Dark Rapture

by Hauf, Michele

  ***

  Los Angeles, present

  Vince slid off the cool satin sheets, watching as the tree shadows danced as macabre stick figures over the English-papered wall across from him. Another angel print hung in his room, this one very disturbing. Its wings were pointed like a bat’s, and it shielded its eyes with the sharpened tips as it was cast from the gleaming lights of heaven.

  Had he ever had a chance at heaven before he had become a vampire? Probably. But it was too late now.

  With a jerk of his hand to disregard the spooky drawing, he stood and looked out the window. The sky darkened into a lucid sheet of gray and the whistling wind cued Vince it would soon rain. The California fall was soon coming.

  He still wore the same clothes he’d worn for the gig last night. He smelled of sweat and there were traces of dried blood along his shirt front. Remembering Rico’s offer of hospitality, he checked the closet, finding it stocked with rich shirts and jackets of silk and velvet. Pleased, he chose a white ruffled poet’s shirt and black velvet jacket, keeping his fringed pants on since there were no blood stains on them.

  Knowing he had stumbled onto something good—the friendship of another vampire who seemed quite eager to offer all he had—Vince’s long strides took him down the marble stairs in search of his generous host.

  The mansion rumbled as the weather increased to a fury. He had no lighter and could barely see, but his senses remembered the way. As he strode down the darkness of the inner hallway the sensations of comfort, acceptance, and concern fell over him. It was as though this was his home. He belonged here. With friends and family—a family of vampires.

  A deep whisper enticed him to the left and he entered the recording studio that glowed softly from the candelabra perched atop the piano. Rico’s voice captured the music of silence, deep-felt emotions, of a certain sadness.

  There hung a lithograph of a woman swathed in sheer flowing pink fabric over the piano that Vince hadn’t noticed earlier this morning. She seemed happy, maybe dancing, as her head tilted back over her shoulder and her arms swayed out before her. But there was something in her eyes, a lost sadness.

  He plopped down on the couch and stretched his legs across the polished coffee table. A crystal sculpture sat on the mahogany table, a triangle that glimmered in golds and reds from the candle flame. “I like that.”

  Federico’s fingers continued their dirge-like walk across the bass piano keys. “I see you’ve found some clothes.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. They fit you well. Black is a violent contrast to your hair and your pale complexion. I like contrasts.” Rico’s fingers dashed to the right of the keyboard in a frenzy of chromatic changes.

  “Did you write that?”

  Rico’s resumed his lethargic pace, as if the funeral requiem of a lost love coaxed him further. “No…it was…written by a lady.” He looked up at the dancing girl. “Someone I love very intensely.” His words melded into the deep melody and Rico seemed to slip into recollection as his eyelids closed over his mismatched eyes.

  Vince leaned forward, catching his elbows on his knees, but silenced his eager questions as Rico began again in a dreamy deep memory.

  “My sister…she wrote this. It’s been very long. My heart carries her absence from moon to moon, year to year, century to century.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vince offered softly.

  Rico nodded, though his concentration had returned to the piano keys.

  Vince sank into the couch cushions and closed his eyes as Rico’s playing matched the thunder outside. For the moment, he felt the sadness of Rico’s loss, and remembered the grief he had felt over his mother’s death a year ago.

  Vince snapped his arms to his chest, clutching tight the memories that threatened to tear his eyes. You are no longer alone. You have Rico now.

  “So…this place is fabulous. You must have been collecting stuff for years.”

  “More like centuries,” Rico said.

  “Really? When were you transformed?”

  “1778. I lived in Italy at the time. My sister and I had a palazzo in Venice. That was the year of the great blizzard. The lagoon froze completely over and great fêtes were held on the ice.”

  “Wow.” The man was over two centuries old, yet he looked no older than thirty. Respect was the first thing Vince felt, curiosity the next. “So how come you came to America? I imagine Venice is a pretty funky place to live. I’ve always thought it would be cool to ride in a gondola.”

  “I would go anywhere Catrina asked.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  Vince detected Rico’s reluctance to elaborate and feigned discretion. Though he was itching to ask. Was she the woman in the picture?

  “So, Vince.” The music stopped and Rico swung one leg over the piano bench, fixing his gray and blue on him. “Do you always take your victims in such a manner?”

  Confused at this abrupt conversation change, Vince suddenly remembered the girl in the alley last night. “What do you mean? I got the feeling you killed, too.”

  “I do, but what I mean is, you took that girl so gently. You walked up to her the knight in shining armor, the man of her dreams, and…kissed her. She wanted you. You let her live the fantasy that you did too. There was no fear. “ Rico leant forward, his eyes ablaze with a knowledge of dark riches. “You’ve never experienced the rush, have you?”

  “The rush? You mean of the kill?” Vince recalled his description of the unholy rapture to Scarlet last night. “Of course, there’s nothing greater. When the heart bursts—Wham!” He smacked a fist into his palm. “But what more could there possibly be?”

  Rico inched to the edge of the glossy bench and placed a finger in the air before him. “The fear Vince, that is what’s more. Do you know what happens when a person is afraid?”

  “Well—”

  “Their heart pumps at a rapid pace while the adrenaline in their body rises to an unfathomable level. If you’ve never taken in fear then you’ve never tasted blood laced with adrenaline. It’s incredible,” Rico said in a rapid hush.

  “Sounds is if you’re talking about a drug.”

  “It is!” He was indeed a man of contrast, as Rico’s attitude switched from melancholy to wicked delight. “And I am an addict, I can most freely admit. You must try it, Vince. It’s no different from the way you already do it, except after I’ve taken my mortal pleasures—like the enjoyment of the flesh—I then let my victims know exactly what kind of immortal creature they are dealing with. My fangs lower before their widening eyes, I brace myself for the scream,” his voice grew sharp, “and then I mainline on adrenaline.”

  The intensity of Rico’s colored eye increased to fathomless, unreal color as he spoke enthusiastically of his passions, sweeping Vince into the thrill of the immortal pleasures he had yet to discover.

  “You’ll try it, won’t you?”

  Vince sucked the corner of his lip in as he thought about it. Rico had this way about him that seemed to entice him closer. He wanted this man to accept him and to not question him as Gary so often did. Hell, he needed to be accepted by someone; loner was not his middle name. “I’ll try anything once.”

  ***

  “Anthony, I’m going to need a broom!” Scarlet called down the hallway then rushed back to the broken glass on her bedroom floor.

  Her fitting for the flamenco dress had just finished. She had needed a few tucks taken in the waistline. In a rush to get the heavy dress off she had carelessly tossed it to the bed, knocking the silver picture frame from the bedside stand to land in a crash on the stone floor.

  “Sebastian loves this picture.” She fished the torn photo from the sharp glass. It had been taken a few months ago by a professional photographer after an interview Sebastian had done with Rolling Stone magazine. Scarlet loved the picture, too. It was such a natural pose, with her leaning back into Sebastian’s arms, smiles on their faces and the green backdrop accenti
ng her eyes.

  She remembered feeling truly lost that day. Lost in the incredible rush of love and trust she held for Sebastian.

  The broken glass had cut the picture down the middle, separating their embrace with a jagged edge.

  Scarlet swallowed. “Good thing he doesn’t believe in omens.”

  She wondered then, if maybe she did. A twinge of guilt surfaced as Vince’s face appeared in her mind. He stood silhouetted in the alleyway, his hair blowing about his face, as he gestured for her to come to him.

  “He wants more,” Scarlet whispered and clutched the torn picture to her chest. “I should never have followed him.”

  The glass lay glimmering in the candlelight, its flash catching Scarlet’s eye. She leaned to the side and found her silvery reflection frowning up at her.

  “What are you afraid of?” she asked her silent double. “Becoming the true vampire Vince speaks of?”

  Maybe he was right. Was Sebastian really the monster and Vince a true representative of her species?

  “There is more. Adriano had powers. Though how Esmarelda is going to keep him away for two nights…” she whispered as she ran her finger along the edge of the glass, erasing her reflection. The sharp edge cut slowly, opening flesh to release a brilliant red stream that quickly ran down to her wrist.

  Scarlet rubbed the slippery elixir between her fingers. This precious liquid, so abundant in its supply, was her life. It nourished and maintained, satisfied and satiated. Without it there was no life. Everything ceased.

  But where were the answers? In the diary, or walking around in the body of a blonde rock singer?

  “I will find out,” she said, touching her blood-stained fingers to her mouth.

  Chapter Ten

  Spain, 13th century

  “Insufferable wench! I command you to open this door! I am your lord husband!”

  Esmarelda sank back against the bed frame, pulling her legs up to her chest. Her fingers worked nervously with the gauze nightrobe puddled across her toes as she listened to the raging growls from the other side of the door.

  The door timbers shook and splintered with each pound of his fist, but they did not give. Thank the Lord for the iron brackets that bound them together.

  He was making enough noise to wake the dead. The entire castle could hear him, she was sure. But Esmarelda knew she would get no help from the castle inhabitants. They feared their master’s wrath far more than she did.

  It was torturous to sit and listen to Adriano’s burning pleas. He needed her! He needed her blood. Sustenance that was food to him as bread and wine were sustenance to her. And she was starving him!

  “Adriano!” Esmarelda crawled forward on her hands and knees. She was still so weak, though after a light meal this evening she had been able to sit up in bed and slide to the edge for the chamber pot.

  “I need you! You must not betray your husband!”

  Esmarelda reached up and touched the cold iron that supported the thick wooden bar across her door. Could he not command the bar to rise with his mind? She knew that he could. He’d once redirected a falling trestle table so it would not crush her toes. Her husband’s miserable moans entered her blood and chilled it solid.

  Do not open the door for any means. No matter what I should say. Warning words spoken out of love for her.

  “Nay.” She slunk back toward the bed. Adriano’s demands were unceasing in her havoced mind. He needed her permission. That was the key. “May the Lord grant me strength. I do this for both of us, dear husband.”

  ***

  Los Angeles, present

  Rico picked up the telephone receiver and nodded to Vince as he came in the front door. “I’ll be right there. Go along with Blake and pick up some wine on the way, will you?”

  Blake, who stood beneath the Carravaggio in the grandroom, nodded and Vince followed the thin black-clad young man.

  Black seemed to be the dress code around here. Blake’s gleaming hair blended into the black velvet coat he wore, catching like blue fire in glints of candle glow as he followed him down the hallway.

  “Rowdy went down to the wine cellar earlier,” Blake called back. “Grabbed a couple bottles of the good stuff. Rico’s own private label. So you like redheads?” He peered back over his shoulder to gauge Vince’s reaction.

  “As long as they’re halfway good looking and don’t talk much, I do.”

  Blake snickered. “I like you, man. We think the same. Women should be seen and touched, but never heard. So what do you think of Rico?”

  They passed the studio and stopped by another door just down the hall. Blake stared out of eyes lined in black pencil.

  “He’s cool.” Vince leant against the door, thinking the black eyeliner was a nice touch, it made the man’s deep brown eyes bigger and a bit sinister and took attention away from his wide nose. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to finally find friends who understand me. I never thought I’d find another vampire let alone a whole family of them. Rico tells me you’re trying to put a band together? What kind of music do you play?”

  Blake shrugged and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “Gothic rock with a touch of Emo. Sensual, evil, trance-like stuff. Kind of on the lines of Crypt Whisper and Nightfall. Like the stuff you hear at the Decadence. But we could use a singer. I’d never venture to attempt singing. I’ll stick with the bass.”

  “I’d like to hear you guys play. Maybe I could jam with you. What do you call yourselves?”

  “We’re still vacillating on that. I like One Blood and Bone Dance. Rico thinks we should call ourselves Wicked Angel, which is cool, too. What do you think?”

  Vince stuck his thumbs in his pants pockets. “I’m partial to Wicked Angel, myself. Rico’s whole theory on the vampire is pretty wild, but it sorta grows on you after a while.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably what we’ll end up with. But we do have one rule.”

  “No mortals?” Vince guessed.

  “You got it.” Blake fished a key out of his pocket and shoved it in the doorknob.

  “Were you a vampire when Rico met you?” Vince leant against the wall, pressing the back of his head against it. Directly across from him hung a metallic blue angel, this one the modern poster version once used for a Led Zeppelin concert.

  “No, Rico transformed me about a month after we met, which was over a decade ago. I don’t regret it for a minute.” Blake jerked a nod toward the grand room. “Hell, look at Rico, he hasn’t aged in over two centuries, he’s rich, and he can have any woman he wants anytime. Not that he does…but what more could I ask for except knowing this will last forever. Immortality! It’s great.”

  “Yeah.” Vince toed a seam between the red-stone tiles of the floor.

  “You ready for a little decadence, Vince?” Rico, seeming to appear from nowhere, joined the men and opened the door.

  “Lead the way, man.”

  Blake filed ahead of Rico and Vince followed, stunned at what lay before him. The opulence of the mansion was nothing compared to this room. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with red-striped satin and billowing sheers of black. All the metal work and tables were edged in ornate gold which lended a rococo flair. Divans and plump sofas of red and black velvet surrounded the room on two sides, leaving the other two sides for the stereo equipment. One complete wall boasted shiny black equipment: stereos, big-screened TV, VCR’s and computers. It was Ali-Baba’s harem meets cyberpunk as red neon slashes flickered above the electrical complex and the candelabras simmered quietly upon the flesh of four very lovely women perched upon the sofas.

  “You like it?” Rico draped an arm over a giggling woman who was noticeably drunk as she swayed against him. “Blake is my technical consultant. He helped me choose all the electronics, since I myself, have no patience for such advanced gadgetry.”

  Vince accepted a glass of wine from a smiling redhead whose eyes danced merrily as she ran her tongue teasingly across her bottom lip. She trailed a finger along
his arm and he pulled her closer.

  “This is incredible, Rico.” Vince sipped the wine and scanned the room again, seeing in the corner another man who sat with a woman on his lap. “In-fucking-credible.”

  Rico raised his glass, prompting the others to do so. “A toast! To the newest member of the family. Vince Lyons!”

  “To Vince!” Blake repeated.

  Rowdy, the man in the corner, slugged his wine down in one gulp, tossed a head of tight brown curls over his shoulder, and focused his attention on the cooing woman in his arms who was naked to the waist but not a bit prudish. “Welcome to our nightmare, Vince.” An evil grin slipped across his face as he bent to lick the woman’s breasts. “You’re quite the singer from what I’ve heard.”

  “Thanks, man. You play in Blake’s band, too?”

  Rowdy shrugged and squeezed a handful of flesh, causing the woman to moan and squirm closer to him. “Hell no, I’ve got my hands too full of other things.”

  “Our resident Casanova,” Rico said with a wry smile and a quick bow to Rowdy.

  “A little mood music perhaps?” Blake jumped over to the stereo and inserted Crypt Whisper’s CD. Moaning guitars and haunting lyrics filled the room.

  “Sit.” Rico pointed to the red divan and his woman obediently sat. She offered her hand and Rico sat next to her, pushing her hair from her neck and burrowing against her flesh amidst a shudder of delicate giggles.

  Vince stood in amazement as he sipped the wine and absently fingered the ends of the redhead’s hair. The wine was smooth and cold. The fragrance of deep black grapes burst from the glass; it was impossible to think it was anything less than the god’s mead.

  With encouragement from his partner, he relaxed into the overstuffed couch behind him, finding the red head had no mind to detach herself from him. In fact, she had already unbuttoned his shirt and her warm tongue now played across his chest, finding the few blonde hairs that circled his nipples.

  Slipping his fingers into her hair, Vince relaxed and closed his eyes. The thunder of drums pounded inside his veins as the music drowned out the visual opulence and the shimmering effects the wine was having, and it shrouded the exaggerated moans that emanated from Rowdy’s chair.