Vampire Night

by Alice Bell

  Their faces bobbed up from reading their papers, like sunflowers turning to the sun. “You’re going to write another draft,” I said.

  There was a collective groan.

  “How many drafts do we have to do?” Charity asked.

  “As many as it takes,” I said.

  Though they wanted their stories to be brilliant on the first try, now they were eager to get to the rewrite, in order to void my annoying comments.

  “The assignment for next week,” I paused to add weight to what I was about to say. “Is to write a second draft employing all of my advice. My comments are underlined in red. I’m sure you noticed.”

  “What if… well, uh, what if we feel your comments don’t really apply? No offense.”

  “Just do it my way. You’ll get to do it your way on the third draft.”

  “Oh my god, three drafts?”

  “What if we’re dead… before we get to the third draft?”

  “I’ll give your eulogy as an assignment. The thing is, girls, you want your stories to shine. Because in a few weeks you are all going to read at the Downtown Café for open mic.”

  “What? No way.”

  “I’ve already arranged it. Open mic is very popular. The place will be packed. So. Like I said. As many drafts as it takes.”

  “Wow…”

  They all started talking. One girl shoved her books into her bag and stood up to leave, her face bright with excitement. I rapped on my desk. “Hold on, hold on. We’re not done yet. What do you want to call yourselves? I’m going to make posters and we need to have a name.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything. You know, like The Merry Pranksters.”

  “That’s dumb,” Chastity said.

  “You’re the dummy,” her sister said.

  “Don’t worry. This will be a democratic decision.” I opened my folder and took out an envelope containing nine perfectly uniform pieces of paper. I’d cut them in the office this morning using a ruled paper cutter with a blade as sharp as a guillotine.

  “Careful you don’t get a paper cut,” I said to the girls, as I passed them each a slip. “Now write down your idea for a group name and we’ll take a vote. Please don’t vote for your own idea.”

  “Why not?” Charity said.

  “Think about it,” Chastity said.

  It took a good five minutes. When I’d got all the slips back, I got up and shuffled them at my desk. Then I wrote each idea on the board.

  The Hermiones

  Mysterious Muses

  Merry Pranksters

  “Come on,” Charity said.

  “I couldn’t think of anything,” Chastity said.

  “So you picked the one you said was dumb?”

  “Please keep your comments to yourself,” I said.

  BO$$

  Liars

  Catchers in the Rye

  The Edward-ians

  Eden’s Bitches

  “Really?” Chastity said. “Ugh. Bitches? That’s just terrible. The worst.”

  Team Rain

  I brushed chalk off my hands and delivered more slips. I told them to write down their vote. When I’d collected the papers, I marked off each vote on the board. There was a hush in the room.

  Liars – 3

  Eden’s Bitches – 1

  Team Rain — 5

  “You are all officially Team Rain,” I announced. I had to agree with Chastity that Eden’s Bitches was the worst. Personally, I liked Liars.

  They erupted into noise and motion, talking, laughing, shouldering their backpacks and heading for the door. Charity’s cheeks were flushed as she followed her sister. I checked the handwriting on the slip and confirmed my suspicion that Eden’s Bitches had been her idea. I was also pretty sure she was the one who’d voted for it.

  * * *

  “You look nice today,” Dr. Sinclair said.

  “I got a make-over. I changed my hair.”

  “I noticed. Has changing your appearance lifted your mood?”

  “A little. I’ve been more decisive. Not going back and forth so much and agonizing over every stupid thing. I want to make choices, like you said. Be in charge of my life. So I can be empowered. And not afraid.”

  Dr. Sinclair’s eyes smiled at me. She wasn’t an effusive person. Maybe it was her professional demeanor but I got the feeling she moved through her personal life in the same businesslike manner. I envisioned her fiancé following her around with a check-list.

  “Have you thought any more about selling your grandmother’s house?” she said.

  I nodded. “Actually, I contacted an agent. And it’s…” my voice wobbled. “It’s happening. I’m selling.”

  “That’s a very brave decision.”

  “Yeah,” I took a deep breath. “It is.”

  “What is your overall feeling about it?”

  “Um, I’m pretty nervous.”

  “I think that’s normal. It’s a lot to make such a big change in your life. I’m proud of you, Scarlett.”

  I smoothed a piece of fuzz off my yellow skirt and adjusted the cuff on my jacket. My clothes were all new. My shoes were silver Gucci stilettos. I loved them very much.

  “What are you thinking right now, Scarlett?”

  “Well, I had a date the other night.”

  Now Dr. Sinclair’s eyes really smiled.

  “He’s a colleague. In the history department. Don’t worry, I checked and there’s nothing in my contract against fraternizing.”

  Dr. Sinclair nodded.

  “Things went well. Mostly…”

  She waited.

  “He came to my house. We kissed. I—it was nice.”

  She cocked a perfectly groomed eyebrow.

  I gazed down at my hands and admired my French manicure.

  “Just nice?”

  “Well, I wish more had happened, that I’d let things go further.”

  “It’s good to take things slow, Scarlett.”

  “I know. But. I guess I wonder if I’m addicted to my fantasies. They’re always so beautiful, and then…”

  “What, Scarlett?”

  “Reality is a disappointment.”

  “Nice is good. I promise you.”

  * * *

  That night I had trouble falling asleep.

  A voice whispered inside my head, soft as rain, but sinister too, like the glint of a blade in the shadows. I almost caught an image of who had spoken, but as quickly as it came, the image was gone, covered up like a coffin under dirt.

  Devon

  Muscles had a name—Todd. He was my roommate and assimilation guide. He was from L.A. At least that’s where he’d been made. He escaped once, did his time, and slowly worked his way up to military police, the highest a vampire could go in the current regime.

  But he had ambitions. He aspired to be a soldier in the New Army, a progressive experiment currently underway. Even in the days when Vampires had aided in missions, they’d never fought side by side with Angels. The experiment aimed to prove vampire soldiers could be a valuable asset in the quest to capture rogue Vampires in the human world. The philosophy behind it was ‘it takes one to know one’.

  As it turned out, after assimilation, I was headed for the New Army as their first vampire recruit.

  “Why’d they pick you?” Todd asked.

  We’d been having this same conversation for days. “I don’t know,” I said.

  It was after ‘lights out’ and I was lying on my back on the narrow bed. Todd was in his bed across the room from mine. It reminded me of camp.

  After a while, in a musing tone, he said, “You really have no idea who sired you?”

  I had an idea. I didn’t feel like talking about it.

  “I heard about that shit happening,” Todd went on. “But you figure it’s just urban myth. Do you think they know who your sire is? The Archangels? And that’s why they picked you?”

  Todd was one of those rare conspiracy theorists who believed those conspiring knew
best.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  I’d spent the day pretending to study the political history of the realm but since I’d come through the portal with my eidetic memory intact, I didn’t really have to study. The information was all stored away, ready to be accessed when needed.

  I wanted to sleep.

  I needed to sleep.

  I felt on the verge of sleep deprivation, something we’d been warned about on the first day of assimilation. The signs were hunger (I couldn’t get enough of the rations), constant fatigue (I slogged around after Todd who bored me senseless), extreme irritability (I wanted to strangle Todd) and in severe cases, hallucinations (I envisioned my hands squeezing Todd’s meaty neck).

  The glowing numerals above our door said it was half past midnight. But the Angels controlled daylight and nightfall, so it wasn’t real. The realm wasn’t the earth, rotating around the sun. It was a giant machine.

  But time marched on somehow. You saw it in the stooped bodies and time-worn faces of the Vampires. This mystery, the incomprehensible passing of time, posed a quandary. If I managed to escape, how could I be sure to get back to the 21st century? I figured it was a technology trick. Or maybe magic.

  It bothered me to think of screwing up history by going back in time. Maybe I’d seen too many episodes of Doctor Who. But not knowing the future, I wasn’t eager to go there either.

  I just wanted to go home… to Scarlett. Fucking Erin.

  My mind roved. Todd had finally gone quiet, probably talked himself to sleep. I nodded off, until, I don’t know how much later, his voice roused me again. “They don’t want a real soldier,” he said.

  Christ.

  “What they want is a symbol,” he said. “A handsome face to draw the crowds.”

  It was the first time he’d said anything about the Archangels that was remotely critical. Or remotely interesting.

  Scarlett

  My grandmother’s house sold after only three days on the market. The real estate agent gave me flowers and a Nordstrom gift card.

  I took only our personal things, mine and my grandmother’s, the cherry cabinet and record player and the piano. I left the rest of the furniture and drapes and Oriental rugs, even the downstairs paintings. They were imitations done by an artful hand, someone my grandmother knew in Florence but no one of any significance to me.

  Of course, I had to take the paintings Javier had done of my mother. I wrapped them in velvet and put them in the back seat of the Cadillac, along with my suitcase.

  I didn’t meet the new owners but I knew they were a family, a husband and wife with a little girl. I decided to leave my favorite copy of Wuthering Heights for the girl. It had colorful illustrations and gold edged pages. There was even a red silk ribbon to mark your spot, and it had been marking the passage where Catherine confesses her love for Heathcliff. “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

  I ran my hand over the glossy page, feeling the most terrible sadness, as if I were Catherine. A tear plopped down. I quickly rubbed it off, thinking I was crying over leaving.

  But deep down, I knew it was something more. I thought it had to do with the missing pages in my memory. Where had I gone during the days I couldn’t remember? And whom had I met? Dr. Sinclair was sure I hadn’t left the house. She didn’t think me capable. She believed fear would have kept me inside, behind locked doors.

  I placed the book on the pillow and quickly left.

  As I drove through the gate for the last time, I felt a strange kind of quiet inside. I had dreaded this day for so long. And now it had come. And gone.

  I took one last glance in the rearview mirror in time to see the black wrought iron gate closing behind me.

  * * *

  My new apartment was the penthouse in a restored building in the heart of China Town, the ‘new uptown’, according to my agent. Movers had packed my books, records and clothes into boxes and loaded them into a van with the cherry cabinet and piano.

  The piano was placed by the vista window and the record player stood against the far brick wall. The boxes were all dumped in the middle of the room.

  My new bed was set up in the bedroom and I’d made it up with fresh silk sheets and a new white comforter. The rest of my furniture was coming on Monday.

  I was nearly done unpacking my books. I stood up, stretched and sidled a glance at my new phone on the bar. Though I claimed not to like it, I was already hooked. The screen was dark. No pulsing blue light alerted me to any missed calls. I snatched the phone anyway, to check the log… to make sure.

  It was ten to eleven. Henry had said he’d drop by at nine. “Around nine,” he’d said.

  I went to the window and gazed out at the glittering lights below. Cars moved up and down Irving Street. Neon signs flashed over seedy bars wedged between fine restaurants and high end night clubs.

  China Town was the oldest part of the city, built in a neo-Gothic style by the Masons. My favorite building was across the street. It had stained glass windows and a skylight with a red rose at its center. I had asked my agent about it. She said it wasn’t for sale. But, one day, I found the door ajar and I snuck inside.

  I stood in the middle of the foyer, turning around, admiring the artistry of the dark-stained woodwork. I stared up at the Cathedral ceiling, at the light pouring in through the red glass. I promised myself that if the building was ever for sale, I would buy it.

  The next day, when I walked past, there was a heavy lock on the door. And now, just this afternoon, I noticed signs of renovating; scaffolding at the windows and balconies, a dumpster parked on the street.

  I went into the kitchen and poured a glass of soda. I felt tired and hyper at the same time. I opened a box of records but I couldn’t focus. What in the world was Henry doing? It was Saturday night. He wouldn’t stand me up to go out with someone else. Would he?

  I went into the bathroom with its turquoise art-deco tiles and mirrored vanity. I brushed my hair until it was shiny. My skin had got better, since I didn’t wear so much make-up. I was used to the sight of my bare eyelashes.

  But I felt an urge to line my eyes in coal, to cover my freckles with white powder, to dress in layers of black lace. I was being pulled by the waterfront and Embers. The need was burning inside me, the need to get away from myself, and the silent phone.

  It was past my bed time.

  I had to take care of my health. This was crucial, Dr. Sinclair said. I knew she was right but I was sliding down fast and I hated myself for it. I didn’t know why I was this way, so afraid to be alone and still always alone. I watched the shadows on the walls and listened to the strange muffled sounds from the busy street below.

  The world had taken on a surreal quality, shifting and looming. I was so caught up, I almost didn’t hear the phone, when it finally rang.

  Henry was downstairs and I let him in. When he walked through the door he was rumpled, like he’d fallen asleep in his clothes and his eyes were bloodshot. It was nearing midnight.

  He sat at the granite bar. “Nice place,” he said. “Wow, Scarlett,” he spun on the stool to take in the high ceilings and brick walls, the sixteen hundred square foot space made larger by the fact that it was mostly empty.

  I poured a shot for him from the bottle he’d brought on our first date. I added ice to my soda. I’d taken a Valium when he was on his way up. Warmth spread through my limbs.

  He ignored his drink. “No wonder you never want to come to my place,” he said.

  “Oh but I do… want to come to your place.”

  He was studying me. His eyes moved over my face. “Do you?” he said.

  “Of course,” I lied.

  He laughed and downed his whisky. “No you don’t,” he said. “Why would you? It’s a dump.”

  “I’m sure it’s not,” I murmured. My cheeks burned. He misunderstood my reluctance. It was hard for me to go to an unfamiliar place and be comfortable. “I—um,” I started to explain but I didn’t know how.
It wasn’t something I liked to talk about.

  “It’s okay,” he said. There was a coldness in his tone that contradicted his words. “It’s a bit of a drive though, especially now that you’re all the way downtown.”

  I filled his shot glass and added a dab of whisky to my soda.

  “It would make things easier,” he said. “If I could spend the night.”

  His words hung in the air.

  I felt cornered.

  As much as our kisses had made me long for more, as much as my body responded to being touched, I knew it was only that—a yearning to be touched, and not specifically by Henry. I took a big gulp of my drink and tried to remember Dr. Sinclair’s advice for making better decisions.

  “Nice is good,” Dr. Sinclair had said.

  But Henry seemed different tonight. I thought he’d probably been drinking before he came and it was what had made him over two hours late, which wasn’t so nice. Also, he wasn’t acting nice. The old-fashioned manners he exhibited on our first date were not in evidence now, and it was hard to believe his claim that night that being my friend was the most important thing to him.

  I wanted to sneak away and call Dr. Sinclair but then I thought, no. You can handle this, Scarlett.

  “You do have a bed, I’m assuming,” Henry’s gaze landed on the closed door to my room. “I’ve put in a lot of work here, you know. I’ve been wining and dining you and obviously that’s what you’re used to. The best. But I’m a teacher. I don’t make a lot of money.”

  “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

  “That not everybody has a trust fund?” his lip curled into a sneer.

  My heart pounded. I couldn’t understand why he was turning on me this way. It was like he was two different people. I’d never seen this side of him before… or had I?

  As my mind spun, I realized I had to talk to Dr. Sinclair again about recovering my memories. It seemed to have become a matter of my personal safety.

  I didn’t want to go back to that hypnotist and his basement office, though he’d obviously had the skills he advertised. I needed Dr. Sinclair to be with me, even if she wasn’t the one who hypnotized me. I couldn’t be alone, without someone I trusted, when I remembered what happened to me before my breakdown.