Page 2 of Good Vampires Go to Heaven

“You are already dead.”

Shush, shush, shush.

“Just send me to Hell then. You can torture me there all you want.” Brave words when I am shaking in my shackles!

Shush, shush, shush.

“Ah, that is the rub,” Satan says.

Shush, shush, shush.

“Alas, I cannot take you home . . . yet.”

Huh? I turn my head to look at Satan and, whoa! I understand immediately. This puts a whole new light on my situation. It almost makes the past year of torture worthwhile. Apparently, my eternal fate is in question. My good acts for the vangels must have gained me points up above. Oh, it wouldn’t be enough to get me through the Pearly Gates, but maybe Purgatory’s more tarnished portals. “My pal Michael must have put in a good word for me.” I start to smile and stop when my dry lips crack and begin to seep blood again, my fangs cutting deeper. It’s a wonder I have any blood left.

Satan hisses and lashes his whip across my chest. The metallic threads cause an excruciating pain, more like a searing burn. Thin welts immediately rise on my skin.

“You will not mention that name again!” Satan’s red-rimmed, green eyes are now totally red. He is still beautiful, though, dammit.

Satan refers to Michael, of course, the archangel warrior responsible for kicking the fallen angels out of Heaven, including Lucifer, aka Satan.

“Michael, Michael, Michael,” I taunt, foolishly, but with great delight.

The whip shoots out again, crisscrossing the chest welts. I probably look like a blank crossword puzzle. Give me a five-letter word for “person who taunts the devil.” IDIOT. My warped sense of humor is the only thing keeping me from crying out with pain.

“Shall I send for Craven?” Jasper asks Satan. “My chief tortureologist has developed new methods of persuasion that are very effective.”

Tortureologist? More like one sick bastard with more muscle than brain!

“Not so effective if this sinner can stubbornly refuse to surrender,” Satan remarks.

Shush, shush, shush.

“Ah, but Hebrews ever were a stubborn race,” Jasper points out.

Not a wise move! Even Zeb in his pain-riddled haze knows that one does not argue with Satan.

Satan scowls at Jasper. Believe me, a Satan scowl is nothing to be encouraged. Better Jasper than me.

“I mean, of course Craven has not been so effective in Zebulan’s case, but . . .” Jasper attempts to backpedal.

“Watch and learn, Jasper,” Satan snarls. “The best torture works on the victim’s deepest despair. Their hidden fears. Their agonizing regrets. Their guilt. What might have beens. Their wish for do-overs.”

Satan gives his full attention to me now, and I try to make my mind blank, to reveal nothing. At the same time, I brace myself, ignorant of exactly what he plans, but knowing I am in for something bad.

It proves to be worse than I can imagine.

“Do you remember Masada?” Satan asks me with well-honed cruelty.

How can I forget? That ancient rock fortress overlooking the Dead Sea, the scene of one of Israel’s greatest massacres. It is the place where I lost my beloved wife, Sarah; and my twins, Mikah and Rachel.

“Would you like to see how your wife and children died?”

No! No, no, no, no, no, I cry silently. It is enough that I feel guilty over their deaths. That I mourned their loss every day of my human existence, which was not that long since I took my own life, but every day of my pitiful two-thousand-year-old Lucipire existence.

My eyes are forced shut and behind the lids I see Sarah, but she hardly resembles my wife with smooth, sun-kissed skin and dancing brown eyes. No longer is she the beautiful woman who strolled through the neat rows of our small Shomron vineyard, laughing up at me, teasing. No, this creature more resembles those pictures I have seen of Holocaust victims during World War II. Gaunt, skeletal, walking like an elderly crone, rather than her twenty-five years. I know then that I am seeing Sarah as she was during the year-long siege of Masada, before the final assault, before the fires set by Roman soldiers. Of which, for my sins, I had been one.

I arch my back on the rack, attempting escape. I scream, the first time in my captivity. A long wail of heartbreaking anguish.