Grey felt he perhaps should have given Dave some warning before throwing the hooded sweatshirt over him, but he couldn't resist. He did not know what paths his old friend's mind had taken, but he suspected it had something to do with his unfortunate situation. He also couldn't blame him for failing to keep watch as he had asked, because he'd been certain from the moment he'd asked that no one would come. Fate was cruel, but not so cruel that it would draw others into the den before he could finish with its latest victims. His victims, Grey corrected himself. Fate only tangled their paths together, the loss of control was all his fault. He still thought he should feel at least a little bad about that, though as he much as he waited nothing rose to trounce his conscience. He waited to feel the prick of thorns from it, but all he felt was the grim satisfaction that everything was well taken care of.

Dave pulled the sweatshirt off as though it were on fire, and Grey could not help but grin. It was just like old times, though he had long ago locked all of those memories deep within his mind. Those locks, even in the presence of Dave, still appeared to be holding, and Grey was glad. His other concerns slid away, leaving only the grim reminder, echoed over and over by the voices, that they should hurry.

Dave looked up at him, his sickly yellow eyes blinking in the light. "What'd you do that for?"

Grey gestured at the shirt. "The weather demands it, fickle tyrant that it is." Dave's appearance demanded it more than the weather, but it would be cruel of him to mention that.

"Oh," Dave said, and Grey knew he understood the full meaning by the way he frown. He tried to hide it, chasing it away with a smile that was horrid to look upon. "Thanks."

Grey stepped out onto the porch and pulled the door closed behind him, shutting away the scene he had carefully arranged in the living room. It was fortunate that Dave chose that same moment to pull the shirt on, otherwise he might have caught a glimpse of the bodies positioned on the couch, lifeless dolls arranged in a parody of normal activity. Fire already danced through Grey's mind, the images alone enough to make him tense. If they were going to catch up, it would have to be well away from here. Grey was not much for confessionals by firelight, especially after what he'd discovered in the back room. Dave looked back up to him, then past him to the closed door. Before he could open his mouth Grey slid the duffle bag from his shoulder and presented it to him.

"Your grail," he said simply. "Along with Mercury's silver."

Dave looked at him skeptically. Grey waited patiently as he opened the bag, watched as his were melted by the sight of the explosives and the envelope of money. "How did you know?"

"My mind drags me to very strange places," Grey said. "Like, for instance, the crawlspace behind the dryer."

"O-kay… Well, thanks."

Grey shook his head. It was futile, even when he laid things out as plainly as he could safely manage no one understood, not even Dave. The buzzing in his head was getting louder, more insistent, and so the time for conversation quickly dying. Grey walked down the stairs, assuming correctly that Dave would hurry to catch up.

"Hey, what about, uh, inside?"

"I have done my part, the rest is all science and chemistry. Not my best subjects, but we can hope."

It was true, all he'd done was rearrange the bodies and rejoice over the gas stove in the kitchen. He had washed all the blood from himself, searched in vain for his sunglasses in the wreckage, and helped himself to clothes the previous wearers had no more use of. He was not a fan of Hawaiian shirts, but he couldn't hope for much from the domain of those addicted to surf and chemicals. Just as he did not feel sorry for what he'd done, he could not feel completely clean. That might change once the gas was set off. Fire would, he hoped, burn away the lingering ties to his hand, absolving him of that delusion if nothing else. He walked quickly, not wishing to have that and everything else burned away with their lingering. Dave stopped when they reached the top of the stairs hugging the cliff, his fear rooting him in place just beyond the first rusting metal step. Grey looked back to the house as the knowledge there were just as many explosives in the house as drugs clawed insistently at his mind. He reached over and roughly pulled the hood over Dave's head before he could offer any feeble apology for his reluctance to descend.

"Take my hand," Grey said, his voice betraying his agitation. "I will need it back at the bottom."

"But there's people down there!"

Grey grabbed Dave's hand with his good one and began to pull him down the stairs. "People who are just like us, if somewhat watered down."

"What?"

Grey grimaced, glanced away, then looked back and he decided he would have to try and explain. He fully intended to make it simple despite himself, but the moment he opened his mouth the words were twisted. When he spoke, they were no longer his own. "A great wave rises. We are in its shadow now, though few realize it. When it breaks, and we are all swept beneath it, they will be the ones who stay afloat, who rise above. The rest of us will be dragged into the Abyss, weighted by our own blood. So it must be."

Dave looked at him blankly. Grey pulled a little harder on his arm, hard enough that it would likely be pulled out of its socket if he didn't come along. "Just move!"

The force of his words spurred Dave into action. Bit by bit, his trepidation subsided with each flight of stairs they rounded. His grip, however, remained tight enough that Grey began to fear he would be left with two useless hands by the time they reached the bottom. He said nothing of it, mainly because he did not want to risk going through the explanation of why his other had been reduced to its present useless state. A few more nights, a bit more blood, and that would be a memory, another bauble on the chain of unpleasant experiences Grey had collected over the years. At long last they touched earth again, and when Dave released his hand Grey surreptitiously tested it to confirm that it was still of use. He felt the eyes of the thin bloods fall upon them as they began to make their way through the sand, each of them wary. Only one was knowing, he'd have to be careful of that one.

Dave began to fall behind as he returned their stares, forcing Grey to fall back and push him ahead.

"What's the rush?" Dave asked.

"My show's almost on."

"How can you think about TV at a time like this?"

Grey thought of the TV in the beach house, its screen shattered and sparking. How much longer could they have? "It's hard not to."

They had almost reached the tunnel that would take them away from the beach when a flicker of movement drew Grey's eye to the pier. Something was standing at the top of the stairs leading up, watching them both. Grey grabbed Dave by the shoulder to make him stop.

Dave looked back. "What now?"

Grey, already feeling foolish, was forced to point towards the stairs with his mangled hand. "Tell me what you see. Please."

He could see little of Dave's expression from the shadows that gathered under his hood, but then that was why Grey had selected it for him. With a click of his tongue, Dave turned back to look at the stairs. "Huh," he said. "Looks like some kind of big dog."

"A big dog," Grey echoed, a manic giggle escaping with the words. "Yes, that's likely all it is. Forget I asked."

They both watched as the 'dog' turned away. Grey was quite certain it was a wolf, not a dog, but he said nothing of it. When it was gone, Grey continued on into the tunnel. Dave followed him like an ugly puppy. When they reached the stairs Grey thought he heard the distant sound of an explosion, but it could have been his own anticipation fooling him, providing it too soon. Or maybe not.

"What was that?" Dave said.

"There's no telling," Grey replied. "Keep moving."

He'd said far too much of things that should not be discussed already, and he was afraid that Dave would ask what he had meant about the deluge if it wasn't given sufficient time to dwindle from memory. Grey glanced back, but as Dave was walking with his head bowed the gesture was lost. Grey looked ahead as they climbed the stairs. He could not stand the thought of laying it all out for him, if it was even possible, so why had it slipped?

"Because you're slipping, idiot," Paul's voice whispered. Grey grit his teeth to keep from responding.

Dave stopped at the stop of the stairs. "Hey, Grey?"

He turned back to face him. Dave had lifted his head just enough to allow the sallow light of the parking garage to illuminate his face. It was not flattering. Grey tried not to wince as he said, "Yes?"

Dave looked down at his feet. "Look, I know we only just met back up- and it's been weird already- but can I ask you a favor?"

He wanted to tell him what a foolish thing that was to ask a Kindred, even him, but instead he said, "Always." His tongue was proving very treacherous that evening.

"The guy I- uh, I mean you- got this stuff for? He's hurt pretty bad. I mean really bad. Do you think…"

"I could get something to make him float above the pain on a merry cloud of numbness?"

"Uh… If by that you mean morphine or something, sure."

Grey nodded. "I will do this thing."

"Great, thanks." Dave smiled, showing far too many teeth. Grey could not keep himself from glancing away. The hurt radiated of Dave in a wave that stung Grey even from the polite distance between them. "His place is down the street, number 24," Dave continued, trying too obviously to hide what he felt. "Meet me there when you're done?"

Grey nodded without another word.

"Cool. See ya then."

When Grey looked back, Dave was gone. He blinked, impressed by how quickly he had learned such a trick. He had been dead some five years now, and he'd never been able to get the shadows to listen to him. Remembering the vision from the theatre, he doubted he would ever want that now. No, he had too much to hide as it was, he couldn't very well hide his entire being from sight, much as he might wish it at times. As Grey turned to set forth on his quest, he thought he caught a flicker of movement. If it was Dave, he did not feel so bold to peer through his illusion. If it wasn't… He decided to keep his eyes ahead and his mind on the task. His eyes cooperated.

Once one escaped the traps placed for tourists, Santa Monica proved to be a fairly small town, or at least that was how Grey perceived the place. He didn't particularly like Santa Monica, there were too many painful memories there, and as much as he tried to keep them down the echoes were always there to haunt him. On top of that, there were things that always dragged him back. First it was Cheryl, now Dave was one too, more evidence that Fate was a cruel bitch that had it out for him. It was not a long walk to the 24-hour clinic, but with every step Grey grew more acutely aware that the night was quickly dying. He did not know how he would find the drugs Dave needed, much less how he would obtain them. As he stepped through the front door he regretted thinking of Fate as a cruel bitch, that would only encourage more malice.

There were not many chairs in the waiting room, but each of them contained a body. Grey looked at each of them in turn and despaired to think the same illness that was seeping through downtown LA had spread. The only remotely fit amongst the lot was an old woman standing in the corner. Her illness, Grey recognized immediately, was all in her head. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her too-thin chest, her fingers dug into the fabric of the ghastly, faded print of flowers and butterflies on her shapeless dress. She looked at everything as though it were unclean, but her ire was mainly focused on the nurse behind the counter. Grey followed her gaze, watching as the nurse sorted through papers, and then slowly he turned back to the old woman. He wanted very badly to touch her, to see if some spark passed between them in response to a like affliction. He had just begun to reach out when something wondrous happened.

The butterflies on the women's dress broke free of their faded prison, their colors becoming vibrant as they took flight. Grey pulled his hand back. If he touched them, he was certain, they would crumble beneath his fingers. So he stood back, and he watched, as the butterflies swarmed together, tumbling in a drunken arc towards the hallway that lead to the many rooms of pain and sorrow that filled the place. He had to follow.

He made it as far as the desk before the nurse stopped him. "Please, sir," she said. "You'll have to wait your turn."

Grey looked back to the hall, the butterflies were leaving him behind. He glanced back to the woman and forced a smile. "I'm bringing a friend a few things." He surprised himself by how earnest he sounded, how normal.

"I told you before," Paul's voice said. "You don't have to talk like a fucking lunatic. It's all in your head."

Grey's smile became more strained. To retort would be to ruin everything. The woman eyed him skeptically, then at last she sighed and said, "Okay, just be quick about it."

Grey murmured something that he hoped sounded like an affirmative and hurried down the hall, making it just time to see the butterflies turn and disappear through a closed door. He stopped before it as saw bright swirls of color on the wood where they had passed through. A quick glance back down the hall confirmed that no one, not even the lovely woman who had inspired this vision, was watching him. He opened the door and slipped inside. The first thing he saw was a red-haired girl lying on the gurney. She was young- college aged- and bleeding from a stab wound in her abdomen. Her eyes were closed as she quietly sobbed to herself. Tears were collecting in the lenses of her glasses.

"Oh, that's nice." Paul's voice ripped Grey's attention from the girl. His other half was leaning against a counter across the room. He held his hand out in front of him, allowing one of the butterflies to rest and fan its wings on him. Both of his hands were whole, just as his skin was as tan as the night he died. The others were in a swarm in the middle of the room, directly above the room. "So as an encore you're going to stand there and watch this chick die, am I right?"

"No," Grey said.

"Okay, then what are you going to do, killer?"

Grey glared at him as he took a step forward, then another, so that he was standing directly over the dying girl.

"Oh please," Paul sneered. "You don't have that much compassion left in you."

Grey raised his right hand to his face, putting his lips to his wrist. Never taking his eyes off Paul, he bit down. He looked away from him only as blood began to well in the self-inflicted wound. His ruined fingers flopped uselessly over the back of his hand, but he wouldn't need them for what he meant to do. He used his left arm to prop the girl up. Her eyes opened, but they were unable to focus on anything, much less the bloodied wrist Grey pressed to her lips. After the first swallow she became more lively. She grabbed on to his arm, pressed it closer, and Grey was forced to pull away. She fell back against the gurney with a sigh. Grey began to slip backwards toward the door, but the girl looked over to him before he could make it. The light was back in her eyes, and Grey knew- though he had never had the inclination to make a ghoul before- that she would survive from what little vitae he had given her

"Who…?" the girl whispered, not so recovered that she could form full sentences yet.

Grey shook his head and put his fingers to his lips. "I'm am merely your angel of mercy. My work here is done."

Paul's laughter filled the room. When Grey looked up he had already vanished again. His voice lingered long enough to say, "One good deed's not gonna save you."

The butterflies swarmed towards the door, and once again Grey was robbed of the chance to say something in his defense. They swirled around him, through him, and back into the hallway. With one parting glance to the girl, who appeared to be resting peacefully, he stepped out to follow them. He did not have far to go. The butterflies led him around the corner, past a pair of glass double doors, to the very end of the hall. The all alighted on the plaque bearing the names of the clinic's many illustrious supporters. Grey moved close to try and see what they were covering, but there were so many that he could make out none of the names. He was about to demand to know what they were getting at when a door to his left open.

The sound caused all but one of the butterflies to evaporate. The last survivor, its colors quickly dulling back to that of the faded fabric it had been culled from, weakly drifted towards the door as a large black man in surgical scrubs stepped out. His name was Malcolm, as the plaque beside the door said. Grey turned back to the other plaque, the ones with many other names, before the doctor could see him. Malcolm was, fortunately enough, in too much of a hurry to take notice of him, but Grey pretended to be deeply interested with the list of names anyway. When Malcolm had passed, Grey slipped to the side and caught the door before it could close. The butterfly resting on the door knob evaporated in that same instant. A bottle of morphine were lying on the doctor's desk. Fate was, perhaps, not as cruel as Grey thought. She had her moments, if nothing else. Though the computer humming on the desk was a great temptation to sift though, he grabbed the bottle and hurried out. He rounded the corner and passed the room of the girl he'd saved without slowing. She would be better off never knowing who had saved her, and so would he. Grey paused at the lobby only long enough to offer his thanks in the general direction of the woman. She cursed at him, but his thanks had not been for her. Feeling much better about himself, Grey stepped back out into the night.

He found no sign of Dave at the building he was told to meet at, just a bloodstain in front of the door that was dry and brown. He stepped around it and was surprised that the door, likewise caked with blood, opened when he tried the handle. Luxury apparently did not afford all that much security. Dave appeared the moment he stepped inside the hallway, startling a shocked cry out of him.

"Sorry," Dave said, taking a step back. "I forgot."

He was still wearing the hoodie Grey had given him, but even with the hood pulled up there was no helping the surprise of someone appearing out of nowhere. Things appeared before Grey's eyes all the time, just like butterflies, and he never ceased to be amazed or disturbed by them. He held the bottle of morphine out and Dave took it, the sensation of his fingers brushing of Grey's hand was almost enough to make him shudder. He was going to have to get used to such if he was going to stay with him. He never actually made the decision to help him, he realized, he had just done it as readily as though there hadn't been a gaping five year hole between their last interactions. He remembered, out of nowhere, that Dave's last words to him, all those years ago, had been 'bring me back a taco'. Grey shook his head. He did not want to think about that night. The voices teased him about that, promising him that one night he would have to. Grey was thankful Paul's was not amongst them. He had reached the point he could almost endure being taunted by anything but himself, though the incident at the beach house had been a bad mark against him.

"Are you okay?" Dave asked.

"I was adrift in time for a moment… You should make your delivery. I will wait here."

"Alright…" Dave took a step back, watching him uncertainly. "I'll be right back."

Grey nodded and leaned against the wall, admiring the many patterns in the dried blood spattering the hall. Someone was going to have to clean that up, but until then Grey was free to search for anything of meaning in them. He found nothing of any use, but his mind was perhaps torn in too many different directions to pick them out. Dave was Kindred, Dave was Nosferatu, and try as he might to deny it Dave's fate had been in his hands from the moment he had seen him writhing in that motel room. He was obligated to try and help him, he should have recognized that from the beginning. But then, was he really qualified to nurse any breed of fledgling, even one that had been a friend in life? Just the thought of trying to explain the finer points of their condition made him cringe.

"You could always try just saying it plainly," Paul's voice whispered. "Like a normal person."

"I have never been normal," Grey snapped.

"Uh, Grey?"

He looked up. Dave had returned, and he was started to recognize the look on his twisted face as the one universally given to all those of unquiet minds. He hated that look. The only laughter inside his head in that moment, the only voice, was Paul's. He gladly would have taken any and all of the others. Trying to ignore it, Grey forced a smile. "Done?"

"Yeah, I've gotta go talked to some woman about calling off a feud now, but that's gonna have to wait until tomorrow. It's getting really late. Or early. You know what I mean."

Grey barely heard him. The mention of the lateness of the hour buried a cold sliver of panic into his chest. He would never be able to make it downtown before the sun rose. The image of himself, meeting his demise in the backseat of cab, immediately burned itself into his mind. "Late," he said. "It's too late."

Where would he go? Where could he safely rest?

His answer came when Dave put his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, um, my place is next door, if you're worried about holing up somewhere."

Grey laughed. "You read my mind." He could have hugged Dave, but that would mean making contact with all the interesting little pustules that congregated on his back.

"All you have to do is go a little ways down the street and turn down the alley. Door's at the end. I'll, y'know, sneak over."

Grey nodded and opened the door, conspicuously holding it open for longer than was necessary. He stepped out on to the street, finding it empty in the lull between night dwellers and those who were just waking up. The sky was already lightening, twisting the knife in his chest so that he moved quickly down the street. Dave's place, it turned out, was situated above a pawn shop. The establishment truly spared no expense on their little investment. Grey opened the side door and stepped inside. Dave shuffled in out of nowhere right behind him. "Damn," Dave said. "I didn't realize it was getting that close to dawn."

"There is some sand left, yet," Grey said, but no sooner than the words were out of his mouth he was proven wrong. Lethargy washed over him, made his knees buckle, but it was too soon for that. He blinked, but there was little use fighting it. He felt Dave's arm slide around him, keeping him from falling even though it meant being pulled close to him. He felt his cold breath on his face as he spoke.

"Grey? What's wrong?"

"Tired," was all Grey could muster before he was dragged under, sooner than he ever remembered, into the day's oblivion. He never thought to try and fight it.