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PRESENCE
by Domyelle Rhyse
I stared at the tall steeple and shivered. The warm yellows and pinks of the last seconds of sunset washed over the golden cross and the white walls, painting them in the pale watercolors of evening. A cool breeze tamed the remaining heat of the day, but wasn't cold enough to account for the chill I felt. My eyes drifted to the steps and I watched people, most in groups or couples, go up and into the building. Their bright clothing made them seem like colored confetti floating up on the breeze.
All the warnings crowded into my head. They will know you for what you are and kill you. God does not accept the damned in His presence. All the legends passed down through stories and movies now became my biggest fears. They filled my mind with images of fire, being turned to ash for a curse I neither asked for nor chose.
I almost turned back. Almost.
The sun slid into the ground, allowing me to leave my protective shadows and walk towards the church. I paused to peer in the glass of a store front, touching up my heavy makeup, nervously checking my color. As much as I hated the greasy feeling on my skin and the dusty, chemical smell, a person could only be so pale before people became suspicious these days. I promised my reflection one more time that I would sit in the back and leave as soon as the service was over...and not take communion if it were offered. The pale blue eyes seemed to mock me as I neatened my red-blonde hair.
I stepped back, turning away from my own accusations.
I studied the church, a large sprawling building with a thin strip of green between it and the packed parking lot. When the changelings, the mutations of an environment poisoned by man, first made themselves known, the churches called for tolerance until the more violent among us became apparent. It is a hard thing to be tolerant of those who wanted your blood and bone for breakfast. They fell silent, no longer leaders in tolerance but not supporting the destruction of anyone with a mutation like most others did. More than a few now preached that God would punish those of us who were murderers. Needing human flesh to survive was not an excuse to kill.
Slowly I walked towards it, the fear in my belly sending icy tentacles through the rest of my body.
This is not your fault, Nya. Surely, if God is all that believers say, all they said when you were a child, He will not condemn you for something you did not choose?
For a moment I felt my creator's teeth against my neck again, the sharp pain causing me to raise my hand and cover the curve just above my shoulder. I could taste his blood in my mouth. Those mutated into vampires had the power to create more of their kind with their blood. I shivered and took in a breath of cool air as I peeled myself away from the memory. That another had changed me against my will made no difference.
At the bottom of the steps, I stopped again. I could hear the congregation singing. I let the familiar hymns wash over me and comfort me. Closing my eyes, I remembered the church I attended as a child. There had been such joy there. God is love, they told me, and we must share His love with everyone, no matter their place in life. Opening my eyes, I stepped on the bottom step and waited.
Nothing. No fire, no disapproval.
I continued up, one step at a time, pausing between each, waiting for the destruction that many claimed the holy books of the world said would fall upon the blood drinkers among the changelings. At the top I looked up into the sky. The stars were starting to come out, but I could smell the faint dampness of rain in the air.
"Have you forgiven me?" I jumped at the sound of my voice. I hadn't meant to speak out loud.
Entering the foyer, I paused again. Warm lights alleviated the darkness created by the mahogany-paneled walls. The tang of lemon wood polish touched the air and tickled my nose. Across from the doorway, a long table rested against the wall, under a stained glass window of a cross with a dove bearing an olive branch. Doors on either side led into the sanctuary. I stood in the center of the room, alone, and enjoyed the familiarity. My childhood church had been much like this.
I hesitantly stepped over to the table, prepared to slip back into the shadows should someone interrupt my cautious exploration. Pamphlets and service programs lay in neat piles across its surface. I studied one with an image of the church and Sunday worship times in bold letters. The skin on my hand twitched as picked it up and tucked it into my purse. I stared at the door to my right, a large, double door with frosted glass ovals near the top. Longer pauses came between each step as I approached.
When I reached the door, I peered through the glass. The sanctuary was full of people, some standing, some sitting, almost all with voices raised in song. More than a few had their arms up, hands reaching to heaven. I thought the sanctuary would look beautiful in the morning: the tall, narrow, stained-glass windows would flood the room with color and warmth. I drew back and leaned against the wall, face turned to the sky, eyes closed, my entire body trembling as if I was in a feeding state. But the smell of them, of their warm blood, did not awaken the monster within. I had fed already.
While the congregation sang, I struggled with my body. I needed to be controlled. I needed to master my fear. Working one limb at a time, I willed myself to stop shaking. I crossed my arms and held them tight to my body until the only quiver I felt in them came from my stomach. After forcing my shoulders to relax, I worked on calming my stomach. I don't know how long I stood there fighting myself before I realized the singing had stopped.
Stepping up to the door, I peered through once more. The entire congregation knelt in prayer, allowing me to see how few seats remained, mostly in the back. The pews towards the front held older members, but younger families made up most of the church membership.
Now. Now's the time to go, when no one will notice you.
The door opened silently and I slipped into the closest pine colored bench. And waited, tense, on the edge of the pew. Nothing. I slid back on the seat, but sat stiffly, certain someone would see me, know me for what I was, and throw me out if they didn't choose to destroy me. God may not bring His judgment down on me, but I was sure a human would. God may be love, but His people often do not show the same quality as unconditionally.
"Amen." The hushed echo of voices made me jump.
Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I looked at the young pastor. The room was too crowded to separate his scent from the herd. He launched into a sermon on tolerance and began pacing under the mahogany beams that framed the beige and white stage. I could see now why he had a head mike over his sandy-blonde hair. He just could not stand still. Perhaps all that motion kept him lean. It also made it hard to focus on him, to get a fix on his aura. As he spoke, the congregation obediently opened their Bibles and the rustling of pages echoed in the vaulted ceiling.
Leaning back, I closed my eyes and listened to his deep voice. With him exhorting his people to be tolerant, I hoped I would be safe this one night; a night they were reminded that we all came from God, a night when even the changelings were brought back into their humanity. The congregation remained quiet, attentive, with only a sniffle or the occasional turning of the page interrupting his sermon.
A couple of teenage girls giggled and whispered about a young man sitting further up in the audience. They were only loud enough to bother me and anyone sitting near them. One of them wore a light floral fragrance that blended pleasantly with the faint scent of the candles burning in candelabras standing on either side of the steps to the stage.
A gentleman came back, tall and thin by his step, old by his scent.
"Shush now ladies. Show some respect."
I glanced over at him from under my lashes. Age lined his face and had thinned his silvery hair, but didn't blunt the firm look in his watery green eyes.
"Yes, Mr. Paulson." The girls spoke in quiet unison.
He left and they started talking again, in lower voices than before. I smiled to myself, then turned my attention back to the sermon.
I nodded to myself as I agreed with certain points in the lecture—changelings could not help what they had become anymore than a black man could help that he had born black, Jesus loved all men and women, and so on. By the time he started the closing prayer, I wondered if perhaps I had found a place I could go and not be hurt when they discovered what I really was.
Daydreams, Nya, nothing but daydreams.
"Amen."
I started in my seat. The sermon had ended, people were rising to leave, and I was still sitting there. Ice plunged through my body, freezing me in place with fear.
People filed out by me. Some smiled, but most left without even glancing in my direction. A few welcomed me to the church, but seemed to know I didn't want to be overwhelmed by their attentions. Thankfully no one insisted on touching me. Makeup can hide paleness, but nothing can hide the coldness of our skin. An elderly woman reached out as she welcomed me, but I pulled away. Her blue-gray eyes widened and I knew I had moved too quickly. Her invitation to visit again barely registered as I took deep breaths to calm myself. She passed, and I waited for the sanctuary to empty.
This time I climbed the red-brown steps onto the beige carpeted platform without much thought, but I approached the giant cross pinned to back wall with caution. So far I had touched nothing considered holy. I stood before it for several beats, then reached out my hand. I hesitated when I saw it trembling, then forced myself to touch the cool, blonde wood. I stood there in awe, touching a cross that men said would destroy my kind should we even gaze upon it.
Maybe Anne Rice was right. I chuckled. Perhaps there is no wrath of God when a vampire is in a holy place.
"Are you alright?"
I jumped at the pastor's voice. I hadn't heard or smelled his approach. I started to turn towards him, then froze.
I had not heard or smelled his approach. I finished my turn more slowly, wary, certain of what his aura would show me now that he wasn't pacing across the stage.
"I'm fine, thank you." I studied him and confirmed my suspicions. The older the vampire, the colder his or her aura. This pastor's aura could have frozen the entire sanctuary. "I didn't know vampires could be ministers."
His liquid brown eyes studied me as well. "The congregation doesn't know."
"That must be difficult. Aren't there daytime activities you need to participate in?"
"I let my associate pastor handle those. It makes him feel trusted and needed."
"And keeps you safe."
"And keeps me safe." He nodded agreeably.
I smiled. "It seems that I may have chosen the wrong church to test my theory."
An eyebrow arched. "You came to risk God's wrath?"
"Something like that."
He looked at the cross for a long moment, then back at me. "You chose the right church. Everything here has been properly blessed by the pastors before me."
"Did you come to risk God's wrath?" I asked softly.
He smiled. "No. I came needing God's presence. Stay awhile, pray." He gently touched my shoulder. "Seek and ye shall find." His hand dropped and he turned towards the two men approaching us, one of them Mr. Paulson. I heard him murmur, "She needs some time alone. Go on home, I'll lock up."
The three of them left me in the darkened sanctuary.
I spent the next hour touching everything, from the lectern to the sanctified cups that would hold the wine at communion. Every touch, every moment a wonder to me. I held the silver cup for a very long time before I returned it to its place. Finally I sat down in the front pew and stared up at the cross. It glowed in the soft light surrounding it.
Don't you hate me? How can I sit in this place, being what I am and having killed to stay alive?
Not that I killed any more. I made sure to feed before the killing frenzy could take me. I hated needing blood to live and abhorred killing. Still, according to most churches, I was the worst kind of sinner. Completely unsalvageable. My nature would always be held against me.
By men.
The voice was so soft, I wondered if I had even heard it. I waited, hoping to hear more. Instead, all I felt was the warmth of love surrounding me.
Domyelle Rhyse's published stories have appeared in COSMIC Speculative Fiction; Aoife's Kiss; Worlds of Wonder: A Webzine of Fantasy & SF; Lyrica: A Webzine of Romantic Fiction; Beyond Centauri; and Voices of Autism.
She graduated from California State University, San Bernardino with honors and received a Bachelors Degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and currently manages an online writers workshop, Dreaming In Ink Writers Workshop. You can find her website at http://www.alden.nu..
