The Gathering

by C.J. Tudor

True. But what was survival if everything pleasurable had been stripped from it? Athelinda had long ago realized that the mind, human or vampyr, was not designed to endure long periods of absolute reality. It was why we dreamed, of course. But also, why we made up stories, read books, watched plays and films. It was also why humans drank and took drugs. For vampyrs, there were other stimulants that eased the long nights of the soul.

An allusion to Hill House

The room was febrile with putridity.

But, despite her threats to Tucker, Athelinda knew it would by a pyrrhic victory.

Grief was a cancer. You could spot the grieving like you could spot those in the throes of a terminal illness. The light had been lost from their eyes, their skin was dry and sallow, their cheeks hollowed and even their movements seemed labored. People often talked about the stages of grief—denial, pain, acceptance. But few mentioned the fourth—terminal. Those for whom there would never be any recovery. Barbara remembered one grieving mother telling her: “I’m already with my little girl. This heap of flesh and bones just hasn’t caught up yet.”

He turned back to her. “You don’t understand—” She cut him off. “Oh, I do, sir. My dad was a hunter. He hunted because he needed to feel power over other creatures. But once you took away his weapons, he was a weak, bitter man.” “Don’t seem like any way to talk about your father.” “He wasn’t much of a father, or a man.” “He still alive?” “No. He killed himself when I was sixteen. Only time he shot anyone who deserved it.”

Ouch!