Immortality

***
Twenty

Initially he woke with a start, though unable to say just what it was that startled him, and then he sank back down. He didn’t quite drift back to sleep but rather floated in that place between sleeping and waking where he still felt the warmth of his dreams though tainted at the edges by a subtle, gnawing influence of the waking world. He longed to creep back into sleep but reality was persistent, and eventually, against his will, he woke.

He opened his eyes and blinked in the dull daylight, remembering for a moment that glorious morning when he’d woken in the warmth of the sun. The flatness of the light was so disheartening when in comparison and had already coloured his mood. He knew that it would be another dreary day and he would be dreary in it. Unlike Dorian, of course.

Gabriel noted with a kind of offhand resignation that he was becoming rather accustomed to waking in Dorian’s presencs hes he glanced over to his left and saw him sitting there against the wall. He seemed quiet and brooding as he read his book, despite his perfect, flawless and unchanging beauty; Gabriel had thought such a look simply was not in his nature, though the more he thought, he realised that once he had thought him incapable of murder, also, and had been proved wrong. All he needed to know of Dorian was in that painting. And it was hideous.

“If he gave you back your picture,” Gabriel said slowly, “why are you still here?” He frowned then, watching as Dorian carefully marked his place and set aside the book, then looked up at him quite deliberately with his disarming eyes.

“The weather is foul,” he said, just as deliberately. “I’m not especially fond of snow, so I’ll leave in the spring.”

Gabriel tried to nod but found his neck too stiff and that his head felt heavy. But he didn’t really need to nod, as he did not believe a word that Dorian had said. It was not because his look was lacking in sincerity, but there was something about him, the way he was sitting there day after day, that said theas mas more to it than he’d spoken.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “You’ve done nothing but lie to me since the day we met.”

Dorian nodded his agreement with a vague smile on his face, but he didn’t seem amused. His long fingers brushed over the book at his side and he rested his head back against the wall. “If it helps, I *did* save your life,” he said, and Gabriel frowned, tried to move to sit up, but felt himself utterly drained. He didn’t have to question why.

“By killing a man?” he said. “A man who was probably on your side anyway? That just makes you a murderer, Dorian – don’t expect me to thank you for it.”

Dorian’s lips quirked for a second and then his placid expression returned. “I don’t deny it,” he said. “That man, if you can call him that, was in the count’s employ, yes. You think that he was trying to kill you, or to kill Frau Kurtz, but he was sent only for the book. And killing him was a mercy, believe me.”

“I knew you were callous, Dorian, but this is beyond belief.”

“For once I’m actually telling you the truth – the man was as good as dead even before I killed him. Remember his emaciation? He was almost a walking corpse thanks to Dracula and had I not spilled his blood he would have died of starvation soon after. He was Dracula’s slave, a ghoul, Dracula’s wish his command and the only purpose left in his life. I’m almost surprised that the same hadn’t happened to you, considering all the blood he’s taken from you.”

Gabriel had no reply, because what Dorian had said felt so inexplicably true. Of course, every word that passed Dorian’s lips *sounded* true, no matter what it was that he said; he had to remember that. After Dorian, he wasn’t sure that he’d trust anyone again.

He was not, as far as he knew, a very trusting man, and never had been. Even where his superiors were concerned he had some reservations, seeing as how he was to them simply a means to an end to be controlled through his guilt. He didn’t trust Abraham who said he was his brother, or Dorian who had lied to him, or Jinette in Rome or even Taylor, his butler back in London. He didn’t trust the neighbours who said that house was his. He wasn’t even sure that he could trust himself, thinking of his lost memory.

How he wished that he hadn’t left London, that he’d expelled that strangely forgettable man from his house and told the Church in no uncertain terms to go to hell. He could have stayed in that house he wasn’t sure was his, slept in that big, warm bed and kept his blood in his veins. He could have spent his days reading the books in the library, brushing his hands over the furniture, the little decorations, searching the faces of the portraits for something, *anything* he might have recognised. Perhaps in time he would have remembered, seen something in a different light that brought flooding back all that he’d lost. Perhaps he would have gone mad from the uncharacteristic inaction, with something always missing like that space on the wall by the stairs.

Oh. He looked over at Dorian, now back in his book, and felt the pieces click into place.

“We knew each other,” he said. Dorian looked up and closed his book. “Didn’t we. Before all this.”

Dorian shrugged. “How would you know?” he said. “You don’t remember.”

“No, I don’t, but the picture… there’s a space on my wall back in London, and it’s the same size.”

Then Dorian smiled and set down his book. “Perhaps we did,” he said. “But you don’t believe a word I say, isn’t that right? I could tell you we were childhood friends or that we met the night before you lost your memory, that we were lovers or that maybe the only reason you knew me is that you bought my house. You wouldn’t believe a word of it, so what exactly is the point in telling you?”

“Perhaps if you tell the truth, I’ll remember.”

Dorian’s smile suddenly turned icy. “And what if you wanted to forget?”

Gabriel’s gaze was steely, despite his weakened state. “I want to know,” he said.

Dorian sighed and stretched and rubbed his eyes like an oversized humanoid feline and brought up his knees on which he rested one arm. He sighed again and ran his gaze over the ceiling slowly, as if trying to decide something. Then he spoke.

“I tried to do the right thing,” he said. “As I was taught to do. I followed you that first day, you know, when you arrived in Paris and went to Notre Dame. I wasn’t sure if you were brave or foolish going there, considering what you did to Henry Jekyll. You didn’t see me, of course. I made sure that you were admitted to the masquerade ball. The countess is a very sweet woman, and he butler owed me a favour. But my betraying you was inevitable, when I knew that Dracula had my picture. It wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity. And I know you won’t believe me when I say that I do regret what’s passed, but I’ve said it to you anyway.”

Gabriel frowned and mustered just enough strength from his heavy, weakened limbs to haul himself up into a sitting position. So Dorian had followed him; he did remember feeling watched that afternoon, but that by no means leant any extra weight to whatever else he said. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was coming to it. You’re so impatient.” Dorian smirked for a second and then his countenance became serene, impenetrable. “This is not the first time that my painting has been stolen.” He took a long, deep breath. “It once hung on that wall, in that house. It was before we knew each other, in case you’d wondered if we lived there together, because we never did; it was my house before it was your house and my picture hung on the wall. But then it was stolen. Apparently somehow, and I’ve never found out exactly how, the Catholic Church learned my secret. You don’t think that you’ve ever met another Knight of the Holy Order, do you. You don’t think you even know their names, but you did once know because you knew me. The Church used me, held the picture over me and sent me to deal with their problems to atone for my sins or some such nonsense. We even worked together, once or twice, when the fancy struck Jinette or whoever was managing the games that particular week. You helped me steal back my painting, you know, and like a fool I stayed on with the Order because you asked me to. But then you saw something or heard something one day and when I saw you next, you were a gibbering, guilt-stricken wreck. You asked to forget, and you forgot. I gave you the house, signed the deeds in your name, and disappeared.”

“Why?”

For a moment Dorian seemed almost flustered by the question, but quickly his seemingly effortless composure returned. “Because you didn’t remember me,” he said. “I was only ever there because you asked it of me and if you didn’t, couldn’t remember, then what exactly was the point in remaining? I went to Paris and I met another Van Helsing, one who had no problems with his memory and who never really believed that I was something that I’m not.” He tucked back his hair and tilted his head. “Because truly, no matter how much you wanted to believe it or how often you told me it was so, I’m not a terribly good person.”

“That I can believe.”

Dorian laughed. It was almost hysterical laughter, and Gabriel saw nothing even remotely amusing about the situation. Of course, inappropriate humour had always been one of Dorian’s most human if slightly worrying traits, but Gabriel wasn’t sure that even Dorian himself was amused. Not so much amused as… how on earth did he knew what Dorian was or wasn’t like? Suddenly Dorian’s laughter seemed cloying and surreal, and as suddenly as it had begun, it ceased.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dorian said, tilting his head back against the wall. “I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s not a laughing matter, really.” Gabriel was inclined to agree.

Then they both fell silent. Dorian seemed to be staring at the palms of his hands and Gabriel watched him, almost hoping that some vague memory might just pop into his head. It didn’t; all that he could think of, he found, was that last night before he’d left Rome, their infuriating silent dinner, Dorian reading the Inferno while he lounged on his bed and the… the rest. For a moment it was as though he could still feel Dorian’s flawless skin beneath his hands, and he wondered then if that was something that he’d felt before. How many times? Had things between them ever been… the other way around? His cheeks felt hot. He didn’t know. He didn’t even know he’d known him. After all, Dorian Gray serving the Church? The idea was ridiculous.

“So we really knew each other?”

Dorian smiled faintly, the look out of place on a face that seemed as young as his – if Gabriel hadn’t known better he would have said his look was almost wistful. “Yes, Gabriel, we did.” He glanced up at him from the back of his hands, then shook his head and looked away. “For years.” He sighed, and shifted slightly, bringing up the other knee. “For years.”

“Then you could tell me…”

“I can tell you very little, actually. You see, when we first met you were suffering from a previous bout of your apparent amnesia, and I was… elsewhere when you first regained your memory. When we saw each other all that you told me was that you needed to find your brother, and the next thing, well, you were crawling up the steps of some church or other with no memory. I can’t even tell you what it is that Dracula wants with you. I’ve got no more answers for you, Gabriel.” He looked at him and gave a small wry smile. “And besides which, you know I’m a liar.”

Oh, but if only he could have believed that what he’d told him was false. But in spite of all he knew, what logic told him, he believed every last word.

They returned to silence, unsure what else there was to say. Gabriel watched him for a while as he stared at the window and up at the flat grey sky, then his own gaze flickered to the window. He started to count the stones that formed the far wall. Then he stared at the untouched pitcher of wine, shifting uneasily in bed. He found that he couldn’t quite keep still, like there was something he needed to do or to finish, that an odd buzz of anticipation had fallen over him, and now his muscles felt somehow stronger he was more alert. Dorian eyed him strangely then seemed to realise something and brought himself to his feet, brushing dust and creases from his suit.

“I should go,” he said.

“He’s coming.” A wave of impatience washed over him suddenly, mixed with just the tiniest amount of dread.

“Yes, he is.” There were footfalls in the stone corridor beyond the door. “If I should happen to… if I don’t see you, then…” He stopped and turned and shook his head, and knocked on the door. “It doesn’t matter. I doubt that you’ll care by then.” And he left the room.

Perhaps ordinarily Gabriel would have dwelt on what Dorian had said. Perhaps he would have found the words ominous and out of Dorian’s serene character, or been stirred by them. As it was, there was not a question in him. Dracula was coming; that was all that he needed to know. He’d been waiting for him all along.

***