NINA

New York City- September, 1912

He was once called Angelus. He was the scourge of Europe, a vampire famed even among his own kind for his ferocity. In a career spanning nearly a century and a half he had murdered and fed upon thousands of men, women, and children, and created many other vampires who went on to do the same. But that had ended now. Under a strange Gypsy curse, he had not only stopped his killing, he suffered every day for the torrent of blood he had created. He fed only on rats now, and fourteen years ago he had fled Europe to live secretly in America. Even his name had changed. Almost by accident, he began calling himself Angel.

The irony had not been lost on him. He was hardly angelic. He was tormented in a Hell of his own making by the guilt he felt. Like Lady Macbeth, the blood could never be washed from his hands. He lived in darkness, a wraith inhabiting an abandoned building near the waterfront where he had first been washed up on the shore. He shunned all human contact, hoping his pain might somehow begin to repay the life-debt he owed the world. But that was soon to change.

On this day, as he lay in the hidden chamber that was scarcely larger than a grave itself, he heard voices and the sounds of construction above him. For the first time in many years, he felt the cold dread that had once been his constant companion embrace him again. If he were discovered now, it would mean his certain death, and despite everything, he still didn't want to die. He heard men walking above him all day, their footfalls mere inches from his face, as they discussed their plans for demolition of that very building. When sunset came at last, Angel gathered the few items he had acquired, mostly cast-off clothes, and fled into a city he still barely knew.

Not far away, the neighborhoods were still awake. Angel, strangely frightened by the people after so many years in solitude, walked slowly down the street. No one seemed to take any notice of him, and for this he was grateful, but he was also acutely aware that he had only about ten hours to find shelter, and no idea where to start.

He stopped at the first open shop he saw, a tailor. The man behind the counter, as befit his occupation, was quite nattily dressed, and Angel was suddenly self-conscious of his own scruffy appearance. "Oh well," he thought, "in for a penny, in for a pound."

"Begging your pardon," he said, "but I'm new to this neighborhood..."

The man cut him off with a derisive snort. "I should say so," he said. "You just get off the boat, Paddy?"

Angel was surprised into silence for a moment. He hadn't necessarily expected help, but this kind of rudeness was new to him. "I beg your pardon," he said.

"Listen," the man said deliberately, "I'm not hiring, and I ain't giving handouts, so beat it."

Still confused, Angel exited back onto the street, and in the next few hours, as he went from shop to shop, he received an education in how the world had changed during his self-imposed exile from it. The city was full of immigrants from all over Europe, and those whose ancestry had come to America only a little less recently resented it deeply. They had only to hear Angel speak and doors were closed tightly on him. Other things had changed, too. Things seemed to move faster, and people were rougher. Perhaps he had made a mistake staying away for so long, he thought.

Not that he had the time to internally discuss the situation. He needed to get his bearings and find someplace safe by sunrise. He looked around. The shops were mostly closed now, except for a few taverns and other evening entertainments. It was his damned vampirism, he thought bitterly. Any petty thief could break into a basement, but he could only enter a public building or one where he was invited. And foolishly, he had grown complacent in his years here, making no plans.

He found himself turning down an alley. At the end a horse-drawn wagon stood near the open back door of a shop. An older man was laboriously carrying boxes of vegetables and fruit from the wagon into the shop. Angel approached, keeping his distance from the horse, which eyed him warily.

"Excuse me, good sir," he said to the man. "Could you use some help, there?"

The man turned to him, and looked him up and down. Angel braced himself for another barrage of abuse, but the man nodded slowly. "You unload all these boxes and help me set up for tomorrow," he said, his voice accented with what Angel took to be an Eastern Europe dialect, "I give you a sack of food. That fair?"

Angel hated to argue with the first person to speak to him decently, but food was useless to him. "I don't need food," he said, "I really need..." He broke off. It would be impossible to explain this without sounding mad, or dangerous, or both. "Let me help you just as one gentleman helps another," he said genially, "and then perhaps you can help me."

The man grunted. "Very well," he said, then extended his hand. "I am Tateh Weisman."

Angel took it and shook. "Angel," he said.

Weisman's eyebrows furrowed, a little suspiciously. "What, no last name," he said.

Angel lowered his eyes guiltily. "None I'm worthy to bear," he said.

Weisman grunted again and gestured to the boxes. "Bring them into the front of the shop," he said. "When we have them all in, I'll tell you what to do next."

With Angel's vampiric strength, the fruit and vegetables were arranged for the next morning in almost no time. Weisman nodded approvingly at Angel's work. "You work hard," he said, "good, strong back." He looked Angel over again. "I take it you're looking for work."

Angel averted his eyes, wondering how to explain himself. "Well, not exactly." Best to just give the basic facts, he thought, let Weisman draw his own conclusions. If he had to flee, well, it wouldn't be the first time. "I can't stand daylight." He laughed nervously. "I know that sounds strange, but I need to be shut up during the day, and, well, I'm without a safe haven just at the moment." He looked back at Weisman, who was staring incredulously. "You wouldn't happen to know somewhere, by chance?"

Weisman began to laugh himself. "You're serious?" he said. Angel nodded. "That's a new one, but they say you see everything in America." He grew serious. "I take it you have no money."

Angel shook his head. "But I don't need much," he said quickly, and the thought of some of the places he had slept brought another nervous laugh to his lips.

Weisman nodded sagely, then reached into his pocket and drew out a coin. He started to hand it to Angel, then changed his mind. "No," he said, almost to himself, "we are gentlemen here." He looked at Angel. "Come with me," he said, "I think I may know someone."

Angel followed him into the street, and the walked down the block to a house with a faded sign out front that read, "Miss Fleisher's Rooming House" and below it, smaller, "Rooms to let, inquire within." Weisman rapped on the door, and a tiny ancient-looking woman answered. She squinted up at Weisman. "Who is there," she said.

"It's Tateh," Weisman shouted, "I have a friend needs your basement room."

Miss Fleisher's eyes opened in recognition. "Oh, Tateh," she said, "and Tateh's friend. Come in, come in." They followed her into her parlour. Angel could hear there were others in the house, mostly old, mostly asleep. A man's voice spoke quietly somewhere above him. It sounded like he was reciting something, but Angel didn't recognize the language. They each took chairs.

Miss Fleisher turned to Weisman. "He is a relative of yours," she said.

"No."

Miss Fleisher looked hard at Angel, and he suddenly realized she was very nearly blind. She turned back to Weisman and said something in a language Angel didn't know. It sounded a little like German, but not quite. Weisman shook his head and answered in the same language. Angel felt very self-conscious as they apparently discussed his fate. Finally Weisman turned to him. "She isn't so happy that you're a gentile," he explained, "but I tell her you are respectful and well-behaved." He fixed Angel with a meaningful stare. "I didn't lie to this nice lady, did I?"

"No, no," Angel agreed hastily, "she'll barely know I'm here."

"Very well," Weisman said, and Miss Fleisher led the two of them downstairs to inspect the room. It was very small, with only a narrow bed, a table and a chair, but it was windowless.

"How long will you be staying?" Miss Fleisher asked.

Angel looked helplessly at Weisman. He was curious about that himself.

"Can we make arrangements day to day," Weisman said. "If he gets work and can pay you, he stays."

Angel's heart dropped. Tomorrow he would be in exactly the same situation, but at least he had bought a day.

Miss Fleisher nodded. "Alright," she said, and Weisman handed her a few coins. Miss Fleisher left them alone and Weisman turned to Angel.

"I know nothing about you," Weisman said, "but I remember what it was like to come to America with nothing." He laughed. "And I had a wife and daughter. And I cannot pay you enough myself to stay here, but you are young, you are strong. If you let me, I will find you work among my friends. Odd jobs, and such."

Angel bit his lip nervously. He didn't see how this could work. "The daylight..." he began, but Weisman cut him off.

"I understand that," he said, then added, "well, maybe not understand, but I think there is enough night work. The shopkeepers always need that." He gave Angel another meaningful stare. "But I'll only say this once. If I hear you are disrespectful, or behaving badly, I will take care of you myself."

"Agreed," Angel said.

*************

May, 1913

It was only a few minutes past sunset when Angel emerged from his basement dwelling. He was dressed in black, as was his custom, a heavy black sweater Mrs. Horwitz, another of Miss Fleisher's boarders, had knit for him in exchange for fetching some furniture from her daughter-in-law's. Angel had tried to refuse it, insisting it was too generous for a simple moving job, but Mrs. Horwitz had insisted.

He entered the dining room where Miss Fleisher was just serving her boarders dinner. "Good evening," he said.

A chorus of friendly voices bid him a good evening, and Angel grinned happily. Their warmth never failed to touch him.

"There are messages for you on the hall table, my dear boy," Miss Fleisher said. She handled all the requests from the neighborhood now for Angel's assistance. His strength and apparent tirelessness had become almost legendary in the tight-knit community, and more than made up for his strange hours. Many had also noticed his wandering through the night, his careful investigations of dark alleys and empty lots. To a people who had fled persecution, the presence of such a self-appointed watchman was a comfort, and many small gifts found their way to Miss Fleisher's on his behalf. Angel was vaguely aware that somehow his room was covered by those he helped, but Miss Fleisher had never brought any debt to his attention, and he thought it best not to discuss the issue.

He paged through the slips of paper. The usual odd jobs, nothing too unusual, thank goodness. "Are you sure you won't eat something, kindele," Miss Fleisher called to him.

"No, thank you," Angel called back. So many months and still she asked. "I have some things to do. I may see you later. Take care." And he was out the door.

Miss Fleisher's boarders watched him go, smiling and nodding. "Such a nice young man," Mrs. Horwitz said. "It's a shame about his eyes, though."

"What is wrong with his eyes," said Miss Goldstein, another boarder.

"He has a rare condition," Mrs. Horwitz said knowingly. "Bright light is too hard on his eyes, and he can't see. That's why he stays inside until the sun goes down."

"Not to contradict you," said Mr. Siegel, "but I heard it was his skin, it was very sensitive, and he gets the sunburn..." Mr. Siegel snapped his fingers, "just like that. The same disease makes him sensitive to certain foods. That's why he never eats here."

Mrs. Mandelbaum cleared her throat. "You're such a gossip, Mr. Siegel," she said. "Three days ago, I woke up very early, and was awake when he came in. He sat in that very chair and shared a glass of sherry with me." She smiled fondly. "So shy he is. Never talks about himself. You want my opinion?" She tapped her forehead. "I think he's just a little touched. Afraid of the daylight."

A few of the oldsters around the tables nodded in agreement. "But not in a bad way," Mrs. Shulman said quickly. "He's such a nice young man."

All the boarders agreed loudly, and the conversation moved to other things.

When Angel finished his work that evening, he stopped by the Weisman's home, an apartment above their shop. He and Tateh had become good friends, and Angel would often come just to sit and listen to him and his wife discuss their lives and their future.

Often on these nights Angel would think of his own family, dead these many years by his own hand. He thought that if he had a relationship with his own father like Tateh had with his daughter, Teibele, he would never have become the useless disgrace he was when the vampire Darla had found him. He longed to confess his sins to these people who thought him nothing more than a fellow newcomer to this land, and a friend at that. But he knew there was no redemption for his transgressions, and if they even suspected his true nature he would be cast out. He struggled against complete despair, trying to postpone the day he knew would come sooner or later, when he couldn't pretend anymore. When his true self would come again to the surface, driving him away from all human life.

But for now he wanted to believe, and he was able to keep his doubts silent.

Teibele was talking with her mother in their own language, which Angel had learned was Yiddish. They only occasionally used it around him, knowing it excluded him, but Angel heard his name once or twice, and knew that he was being discussed. He listened closer, trying to pick out a word or two to give him some hint of what they said, when Teibele uttered "vampire."

Angel leapt to his feet, nearly overturning his chair. He stared at the two of them in shock, cold panic starting to work on him, forcing him to gasp and tremble. But they didn't seem to even notice him, let alone be alarmed by his presence.

"Angel," Tateh said, concerned, "what is it? You look as though you've seen a ghost?"

"What..." Angel stammered, "what are they talking about?"

"Teibele wants to go to the moving pictures," Tateh explained, still confused by Angel's reaction. "Her mother thinks she is too young, but she thinks maybe you will take her."

Teibele turned to her father, blushing furiously. "Why did you say that," she said, "I wanted to tell him."

Angel lowered himself back into his chair, confused himself now. "The moving pictures?" He had heard of them, but hadn't seen one yet.

"Yes," Teibele went on, excited now. "They are playing a double bill. A comedy, I'm not sure what it's called, and 'The Vampire.'"

Angel felt the fear lurch up in him again, but he had an explanation now.

"Now, Teibele," said Mrs. Weisman, "Angel may have other things to do than take a little girl to a silly show."

Teibele, fourteen years old and very self-conscious, blushed again. "I'm not such a little girl, Mama."

"Of course I'll take her," Angel said quickly, rescuing her from further embarrassment. "When would you like to go?"

*************

Angel had to borrow a jacket from Mr. Klein, one of Miss Fleisher's boarders, before he could take Teibele to the moving pictures, and he could only hope his hair, which was unruly to begin with, looked at least half-decent without a way to check his reflection. But the lady boarders all nodded and clucked their tongues as he prepared to leave, so he figured he looked presentable.

Teibele was waiting for him outside her parent's shop, and took his arm as they walked through the streets to the theatre. She was a pretty, lively girl, and Angel was charmed by her excitement. Outside the theatre was a group of children, and a boy about Teibele's age approached them.

"Good evening, Miss Weisman," he said rather formally, "and how are you this fine evening?"

"Very well," Teibele answered primly, and Angel pretended to be fascinated by the poster advertising the current shows.

There was a moment of strained silence, before the young man said, "well, enjoy the picture, Miss Weisman," and walked off.

"Who was that," Angel asked when he had moved out of earshot.

Teibele shook her head. "Solomon Rosenberg," she said, "his father and papa are friends." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "He is crazy. He wants to move to California."

Angel smiled. "What's so crazy about that?"

Teibele rolled her eyes. "It's so far away from everything," she said.

"It won't always be," Angel said. "It wasn't that long ago that New York City was far from everything."

"Well, I don't know," Teibele said doubtfully.

They entered the darkened theatre. The first feature, the comedy, had already started, and the audience laughed at every pratfall. Angel, with his vampire eyes, quickly found them seats and they settled in. The comedy (Teibele never did remember the title) was amusing enough. Something about bank robbers and mistaken identity all delivered at a frantic pace. Angel was simply fascinated by the process itself. He had lived to see the birth of photography, and that was amazing enough, but moving pictures, simulating life. Astonishing.

He was a little more apprehensive about the second feature. The vampire in this film was female and so heavily concealed behind ghoulish makeup she barely looked human. Angel had known vampires in his day who had become deformed through their vastly extended lifespan, but not exactly like that. Also in the course of the film she was dashed with holy water and repelled by crosses, both of which made Angel squirm in his seat. But the final scene was especially powerful. The vampire, trapped in a courtyard by the hero, was struck by the rays of the rising sun and evaporated in a puff of smoke. Angel was most affected by the footage of the sun slowly rising. Tears came to his eyes as he realized he hadn't seen a real sunrise in more than a century and a half, but luckily Teibele was too engrossed to notice.

As they left the theatre Teibele began chattering about how exciting the movie was, and how frightening the vampire. Angel, a bit unnerved by the whole experience, just let her go on.

They hadn't gone but a few blocks, when Angel suddenly became aware of two young men stepping into their path, one blond boy, the other in a black hat. The one with the hat tipped it towards them and Teibele grew instantly silent. Angel realized she recognized them, and was afraid.

"A bit outside your neighborhood, aren't you," said Black Hat, his voice cold with hate.

"Leave us alone," Teibele said.

"Easy, now," said Blondie, "you kikes are on our turf now."

Teibele stiffened with anger, and Angel felt the demon within him awaken and start moving under his skin. "You heard the lady," he said, trying to stay calm.

"Jesus," said Black Hat, "he's a Mick!"

Blondie only laughed cruelly, and Angel stepped between Teibele and the boys. "Run home, Teibele," he said, his voice thick and low.

"You gonna cause trouble, Mick," Blondie said, advancing on them menacingly.

Teibele didn't move and Angel turned on her. The demon was rising up now and he was unable to suppress a snarl of rage. "I said go on home, girl," he said, and Teibele turned and ran to the end of the street. Angel turned back to the boys, and let the demon come forth, twisting his features into a vampiric grimace.

The blood drained out of both their faces. Black Hat took a step back, but bravado made Blondie stand his ground. He beckoned to Angel. "Come on, then," he said.

"Archie," Black Hat whispered, "he ain't even human."

Blondie ignored his friend and launched himself at Angel. Angel lifted him off his feet by his shoulders and threw him to the ground, roaring with fury. He heard a crack as the boy's head hit the paving stones. He twitched once, then lay still. Angel crouched beside him. The boy was bleeding slightly, but seemed to be okay, just knocked cold. Almost without thinking, Angel found himself bending close to the blood-slick stones, his lips pulling back to expose his fangs. A moan from Black Hat made him jerk away, and Angel turned his attention to him.

Black Hat was backed against the wall, his eyes opened wide with terror. "What the hell are you?" he cried.

"You said it yourself," Angel said menacingly as he rose and advanced on the boy. "I'm just a dumb Mick."

"I'm sorry," Black Hat pleaded, "please don't hurt me."

Angel threw himself at Black Hat, pinning him against the wall. He leaned his face in close, growling low in his throat. Black Hat was gibbering now, stammering out the "Hail, Mary."

"You listen to me," Angel told him, "you mind your business and behave yourself or I'll hunt you down and make you wish you'd never been born. You understand?"

In reply, Black Hat fainted senselessly into Angel's arms and Angel lowered him to the ground. He backed away from the two prone bodies, a cold horror coming over him as he realized how close he had come to feeding on them. He pressed his palms over his still distorted features and staggered back when he heard a soft cry behind him. He turned slowly, glancing over his shoulder. Teibele was still standing at the end of the street. Her knuckles were to her lips and she was trembling and weeping. Angel spread his fingers over his face to hide it, though he doubted Teibele could see him clearly from that distance in the dark. "Turn around, Teibele," he called to her, his voice hoarse and low.

She pivoted instantly, and Angel could hear her breath coming in little sobs.

"Hurry home, girl," Angel told her as he approached, "I'll follow right behind."

Teibele started walking, running almost, through the streets toward her home. Once or twice she tried to steal a look over her shoulder, but Angel snapped at her not to look back. It broke his heart to hear her frightened sobs, but he knew that seeing his vampiric face, his true face, would be ten times worse.

They reached her home, and Teibele burst through the door, calling for her parents. Angel, his face once again smooth and human-looking, stayed in the shadows near the doorway. He stood perfectly still, save for the tears welling in his eyes. As he had walked through the streets behind Teibele, every year of his extended life had weighed down on him, and he felt more than ever his mortal death and unholy rebirth. He had wanted to pretend he was human again, that he was just like the Weismans at heart. But he wasn't like them, he knew that now, and he was a fool to play otherwise. He was a creature of darkness, and could only bring pain to those he loved.

Teibele spoke rapidly to her parents in Yiddish and the two of them cast longer and longer looks at Angel, until by the time she had finished, they were staring at him, Tateh in stern concentration, his wife in barely concealed fear.

"Teibele," Tateh said, not taking his eyes off Angel, "go to your room."

With a gasp of relief, Teibele fled upstairs.

Oh, to be so innocent, Angel thought enviously, that your parents could put right the world.

"Teibele tells us you killed two men," Tateh said levelly.

Angel swallowed hard. "Not killed," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I beat one unconscious, and the other... passed out."

The Weismans' expressions softened. "Well, from what she told us," Mrs. Weisman said kindly, "it was only what they deserved."

"You don't understand," Angel said, and he stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't wearing his demonic visage, but he wasn't playing human, either. His face was unnaturally still, and his eyes were flat and lifeless. "I could have killed them. A part of me, a powerful part of me, wanted to kill them."

The Weismans were both staring at him in shock, and Angel felt the guilt and shame that were always just below the surface rise up in him and overwhelm him like a floodgate bursting. He lowered his face into his hands with an anguished cry and collapsed onto his knees. "I was once an animal," he stammered through choking sobs, "a monster. I killed and I killed, night after night. I tortured innocents, I reveled in their pain."

Angel was weeping furiously now, barely able to form the words as he cried out his secret torment. "The time I've spent among you is a gift I could never begin to deserve," he went on, "I am as wicked as any creature who has ever walked upon the earth." And then words failed him, and he dissolved into helpless, wracking tears.

He felt Mrs. Weisman's cool hands, firm but gentle on his shoulders. She was kneeling before him, sitting back on her heels. She lowered Angel's head into her lap and softly stroked his hair. "You are not a monster," she said. "You saved our Teibele. A monster would not do that. An animal would not cry out his wickedness to heaven. Whatever you were, you are not now."

And tears of gratitude rose up in Angel to mix with the tears of his shame.

*************

Over the next few days Angel discreetly passed the word around the neighborhood that he might not be available as he had been, and within a week he was gone, with no word of explanation.

Miss Fleisher checked his room, but it was as empty as when she first let it out, and no one she spoke to could offer a clue as to where he had gone. He'd always been a quiet young man, and had kept to himself.

*************

New York City, July 1976

"And here is my wedding picture, in 1922," Mrs. Isaacs told her grandchildren, paging through the antique photos. She had brought her whole family with her to the Ellis Island Reunion, part of the Bicentennial celebration in New York, and now all fifteen were filling the sidewalk cafe.

"Tomorrow afternoon," her daughter Ruth said, "we'll take you to my Grandpa Tateh's store."

"Well, it's not a store anymore," Mrs. Isaacs said wistfully.

Just then the fireworks started over the park, and the younger children, unable to contain their excitement, grabbed their parents hands and started to run. "Go on," Mrs. Isaacs called, "I'll pay and meet you at the end of the block." The waiter, having seen the commotion, came to her side, and Mrs. Isaacs settled her bill and stepped into the throng moving towards the park.

Her eyes were raised, watching the fireworks dazzle the sky above her. Too late she saw the young man in front of her, moving against the crowd, his eyes downcast. They bumped shoulders hard and she grabbed his arm to steady herself. He helped her regain her footing and she looked up into his eyes.

Sixty-three years seemed to melt away in an instant, and she was a poor immigrant girl again. "Angel," she whispered.

The young man's brow furrowed in confusion. Dear God, she thought, he looked not a day older, but it was his very image. There could not be two so alike. "It's me," she said, "Teibele."

His face lit with recognition, and he raised his fingers towards her. "Teibele," he repeated, unbelieving.

She took his hands in hers. "Angel, what happened to you," she said, "you left without a word. And look at you now. How is it possible?"

He only smiled, shaking his head in wonder. "Little Teibele," he said, "I can't believe it's really you."

Then she heard her son Stanley's voice behind her. "There you are, Mama."

She turned, and Angel's hands slipped from hers. When she turned back, he was gone. Stanley put his hand on his mother's shoulder, and she felt reality snap back around her. She was seventy-seven years old, her husband was six years in his grave, she had three children and eight grandchildren. And Angel was still a young man, barely more than a boy.

"Who was that?" Stanley asked.

"No one," she answered. "I thought he was someone from the old neighborhood, but..."

Stanley laughed. "It can't be, mother," he said, "he's younger than me. All the reminiscing at the island today has you seeing ghosts."

"I suppose that's it," she agreed. But all night she kept peering into the crowds, hoping to see him again.

Lost Angel 4: Warning! This Is A Dark Ride!
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