The Blood That Bonds by Christopher Buecheler

to stretch out forever and ever. The decor was stunning
in its complexity, if not necessarily its artistry. Gorgeous,
sixteenth-century paintings hung over gaudy, lacquer-glass statues
of naked, sexless elves. It appeared as if anything that had – ever
– grabbed the owner’s fancy had been purchased and pushed into a
corner. The mansion was over-decorated, over-filled,
over-furnished.
    Yet within minutes, Two was absolutely
spellbound. Her eyes wanted to move everywhere at once, taking it
all in. Luxury like she had never seen. The ability to buy and buy
and buy until, finally, all sense of aesthetics was lost. Here a
massive oak table, glowing as if with its own inner light from
countless centuries of oiling and finishing. There, a black velvet
painting of dogs playing poker, that look as if it might have been
bought from a vendor standing outside of a gas station. It was
overwhelming.
    Theroen guided her through each room,
pointing out certain objects, but it was clear from his face, his
voice, his expressions, that these possessions were not his. It was
obvious that he thought little of them, and perhaps viewed most
with some level of derision. Two knew very little about Theroen,
but she sensed that if he had not been around this clutter for
quite some time, he would have actively disdained it.
    Indeed, Theroen was hurrying her through the
rooms; quickly pointing out things he thought would be of interest
to her, ignoring the rest. He was not trying to tempt her with
luxury, and said as much.
    “ Everything in the world is
yours for the taking, but that’s not important. You know it’s not
important, I think, the same as I do. What’s important is the life
that can be lived. Hundreds of years, Two, and there’s still so
much to see! So much to do!”
    Thereon didn’t seem like the emotional type.
Two wondered if this was a rare outburst that she should be
appreciating. She tried her best, but all the while that same
nagging thought pulled at the back of her mind like the ebb and
flow of the tide. Not human. Not human. No longer connected to that
beautiful web of grief and love and death and striving, striving to
find some meaning in what must, by definition, be an empty
universe.
    But there was temptation here, as well.
Wasn’t there a spark of excitement in her, brought on by his words?
The scope of what she had seen in that moment in the Ferrari when
she had nearly lost herself in despair was minimal next to what
Theroen was now proposing.
    Two had never felt so torn in her life.
Humanity. Immortality. The spirit. The soul. She shut her eyes,
breathed deeply, pushed it away. She’d told Theroen she would let
him show her. She meant to keep her words.
    They came at last to a set of oak doors that
seemed too massive even for Theroen to open. Solid in a way that
modern creations simply weren’t, they stood before her at the end
of a long hallway. Theroen paused, looked momentarily pained,
turned to Two.
    “ Abraham.”
    It was a threat, a warning, an invitation,
an explanation. The quality of Theroen’s voice as he spoke the word
was indefinable. Two repeated it, forming the word as a question,
looking for detail.
    “ My father. My … he runs
this household. He does not interfere with my daily life, usually,
but I owe my allegiance to him. Or I did. Now …”
    His words trailed off, and for a moment his
eyes, normally so clear and focused, were distant. Cloudy.
    “ Theroen?”
    “ It’s hard, now. I’m too
strong. It’s too soon.”
    She didn’t understand a word of it. She
began to say this, and he shook his head as if in answer.
    “ It doesn’t matter.
Tonight, we are sticking to basics, and it is not fundamental that
you understand this right now.”
    “ Do you all talk in riddles
all of the goddamn time?” Two was somewhat exasperated despite her
desire to understand. Or perhaps because of it. Theroen surprised
her with a bright grin.
    “ You will enjoy meeting
Melissa,” he laughed.
    “